Page 81 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He departed and Mary, her head feeling a little clearer, was able to stand up and, one hand on the frame of the canopy, look around the room. The doctor must be very rich, that was clear, to have a private clinic like this in his very own house. Everything was of the richest quality: the spines of the books stamped with gold; the thick writing paper on the desk, with a gold fountain pen and inkwell ready to use; the old pictures of horses and dogs on the walls. And she’d never seen anything like the bed, with its carved wooden frame below a shining canopy of embroidered silk, creating a sort of cocoon, and within it a feather bed covered with a peach-colored satin puff. Just looking at it made her feel sleepy all over again.

A timid knock came at the door, then it opened and a small man came in. It was the misshapen servant of her dreams, with a knobbly face and two bright green eyes, dressed in simple but clean clothes. He bowed several times as he approached, in a crabwise scuttle, carrying a silver tray with a cup of sherbet, a tall glass of juice, and a platter of meats and other delicious-looking tidbits. He set it down on a small table beside her bed, still bowing incessantly, an unctuous smile on his lips.

“’Ere you go, miss,” he said. “The doctor’s special order. Lemon sherbet, juice, and some Eyetalian delicacies. ’E’s one for the meats and cheeses, miss! Please now, eat hearty—doctor’s orders, as they say!”

He retreated backward out the open door with more bowing, shutting it quietly behind him.

Mary realized she was quite thirsty, and drank down the juice quickly—it was orange juice, or at least she thought it was; she’d never tasted anything so fresh and delicious. Her appetite sharpened, she gobbled up the sherbet with a silver spoon. She glanced at the meats and cheeses set around the platter, then began plucking up first one and then another, wolfing them down with slices of bread. She felt famished.

A small basin of water sat on one side of the platter, with a linen napkin beside it. She had some faint recollection of what this must be: a finger bowl, she thought it was called. She dipped her fingers in the cool, faintly scented water, dried them on the napkin and dabbed her lips with it. The dizziness was stealing over her again—strange that she would feel sleepy so soon after waking—but it was a delicious kind of sleepiness, and one after the other she let her cares and uncertainties fall away. The doctor would see to Binky and Joe. The doctor would see to everything. As the languorousness continued to steal over her, she lay back down on the feather bed, sinking in deeply, and immediately fell asleep.

52

THEIR TABLE STOOD INthe center of Delmonico’s dining room. On one wall, a flickering gas fireplace gave the ornate chamber a cozy feel. Against the opposite wall, a veritable army of waiters in white ties, black coats, and white aprons stood at attention, backs ramrod straight, their eyes roving the room for the barest raising of a finger or glance of an eye. Behind the table, a magnificent flower arrangement conferred a sense of privacy, as well as scenting the air with the fragrance of roses and peonies.

It was half past two, and Delmonico’s was serving tea to a busy room full of Fifth Avenue ladies. There was a low murmur of conversation, the tinkling of cups and spoons, and the hushed comings and goings of waiters bearing pots of tea and magnificent silver tiers of teacakes and sandwiches.

Leng had insisted on holding Constance’s chair, taking the duties of their waiter upon himself. He then took the seat opposite her and whisked his napkin into his lap as the waiter hovered to take their order.

“May I ask what you will have, sir?”

“The high tea,” said Leng crisply. “Earl Grey. With sandwiches, teacakes, and petits fours.”

“Yes, sir, coming forthwith.” The waiter scurried off.

Leng turned to Constance. “I’m so glad we were able to arrange thisrencontre, Your Grace.” He gave her a slow, sensual smile. “The tea and cakes here are good, but the petits fours aresublime.”

Constance did not respond immediately. Now that they were free from the mania of the ball, she had a chance to study his face more closely. He looked exactly as she remembered: the colorless skin, the eyes set like pallid sapphires in an oddly delicate face, the white-blond hair and the slender frame that nevertheless radiated strength. It unnerved her to see so clearly the Pendergast family resemblance in this face, with a habitual expression of icy indifference that reminded her of Diogenes.

Leng’s charming, probing conversation as they danced—and in particular, his invitation to tea the very next day—had alarmed her. Once again, she was reminded just how clever and dangerous he could be. But it was that very fact, she’d decided, that made it necessary for her to act. January 7 was close—closer than it seemed. There was no way of knowing for sure what Leng would do or how he’d react. She had no choice but to put him off-balance and seize the initiative, aiming for his most vulnerable spot—the thing he coveted most.

And yet she had to be careful—exceedingly careful—not to overplay her hand. Not with Leng. She covered her internal disquiet and revulsion at his person, keeping her face light and insouciant.

“Dr. Leng, you mentioned you’re interested in poisons. I find that curious. To what end?”

“Just one interest among many,” said Leng, with an offhand wave. “My primary training is in psychiatric surgery—by that I mean surgery of the brain to alter behavior in patients suffering from psychosis.”

“That sounds rather alarming.”

“Not at all!” He chuckled. “I was lucky enough to study with a young, iconoclastic, and brilliant German doctor, Emil Kraepelin, who believes dementia praecox is a clinical disorder, deserving of treatment rather than imprisonment. As for the surgical aspect, penetration of the skull—for beneficial reasons—is one of the oldest medical operations for which we have evidence…although of course the early practitioners were woefully misguided. Today, it’s a gift to be able to permanently relieve the dreadful and sometimes violent symptoms of mental alienation.”

“I know, of course, about trepanning. But I didn’t know surgery involving the brain was possible.”

“In that sense, itisnew. But progress has been remarkable.”

“And where are you consulting?”

“At Bellevue Hospital.”

“Nowhere else?”

“I also offer my services to the poor and unfortunate.”

“How lovely for them—and how generous of you. But getting back to your interest in poisons…You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m interested in the action of compounds that interfere with normal biological processes. The study of biological toxins can help illuminate life’s fundamental secrets.”

“Do you conduct experiments with poisons? I mean on animals, of course.”

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