so many disreputable men?
“I am wondering, though,” said Palmer, “why the police are bothering with this case.”
“I bother with every single case, Mr. Palmer.”
“Do you, now.” He pushed back his chair and stood, pulling his gold watch from its pocket and flicking open the engraved lid. Nick recognized the signs that he was about to be dismissed. “I wish I could assist further, but I have a dinner engagement in fifteen minutes, Detective Greaves. I’m obliged to wish you a good evening.”
Nick gripped the brim of his hat. “I’ll be back if I have more questions.”
Joseph Palmer snapped closed the pocket watch lid. “I expect that won’t be necessary.”
CHAPTER 8
“How are you?” Celia asked the girl the next morning, even though her patient couldn’t understand her any better than she had on Monday.
Celia set her black portmanteau on the bamboo stool, which teetered, its legs unsteady on the dirt floor. The girl’s eyelids fluttered and her body shook with tremors. This time, her stupor had nothing to do with the opium they’d given her for the pain. This time, the cause was much, much worse. Traumatic sepsis had set in.
The old woman with the long twist of gray-streaked hair watched from the doorway, her face set rigidly, no expression of concern to be read on its broad, flat width.
Celia rested her fingertips on the girl’s uninjured arm, lying atop the threadbare blanket that had been thrown over her. Celia felt for a pulse in the girl’s wrist. Weak and quick. She labored for breath, shaking from the chills of fever, and her face was splotched with red. She was fatally ill.
Celia gently unwrapped the bandages from the wounded arm and removed the wad of linen she’d placed there. Five days. They had left it like this for five days. The wound oozed, and redness had spread up the arm to mingle with the purple bruises.
“She’s poorly, isn’t she?” asked Barbara, entering the room, her limp more noticeable on the uneven ground.
“I wish they had let you see her the other day, because they did not follow my instructions to regularly clean the wound. And now it is too late for her.”
Celia recalled a soldier in the Crimea who’d suffered shrapnel wounds on the battlefront, wounds that had been severe but deemed treatable by the field doctor. By the time the soldier had arrived at Scutari hospital, however, he was delirious and shaking with spasms. Celia and the other nurses had looked on helplessly as the man, once so handsome with his blond hair and gray eyes, had succumbed in a matter of hours.
Once sepsis set in, death followed shortly.
“Bring me some water, Barbara.”
Celia tossed the filthy linens onto the floor and took fresh ones from her bag. Once her cousin returned, Celia set about cleaning the wound, the girl shivering and moaning the entire time. Celia washed the arm with carbolic acid and wrapped it in fresh bandages.
“Tell the old woman I have brought more quinine for the fever. The inflammation itself . . .” She had nothing that would help at this point. “Tell her I will try to find a surgeon to remove that arm. It is all that might save the girl. Tell the woman that.”
Celia would never be allowed to leave Chinatown with her patient and take her to a surgeon. He would have to come here.
Barbara translated for Celia. The elderly woman scowled. A prostitute disfigured by a missing arm was as useless to her as a dead prostitute.
“You bring nobody here!” The old woman said more in Chinese to Barbara, then added, “Go! You no good.” She jabbed a thumb in Celia’s direction.
“We should leave,” whispered Barbara.
The old woman scowled and folded her arms within her sleeves. “You go. You not come back.”
“I shall come back. If not to help your girls, then to help the other prostitutes living in these filthy streets.” Celia grabbed her medical bag. “And have that arm removed.”
Celia marched out of the room and into the
“I am wondering, though,” said Palmer, “why the police are bothering with this case.”
“I bother with every single case, Mr. Palmer.”
“Do you, now.” He pushed back his chair and stood, pulling his gold watch from its pocket and flicking open the engraved lid. Nick recognized the signs that he was about to be dismissed. “I wish I could assist further, but I have a dinner engagement in fifteen minutes, Detective Greaves. I’m obliged to wish you a good evening.”
Nick gripped the brim of his hat. “I’ll be back if I have more questions.”
Joseph Palmer snapped closed the pocket watch lid. “I expect that won’t be necessary.”
CHAPTER 8
“How are you?” Celia asked the girl the next morning, even though her patient couldn’t understand her any better than she had on Monday.
Celia set her black portmanteau on the bamboo stool, which teetered, its legs unsteady on the dirt floor. The girl’s eyelids fluttered and her body shook with tremors. This time, her stupor had nothing to do with the opium they’d given her for the pain. This time, the cause was much, much worse. Traumatic sepsis had set in.
The old woman with the long twist of gray-streaked hair watched from the doorway, her face set rigidly, no expression of concern to be read on its broad, flat width.
Celia rested her fingertips on the girl’s uninjured arm, lying atop the threadbare blanket that had been thrown over her. Celia felt for a pulse in the girl’s wrist. Weak and quick. She labored for breath, shaking from the chills of fever, and her face was splotched with red. She was fatally ill.
Celia gently unwrapped the bandages from the wounded arm and removed the wad of linen she’d placed there. Five days. They had left it like this for five days. The wound oozed, and redness had spread up the arm to mingle with the purple bruises.
“She’s poorly, isn’t she?” asked Barbara, entering the room, her limp more noticeable on the uneven ground.
“I wish they had let you see her the other day, because they did not follow my instructions to regularly clean the wound. And now it is too late for her.”
Celia recalled a soldier in the Crimea who’d suffered shrapnel wounds on the battlefront, wounds that had been severe but deemed treatable by the field doctor. By the time the soldier had arrived at Scutari hospital, however, he was delirious and shaking with spasms. Celia and the other nurses had looked on helplessly as the man, once so handsome with his blond hair and gray eyes, had succumbed in a matter of hours.
Once sepsis set in, death followed shortly.
“Bring me some water, Barbara.”
Celia tossed the filthy linens onto the floor and took fresh ones from her bag. Once her cousin returned, Celia set about cleaning the wound, the girl shivering and moaning the entire time. Celia washed the arm with carbolic acid and wrapped it in fresh bandages.
“Tell the old woman I have brought more quinine for the fever. The inflammation itself . . .” She had nothing that would help at this point. “Tell her I will try to find a surgeon to remove that arm. It is all that might save the girl. Tell the woman that.”
Celia would never be allowed to leave Chinatown with her patient and take her to a surgeon. He would have to come here.
Barbara translated for Celia. The elderly woman scowled. A prostitute disfigured by a missing arm was as useless to her as a dead prostitute.
“You bring nobody here!” The old woman said more in Chinese to Barbara, then added, “Go! You no good.” She jabbed a thumb in Celia’s direction.
“We should leave,” whispered Barbara.
The old woman scowled and folded her arms within her sleeves. “You go. You not come back.”
“I shall come back. If not to help your girls, then to help the other prostitutes living in these filthy streets.” Celia grabbed her medical bag. “And have that arm removed.”
Celia marched out of the room and into the
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