A Concerned Physician

•   •   •

ANNA SAID, “OF course you should sail, Sophie. If the district attorney says you are free to go—”

“Wait,” Sophie said. She paced from one side of Anna’s office to the other. “There was something in the paper this morning that has me worried. Did you see Clara’s letter?”

“I haven’t had much time to read the paper these last few days.” She took the clipping that Sophie handed her and looked at it. Another letter to the editor.

Sirs: In his tireless compulsion to rid the city and state of all material he personally finds distasteful, Anthony Comstock of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice seems never to sleep. We note that in two days he has arrested four people for the sale of obscene literature as well as a printer he suspects of printing such materials, raided a reputable and well-respected art dealer, and impounded paintings by one of the greatest artists now living (again because in his superior opinion, they are inappropriate and immoral). In addition to all this, he serves on a coroner’s jury in the tragic case of a young woman’s untimely death, using that opportunity to insult and attempt—note, Sirs, I say attempt—to bully female physicians.

We find it outrageous that Anthony Comstock is permitted to use the justice system to harass people engaged in lawful business, and worse still, to pass judgment on the way qualified physicians treat patients in crisis. Note, too, that Comstock discreetly looks the other way when one of his colleagues on the board of the Society for the Suppression of Vice manufactures, advertises, and sells the contraceptives he—and the society—finds so personally and morally disgusting. It is high time Mr. Comstock’s antics—in and out of the courtroom—be curtailed.

Dr. C. E. Garrison
Secretary
Association for the Advancement of the Medical Education of Women

Anna looked from the newspaper clipping to Sophie and back again. “I wondered if the papers would allow Samuel Colgate’s name to be printed. Vaseline is the smallest part of what they manufacture, and the papers won’t want to lose the advertising revenue. I realize it’s disappointing—”

“Not that,” Sophie said. “The part about the printer. Comstock has arrested a printer suspected of supplying immoral materials.”

“Oh,” Anna said. “I see.”

“I went to Clara first to see if she had any more information, but she had inquired at the Tombs and couldn’t get a name. Do you think Jack could find out?”

Anna said, “I should think so.”

“I can’t just walk away and leave the Reasons at the mercy of Anthony Comstock.” Her voice wobbled in a way decidedly unlike Sophie’s usual calm appraisal of even catastrophic events.

After a moment’s thought Anna cleared her throat. “But you would trust the matter to us, I hope. With Jack and Oscar, I think we can certainly get to the bottom of this.”

“And if it is Sam Reason who has been arrested, I’ll ask Conrad to represent him. Them.”

“The Reasons might have a lawyer of their own,” Anna said.

“But they shouldn’t have to bear the cost.”

Anna sat down and pointed to the other chair. After a moment Sophie took it. She drew in a deep breath and let it go in a sigh.

“He was terribly rude to me,” Sophie said. “But he was also painfully honest.”

“Sam Reason’s grandson?”

She nodded. “I realize that there is only so much that can be done—who knows what evidence Comstock has. Or thinks he has. But I want to be sure that Sam Reason gets the very best representation. And Anna, this is important.”

Anna waited while Sophie tried to collect her thoughts.

“He is very proud. It’s important to me that he not feel condescended to or patronized.”

“I understand,” Anna said, though she did not, completely.

“So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave a bank draft for expenses. A large bank draft. Use all of it, and if you need more, send me a telegram and I’ll arrange it.”

She got up suddenly, looking at the watch pinned to her bodice. “I need to get home to Cap before the inquest.”

“I think you could reasonably stay away from the Tombs,” Anna said. “Tomorrow at this time you’ll be boarding the Cosimo and there are more urgent things to be done.”

“Absolutely not. I owe Janine Campbell that much. I will see the inquest through to the end.”

Anna got to her feet and hugged her cousin. “And so will I.”

•   •   •

JACK LISTENED TO the whole story attentively, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. The more Anna saw of him in his professional guise, the more she realized how very much like a doctor he had to conduct himself. He gave nothing away, just as she would give no indication of her findings if she were to examine his mother or one of his sisters.

They were standing on the steps of the Tombs. All around them reporters were trying to get Anna’s attention, but Jack’s posture, his protective stance, kept them from coming closer. The crowd was very large today, no doubt because Archer Campbell was actually here—Anna had caught sight of his red head going into the building—and would give testimony.

Whatever delay had been keeping the entryway blocked suddenly cleared, and Jack propelled her into the lobby. The uniformed officers nodded to him and touched their hats to Anna. She recognized one of the men from their visit to the Brooklyn Bridge, and was glad not to be able to stop, because she knew that questions would be asked, and what she would have to answer. So she let herself be guided down hallways and up the stairs to the courtroom.

Jack leaned over to speak to her without being overheard. “I’ll find out what I can about the printer now. It may take a while, but I’ll be back here as soon as possible.”

He brushed a kiss across her ear and, turning away, disappeared into the crowd in the hall.

The inquest was already being called to order when Anna took her seat next to Sophie. She got out her lap desk and writing paper and pencil, and while the coroner went on about the purpose of the inquest, she wrote Sophie a note: Cap?

Sophie took the pencil and wrote: Looking forward to sailing tomorrow.

Anna could imagine that very well. Cap would be desperate to get away not so much for his own health, but for Sophie’s well-being.

Sophie wrote: The printer? Sam Reason?

Anna thought for a moment and took back the paper to write: Jack has gone to find out.

Sophie gave her a relieved smile and then Archer Campbell was taking the witness seat. He looked drawn, with shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyes so dark they might have been bruises. His expression was grim and even angry.

“Mr. Campbell,” the coroner began. “My deepest condolences on the sad loss of your wife. You’ve had no success in locating your sons, I take it.”

“None,” Campbell said.

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“If that’s the case, you’ll call an end to this charade and let me get back to the search.”

Hawthorn looked almost startled. Anna thought he was going to challenge Campbell’s less-than-veiled insult, but saw him think better of it.

“We’ll get right to it then. Tell us please about your wife and how you came to marry.”

With obvious displeasure, Campbell told the story in as few words as possible: In Bangor on post office business, he had been introduced to a young lady who worked in the dead-letter office. Her family background was not ideal, but she was healthy, a good Christian, and a hard worker. After two weeks’ courtship, when he had to return to New York, he had decided to marry her.

“She married with her family’s blessing?”

A ghost of sour smile moved across Campbell’s face. “Five unmarried daughters, they were glad to be shut of her.”

“I see. Mr. Campbell, can you shed any light on the events that led to your wife’s death?”

Campbell’s jaw worked silently for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know anything about the particulars.”

“Did you realize that she was with child?”

“No.”

“She didn’t speak to you of it?”

“She never talked about such things. Wouldn’t be proper.”

“When did you first notice something was off?”

Campbell seemed to relax a little. Maybe he had been expecting accusations, and realized now that there were none forthcoming.

“The house,” he said. “It was out of order when I came home from work on Tuesday evening.” Campbell shifted in his chair.

“That was unusual?”

“She knew nothing about keeping house when we married, but then from what I’ve seen of French Canadians, they don’t put much value on cleanliness. I had to teach her what it means to keep a house, the way my mother had. A place for everything and everything in its place. No fingerprints on the windows or anywhere else, for that matter. Floors polished, stove blacked, laundry cleaned and pressed and mended, good plain food on the table when I came through the door. Waste not, want not. Children who know their place, and don’t speak lest they’re spoke to.