“Well?” Josephine asked.
I shook off the train of thought I had followed and focused back to my task. How could I have thought it was writing? They were nothing more than rows of wounds—not glyphs. I needed to determine how the wounds were made. “One moment, please.”
When one scratched at a wound over and over, it left a divot. I had patients who had picked their scabs bloody. The edges of those wounds also stood up. However, the edges always morphed with the healing process and the damage caused by the tearing of scab from skin.
These edges were straight and unmarred. I touched a fingertip to Josephine’s back, running it over one of the marks. Drying blood rasped against my fingertip, but the flesh beneath was soft. It felt as if this was the first time the wound had been made, even though the lacerations had been there for more than a week. This was not the repeated ripping of skin. This should not be possible.
“If you would, Hanna, clean each wound one at a time. I will copy it down. Then go on to the next one.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Miss Ruggles—”
“Call me Josephine. We are…intimates…now. Are we not?”
Though the young woman did not turn around, I sensed her smiling at me, or at a private joke. “As you wish. Josephine, do the wounds continue to weep throughout the day?” I wondered if she noticed I did not invite the same familiarity of having her call me Carolyn. Whether or not she believed we were friends, we were not. There were boundaries we needed to keep as patient and doctor.
“Sometimes. The more difficult the day, the more the wounds react.”
“Thank you.” I nodded to Hanna. “Begin, please.”
We stood like that, the heiress, her maid, and myself: a tableau of concern. Josephine held her dress to her, preserving her modesty. Hanna cleaned each wound one by one and allowed me the time to copy it down exactly before going on to the next one. A heavy silence filled the air—not awkward, just anticipatory.
As Hanna finished cleaning the blood from the last of the marks, more than half of them had begun to glisten and weep. I pulled one of my clean handkerchiefs from a desk drawer and unfolded it. “We will press this to Josephine’s back in a single motion,” I instructed the maid, “then pull it away as soon as all of the marks show themselves.” It would not take long for the fine white cloth to capture the wounds as a whole.
Together, we covered Josephine’s back. I pressed a careful hand to the fabric. The glyphs—the wounds—bled through immediately. With a nod, we pulled the handkerchief away, carrying with it a perfect replica of the writing that appeared to force its way out of Josephine’s skin.
Something in the way the blood soaked into the cloth pressed another image into my mind: blood forced through the skin in myriad religious paintings. As Hanna bound her mistress’s wounds and helped her dress again, one idea crowded my mind: stigmata.
Whatever trauma afflicted Josephine’s mind, it was possible, logical even, that her only means of expressing that trauma was the manifestation of stigmata-like symptoms. I smiled, relieved. Somehow, I had a possible answer.
But I would need to consult with the “good” Dr. Mintz first.
Chapter 2
After my meeting with Josephine, I sought out her former psychologist, Dr. Mintz, for any information he would give me. I knew from the start that this would be a challenge. Thus far, I had refused to link my research into hypnotic drugs to his research involving his “dream enhancer.” Had I known that his helpfulness was based only on what he could get from me, I might have refused to work at Arkham Sanatorium.
With this between us, my relationship with the “good” doctor was strained at best and adversarial at worst. I had hoped to land somewhere in-between in this conversation.
Our meeting went about as well as could be expected.
“Dr. Mintz!” I hailed the doctor just before he disappeared into his office. He paused in the doorway and waited—a trim, older man who gazed at me with an air of impatience. He was not a friendly man when you would not give him what he wanted. While he was not outright hostile, his pleasant demeanor was saved for those who were willing to give him something.
“What is it?” He stepped into his office and turned, putting his hands behind his back.
“Miss Josephine Ruggles. You interviewed her several times. I thought I would—”
He scoffed, interrupting me. “That hysterical woman? Have you not already sorted out the fact that she is harming herself for attention? Prescribe her some laudanum and send her home.”
I paused, taken aback. “Oh? After a week with Miss Ruggles, that is your only diagnosis?”
Dr. Mintz hesitated at my question and the tone of my voice. He hmphed. “Well, I must admit, for a woman of her race she is uncommonly well educated, well spoken, and well-to-do. She is remarkable in those rare aspects.”
I widened my eyes, hiding my annoyance at his old-fashioned sensibilities. “Her race?”
“Yes. You do not often see black heiresses, or even educated black women for that matter.”
“That is not exactly true, Doctor.” I kept my voice light. “I come from a well-to-do family. It was required to afford my education. More than one-fourth of my university class was not white. As for well-to-do, when it comes to the nouveau riche, which many of the black elite are, it is the color of your money that matters. At least among the younger generation.”
The doctor hmphed again. “Be that as it may, Dr. Fern, I stand behind my diagnosis of hysteria. Miss Ruggles simply wants attention.”
“And her wounds? I have looked at them. They are very regular and the skin around them is—”
“She is talented, I will give her that. Limber enough to scratch all parts of her back. I do not know why she is hurting herself. I did not have enough time to understand that part of her psyche and she would not consent to my treatment.” He peered at me, a small, condescending smile played about his lips. “But, if you cannot solve her issues, I would be happy to consult with you. Perhaps it is time we put our collective researches together. It is her dreams, she says, that are causing her the distress. If we can get to the root of the problem…”
I shook my head and stepped back. I would find no help here. “No, Doctor. I do not believe that will be necessary. I just wanted to see your private notes from the interviews. Her case file was light on information.”
“Private notes are just that, Doctor. Good day.” With that, he closed his office door in my face.
I adjusted my glasses. “Thank you for your help,” I muttered at the uncaring door. I should have known better. He would not help me unless it also helped him. No wonder the asylum was a depressing place to be. I would need to go to the records room and see if there were something else to be found. Or, better yet, see if I could talk Nurse Heather into dropping a hint of what Dr. Mintz refused to share.
I pulled my suit jacket close. Even here, in the faculty hallway, the permanent chill of the building’s stone walls invaded, despite the industrial carpet and the artwork on the walls. It was the only hallway in the entire building to be carpeted. This visual and auditory cue told visitors and patients alike that the top floor of the asylum was not like the rest of it. This was where the doctors had their offices and performed their interviews. Patients in this hallway were always accompanied by asylum staff.