THERE WAS NOTHING SUMPTUOUS or Romanesque about the Toronto General Hospital. It was grey coloured, built from start to finish to function as a hospital, and was serious and no-nonsense. A place that would not encourage lingering.
I made my way to the ward where Mrs. Kaufmann had been taken. She didn’t have the luxury of a private room, but she was in the bed nearest to the door. There was a screen around her bed, and a policewoman was seated outside it.
I explained who I was and showed her the letter of authorization that Jack had given me. She didn’t do a perfunctory check but examined it carefully. There was indeed nothing perfunctory about Constable Frobisher. She had a perpetual tight-lipped expression. Maybe that’s what happens when your major job is to make sure young women don’t fall into wicked ways. I considered my line of work at least had more variety, if not as much respectability.
“Has Mrs. Kaufmann said anything to you?” I asked.
“Nothing at all. The last time I went to see if she was able to give a statement she started shrieking. The nurse had to come and sedate her.”
“When was that?”
“About an hour ago. She’s probably gone to the world now.”
“I’ll check.”
I stepped around the screen.
Even though she had suffered a dreadful experience, Mrs. Kaufmann actually looked younger than when I’d seen her last. Prettier. She had a bandage over her left temple, and the side of her head had been partly shaved. The rest of her hair was loose and flowing out on the pillow. It was a rich dark brown, no trace of grey. She appeared to be breathing peacefully. There was a little colour in her cheeks.
I came closer and placed my hand gently on her bare arm.
“Mrs. Kaufmann. It’s Charlotte Frayne here. We met on Wednesday.”
She shifted a little, but didn’t open her eyes. I could see a yellowing bruise on her jaw that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Mrs. Kaufmann. Do you think you could talk to me?”
Her eyelids fluttered, but remained closed. She licked her lips.
I leaned over to the bedside table, where there was a glass of water. I dipped my finger into the water and ran it along her upper lip. I did that twice.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and looked straight into mine.
For one brief moment an expression of joy crossed her face.
“Ida.”
“No, it’s not Ida, Mrs. Kaufmann. I’m Charlotte Frayne. I’ve come on behalf of Mr. Gilmore.”
The delight faded.
“Where’s Ida?” she murmured.
Before I could even stumble into some kind of answer, she jerked her head away. Her shoulders began to shake. A wail broke out, eerily similar to the sound Conal Pierce had made earlier at the café. Full of grief and anguish.
Constable Frobisher shoved aside the screen. “What on earth’s going on?”
I didn’t have a chance to explain.
“Fetch a nurse,” she ordered.
I didn’t have to go far. A nurse was already scurrying down toward us. She had a hypodermic in her hand and, without ceremony, she stepped up to the bed, pulled aside the sheet, and plunged the needle into Mrs. Kaufmann’s thigh.
“No more visitors for today,” she said briskly.
I was in agreement with that. I had no desire to participate in further torture for the poor woman in the bed.
I moved outside of the screen with Constable Frobisher.
“What happened?” she asked.
“She mistook me for somebody else.”
The constable’s expression had changed. Much more sympathy.
“A cry like that makes your blood run cold, doesn’t it?”
It did indeed.