“And what is that something?” Mr. Moore asked anxiously, suspecting, now, that an answer was close.

We’d reached Twenty-third Street, and were passing, on the northwest corner, the old, decaying Grand Opera House. Bolted to its Eighth Avenue side was a huge, ugly sign composed of electrical light bulbs what spelled out the hall’s current entertainment staple: VAUDEVILLE.

I heard the Doctor say, “Ah, the old Grand,” in a voice that made me wonder if he was truly recalling fond memories or was just tormenting Mr. Moore. “There used to be some marvelous productions in there…”

“Kreizler!” Mr. Moore was reaching his limit. “What is that something?”

The Doctor’s voice stayed quiet: “Sara?”

“There’s really only one possibility,” Miss Howard said. “The children don’t cooperate. At least, from her point of view they don’t. She tries to nurture, but they don’t accept it. They cry. Develop health problems. Reject her attention and her care, no matter how much effort she puts into it. She tells herself it’s their fault. She has to. Because the alternative-”

Mr. Moore finally picked it up: “The alternative-is to admit that she has no nurturing skills.” He let out a low whistle. “My God… do you mean to tell me that this woman has structured her whole life around something she can’t do?”

“Given the way that she has, in all probability, been raised,” the Doctor said, “what choice has she? In the face of failure she must always try again, with another candidate and even harder.”

“I wonder, John,” Miss Howard added pointedly, “if you understand how truly difficult, how unbearable, it is to be a woman and acknowledge that you have no talent for maternity, in this society. In any society. How can most women acknowledge such a thing even to themselves? Oh, you can choose to say that you won’t be a mother-but to have it openly displayed that you can’t?”

Mr. Moore had to give that a minute; and when he came back to the conversation, it wasn’t very gracefully. “But-well, I mean-why can’t she? What-well, what’s wrong with her?”

I was sure I could hear the derringer cocking at that point; but it was only Miss Howard’s clicking tongue. Feeling compelled to turn around, I saw the others staring in amazement at Mr. Moore. “You really are insufferable sometimes, John,” Miss Howard spat out. “That’s a marvelously enlightened attitude. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Why, I ought to-” She balled a fist, but the Doctor stayed her hand.

“If, Moore,” he said, “by ‘what’s wrong with her?’ you in fact mean, what context could possibly have produced such a woman, then that is what we must determine. And the process won’t be helped by presuming fault or evil on the woman’s part. Remember-we must, as we did in our last case, try to see the situation through her eyes, understand it and experience it as she must have.”

“Oh.” Mr. Moore’s voice had grown what you might call contrite. “Yes. Right.”

“We’ve reached Fourteenth Street,” Lucius announced. “Just a few blocks to Bethune.”

Turning west on Fourteenth and heading for Greenwich Street, we started to make our way past the shuttered packing houses of the meat district, where the stench of blood had so completely seeped into every cobblestone and building over the years that even on a pleasant, cool Sunday afternoon it was very noticeable: not exactly a good omen for what lay in front of us. Once we were south of Horatio Street on Greenwich, the structures around us turned back into residential houses, some three and four stories tall, some just old two-story jobs with dormers what seemed almost as big as the houses themselves. Trees of varying sizes and ages lined the blocks, and some of their branches had reached clear out into the street, only to be snapped off at the ends by passing traffic.

As we moved through all this scenery, we began to discuss what strategy we should adopt once we arrived at Number 39 Bethune Street. The first move, made at the Doctor’s suggestion, was for me to draw Frederick up to a halt and jump down to raise the cover over the calash’s seat. Since not all of us were going to knock on the Hunters’ door-that would’ve looked a bit ridiculous-it would be best for those what stayed behind to be out of sight. That figured to be me, Cyrus, and at least one other person; and as we got back under way, it looked like Miss Howard was the only logical choice. Everybody agreed the detective sergeants should take the lead, and that the Doctor should accompany them: if Nurse Hunter and her husband still lived at Number 39 and were at home, it would be best to let Lucius and Marcus take a strict law enforcement line, being as the Linares child would probably be somewhere in the house and fairly easy to locate. And on the chance that the child needed medical help, the Doctor should be right there.

If the Hunters still lived in the house but were not at home, on the other hand, the Isaacsons would question the neighbors on when the couple were likely to get back, while the rest of us kept an eye out for their approach. Finally, if the Hunters had moved on to another address, Lucius and Marcus again said that it would be best to let them flash their badges and frighten the new tenants or owners into saying where their predecessors had gone.

As there wouldn’t be room for four of us to hide in the carriage while the detective sergeants and the Doctor approached the house, it was decided that Mr. Moore, too, would go along. Miss Howard was sort of miffed, at first, that she wasn’t going to be in the door-knocking delegation. But the Doctor explained that, given the type of woman we were speculating that Nurse Hunter was, the presence of another female was only likely to throw sand into the wheels of progress. This was especially true given what the woman had been through with the other nurses at the Lying-in Hospital. There was no real way for Miss Howard to argue with this reasoning, so she let the matter go. By way of consolation, I told her that I’d be sure to park the calash right up close to the entrance of the house, so that even though she, Cyrus, and I would be out of sight behind the raised cover, we’d be able to monitor whatever went on when and if Nurse Hunter came to greet the others.

All in all, the thing seemed pretty straightforward; and I began to wonder, as we turned off of Greenwich Street onto Bethune and once again came within sight of the waters of the Hudson, why all the philosophical conversation had even been necessary. It seemed like the detective sergeants were just going to go in, get the kid if she was there, and then quietly return her to her mother. Open and shut, you might say.

That, I soon discovered, was what alienists meant when they talked about “delusions.”

CHAPTER 16

Number 39 Bethune was a three-story, red brick job, l with a few window boxes full of what looked like they were trying hard to be flowers. That should’ve tipped me off to the whole thing right away: it’d been a cool, moist June, but there’d been days of warmth and sun, too, and there was no reason for the plants in those boxes to look so sorry-unless, of course, somebody didn’t know how to tend to them. Anyway, I drew the calash around and in front of the building, which was on the south side of the street, then pulled to a halt just past the two or three small steps that led to the front door. Mr. Moore and Marcus jumped down from their perches, allowing the Doctor and Lucius to get out. Then Cyrus and I took their places inside and, together with Miss Howard, peered out through the small plate of glass that was stitched into the back of the carriage’s cover. On the sidewalk, the two detective sergeants buttoned up their jackets, got their badges ready, and tried to look their most businesslike, while the Doctor and Mr. Moore followed directly behind.