Page 9 of Murder on Harley Street
“It is,” Harry said.
“If they were, I was unaware of it, and I believe I would have noticed. I’m quite observant.”
“Are you able to make that judgment, considering you wouldn’t have seen them together very often?”
“I’ve seen her in the waiting room from time to time, when I’ve also been there. She hasn’t shown any sign of guilt, or that they are—were—lovers. No little glances or flushed cheeks, that sort of thing.” She suddenly turned to me, catching me unawares. “You know what I mean, Miss Fox.”
My face heated. Did she detect there was something between Harry and me? Had I given it away? Had he? “I, uh, yes. I believe I do know what you mean. You were working there on Friday, weren’t you, Mrs. Iverson?”
She nodded. “My husband telephoned me first thing, after he sent the regular girl home. I used to be a receptionist at his first practice, years ago. That’s how we met. I know what to do and have helped him occasionally. Miss Wainsmith has been with him almost a year and is an adequate receptionist, but my husband sent her home on Friday when she arrived sick.”
“She was there today.”
“Of all days, yes.” Mrs. Iverson sighed. “She’s a good girl, but apparently she became quite hysterical when it was clear what had happened.”
“D.S. Forrester told you that?”
“Sister Dearden did, my husband’s nursing assistant. She stopped by after the detective sent her home. A constable had already informed me about the death and my husband’s predicament, but she was able to give me the particulars. She knew I’d want to know, you see, so came here directly.”
“Has Sister Dearden worked for your husband long?”
“About five years.” Mrs. Iverson twisted the gold band on her ring finger. “It’s good that you’ve taken on my husband’s case, Mr. Armitage. I know how it looks, and that’s why D.S. Forrester believes my husband is guilty, but I can assure you he is not. He’s not the murdering type. If he was, he’d hardly do it in his own consulting rooms, would he? He’s no fool. Someone must have staged it to make it look as though he’s guilty.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to see your husband hanged for murder?” Harry asked.
She seemed ready for the question, neither shocked by it nor hesitant in answering. “Last week a man caused a scene at my husband’s rooms, accusing him of medical malpractice. His late wife was a former patient, you see. He was upset and looking for someone to blame. Her doctor is an obvious choice.”
“How did she die?” Harry asked.
“She had a nervous condition that caused her to stop eating. She wasted away.” Mrs. Iverson gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “Clearly that’s not my husband’s fault. He can’t make someone eat when they don’t want to. The patient’s husband couldn’t accept the truth, though.”
“The truth?” I asked.
“His wife had a weak mind that allowed dark thoughts to creep in. It’s those dark thoughts that upset her to the point of seeking medical help. But a doctor and medicine can only do so much. In such cases, the patient mustwantto get better. It seems this particular patient didnotwant to get better, and her husband can’t accept that.”
I blinked at her, not quite believing that someone could be so unsympathetic. I’d expected a doctor’s wife to be caring and compassionate, but Mrs. Iverson was unfeeling, to the point of being mechanical. “Perhaps she had good reason for her dark thoughts,” I said.
“We all have good reasons for our dark thoughts, Miss Fox. However, some of us just get on with it.” Getting on with it seemed to be Mrs. Iverson’s mantra. “I wasn’t there the day that man came in. I heard about the incident secondhand, from both my husband and Sister Dearden. Apparently, Sister Dearden was the one who got him to leave.”
“How?” Harry asked.
“She talked to him. I don’t know what she said, but he saw reason and left without the police needing to be called. We thought that was the end of it, but perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps he plotted this revenge on my husband.”
“By murdering an innocent woman?” Harry asked.
“Perhaps Mrs. Kempsey wasn’t all that innocent, but that is something for you to find out, Mr. Armitage.” Mrs. Iverson turned to me, her sharp features softening a little. “And you too, Miss Fox. I can already tell you are clever and forthright, so I feel sure you’ll get to the bottom of this and prove my husband is innocent.”
Her compliment threw me off, and I took a moment to respond. “Harry and I make a good team.” I’d been so thrown off that I called Harry by his first name. I wasn’t usually so unprofessional in front of a client.
Mrs. Iverson’s shrewd gaze flicked to him then back to me.
“Do you know the name of the angry man?” Harry asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t, but Sister Dearden and Miss Wainsmith will.”
“We have an address for Sister Dearden, but not Miss Wainsmith. Do you know where we can find her?”
“They live at the same boarding house. That’s how Miss Wainsmith came to work for my husband. She’d just moved into a room there when she first came to London last year, and my husband was looking for a new receptionist after the last one got married. Sister Dearden told her about the vacancy and suggested she apply after she learned Miss Wainsmith could type. She has a friendly manner but isn’t particularly bright. Sister Dearden and my husband don’t seem to mind, though.”
