12

12

M ISS E DITHA M ALLOW C REAN—GRIMACING as she picked her way among piles of ordure—crossed the area formed by Park, Baxter, and Worth Streets, the intersection that gave the area its name: the Five Points. Her own set of rooms on Mott Street, in a boardinghouse for ladies, was not many blocks away yet in another, more pleasant world. She always made her commute in haste, so as to be assailed by the vile sights and sounds of the slum as briefly as possible.

Turning west down Baxter, she fell under the looming shadow of the House of Industry. She made her way to its front door, unlocked it with a large iron key, then closed and locked it behind her, exchanging the offending odors from without for those equally disagreeable within.

She turned away from the door to see Royds, the attendant. He was in his usual place, on the far side of the reception room beyond the hinged wooden counter. There was an expression on his face that instantly alarmed her.

"He's waiting in your office, mum," Royds said.

"Who?"

But Royds did not answer. He just stood there, cringing behind the railing, looking as if he'd seen the devil himself. After a moment, Nurse Crean turned away and, opening the door in the wall to the right, stepped through it.

A short passage led past the scullery and a bookless library, terminating in the door to her private office, which was closed. She opened it, stepped in—then halted in surprise. She'd expected a distraught parent or an unwelcome messenger from the board of governors. But instead, she found herself confronted by a thin man dressed in a severe double-breasted cassock reaching to his ankles, along with a black waistcoat, starched white collar, and broad-brimmed cappello romano . He was standing beside her desk, rummaging through one of the drawers, and at the sound of her entry he straightened. He wore a tinted pince-nez and, at full height, was unexpectedly tall.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she demanded.

He remained motionless as the echo of her question died away. Nurse Crean was not a woman to be easily rattled, and she returned his supercilious expression with a fierce one of her own. He was a clergyman of high rank, to judge by the garb. From time to time, church delegations had sent representatives to observe the daily workings of the Mission and House of Industry… and she knew how to deal with them. Her biggest concern was that, someday, she would be replaced by a graduate of the "Nightingale schools"—institutions for training nurses that in the past decade had sprouted up at Bellevue and in New Haven. Her own training may not have been formal, but it was the kind no girl could learn in a schoolroom: rather, in the Civil War, where doctors were scarce and surgeons even scarcer. She'd plied her trade at Fredericksburg and Cold Harbor, where she learned to amputate ruined limbs with a speed that made hardened veterans blanch—and later at Andersonville, after it was liberated in 1864, where nearly half the Union prisoners died of dysentery, typhus, or starvation.

But from the looks of this man's well-tailored garb and stiff expression, she doubted he had seen bloodshed. He appeared the kind of cleric who'd spent most of his life in a seminary, and she was surprised he'd braved the Five Points long enough to reach her office. But here he was—rooting through her private papers like a sow in a corncrib.

"Well?" she said.

He moved behind the desk, pushed the drawer closed, fastidiously dusted off the chair— her chair—then sat down in it and looked at her through his spectacles before speaking.

"Two months ago," he said, "the Elders' Council met at the yearly conclave." The man had a plummy, arrogant voice that could only come from generations of inbreeding among the British gentry. "At said conclave, the subject of the Five Points Mission and House of Industry came up. It was generally recognized that the Mission's founding objective—to house, protect, and educate orphaned girls—has been sadly neglected of late."

Miss Crean felt her corded hands tightening. This was no mere representative sent to observe. Here was someone sent to interfere.

The man went on, his voice filling the room. "As a last resort, the elders contacted my superiors in Canterbury—who in turn sent me from England to this… place." He pursed his lips. "In the spirit of Luther and Wesley, I have completed numerous reformations in Methodist schools and orphanages across England—and now I shall do that here."

"We're doing just fine, sir!" Miss Crean said. "You have no right!" This was unheard of. And with no warning whatsoever. She'd worked her fingers to the bone for those ungrateful, wretched girls—with rarely even a peep of displeasure from the Mission board or the Elders' Council.

"I have every right, Miss Crean." The cleric stood up again. "Forgive my not introducing myself. I am the Right Reverend Percy Considine. And now that I've explained the situation, I hope you'll excuse me. I have a great deal to do." He stopped. "I'll permit you five minutes to gather your things." He came around the desk, as if to afford her access to it.

"Do you mean…," she began, halting and sputtering, "does this mean I'm being discharged ? With no recourse, no warning? I shall demand a hearing with the board!"

"On your way out, Royds will see you get two weeks' pay. We are a generous church."

The holier-than-thou smugness radiating from this man was almost as maddening as the idea he could simply waltz in here and toss her out on the street. "But you can't do this. You can't !"

"On the contrary—I most certainly can."

"Outrageous! I demand to see your credentials!"

With this, he reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a leather packet, which he undid and handed to her. She snatched it and went through it. It was full of official documentation from the Wesleyan Brotherhood Council—the body who oversaw the Mission and House of Industry—giving the reverend Dr. Considine full power to enact improvements and reforms as he saw fit, with no need for review or approval by the elders.

He plucked the envelope and its contents back as she was still absorbing their implications for her own future.

"This is impossible. Some devilry must be afoot." She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "What do you know about running an orphanage and workhouse for girls?"

"A great deal. As governess in charge, you are supposed to set a standard for all the rest. Sadly, it seems you have done precisely the opposite."

He turned to the desk and picked up a small book he must have brought with him, which he raised with a sniff and held up to her.

" The Book of Discipline ," he said. "Edition of 1858. As you know, or should know, this sets out the doctrines of our Methodist sect." He opened the book and read in a haughty manner. " In the latter end of the year 1739, eight or ten persons came to Mr. Wesley— " here his eyes swept briefly heavenward— " in London, who appeared to be deeply convinced of sin, and earnestly groaning for redemption. They desired that he advise them how to flee from the wrath to come. " He lowered the book. "I would at least have expected you, Miss Crean, to follow the Discipline and flee the wrath to come. But it seems you have done precisely the opposite. You, daughter of Crean, are no less a daughter of Satan."

Nurse Crean's rising anger and outrage topped out at this accusation. "I—I am what? "

"Silence! I shall number, from our own holy book, the ways you have desecrated your mission on earth." He opened the book again. " Do no evil of any kind, such as taking the name of God in vain, or profaning the day of the Lord; or by drunkenness. I would say to you, spawn of evil, that you have turned this godly House of Industry into a House of Drunkenness and Profanation."

She stepped forward, livid with rage, her knuckles—already clenched—turning white. "I've never touched a drop of liquor in my life! I, a spawn of evil? It is you who malign this place with such lies!"

"Still you deny your sins? I should have thought that—confronted with them—you would be glad enough to flee into ignominy and obscurity, with the money I've offered you. But perhaps I should have expected this: as my private inquiries have already shown, you continue to pile wickedness upon wickedness, crime upon unimaginable crime… including even satisfying your own bestial appetites on the virgin bodies of these poor young wretches under your care. Get thee behind me, Satan!" And, lifting the book once again, he turned to a fresh page: " When you look them in the face, you should break forth into tears, as the prophet did when he looked upon Hazael… "

Goaded nearly to madness by his words, Nurse Crean rushed at him, raising her hand to strike the man. To her vast surprise, Reverend Considine—displaying remarkable speed and dexterity—grabbed her left hand and wrenched it behind her back; gripped her raised right hand, forcing it down and around the letter opener atop the table; and then—his eyes fixed upon hers—maneuvered its point against her belly.

"It's impolite to interrupt a minister while he's reciting Holy Writ," he said. "Where was I? What cause have we to bleed before the Lord, that we have so long neglected this good work! "

With the grace of a dancer, he pivoted the two of them around so her back was to the desk. Then he pressed her against it, covering her mouth with his free hand, and plunged the letter opener deep into her peritoneal cavity. Her eyes widened white; she struggled with stifled screams.

"These letter openers are so often dull," Diogenes whispered in her ear. "Terribly sorry."

And then he thrust still deeper, turning the point upward, hooking into the abdominal aorta.

" There were many hindrances ," he quoted loudly, covering the muffled sounds. " And so there always will be. But the greatest hindrance is in ourselves—and in our littleness of faith and love. "

Then, letting her free, he leapt to one side as she collapsed onto the dusty floor, emitting a final whimper of denial as she did so, bleeding out in a crimson flood.