Chapter 12 #2
“Lord no!” She narrowed her gaze. “You’re not one of those types, are you? You don’t like dangerous men like that Thomas Adams?”
“Definitely not. I’m much too sensible.”
“I thought so, but even sensible women fall for scoundrels and wastrels if they’re looking for some excitement.”
“Then we won’t have a problem. My life is far too exciting these days for me to be bored.” I offered the plate of sausages to her. “Now come and sit down and eat with me.”
Harley Street, Marylebone, must be the health center of London.
There seemed to be more private physicians and doctors in that one street than in the whole of Cambridge.
According to the brass plaques beside each door, there were dermatologists and ophthalmologists, obstetricians and even a nerve specialist. Several other plaques were simply labeled physician or general practitioner.
The plaque for number twenty-nine was positioned beneath the brass doorbell.
If it hadn’t been labeled PATIENTS AND VISITORS, I would not have known it housed a doctor’s clinic.
A middle-aged woman dressed in white with kind eyes opened the door. “Oh. I thought you were our next patient, but you’re clearly not him.” She smiled. “Do you wish to make an appointment?”
“No. I just want to know what sort of illnesses are treated here.”
Her smile vanished. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you. Good day.”
I thrust my foot through the gap to stop her closing the door. “But what if I want to make an appointment? Will you tell me then?”
“Why would you make an appointment not knowing what Dr. Martin treats? That’s rather backward, Miss…?”
“Why won’t you answer? It’s just a simple question.”
“Why are you asking the question at all?”
I sucked in air between my teeth. This woman was a good guard dog. A little too good. I tried to peer past her, but she blocked my view.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” She pushed the door into my foot, hard. My boot offered little protection and I hopped around, my teeth gritted against the throbbing pain.
The door slammed shut in my face.
“That was very rude!” I shouted.
The only response I received was from a woman walking past on the pavement. She clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval.
I limped down the steps and caught a hansom back to the hotel.
I greeted Frank at the door, but he frowned back at me. “Why are you limping?”
I tried to walk normally. “An over-zealous receptionist decided she didn’t like my question.”
He gave a knowing nod as he opened the door.
Mr. Hobart had been walking through the foyer, a leather folder tucked under his arm, when he saw me and stopped. “Good morning, Miss Fox. Have you been out this morning?”
“I had to visit a doctor in Harley Street.”
“Ah. I thought you were limping. I hope he was able to help. Did you enjoy the show the other night?”
“It was very good, thank you. I saw your brother and his family there.”
He smiled. “So I heard.” He glanced around and took a step closer. “Speaking of the Playhouse, how is your investigation for Lord Rumford coming along?”
“I’m making progress.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I want you to rush to conclusions, but do you think you’ll have a conclusion for him soon? It’s just that he plans to check out on Sunday and would like to know who was behind Miss Westwood’s unfortunate demise before he leaves London.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m struggling to make headway. No one will talk to me, you see.”
“Have you tried bribery?”
I smothered my smile. For some reason, hearing this upstanding and kind man encourage me to bribe people amused me. “Unfortunately lords and ladies aren’t easily bribed.”
“You could try blackmail.”
“I am.”
“Ask Harry to help again. He’s very good at charming answers out of women.”
I arched my brows. “Is that so?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“I have but haven’t experienced those charms first hand. He hasn’t employed them on me.”
“Perhaps he’d rather you saw the real him, warts and all.”
Speaking of warts… “You know a great many things about this city, Mr. Hobart. Perhaps you can help. There’s a doctor on Harley Street with no plaque on his door stating his specialty.”
“Is he a general practitioner?”
“There’s no plaque even mentioning that. His receptionist also wouldn’t let me in unless I was prepared to make an appointment. When I said I just wanted to know what the doctor’s medical specialty was, she slammed the door in my face.”
He looked down at my boots. “Your face or your foot?”
“Both.”
He hitched the leather folder higher. “In my experience, if a medical clinic is so secretive as to not advertise their specialty on the door and not even allow in visitors who are not patients, the doctor must be the sort who treats diseases of a sensitive nature.” He cleared his throat and his cheeks pinked a little. “If you understand my meaning.”
“I believe I do.” What Mr. Hobart was trying to discreetly tell me was that the doctor treated patients suffering from ailments that affected parts of their bodies they’d rather not mention.
“I know the names of a great many specialists, some of whom have rooms on Harley Street. Sometimes guests ask me to recommend a doctor. Indeed, some even come to London and stay at the Mayfair while they’re being treated. Perhaps if you tell me this doctor’s name, I’ll know what he does.”
“Dr. Martin at number twenty-nine.”
His cheeks flushed a brighter pink. “Ah. Now that is interesting.”
“Go on.”
He fidgeted with his tie and nibbled the inside of his lip. With a glance around, he leaned closer. “He’s the pre-eminent doctor in the country for treating syphilis.”
No wonder he was uncomfortable telling me. The sexually transmitted disease was not a topic one liked to mention in conversation. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Hobart. That’s very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”
I watched him walk off to the lift where he pressed the button and waited.
I stood beneath the central chandelier for some minutes, thinking about what he’d told me.
I knew two things about syphilis. It was contagious, but only passed between sexual partners, and that it was a dreadfully disfiguring disease with no cure.
The disease must be the cause of the sores on Lord Wrexham’s face.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Goliath smiled one of his wide, open smiles.
“I was thinking about the case. What do you know about syphilis?”
That wiped the smile off his face. “Nothing! I swear.”
“I hoped you might know more than me.” I lowered my voice. “Do you recall that one of our suspects is Lord Wrexham, Pearl’s former lover? He has the disease.”
He pulled a face. “Horrid business, syphilis. I don’t know much about it, but Peter might. His neighbor had it, so he once told me.”
Peter was poring over the guest register at the check-in desk. There was no one at the counter, although a few guests lingered in quiet conversation at the post desk.
“Miss Fox wants to know about syphilis,” Goliath said. “I told her you were the one to see about that.”
Peter nodded, not embarrassed like Goliath had been. “My neighbor had it. He’s dead now. The disease got him in the end.”
I told him about Lord Wrexham’s visit to Dr. Martin, including on the afternoon of Pearl’s death, and the likelihood that he had syphilis. “I know there’s no cure, so why would a man with the disease visit a doctor? What’s the point?”
“It’s often treated with mercury, but it doesn’t work.
At least, it didn’t for my neighbor. He took mercury pills and just got sicker and sicker until he died.
” He leaned on the counter, his arms folded.
“If that’s why Wrexham is visiting the doctor, it won’t do him any good.
The doctor’s just taking his money and giving him false hope, if you ask me. ”
“Wrexham doesn’t seem particularly ill to me, except for the sores.”
“Illness will come later. Maybe not for some years yet. It can be a long, slow, cruel death.”
Goliath passed a hand over his mouth and jaw. “With disfigurement in the meantime.”
“What’s this got to do with the case?” Peter asked.
I tapped my finger on the counter, thinking. “If Lord Wrexham blames Pearl for the disease, then perhaps he killed her in anger or revenge. Could she possibly have had it but bore no sores or other outward signs?”
“I don’t know, but I do know she didn’t give it to him. Not unless they were, er, together, in the last couple of months.” At my confused frown, he added, “The sores appear a few weeks after the disease is caught. If they ended their relationship years ago then she didn’t give it to him.”
“What if they didn’t end it then?” Goliath asked. “Or what if they resumed their relationship recently?”
It was a possibility. She had been to see Lord Wrexham after Christmas.
Could she have been asking him for money to treat the disease she’d caught from him?
Or he from her? “There were medical bills in her flat. They don’t say what she was being treated for, but it’s not the sort of thing you’d write on a bill, is it? ”
“Isn’t Wrexham’s visit to the doctor’s clinic his alibi for the time of the murder?” Peter asked.
“We don’t know the exact time he was there.”
Goliath clicked his fingers. “What about his wife? What if she also has the disease? If she blames Miss Westwood, she could have killed her out of anger.”
According to Thomas Adams, Lady Wrexham was ill, yet I’d seen no signs of that illness.
If she’d caught syphilis from her husband, the disease might not be as advanced in her as it had been in him.
Her sores might come later, or perhaps she had them now in places where they could be covered up with clothes.
If my husband had given me such a terrible disease as syphilis, I think I’d want to kill someone too. I’d certainly want to scream at the person who gave it to me. I’d probably scream at my husband, however, not his lover.
But I wasn’t Lady Wrexham.