Two Graves

12

AT FIRST GLANCE, THE LIBRARY AT MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL for the Criminally Insane looked like the typical reading room of any gentlemen’s club: dark, polished wood; baroque fixtures; discreet lighting. Closer examination, however, revealed certain unique differences. The wing chairs and wooden refectory tables were immovable, having been screwed to the floor. No sharp objects or heavy, blunt implements were to be seen. The magazines being browsed by the inmates all had their staples removed. And at the room’s single entrance stood a muscular man wearing an orderly’s uniform.

Dr. John Felder sat at a small round table in a far corner of the library. He was fidgeting with his hands, clearly nervous.

There was movement at the entrance, and he glanced over quickly. Constance Greene stood in the doorway, accompanied by a guard. She looked around, saw him, and came over. She was dressed modestly, in a white pleated skirt and a blouse of the palest lavender. In one hand she held a letter; in the other, an airmail envelope.

“Dr. Felder,” she said in her courtly voice as she sat down across from him. She placed the letter inside the envelope and turned it facedown on the table, but not before Felder noticed that the letter seemed to contain only one word. It was in a strange script, Sanskrit or Marathi or something similar.

He looked from the letter to Constance. “Thank you for seeing me,” he replied.

“I did not expect you to return so soon.”

“Neither did I. I beg your pardon. It’s because…” He stopped, glanced around to make sure they were not being overheard. Despite being reassured, he lowered his voice. “Constance, I’m finding it very difficult to get on with things, knowing that… that you don’t trust me.”

“I don’t understand why that should vex you. I’m simply an ex-patient—no doubt one of many.”

“I’d like to find some way I could make it up to you.” Felder was unused to talking about his feelings, especially to a patient, and he felt himself flush with both embarrassment and shame. “I don’t expect to treat you in the future—I respect your wishes in that regard. It’s just that I wish… well, that I could somehow compensate for what happened… for what I did. Make it right. So you could trust me again.”

These last words tumbled out in a rush. Constance looked at him, her violet eyes cool and appraising. “Why is this important to you, Doctor?”

“I…” He realized he didn’t really know why. Or hadn’t examined his feelings closely enough to see.

For a long moment, the table was silent. Then Constance spoke. “Some time ago, you told me you believed I was, in fact, born on Water Street in the 1870s.”

“I did say that once, yes.”

“Do you still believe it?”

“It… it seems so bizarre, so difficult to comprehend. And yet I have found nothing to contradict you. In fact, I’ve found independent evidence to support what you say. Also, I know you’re not a liar. And when I examine the clinical issues—really look at them—I wonder if you suffer from any psychotic condition at all. You may be emotionally troubled, true, and I’m sure there’s some past trauma that continues to haunt you. But I just don’t believe you’re delusional. And I increasingly doubt if you even threw your child off that ship. Your note to Pendergast seemed to indicate the baby was still alive. I feel like there’s something going on here, some ruse or perhaps larger plan, which has yet to be uncovered.”

Constance went still.

When she said nothing, he continued. “All circumstantial evidence, of course—but highly persuasive. And then, there’s this.” He extracted his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a small piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Constance. It was a photocopy of an old newspaper engraving, depicting an urban scene of dirty-faced children playing stickball on a tenement street. Standing to one side was another child, thin and frightened, broom in her hand. She was an almost photographic likeness of a young Constance Greene.

“It’s from the New-York Inquirer, 1879,” Felder said. “It’s titled Guttersnipes at Play.”

Constance stared at the engraving for a long time. Then she brushed it gently, almost lovingly, with her fingertips before folding it again and handing it back to Felder. “You keep this in your wallet, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I, ah, consult it from time to time. Trying to unravel the mystery, I suppose.”

Constance continued to regard him. It might have been Felder’s imagination, but he thought that the look in her eyes softened. After another moment, she began to speak.

“Back when that engraving was made,” she said, “newspaper illustrations were done by artists in the field. They would make pen-and-ink drawings, pencil sketches, charcoal—whatever—of things they felt colorful or newsworthy. They would submit their artwork to the newspaper, where professional engravers would reproduce it in a form that could be printed.”

She nodded again at the folded paper, still clasped in Felder’s hand. “I recall when that drawing was made. The artist was illustrating a series of articles on the tenement districts of New York. He did that sketch and then, I suppose taken by my appearance, he asked to paint my portrait. My parents were already dead, so he asked my older sister. She agreed. When the work was finished, he gave her his preliminary pencil sketches for the portrait by way of payment.”

“Where are those studies?” Felder asked eagerly.

“Long gone. But in gratitude, my sister gave him a lock of my hair in return. Gifts of such locks were very common then. I recall the artist putting the snippet of hair into a small envelope and pasting it to the inside of his portfolio cover.”

She paused. “The name of the artist was Alexander Wintour. If you could find his portfolio, perhaps the lock might still be inside. It’s a long shot, I admit. But if you did, and the portfolio hadn’t been disturbed, a simple DNA test would prove what I say: that I am almost a century and a half old.”

“Yes,” Felder murmured, shaking his head. “Yes, it would.” He wrote down the artist’s name on the back of the picture, folded it up, and slipped it back into his wallet. “Thank you again for seeing me, Constance.” He stood up.

“Certainly, Doctor.”

He shook her hand and exited the library. For the first time in days, he felt a spring in his step, a feeling of renewed vigor in his limbs.

And then, on the front steps of Mount Mercy, he paused again.

Why was Constance doing this? She had always seemed supremely indifferent as to whether people believed her or not. Something had changed.

But what? And why?