Achille went through the list, six witnesses in all. Four were well-known physicians and surgeons with practices in Paris. The fifth was Toulouse-Lautrec, and the sixth appeared to be an Englishman. “Who is Sir Henry Collingwood?”
The clerk smiled as he proudly extolled the clinic’s operations and its widespread reputation. “Sir Henry Collingwood is an eminent English physician and surgeon, a very affable gentleman. He’s on holiday in Paris, enjoying the Fair and the many attractions of our city. He takes a particular interest in gynecological surgery and therefore has come to our clinic to observe Dr. Péan’s world-renowned operations.”
“I see, so naturally I assume he would want to be present when Dr. Péan demonstrated a new and very important technique in his specialty?”
“Of course, Inspector. As I recall, Sir Henry was most keen to observe the vaginal hysterectomy.
Achille smiled amiably. “I assume you can provide me with a detailed description of the English gentleman?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you show me how many operations Sir Henry attended?”
“They’re all logged in the book. I believe the first was a few weeks ago.”
Achille examined the journal. It confirmed that Sir Henry had witnessed four gynecological surgeries: two abdominal hysterectomies (one with ovariotomy) and two mastectomies (one single, one double). Lautrec had also been present at these operations.
“I’m afraid I must take this journal to headquarters so the relevant pages can be copied. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll issue you a receipt and have the book returned by courier as soon as possible.”
“Oh very well, Inspector,” the clerk replied with an air of annoyance.
This peevishness irritated Achille; the clerk had a civic duty to cooperate. But he maintained his composure and congenial smile. He needed the clerk’s cooperation, and he understood how an investigation interfered with the ordinary citizen’s routine; unlike the “old boys” (Rousseau being a prime example), he rarely resorted to intimidation. “Now Monsieur, I have a question about the dispensary. Have you had any report of missing supplies, most particularly narcotics, sedatives, or anesthetics such as morphine, chloroform, or chloral hydrate?”
“No, Inspector; the apothecary keeps those items in a locked cabinet and maintains an inventory. Any suspected theft would have been reported to the police.”
“I see; does your apothecary replenish those items on a regular basis?”
“Of course; he orders them from a chemist. I can give you his name and address.”
Achille was pleased to note the clerk’s reversion to a more accommodating manner; his little snit appeared to have been temporary. “Thank you, Monsieur; you’ve been most helpful. Now, before I leave, I’ll need to interview all the doctors who assisted in the vaginal hysterectomy. If they’re unavailable today, I’ll require their addresses. I’ll also need contact information for the gentlemen who are listed in the journal, including Sir Henry.”
The clerk nodded. “I’ll do what I can to assist in your investigation.”
Achille trusted the offer of assistance was sincere. “Thank you, Monsieur. If anything turns up that you believe might be helpful, or you have any questions regarding this case, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You have my card.”
Arthur escorted Marcia to the Luxembourg gardens, where he hired a bath-chair and gallantly pushed her up and down, skirting puddles, fallen branches, and dead leaves scattered over the winding lanes. After a while, his increase in girth and years caught up with him. Puffing from unaccustomed exertion, he pulled to one side of a wide promenade, stopped, lifted his hat, and mopped his brow.
Marcia turned her head and looked up at him with a wistful smile. “Do you recognize this place?”
He gazed up the lane that forked round a fountain, with benches to the left, shrubbery and flowerbeds bordering the right. Beyond the fountain was a pair of statues in the Greco-Roman style, more benches, and an antique urn filled with bright red flowers. Further on, a staircase led to a white balustraded walkway fronting a stand of broad shade trees.
“By Jove, you painted this scene, didn’t you? As I recall, Betsy posed next to the fountain. She wore a bright yellow dress.”
“Your memory is sharp as a tack. That was eleven years ago when I was masquerading as Mark and Betsy fell in love with a man who never was.”
“Ah, yes,” Arthur sighed and said no more.
“Betsy and I lunched at a nice outdoor restaurant not far from here. A band was playing Je suis Titania. I wonder if it’s still there. The restaurant I mean.”
Arthur needed rest and refreshment and replied enthusiastically. “I know the place well. Shall we go there?”
“Oh yes, that would be lovely.”
They found a table under a breeze-ruffled awning where several floating leaves had settled. The band wasn’t playing; the only sounds were the distant shouts and laughter of children playing with hoops and balls, the trickle of a nearby fountain, chattering birds perched in tall, denuded branches, and the polite murmuring of their fellow lunchers.
Marcia picked at her roast chicken, but she enjoyed her wine. They made pleasant small talk, until she turned to the subject of Betsy. “This place brings back memories, Arthur. Now, I feel like a pentimento in her portrait; a ghostly, over-painted figure watching from a balcony while Betsy and Sir Henry make love in the garden below.”
For a moment, Arthur was at a loss for words. Then: “I realize this is difficult for you, but you’ve already indicated your intentions. A clean, amicable break seems best. And, by all accounts Sir Henry is a decent fellow.”
Marcia smiled wryly. “As an independent, freethinking woman I fear I must question his ‘decency.’ In my humble opinion, the diagnosis and treatment of ‘female hysteria’ is a medical dodge, a pseudo-scientific means of keeping us in our place. When one of our sex asserts herself, demands her right to vote and full equality under the law, and then reacts to all the abuse, ridicule, and scorn directed at her, it’s all too easy to say she’s ‘hysterical’ or suffering from ‘female troubles’ and prescribe treatments that range from the demeaning and humiliating to the brutal and cruel.”
Arthur found the subject awkward and embarrassing, but he had written about the inequality of women and was not unsympathetic to their plight. Nevertheless, he tried to divert the unwelcome drift with a question: “Have you found Sir Henry’s treatment unsatisfactory?”
Marcia thought a moment and took a sip of wine before answering. “No, I’d say he’s quite professional and he does have an excellent bedside manner. But then, my illness does not fall within his peculiar specialty. On the other hand, he might see Betsy as a subject ripe for his nostrums. She’s moody and unpredictable, especially when she drinks. What’s more, she’s past thirty and hasn’t been under the influence or domination of a man since she came of age. And of course, there’s her considerable fortune.”
Arthur sighed. “You paint a bleak picture. However, if Sir Henry were a bounder I doubt he’d be able to maintain such a sterling reputation and lucrative practice. People talk in London society, as you well know, and you can’t keep objectionable behavior covert for too long. People won’t know you; they’ll cut you dead in public.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Marcia sighed and turned to gaze at a stand of gently rustling beech trees.
Arthur hesitated; he wondered if Marcia’s worries were more the consequence of jealous envy than concern for her friend. Considering the hopelessness of her condition, he opted for the latter. “You might speak to Aggie Fitzroy. She was one of Sir Henry’s patients.”