ELEVEN

So, Stephen was aware that Mary Stone had been released but he still had not returned home. Instead, he had summoned me to the city using Ida Kahn as his messenger. I was exasperated and annoyed, however, I saw no choice but to accompany Ida back to the city.

Mary, Miss Howe, and Mrs. Appleby met us at the Twelfth Street Station. Mary appeared to have survived her incarceration without suffering any great harm but, when I congratulated her on her release, she seemed not to want to discuss it. She reassured me that she did not hold me responsible for the fact that her arrest had taken place at our home. Nor did she seem to see any connection between my friendship with Detective Whitbread and his actions. In fact, she insisted that she was grateful for my efforts on her behalf. I protested that Hip Lung’s influence was the true reason for her release.

The plan had been for Miss Erickson to accompany us to the hospital but, when we stopped at her house, we were refused admittance. The butler informed us that Dr. Erickson had forbidden Charlotte to go with us on the tour and that we were not to be allowed to relay any messages to her. As if that was not enough, he left instructions to summon the police if we caused any difficulties.

Mrs. Appleby shook her head with disappointment as the carriage pulled away from the curb. “I am so sorry for that scene.”

“What an exceedingly rude man,” Miss Howe added. If she had been present in the operating theater at the Rush Hospital her opinion of Dr. Erickson would certainly have been even worse, considering how he had treated Mary. Apparently the young women doctors had not complained to her of that treatment. I suspected they had long experience of having to soothe the forthright Miss Howe when she became angry.

Rather than anger, Mrs. Appleby appeared to feel pity for the physician, despite his continued bad behavior towards her. “Poor Isaac. He has been unable to recover from the deep sorrow he felt after his wife passed away last winter. He was not at all like this when she was alive. He misses her influence in so many ways and poor Charlotte suffers for it.”

I wondered about his shocking accusation that the young woman had poisoned her mother, but Mrs. Appleby did not address that issue, dismissing all of his behavior as the result of an inconsolable grief.

Meanwhile, Miss Howe had started a different topic. She was advising Mary and Ida that, when they returned to China, they should spend some time at a hospital in one of the cities before establishing their own clinic. It seemed it was an ongoing argument between them. Mary was gently adamant in her disagreement. “To spend time under the tutelage of other doctors after receiving our degrees would only raise doubts about our abilities,” she insisted. “We have studied and trained. We must not give the impression that we require the guidance of male doctors or we will never succeed in our goals. No, we must open the clinic and train our own women to be nurses.”

Miss Howe appeared stubbornly intent on continuing the discussion but Ida distracted her with something she saw out the window. As they started a separate conversation, Mary turned quietly to me. “Mr. Grubbé appears to benefit greatly from the support and encouragement of Dr. Chapman,” she said.

I felt surprised and at a disadvantage. Usually Stephen confided in me about his scientific enthusiasms but this new interest in the Roentgen rays was totally unexpected. Our relations had been so strained of late he had never even mentioned it to me. This omission was something I did not wish to share with Mary. “My husband is frequently interested in the latest advances in his areas of study,” I said, rather inadequately.

“There is, perhaps, a more personal interest for him?” She sat back in the leather seat, making herself small and still in the jogging vehicle. I shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I admitted.

She was quiet for a moment, as Miss Howe and Ida continued their exclamations concerning the local homes we passed. “It is only that I thought perhaps his own condition might be improved. He was injured by a shotgun blast some years ago, is that not so? It has made him lose the use of one arm, has it not?”

The memory suddenly came to me of the crowded tenement sweatshop, the jittery little tailor, the explosion, and the smell of smoke. I could almost hear the scream I let out, as Stephen fell bleeding on a pile of cloth. Remembering my frantic ride through the city to find him at the hospital, I gasped at the memory, but quickly shook myself. “Yes, he was crippled by an accident. It was some years ago now.” I looked at her. What was she saying?

“Perhaps Dr. Chapman believes that with the use of the Roentgen rays there might be hope to repair some or all of the damage that was done.”

“Oh, no. He was long ago resigned to it.” I thought of the operating room we had visited. “He was a surgeon, in Baltimore, before he came here to study. But he had no regrets when he could no longer do that. He had given it up for research even before being shot. No, no, you are wrong about that. I’m sure he’s fascinated by the advances presented by Mr. Grubbé’s work, but it is nothing personal, I assure you.”

“Perhaps not…if you say so.” Mary lapsed into silence again and I struggled to sit more upright in the jostling carriage. I was appalled at the thought that she might see Stephen’s interest as an attempt to correct the lameness of his arm. It was not something he ever spoke of and I thought it presumptuous of her to mention it. His damaged arm was so much a part of him now, I never thought of it. He found ways to compensate for any lack of strength and dexterity and even accepted assistance with a self-effacing irony. He certainly never complained of his injury. Mary Stone had somehow inserted herself once again into my family and it made me very uncomfortable. She knew nothing about us or our past together. How dare she presume like that?

Before I could become indignant, we reached the Mary Thompson Hospital for Women and Children. It was an impressive five-story brick building on the corner of Adams and Paulina Streets. Mrs. Appleby explained that Dr. Thompson had been one of the few women physicians in the city for several decades and had established, not only the hospital itself, but also the Chicago Woman’s Hospital Medical College, since women were not admitted to the all-male medical colleges in the city.

I found myself beside Mrs. Appleby as we stood in the main hallway. On the opposite wall were two large portraits. The one on the left was of Dr. Thompson, and was a typical, rather stiff, portrait of a middle-aged woman. On the right was a striking, full-length portrait of a handsome woman in a very fine gown trimmed with lace. She stood in a stance used by some of the best portrait artists, her body partly turned, as if she were just walking away from the viewer. She had a face that beamed with a smile filled with kindness. Mrs. Appleby saw me staring at it. “That is Katherine Erickson. She was a great friend and patron of Dr. Thompson’s,” she said, nodding to the other portrait. “Her husband was as well, you know. It was at her instigation that he consulted here and helped to train the women doctors. We lost both her and Dr. Thompson last year. Mary had a sudden stroke and was gone in days. Katherine had a long illness that made her weaker and weaker. It was difficult to watch, impossible for poor Charlotte to bear.”

“You were close to both of them, then?”

She sighed. “Closer than to anyone but my own husband. It was hard for me to lose them.” She turned to me and bit her lip. “You must not believe anything Isaac says about his daughter poisoning her mother. It was my fault…but at Katherine’s behest. As I mentioned yesterday, my husband was a physician and a colleague of Isaac’s. As his illness he got worse, the pain was exhausting. While he would grit his teeth, I could not endure it. I began a search for anything that might provide relief. Of course, there are drugs that may be used, but he was all too aware of the way they could sap the intelligence and undermine the brain. He refused to administer to himself anything that might affect him in that way.

“The Chinese herbalist was able to recommend several treatments that have been passed down through the ages. Not opium, nor any harsh drug, but other combinations of herbs. I found a few that provided some relief to my husband, for various of his pains. He resisted at first, but I was learning so much about Western medicine, through assisting him, that I was eventually able to convince him. It could not stop the deterioration, but it made it more bearable. Katherine was aware of my work and my interest in both herbs and homeopathy. You may be aware that the local medical men look down on the homeopathic branch but it has its own supporters and institutions. Hahnemann Medical College, where Mr. Grubbé is training, is one of them.”

She glanced around. The others were all safely occupied, so she moved a little closer and spoke in a low voice. “When Katherine was suffering so badly at the end of her disease, my husband had already passed away. But I continued to explore the possibilities of herbal medications—especially with some of the patients with debilitating diseases whom I had helped him to treat in his last years. They trusted me and I wished to bring them relief where possible. Charlotte came to me in distress over the pain her mother was enduring. That was when we went to the Chinese herbalist together. We experimented and found a combination that brought Katherine some relief. Isaac only found out about our treatments after she passed away. It is not true that the herbs in any way hastened her passing. There was nothing he could do to extend her life. In truth, he knows this, but he cannot bear it. His harsh reaction is not at all logical, it is only his way of refusing to accept her death.” She shook her head and glanced at the handsome woman in the portrait. “Katherine would be so disappointed in him. He has practically stopped all of his work. Certainly he has stopped his connection here, which she would have wanted him to continue. That is what would honor her, not this retreat from his work and his friends. I only wish I could find a way to get him out of his sorry state.” She shook her head in sorrow and I could find nothing to say.

We were summoned to a private dining room where the luncheon proceeded, followed by a tour of the hospital. It was a fine modern building that had opened in 1885. Mrs. Appleby acted as our guide and I sensed that she had taken over the duties of her deceased friends in describing the work of the hospital. It was begun when Dr. Thompson moved to the city after the Civil War. At that time it was a small endeavor and Dr. Thompson was the only woman medical doctor in the city. When the great fire burned down much of Chicago, the doctor found her services called upon and she began to receive the support and recognition that resulted in this five-story building.

Mrs. Appleby took us to the top floor where there were broad and airy wards. “The hospital has sixty beds comfortably and eighty when crowded. Patients are gynecological, obstetrical, medical, and surgical. We have ten free beds supported by subscriptions from patrons like Mrs. Erickson and one free bed in the children’s ward.”

Mary and Ida were very interested in the details of funding for the hospital and—as we proceeded through the children’s ward and surgical areas—on the details of surgical cleanliness and diet, methods of treating wounds, and stopping hemorrhaging. They were particularly interested in the training in these methods given to the nursing students.

“It is a training we would like to provide to Chinese women in our clinic,” Mary said.

“Yes, Dr. Thompson was very keen on that,” Mrs. Appleby told her as we passed through a classroom. “There are at any time from twenty to twenty-five women enrolled here in a two-year course.” The two young Chinese doctors were excited by the prospect. I could see that Mary thought of it as a way to allow young women of her own background to escape some of the constraints of their lives in China.

Mrs. Appleby introduced us to Dr. Jane Williams, who was one of several postgraduate medical students. “On graduation from those medical schools that will accept women,” she told us, “it can be very difficult to find a position in a hospital as most will only employ men. I was lucky to get this appointment.”

Mary asked for details of the program and Dr. Williams obliged. “The first four months are spent in the drug room, the second four months are spent as house physician, and for the last four months the physician is fully responsible for her patients including home visits. Dr. Thompson knew what was needed to complete a medical education and the experience is invaluable. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have had the chance to work with her. She was an inspiration.”

Mrs. Appleby thanked her and led us to the ground floor. “We have trained women physicians from thirteen states, Korea, and Japan. Dr. Thompson’s legacy is huge.”

All the while, I was thinking about what Laura Appleby had told me about Dr. Erickson and his daughter. His wife had supported Dr. Thompson’s efforts to forge a place for women in the medical world and she had even enlisted his help to train the nurses and women doctors. But it had not been enough to save her life when she was struck down. I began to wonder if his rage against the world had taken some criminal form. What if he’d discovered that the Chinese herbalist provided the concoction that he insisted had poisoned his beloved wife? What would he do? Certainly he had the know-how necessary to poison the man in return. I also believed that he was capable of purposefully conducting the murder in such a way that suspicion would fall on either Mary Stone, the woman physician he disdained, or Laura Appleby, the woman he hated for compromising his daughter. Mrs. Appleby pitied his state. But what if he was more to be feared than pitied? I couldn’t help wondering.