The devil doctor *Completed*

Seeing ghosts

*Bill*

Sitting in a chair before the fireplace in my small private parlor, I slowly sip my whiskey. I know sleep won't come easily tonight, not after indulging myself. I can still taste Wicky on my tongue, still feel the impression of her body pressed against mine. Devil take me, but I'm a fool to yearn for something I can never possess.

I generally call on my patients, except for those I see in the hospital. Wicky was the first I nurtured back to health in my residence. It was strange, having her in my home. It seemed not quite so empty, so lonely.

While she was here, after caring for a patient, I anticipated returning to my residence. My first order of business was to look in on her… regardless of the hour. Sometimes I would watch as she endured a restless sleep that even laudanum couldn’t tame.

I would hold her hand, one that was neither rough nor callused, and urge her to fight. When she began to recover, I spent hours talking with her. Day by day, I observed as she grew stronger, not only in body but in spirit. I caught glimpses of the she-wolf she might have been before her marriage, and I was intrigued by the certainty of her demeanor that began to rise to the fore.

It was then that she started discussing her plans to build a hospital as a way to repay me for my kindness. I loved the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of different aspects she planned to include. Her excitement was contagious, and for the first time in my life, I wondered if I had punished myself enough, if I were finally deserving of love.

My musings are interrupted by a knock at my door. I think nothing of it as I’m accustomed to visitors at all hours of the night. The arrival of illness and injuries are not dictated by the ticking of a clock. With haste, I set aside my tumbler, get up, and march to the door. Opening it, I stare at my visitor. “Wicky?”

“I need to talk to you straight away.”

A pelisse is draped over her shoulders. Her hair is braided. If not for the trepidation in her features, I might be distracted by thoughts of unraveling the strands. “Yes, of course, come in.”

As she steps through the portal, I catch a glimpse of her carriage in the street. The fog is beginning to roll in. All seems quiet, but then considering the hour I hadn’t expected anything else. Closing the door, I lead her into the parlor. “Please sit down.”

She takes a chair near the fire. Kneeling in front of her, I take her hands. I can feel the tiny tremors cascading through her. “My Goddess, you’re like ice.”

“I didn’t know where else to come.” She lifts tear-filled eyes to me. “I believe I’m going mad.”

“Why ever would you think that?”

Pulling her hands free of mine, she reaches into her reticule, removes something, then slowly unfurls her fingers to reveal a necklace of sapphires. “I found it beneath my pillow.”

“You’re going to tell me everything, but first we have to stop your trembling.”

Straightening, I go to a table set against a wall and pour whiskey into a glass. I wish I had something a bit more elegant for her, but as I rarely have visitors other than those seeking me posthaste, I don’t bother with having an assortment of liquor on hand. Whiskey serves my needs and when people are upset and in want of something more than my words, it usually serves theirs.

I invited her here for an examination because I have an examination room here, and I thought she’d be more comfortable talking candidly away from her residence. It harbors far too many bad memories.

I cross back over and hand her the glass. With a grateful nod, she takes my offering and sips. I suspect she’s too upset to fully take notice of the fire going down, but hopefully, it will serve to warm her.

Taking the chair opposite hers, I study her for a moment. She is pale, far too pale, although I can see a hint of color returning to her cheeks. I understand now why her hair is braided. Having found the item beneath her pillow, she had no doubt retired for the night. I fight not to distract myself with images of her in the bed.

“Now tell me about the necklace,” I urge quietly.

“I told you about it in the garden, how it wasn’t in the safe. As I was settling into bed, I slipped my hand beneath the pillow. I discovered it there. Why would anyone put it there?”

Leaning forward, elbows on my thighs, I work to think things through. I’m not nearly as good with this deciphering motives business as Swindler. I’m better at determining the cause of fevers, illnesses, and injuries. “Perhaps someone had taken it from the safe, heard you coming, and slipped it under the pillow to retrieve it later.”

“A servant? Why would they begin stealing from me now?”

“Gambling debts, perhaps. Maybe they fell in with a rough lot on their day off.”

“I’m afraid I did it.” She rubs her brow. “As I mentioned in the garden, I’ve experienced some bouts of forgetfulness. I’ve been misplacing a lot of things lately. A book on the table beside my bed. I use a ribbon to mark my place. Sometimes when I open the book to the ribbon, it’s either at a place I’ve read before or a place pages away from where I finished. My perfume atomizer. I keep it on my dressing table. But once I found it on the windowsill.”

“Easily explained. A servant not taking care as she’s cleaning.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Sometimes when I wake up at night, I smell my husband. He had a penchant for eating caraway seeds incessantly. He always smelled of them. I’ve forbidden the servants from having them in the residence. But the odor is sometimes there in different places. I also sleep with a lamp burning, but sometimes I will awaken to absolute darkness, the flame extinguished, the caraway scent more vivid as though I’ve had a visitor.”

She folds her hands so tightly around the glass I can see the whites of her knuckles. It’s not to be tolerated. I shoot out of the chair, kneel before her, take the glass, and once again wrap my hands around hers. “Fragrances linger, particularly in cloth. I have a handkerchief that belonged to my father. I can still smell him in it.”

“I considered that, but Dr. Grimley…”

“Please call me Bill.”

“It’s too harsh. I prefer Billy.”

“Billy it is then.” I prefer it as well, my full name, but my friends have always called me Bill and on the streets it’s a stronger name, one that speaks of confidence. I skim my thumbs over her knuckles. “I’m sure there is a simple explanation for everything.”

“Yes, quite. As I said I’m going mad.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

She sighs, “Then perhaps his ghost is haunting me, because I could swear that I have seen him.”

Every muscle and fiber of my being stands at attention. “Where?”

“Once at the far end of the garden. At twilight. It was difficult to see very clearly, because the shadows were moving in. He was there and then he wasn’t. Another time in the park. Although I can’t be absolutely sure as he was so far away, but the resemblance at a distance was uncanny. In truth, though, it wasn’t so much the sight of him as it was the sense of him watching me. I could always feel when Riverdale watched me, because he did it with such intensity as though he expected me to make a mistake or behave badly, and he wanted to be able to pounce immediately in order to correct me.”

I lift my hand to her cheek and slowly stroke the soft skin. “My mother was an unkind she-wolf who beat me religiously. When she passed, for years, I thought I saw her in the streets. I still think I see her from time to time… especially those nights when I’m exhausted and my guard is down. When we are traumatized by those whom we love, it’s often difficult to believe they are actually gone. But your husband is gone. He can’t hurt you, Wicky.”

She nods. “I know, and you could not have spoken truer words. It is frightfully difficult to believe sometimes that he is truly gone… which brings me back to the possibility that perhaps I am going mad. Because I sense his presence when I know I shouldn’t.”

“Wicky, you need to dispense with this notion that you’re going mad. You survived a horrendous ordeal that most would find difficult if not impossible to overcome. The remnants of it, not the ghost of your husband, are haunting you. But you will survive this. You need to ensure you get plenty of rest and that you have things to occupy your time and your mind so you aren’t becoming lost in the past.”

As she smiles, the guilt ricochets through me. “Like the hospital,” she says.

I nod. “Yes. We’ll get together to discuss it in a couple of days. But now it’s late, and you should get some much-needed rest.”

She lays her hand against my cheek. “Thank you so much. You always make me feel better.”

Holding her hand in place, I turn my head slightly and press a kiss to her palm. “It’s my pleasure. I’ll see you home.”

“It’s not necessary. I’ve already disturbed you enough.”

“You never disturb me.”

I bank the fire and grab my jacket before escorting her out to the waiting carriage. After assisting her inside, I sit beside her, place my arm around her shoulders, and draw her in against my side. Everything within me screams that it isn’t appropriate. But then it is the time of night for inappropriate things. I place my lips on the top of her head, taking what joy I can from her nearness.

“I feel like such a ninny,” she says after a while. “I don’t know why I reacted as I did. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for everything.”

“You’re not a ninny. Sometimes we just need to talk with someone about the things bothering us. We can blow them out of proportion if we are our only counsel.”

I can feel her smile softly. “You’re always so kind.”

*No, not always.* I suspect her husband would describe me as the devil.

The carriage comes to a halt. I alight then hand her down. “I would like to take a stroll through your residence just to assure you that there are no monsters lurking in the corners.”

“I feel like a child.”

“You’re not. Oftentimes, we need assurances.”

She gives me a sweet smile. “All right then.”

She unlocks the door. As we go in, I find some relief in the fact that she locked the door before she left. But it might be worth it to have the locks changed. I’ll mention it later. I don’t want to alarm her any more than she already is.

Leaving her in the foyer, I walk briskly through rooms that in no way remind me of her. While no longer here, her husband’s presence is overbearing in dark, sturdy furniture, dark walls, thick draperies. I take an extra moment in a small room that I have no doubt served not only as her sitting room, but her sanctuary.

A delicate secretary stands against a wall, fragile animal figurines adorn small tables. The fabric covering the chairs and sofa are pale yellow and green, as though she’d been striving to bring sunshine into her life. Above the fireplace is a painting of a young girl with a basket of flowers. The eyes are innocent, but I would have recognized them anywhere. They belong to Wicky.

But I find nothing suspicious among the shadows in any of the rooms.

I give her a reassuring nod when I meet back up with her in the foyer. “All seems to be in order down here,” I assure her.

I escort her up the stairs. While she waits outside her bedchamber door, I examine her room, making note of the tiniest of details: the blue flowers on the wallpaper, the rumpled bed linens, the copy of Oliver Twist on the bedside table. Her exotic jasmine fragrance permeates the room. A gilded-framed painting of a small boy plucking flowers. Behind it, I am certain I will find her safe where she thinks her most precious jewels will be secure.

I step back into the hallway. “All seems to be in order. I’m just going to dash through the other rooms.”

I make short work of the task, taking care not to awaken her son. As a boy, working for Feagan, I learned how to break into homes and assess the inside quickly to find the treasures. Some skills one never forgets.

As I return to her side, she blushes. “No ghosts?” she asks.

“None that I could detect.”

“Truth be told, I didn’t truly expect you to find anything. It’s all so odd, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation. We’ll figure it out easily enough. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep and send word if you need me… for anything.”

“I truly appreciate your kindness and assistance. I’ve instructed my driver to return you to your residence.”

“Thank you.” Cradling her face with one hand, I lean in and kiss her, just a brief taste to sustain me for what I have to do next. “Sweet dreams, Wicky.”

Leaving her there, I hurry down the stairs before bad judgment overtakes me and I find myself putting her to bed… and ensuring I join her there to rumple those bed linens a bit more. I am loath to leave her, but I know no good will come of my staying.

Once outside, I call up to the driver, “Carry on. I’ll be walking.”

I wait until the carriage disappears up the drive on its way to the carriage house. Then I take a quick turn about the gardens. Nothing amiss. No one hiding in the shadows. I try to take some comfort from that.

But I find there is none to be had.

An hour later I am standing by the fireplace within the Alpha of Claybourne’s library. Claybourne and his Luna are nestled on a couch together. Frannie, the Luns of Greywind, sits in a wingback chair near the one in which Jack Moondancer lounges. Jamie Swindler has taken a seat at the outer edge of the circle.

“It’s half past three in the morning. What the devil is going on?” Claybourne asks.

“We may have a problem,” I tell him.

“What the deuce would that be?”

“The Alpha of Riverdale. I fear he may have risen from the dead.”