Page 78 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

The duchess gazed at him with those purple eyes. Then she slipped a linen-hued calling card out of the folds of her costume and proffered it to him with a gloved hand. “Like Belinda, I tend to spend my mornings wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.”

“I’m sure Pope would approve. Perhaps tea, then?” he said, bowing and offering his own card. “These holidays do tend to scatter one’s schedule to the four winds. Would you care to set a date?”

“Perhaps sometime next week?”

Leng thought a moment as a guest dressed as a harlequin passed by, leaving the entertainment early as well. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“You’re a rather forward fellow.”

“It’s only tea—and I promise not to cut off any locks of your hair. Besides, I think we’ll find we have much to talk about.”

“In that case, I shall accept, while doing my best to ignore the unseemly haste.”

“Most excellent. Shall we say Delmonico’s? At half past two?”

“We shall.” And as she offered him her glove, Leng felt a shudder—whether of anticipation or something else—course through her limbs.

48

DR. LENG WALKED BRISKLYdown the carpeted stairs and away from the mansion, the elegant music and chatter of conversation fading slowly behind him. Most of the partygoers’ carriages would be waiting in stables and other places nearby, but a few stood here at the Fifth Avenue curb, horses snorting vapor into the chill air. Leng knew his would be among them: Munck enjoyed gaping at people almost as much as he liked cutting them open.

Leng had little patience with therapeutic nihilism, the approach he’d encountered at medical schools in Heidelberg, Salpêtrière, and elsewhere. He believed in a more aggressive approach to illnesses of the mind, surgical whenever practicable, and he dismissed iatrogenic injuries as a necessary risk of the curative process. Many lunatics, maniacs, and victims of so-called melancholia had passed beneath his hands—and scalpel. When he at last came upon Munck in a Turkish prison, he knew he had found his ideal chargé d’affaires. Like many Circassians, Munck had been forced to flee his homeland in 1864 during the Russian genocide, but for a different reason than the rest—he was sought by the authorities for mutilating and eviscerating dogs, cats, and farm animals. The man was not homicidal or a sexual deviant; he was ahämophilein the word’s original sense, possessed of an uncontrolled urge to see, and spill, blood. Leng had saved him, educated him, and given him a place in life—and in return received the man’s hound-like devotion, quite remarkable in a man otherwise free of anything like empathy or conscience. And finally, even though he had been confined in a prison for idiots, Munck was of above-average intelligence. With his urges properly channeled, the Circassian had the cleverness and cunning of an apex predator. And, like said predator, he was oblivious to the suffering of his prey.

As Leng walked toward the avenue, pulling on his gloves, he saw his gleaming black carriage pull away from the curb to pick him up in front of the mansion. One of the numerous valets waiting nearby rushed over to help Leng up the steps while Munck held the carriage door open, small eyes shining out of the darkness: he had shuttered the interior lantern in order to see better.

“Well, Munck,” Leng said as he took his seat, “did you enjoy yourself as much as I did?”

“Lots of people, there was,” Munck replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lots ofladies.” This was true: at affairs like this one, women showed rather more flesh than Munck was used to seeing—other than on the operating table.

“Yes, there was one lady in particular that made the evening worthwhile,” Leng said.

“The lady you was dancing with?” Munck asked eagerly.

Leng couldn’t help but chuckle. The clever Munck must have snuck out of the cab to peer inside the mansion—and he had enjoyed his ogling. “The same. I found her most intriguing—toointriguing, somehow. I had the strangest feeling I’d met her somewhere before.” He thought a moment. “Munck, I believe I have a task for you.”

The short man leaned closer, eyes dewy, forehead damp despite the chill. “Yes?”

“Tomorrow, I want you to go to the public library, and—” He stopped. “Let’s discuss it back at the residence. Just now, I’d like a moment to arrange my thoughts.”

“Very good, sir.” Munck rapped for the driver to move on, and the carriage slid out into traffic and began fading into the night—watched, at a distance, by a guest wearing the cap and bells, and the red spangled mask, of a harlequin.

49

December 23, 1880

Sunday

CONSTANCE GREENE, SELF-STYLEDDuchess of Ironclaw, awakened to light streaming through the silk curtains of the bedroom. Rising, she went to the window and drew the drapes back, to see snow blanketing Fifth Avenue, lying softly on the rooftops and outlining the branches of the sycamore trees. Everything looked clean, renewed, after the unexpected snowfall. She realized that, among other twenty-first-century conveniences, she had left behind accurate weather predictions.

As she gazed out at the magical scene, the bells of St. Patrick’s, three blocks away, began tolling the hour. She counted the bells: nine o’clock. Today was the day her plans would launch; today at tea with Leng.

As she stood at the window, sounds of life reached her from below: the bustling of Mrs. Palegood in the kitchen, the two children playing a game in their rooms, and from outside, the clopping of hooves on the avenue and the call of a lone newsboy hawking the morning’s papers. A scent of coffee wafted up, mingling with the smell of freshly baked hot cross buns: one of Mrs. Palegood’s specialties. It was a moment of domestic bliss…but she quickly stopped herself from sinking any further into it. She must never forget that Mary was in great danger. She had business to conclude—an ugly business—before she could gain the ease necessary to truly accustom herself to her new life.

Constance washed, dressed, then went down the hall to Binky’s room. She listened at the door for a moment, hearing chatter and giggles. She knocked and then opened.

The children were playing cards—Old Maid, or more precisely its predecessor, known as Black Peter—and upon her entry, Binky jumped to her feet and gave a clumsy curtsy. Joe looked up silently. It was upsetting to see the little girl so submissive, so eager to please. These were not qualities Constance admired. But she knew the child was nervous and uncertain and feared making a mistake. All too understandable, given what the girl had been through—and she told herself Binky would soon adjust to her new life and become more…herself.

Joe’s adjustment, on the other hand, seemed problematic. He remained aloof and—despite everything, including the regular lessons with Moseley and all her personal kindnesses—still suspicious. His Blackwell’s Island ordeal had affected him even more deeply than she’d feared. He would need time.

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