The Endless Forest
Page 182
“I don’t think much of you,” Jemima agreed. “But others do. And desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Hannah studied the woman sitting by the window for a full minute. In that time Jemima never moved, though her breathing came quick and shallow. She was in pain, and trying not to show it.
“I’ll examine you and charge what I always charge, and I’ll tell you what I find. And that’s as much as I’ll promise.”
“And laudanum.”
“Yes. I see you are in great pain.”
“And how that must thrill you.”
Hannah looked at her calmly, and waited.
Finally Jemima said, “All right, I take it back.”
Hannah put down her bag and sat down on the chair opposite Jemima. “Tell me,” she said. “Every symptom and when it started. And leave nothing out.”
Later Jemima said, “I came to you because I knew you wouldn’t mind giving me bad news.”
Hannah considered, weighing words and phrases, trying to recall extracts she had read and autopsies conducted long ago when she had been studying under Dr. Valentine and Dr. Savard—who would one day be her brother-in-law—at the almshouse in Manhattan. It was the thought of Dr. Savard that gave her a way to talk to Jemima. She imagined what he would say, and she said it.
“It will go like this. The pain will get steadily worse, far worse than it is now. Far worse. In a week or two, if you’re lucky you’ll fall into a coma and stay there until you die. You have questions?”
“Do you have enough laudanum to see me through?”
“No,” Hannah said. “But I can send for it.”
“You are saying I have cancer.”
“Most likely, yes. In the digestive organs and the liver, at the very least.”
“If I stop eating and drinking can I end this quicker?”
“Then it will be two or three days at most.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me something to end it now. Think of the satisfaction you’d get. In fact, you could auction off the privilege of killing me.” Her laugh was hoarse and phlemy.
Hannah stared at her.
Jemima sighed. “How much do I owe you?”
Hannah said, “You owe me nothing but answers.”
—
Despite the pain, Jemima could laugh in a way that evoked memories Hannah would have preferred to leave buried.
“Go on,” she said. “Ask your questions. I might even answer some of them. When you’re done I want that laudanum.”
There were dozens of things Hannah wanted to know, but she had never thought she might one day get answers. The idea was so strange that for a moment she couldn’t think where to start. Old mysteries or newer ones? Once they had been schoolchildren in the same classroom. What Hannah remembered best about Jemima was the fact that she never smiled unless it was at someone else’s expense.
Except that wasn’t entirely true. The only time anyone got a sense of the person that might have been was when Jemima sang. Elizabeth had encouraged her singing for that reason, and maybe it had even helped a little, for a while. Then her father had been killed and her mother and brothers died of typhus, and Jemima had let anger and bile drag her down. Others had lost just as much; others had lost far more, and survived. They took comfort in the Christian Bible and its promises of another world, or lost themselves in work, or in founding another family. Some drank themselves to death. Jemima vented her fury at those closest to her.
Hannah said, “Do you still sing?”
Jemima closed her eyes, as if that could make the question go away. When Hannah thought she would never get an answer, Jemima opened her eyes again.
“Until last fall I sang almost every night.”
That was more information than Hannah had expected, and it raised more questions than it answered. She considered.
“What made you stop?”
A flush of annoyance moved across Jemima’s face. “What kind of questions are these?”
“You chose to pay my fee in answers.”
“Ask something else.”
“Did your coming back here have anything to do with that, the singing?”
Jemima scowled at her. “Ask something else.”
“All right,” Hannah said. “What was it that Harper was supposed to be finding out for you?”
“Harper is my husband’s creature,” Jemima said. “I don’t know exactly what arrangement they had.”
Hannah said, “Harper is dead. He drowned.”
Jemima went very still. Then she said, “That boy could swim all day. He was half fish.”
“Anybody can drown,” Hannah said. “There was no evidence that it was anything but an accident.”
“Of course you’d say that. It was probably one of yours who did it.”
Hannah counted to ten. Then, very calmly she said, “For someone who wants favors of me, you are very free with unfounded accusations. And may I point out to you that there have been other accidental deaths over the years.”
Jemima drew in a sharp breath. “Go on with your questions, but you are trying my patience.”
“You want the orchard, and leaving Harper behind had something to do with that.”
“Christ, no,” Jemima said. “I wouldn’t care if I never saw an apple or an apple tree ever again.”
“Your husband is the one who wants the orchard, then.”
Hannah studied the woman sitting by the window for a full minute. In that time Jemima never moved, though her breathing came quick and shallow. She was in pain, and trying not to show it.
“I’ll examine you and charge what I always charge, and I’ll tell you what I find. And that’s as much as I’ll promise.”
“And laudanum.”
“Yes. I see you are in great pain.”
“And how that must thrill you.”
Hannah looked at her calmly, and waited.
Finally Jemima said, “All right, I take it back.”
Hannah put down her bag and sat down on the chair opposite Jemima. “Tell me,” she said. “Every symptom and when it started. And leave nothing out.”
Later Jemima said, “I came to you because I knew you wouldn’t mind giving me bad news.”
Hannah considered, weighing words and phrases, trying to recall extracts she had read and autopsies conducted long ago when she had been studying under Dr. Valentine and Dr. Savard—who would one day be her brother-in-law—at the almshouse in Manhattan. It was the thought of Dr. Savard that gave her a way to talk to Jemima. She imagined what he would say, and she said it.
“It will go like this. The pain will get steadily worse, far worse than it is now. Far worse. In a week or two, if you’re lucky you’ll fall into a coma and stay there until you die. You have questions?”
“Do you have enough laudanum to see me through?”
“No,” Hannah said. “But I can send for it.”
“You are saying I have cancer.”
“Most likely, yes. In the digestive organs and the liver, at the very least.”
“If I stop eating and drinking can I end this quicker?”
“Then it will be two or three days at most.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me something to end it now. Think of the satisfaction you’d get. In fact, you could auction off the privilege of killing me.” Her laugh was hoarse and phlemy.
Hannah stared at her.
Jemima sighed. “How much do I owe you?”
Hannah said, “You owe me nothing but answers.”
—
Despite the pain, Jemima could laugh in a way that evoked memories Hannah would have preferred to leave buried.
“Go on,” she said. “Ask your questions. I might even answer some of them. When you’re done I want that laudanum.”
There were dozens of things Hannah wanted to know, but she had never thought she might one day get answers. The idea was so strange that for a moment she couldn’t think where to start. Old mysteries or newer ones? Once they had been schoolchildren in the same classroom. What Hannah remembered best about Jemima was the fact that she never smiled unless it was at someone else’s expense.
Except that wasn’t entirely true. The only time anyone got a sense of the person that might have been was when Jemima sang. Elizabeth had encouraged her singing for that reason, and maybe it had even helped a little, for a while. Then her father had been killed and her mother and brothers died of typhus, and Jemima had let anger and bile drag her down. Others had lost just as much; others had lost far more, and survived. They took comfort in the Christian Bible and its promises of another world, or lost themselves in work, or in founding another family. Some drank themselves to death. Jemima vented her fury at those closest to her.
Hannah said, “Do you still sing?”
Jemima closed her eyes, as if that could make the question go away. When Hannah thought she would never get an answer, Jemima opened her eyes again.
“Until last fall I sang almost every night.”
That was more information than Hannah had expected, and it raised more questions than it answered. She considered.
“What made you stop?”
A flush of annoyance moved across Jemima’s face. “What kind of questions are these?”
“You chose to pay my fee in answers.”
“Ask something else.”
“Did your coming back here have anything to do with that, the singing?”
Jemima scowled at her. “Ask something else.”
“All right,” Hannah said. “What was it that Harper was supposed to be finding out for you?”
“Harper is my husband’s creature,” Jemima said. “I don’t know exactly what arrangement they had.”
Hannah said, “Harper is dead. He drowned.”
Jemima went very still. Then she said, “That boy could swim all day. He was half fish.”
“Anybody can drown,” Hannah said. “There was no evidence that it was anything but an accident.”
“Of course you’d say that. It was probably one of yours who did it.”
Hannah counted to ten. Then, very calmly she said, “For someone who wants favors of me, you are very free with unfounded accusations. And may I point out to you that there have been other accidental deaths over the years.”
Jemima drew in a sharp breath. “Go on with your questions, but you are trying my patience.”
“You want the orchard, and leaving Harper behind had something to do with that.”
“Christ, no,” Jemima said. “I wouldn’t care if I never saw an apple or an apple tree ever again.”
“Your husband is the one who wants the orchard, then.”
