Chapter Seven
There were no hansoms outside the Opera House. A half hour earlier, at intermission, there had been dozens. An hour later, after the final curtain, there would be more than a hundred. But with the start of the second act, the hansoms had driven off to trawl the streets for fares until the opera let out. Nellie and Ingram had to wait for ten maddening minutes until they could flag a carriage to take them to the Cancer Hospital.
Every passing minute, they knew, lessened their chances of stopping Barker.
The driver they finally hailed raced like the wind over the cobblestone streets and around dimly lit corners, and Ingram knew exactly where to direct him, but the sight of another hansom waiting outside the hospital’s night entrance told them it was futile. Still they rushed inside, Ingram showed his credentials to the guard, and they hurried downstairs to the basement. Barker was just emerging from the double doors as they approached.
“Why, Doctor Ingram,” he said, feigning pleasant surprise. “Miss Cochran. What are you two doing here?”
“Trying to preserve evidence before you destroy it,” said Nellie, barely able to contain her rage.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about—” They started past him through the double doors. “You can’t go in there—” he said.
But they ignored him and went inside, to a room unlike anything Nellie had ever seen. It was a laboratory of a dozen marble counters, with Bunsen burners, thick blown glass beakers and flasks, electric lights, and copper piping. Ingram raced past the burners and flasks to the refrigeration area and pulled open the door. Hundreds of flasks of blood with white labels sat on shelves inside the refrigerator.
“How are they arranged?” he demanded of Barker. “By date or last name?”
“Both,” said Barker, only too glad to cooperate. “First by date, then by patient.”
“What was Miss Lazarus’s date of death?” Ingram pressed.
“I’m sorry, doctor. I don’t recall.”
“November 19, 1887,” chimed in Nellie.
Ingram found the right place on the shelves, then began working backward. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for.
“When did she return from England?”
“In March of ’87,” she said.
Ingram went to that marked area but couldn’t find anything. Once again he turned to Barker.
“Where are they?”
“Where is what?”
Ingram, fists clenching, looked around and spotted a large metal bin. He strode over and looked inside. Several broken flasks with blood lay on the bottom.
“What are these?” Barker looked in the bin.
“Those? We dispose of blood all the time, to make room for analysis of our newer patients.”
“Were these samples from Miss Lazarus?”
“I have no idea,” he replied innocently.
Ingram was livid.
“How could you do such a thing—?”
“I’m not sure I see the problem.”
“I think you see it perfectly well.”
“So now we will never be able to prove how Miss Lazarus died?” Nellie asked Ingram.
He shook his head. She turned to Barker in a fury. “I will make sure the world knows you did this.”
“Did what?”
At that point, the security guard came down the stairs. “Everything all right, doctor?”
“I think so, Hudson. Thank you.” Barker turned to Nellie and Ingram. “Can I take you anywhere? I’m sure there is room in my hansom, and you may have trouble finding one at this time of night.”
They were seething with frustration, but there was nothing to be done. “The Columbia faculty was right to reject you,” said Ingram.
“I don’t care about them. Look around you. Why would I need a faculty?”
“I will make sure the truth is known within the entire medical community. No self-respecting physician will ever refer a patient to you again.”
“That’s all right. I’ll get plenty from the rest. Hudson, please see them out. I think I’ll straighten up here.”
“Certainly, doctor.”
They had no choice and followed the security guard out. Their driver had waited, at Ingram’s instruction. That was about the only thing that went right that evening, rued Nellie.
“Is there no other way to prove she was poisoned?” she asked.
“Not scientifically.”
Ingram could see the wind go out of her.
“What about a witness?” he asked, trying to boost her spirits. “Or a letter?”
“No one has come forward as of now. I’m afraid someone suddenly appearing a year later would seem highly suspicious.”
They rode on in silence. Nellie was now convinced that cancer had not killed Emma; Barker’s hurried trip to the hospital during the opera was proof of that.
“Maybe if we stop thinking like scientists,” said Ingram, “there is a way.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, as a scientist, I deal in verifiable fact. But not everyone is so demanding before reaching a conclusion.”
“Such as?”
“Such as readers and writers of newspapers. They embrace positions with the greatest of fervor when often there is no basis in logic for doing so.”
“I suppose I should be insulted, but let me understand your point. You are saying if I wrote an article that was speculative but compelling, people would be as persuaded as if I had written one filled with facts?”
“Many people, yes. Most, in fact. And public opinion can be every bit as powerful as scientific opinion.”
“I can’t resort to innuendo, Ingram. I’m a reporter.”
“Your readers trust you. If you are convinced there was foul play, they will give you the benefit of any doubt. And some of them may even come forward with supporting evidence.”
She knew he was right. Readers didn’t mind if you took liberties as long as you strove for the truth and treated them with respect. When she wrote about the working conditions in factories, she didn’t have every fact right. But the picture she painted was accurate, and that was all people cared about. No one quibbled with details. And once the articles hit the streets, the paper was flooded with corroborating letters of mistreatment.
The purpose, as Ingram was saying, was to get to the truth. She knew how to write a story that would stir people. After tonight, she certainly had the raw material to work with. She was ready to write. She would have a story for Cockerill in the morning.