The Moon by Night (4 page)

Some time later—she had been so absorbed in her work that she was completely unaware of the passing time—she heard a steady tread on the stairs. Officer Goodin came down the west stairwell, yanking off his flat-topped cap as he came to stand by the dissection table. “They told me you were still here, Dr. Duvall. I thought I'd give you what information I've managed to gather about that accident.”

“I'm so glad you stopped by,” she said with sincere pleasure. “You have more information?”

“A little,” he said. “I haven't found out yet who that poor young woman was, but I think I recognized her—er—costume. It's from a…a spot…and…er—”

“A tavern? Saloon? Brothel?” Cheney supplied helpfully.

Officer Goodin looked shocked. “No, ma'am, Dr. Duvall! At least, I mean—not exactly. The ladies at Beau Monde Gardens down on Suffolk Street wear clothes like that lady's. I didn't really get a good look at her, because she was dead when I got there, and I just covered her up. So I decided to come by here and get a good description of her in my head before I go to the Beau Monde to ask about her. Did your patient say anything about her, by any chance?”

Cheney shook her head. “No. I only asked him about his family. His parents live in Brooklyn, and I've sent for them.”

He nodded. “I need to speak to the young man, if he's still breathing.”

“He is, miraculously,” Cheney said, smiling. “But I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow, or maybe even the next day, to interrogate him, Officer.” She told him about the surgery and then about Cornelius Melbourne praying for salvation.

The policeman's melancholy features were transformed in the rare times that he smiled; he no longer looked so homely as his dark eyes glowed. “Praise the Lord. In my profession I don't get to see many that come to Jesus. Guess that's to be expected, because generally when folks see me, it's not because they need or want my help. All right, Dr. Duvall, I'll sure wait for a day or two to speak to that young man. But I just want to tell you—the eyewitnesses all said that the girl was driving. Not him. She was standing up, whipping the horses crazylike, and he was trying to stop her when the phaeton just came around that corner and upended and slid into the coal cart.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” Cheney said fervently. “I don't know Mr. Melbourne very well, but I think it would hurt him very much to think that he had killed the girl. She's in the morgue if you want to go take down her description. As you can see, I haven't yet finished with Miss Darlene here, so I hadn't even started on her.”

He nodded and went into the morgue, propping the door open, for the morgue had no light. In a few minutes he came back outside, closing his little notebook with satisfaction.

Officer Sylvester Goodin was known on his rounds as “Policeman Preach.” He was a humble, godly man, and honest to a fault, which was indeed a rare quality in the New York Metropolitan Police Force. In his ten-year career he had always flatly refused to accept bribes or favors or do anything that might give even the appearance of graft or corruption, such as accepting food and drink from the oyster houses and taverns in his ward. Some of his more ruthless colleagues had been very wary of him—some of them had actually considered that they might be obliged to get rid of him once he knew of their widespread corruption—but Officer Goodin had managed to allay their fears that he would “squeal” on them.

“In the Good Book, Leviticus chapter nineteen and verse sixteen, it says, ‘Thou shalt not go up and down as a talebearer among thy people.' I won't lie for you, but I don't carry tales either,” he told them. His honesty was apparent, and these rough, corrupt men came not only to tolerate him, but to trust him and even like him.

“I'll remember her now,” he said rather sadly as he rejoined Cheney at the dissection table. “Are you almost finished with Miss Darlene here?” Officer Goodin had brought the body. He preferred Cheney to do the autopsies on victims in his ward, for he knew that she was thorough, no matter whether the person was a prostitute or a schoolteacher.

“No,” Cheney answered, “I still would like to do a thorough dissection of her brain and feet, so if you'll excuse me…”

“Brain and—oh, never mind, I guess that's why you're the doctor and I'm just a beat copper. But, Dr. Duvall, it's after one o'clock! And it's snowing, and I don't think Eugènie should be out in it.”

Cheney giggled a little. “You don't mind if I'm out floundering in the snow, Officer, but you don't want my horse out in it?”

“Well, she is that small and delicate.”

“So she is,” Cheney agreed. “But she can be tough when she has to be. I'll just finish up with Miss Darlene, and by that time perhaps the snow will have stopped.”

“It's been snowing now for a good two hours, with no sign of stopping,” Officer Goodin said sternly. “And begging your pardon, Dr. Duvall, but Mr. Irons-Winslow did ask me to escort you home on the nights he can't be here—”

“I know,” Cheney interrupted impatiently. “He's told me about fifty times, and you've told me a dozen times at least. But come to think of it, I wonder where Shiloh is. I did think he said he'd come at the end of my shift at midnight. Still, I did want to finish this dissection tonight. I'd like Dev—Dr. Buchanan, you know—to look at the brain with me tomorrow while he's here. He's gotten interested in neurosurgery, as am I, but then again—”

Officer Goodin might be in awe of Dr. Cheney Duvall, but on the other hand he'd had immense experience with ladies who needed steadying down. “Now, Dr. Duvall, I'll just put Miss Darlene on ice for tonight. Her poor old addled brain and—er, feet—will wait till tomorrow. You need to just get yourself together and bundle up, and then I'll escort you home,” he said firmly.

“All right,” Cheney suddenly agreed. “I just realized how tired I am. If you would, Officer Goodin, do put Miss Darlene up for the night and then step over to Roe's to see if they've saddled Eugènie, and you'll get no further argument from me. Home sounds very good.”

****

Cheney was surprised to find all the lights on in her house and, on this quiet snowy night, to hear the rumble of her husband's voice from the second story. Hurriedly she bid good-night to Officer Goodin and went inside. Neither Sketes, the housekeeper and cook nor Fiona, Cheney's maid, greeted her. Upstairs she heard thumps and bangs and the thunderous sound of taps opened full, blasting water into the tub.

Stripping off her gloves and hat, she went into the parlor, then, with a gasp, she stopped midstride and dropped her gloves. “Good heavens!”

There was a man, tied up and gagged, lying on the floor of her parlor.

Upstairs Shiloh yelled, “Sketes, just crack the door and toss it in here, for pity's sake! If pine tar shampoo doesn't kill them, I guess I'll just have to set my hair on fire!”

“Who…who are you!” Cheney said in a strangled voice.

The man's sad hound-dog eyes spoke volumes over his gagged mouth. He wiggled, then made little apologetic noises.

Cheney stared at him goggle-eyed, then shrieked, “Shiloh! There's a…a…man! In the parlor! Tied up! And gagged!”

She heard loud crashes on the floor overhead—Shiloh's rumble and Sketes's loud complaint of “Mr. Shiloh, sir!”—then Shiloh bounding down the stairs three at a time. He burst into the parlor, streaming water and wearing a soaked dressing gown.

“Doc, you're home! Already!” he said breathlessly. “How was your day?”

“Shiloh…Shiloh—” she said with difficulty, then pointed—“who is that?”

“He attacked me,” Shiloh said quickly. “He tried to rob me. He's a thief. And mugger. And he has lice.”

Cheney frowned with tremendous concentration. “Yes. But why does he have them
here
?”

“He—his head—he was unconscious when I went upstairs,” Shiloh said lamely.

“What!” Cheney snapped, rounding on him. “Did you hit him?”

“No! Balaam did!”

“And I suppose Balaam tied him up and gagged him and threw him, unconscious, on the floor in this freezing cold room?” Cheney said ominously. “Shiloh, you great big bully! You're twice his size! Three times!”

“But he tried to rob me!”

“Oh? But, Shiloh, he didn't shoot you, did he? Are you shot?” Cheney asked, now anxiously looking him up and down.

“Well, no, not exactly…”

“What does that mean?” Cheney asked suspiciously.

“It was—uh—an umbrella,” Shiloh answered. “A really big black umbrella. And he has
lice,
Doc.”

“And possibly a life-threatening concussion and also probably pneumonia, from the way he's wheezing,” Cheney knelt down beside the man. “Shiloh, you get yourself over here and untie him and ungag him. Why in the world did you gag him if he was unconscious?”

“I didn't want him coming to and carrying on and upsetting Sketes and Fiona. He might have, you know, hollered. Threats, I mean. Yelled out threats like he did when he tried to rob me.” Hurriedly but gently Shiloh untied the handkerchief he had used for a gag. The thief sneezed. Absently Shiloh wiped his nose.

“So he yelled threats at you, did he?” Cheney scoffed. “Just what did he say that was so terrifying?”

The little man was shivering so hard that his teeth were practically knocking together, and he was certainly in an ignominious position, but he managed to say with a semblance of dignity, “I shouted very loudly, ‘Your buddy or your life!' And I waved by ubrella bost benacingly. But I surely did dot realize, sir, that you were such a large, strog person. And so is your horse.”

Then he fainted.

Carrying his old cavalry boots, Shiloh came soundlessly down the stairs. Cheney was a heavy sleeper, but still Shiloh always moved quietly and with a fluid grace that was unusual for a man who was six feet four inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. He was a handsome man, with thick, straight blond hair, and clear, sharp, light blue eyes. The V-shaped scar underneath his left eye only served to accentuate the masculinity of his features.

He noted with satisfaction that the morning papers were stacked on the hall table though it was only six o'clock, rather early for all three papers to have been delivered by their faithful newsboys. He went into the parlor, heading for the dining room with the anticipation of lingering over one of Sketes's sumptuous breakfasts while leisurely perusing the
Times,
the
Sun,
and the
Herald
.

Stopping in his tracks at the door to the parlor, he demanded gruffly, “What's going on?”

Sketes looked up from her chair at the bedside—or rather, sofa-side—of the infamous mugger and calmly answered, “I'm a-feeding Mr. Jauncy, if you please, Mr. Shiloh, as he's that weak and sick he can hardly lift his head.” She was the widow of a seaman and was a sailor in her own right, as she had once worked her way around the world as a cook on an Australian tea clipper. Molly Sketes took no sass from anyone. A chubby, short, red-cheeked woman with bright blue eyes, Sketes was normally a jolly person. Today she eyed Shiloh with marked disapproval.

Seeing it, Shiloh blustered, “What'd I do? He's the thief! And he has lice! On my sofa!”

Sketes pursed her lips. “And whose fault is that, I wonder? Seeing as how Mr. Jauncy couldn't walk, much less climb any stairs, to a bath and bed up on the second chamber floor?” She spooned another lump of porridge into the man's mouth while he cut his spaniel eyes guiltily toward Shiloh.

The second chamber floor, in the odd parlance of the day, was actually the fourth floor of the town house and had one large bedroom with a living area and a second smaller bedroom. Sketes and Fiona shared the suite while the second bedroom was unused.

Now Shiloh bristled and said, “He's not an honored guest, Sketes. He's a little sneak thief who tried to rob me!”

“So we all understand, Mr. Shiloh. But as you did bring him here, and he is under your roof, and Dr. Cheney did say as how we must take care of him, I couldn't see much else to do with him. I can't carry him upstairs,” she finished with a sniff.

“But—” Shiloh began weakly, but he could think of nothing else to say.

Cheney's maid, Fiona, came in then, carrying a man's suit of clothes and a pair of black half boots. “Sketes, I managed to get this suit clean and ironed, but his shirt just fell apart as I was scrubbing—” Seeing Shiloh glowering over the sofa, Fiona stopped, blushed, skittered backward a step or two like a spooked filly, and gave a quick nervous curtsy. “Good morning, sir.”

“Is it?” Shiloh grunted and turned back to the problem at hand. “Now, who did you say you were?” he demanded of the man.

“Phinehas Jauncy, sir, at your service,” he answered faintly. “Please accept my most heartfelt apologies for my indiscretion last night and for my indisposition this morning. I assure you, sir, that I have never been in such desperate straits and can only beg your forgiveness and continued mercy.”

“Isn't he well-spoken, though?” Sketes said admiringly. Mr. Jauncy had told her, several times, that she looked very much like one of Raphael's cherubs and that indeed she was an angel to him. Molly Sketes had absolutely no idea who Raphael was, nor who or what a cherub might be, but she did tell herself what a well-spoken gentleman Mr. Jauncy was.

Shiloh noticed for the first time that the man did have a pleasing, well-modulated voice and spoke in cultured Oxford English. He still had enough congestion to deaden his
m
's and
n
's, but not quite as badly as the previous night. However, he was deathly pale, and his face was pinched-looking. Shiloh also noticed, for the first time, that the man was wearing one of Shiloh's own fine lawn shirts. His collarbones stuck out sharply in the neck opening that was at least five sizes too large for such a small, thin man. Now Shiloh clearly could smell pine tar and menthol and realized that Sketes—a most efficient, capable nurse—must have bathed Jauncy and washed his hair while Fiona cleaned and ironed his clothes.