He lowered his bulk into the Murphy rocker next to her with a sigh, his face lined with exhaustion.
“How is he?” Hattie perched on the edge of her chair, handing the doctor his drink.
He accepted with a nod of thanks. “That young man sustained a hell of a beating—pardon my language. I’d like to personally thrash the men who did it.”
“So there was more than one attacker?”
“I found evidence of at least three.” Hattie swallowed her outrage, allowing him to continue. “One man couldn’t have overpowered a man of his size. He was surprised from behind, I would guess, by the initial blow to the back of his head, which would have stunned him. After that, he wouldn’t have been able to protect himself, though it seems he tried.” The physician paused to take a gulp of brandy. “I can see no evidence of compression of the brain, so in that respect, he is lucky. His features remain even and do not slacken to one side, and his pupils are dilated evenly. I suspect, since he continues to sleep so deeply, that he has sustained a concussion. Do you know how long he has been unconscious?”
“At least four or five hours, from what I was told.”
“Hmm.” He frowned at that, staring into the fire for a long moment. “Well, all you can do is keep him quiet and keep constant vigil, to see whether he awakens. I’ve elevated his head—keep it that way—and stitched up the various cuts. Under no circumstances should he have any stimulants.”
“What of his ribs?”
“Yes, I was getting to that—two are broken. I’ve taped them to keep them in place so that they do not puncture his lung. You mustn’t let him shift about too much. The ribs will be quite painful for a while yet, and he won’t like the effect when he breathes. I’ve left a dram of laudanum in the room, in case he experiences too much pain, but you are only to administer it after he has regained full consciousness and appears to be completely lucid. He’s best off with only willow bark tea, if he can tolerate the pain.”
“My housekeeper knows how to prepare it.”
“Good. He also has numerous bruises in his kidney region. Should those become more tender or swell, notify me immediately.” Willoughby turned from the fire with a frown. “If Mr. Lewis had a lesser constitution, I suspect he would’ve died from the beating he took.”
“You know Frank?” Hattie asked, surprised.
Willoughby nodded. “He and I had some dealings recently. He came to me for medical supplies. Some story about a young girl—yes, name of Isobel, if I remember correctly—who had fallen from a carriage, though I doubt he told me the truth. Hard to sustain burns in a fall from a carriage,” Willoughby added wryly.
Hattie managed not to react. So Frank had been the one to treat Isobel. That was why he knew the details of what Charles had done to her.
She glanced at Willoughby and found him watching her with a shrewd expression. When she remained silent, he sighed. “I won’t push you to tell me what you know, but it’s my duty to report this attack to Chief Greeley.”
“I’ve already taken care of it—you needn’t trouble yourself,” she lied. “I’m sure you’ve already had a long day.”
“Who do you have to nurse Mr. Lewis?”
“I will take care of that as well.”
Willoughby’s expression turned to one of shock. “Mrs. Longren, that is highly improper. I can’t allow it. I will send someone over—”
“No. The more people who know, the greater the likelihood Frank’s attackers will learn of his location. No one will suspect he is here.”
“But—”
“I have extensive experience treating the injured and infirm at my parents’ clinic in Boston,” she interrupted firmly. “His injuries, though severe, are ones I’ve handled in the past. And you said yourself that we must simply wait and see whether he returns to consciousness. My housekeeper and I can keep vigil.”
The physician continued to eye her with disapproval. “Charles would never have allowed this.”
“Charles is no longer here to make the decisions, Dr. Willoughby. If you care about your patient’s survival, you will speak to no one about this.”
The physician studied her, then sighed. “Very well.”
“Thank you.” Hattie stood. “If you’ll prepare your bill, I can pay you immediately.”
He pursed his lips, reaching down to pull a slip of paper from his satchel. “Charles always said you were headstrong—he was concerned that trait would land you in trouble one day. I’m well aware of the good Frank Lewis has done on the waterfront, so I can hardly object to your willingness to take him in. But if you’ll take every precaution, I’ll sleep better with that knowledge.”
Hattie nodded. “If you’ll follow me to the library once you’ve finished your drink, I’ll pay you there.”
Once he’d left, promising to drop by the next afternoon to see how Frank was doing, Hattie returned to the attic. She sat in the chair next to the cot, one hand rubbing her temple. Frank lay, silent and unmoving, and still unnaturally pale. She lifted one of his hands and held it in her own, willing some of her strength into him.
He didn’t respond, his breathing slow and deep.
His hand still in hers, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She would keep watch over him throughout the night, then pay a visit to the police in the morning. And regardless of what she’d told Mona, she would soon deal with the men who had beaten Frank. She had no doubt that Michael Seavey or Clive Johnson had ordered the attack. She would discover which one, then find a way to deal with him.
She had no intention of allowing the perpetrators to go unpunished.
The Warning
THE next morning, Hattie opened the door of the Port Chatham Police Station, a one-story brick building located around the corner from the Green Light and identified by a rough wooden hanging sign that announced, simply, Police. She approached the front desk and asked the uniformed officer to be allowed to speak with Chief Greeley.
While she waited, she watched the passersby on the boardwalk outside the building’s plate glass windows. The streets were teeming with tradesmen and sailors going about their business, but she was too distracted to take much notice.
After a restless night, Frank’s fever was lower this morning, his sleep deeper and less disturbed. But he still hadn’t regained consciousness, which was worrisome. She’d left Sara in charge, changed into a clean dress, and hurried down to the waterfront, unwilling to be absent from his side for any length of time.
“The chief will see you now, ma’am.”
The desk sergeant escorted her through a large, open room furnished with battered oak desks. Uniformed officers sat at several of the desks, filling out paperwork. To her right, cells constructed of iron bars running from ceiling to floor marched down the wall. A few of the cells were empty, but others housed unkempt prisoners who smelled as if they hadn’t washed in days. They tracked her passing, a feral light in their eyes. She averted her gaze, wrinkling her nose, and ignored their catcalls.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” the officer muttered.
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” Hattie assured him. “I’ve heard, and smelled, worse.”
Greeley’s office stood against the rear wall, built of whitewashed, half-height wooden walls and closed in by large windows. The design was intentional, she supposed, so that he could see at a glance what was happening in the common area. He sat behind an oak desk substantially larger than those in the other room, reading a sheaf of papers.
As they entered, he looked up, his gaze coolly assessing. “That’ll be all, Dobbs.”