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“Yeah. But it ain’t in Soho.”
“There’s another doctor I have in mind. Drive to Eaton Square, number thirty-four.”
Maddock drove at brisk clip through Berkeley Square and Charles Street until they reached the wide thoroughfare of Grosvenor Place, where they accelerated to breakneck speed. Finally they turned onto an elegant street with a row of white stucco houses arranged around jewel-box gardens.
When Ethan Ransom was appointed to lead the Metropolitan District’s newly formed criminal investigation department, he’d been granted an Eaton Square house complete with a direct telegraph line to Scotland Yard. It provided necessary proximity to Whitehall and Parliament, for a man who handled sensitive intelligence and politically fraught situations and was frequently consulted on matters of national security.
To say the least, Ransom was not someone John wanted to antagonize. However, Ransom’s wife, Garrett Gibson, was a highly skilled surgeon who specialized in obstetric procedures.
The risk of asking for her help was worth it, even if Ransom wrung him out like a wet dishclout afterward.
John leapt out of the carriage even before it had come to a full stop in front of the house’s columned portico. He reached the front door in a few strides and knocked with the side of his closed fist, making the heavy panels reverberate.
The door was opened by Ransom’s steely-eyed butler, Ashkettle, a man who could have served tea in the middle of a rugby match without spilling a drop.
Even though Ashkettle must have remembered John from his overnight visit, his expression revealed nothing. “May I be of assistance, sir?”
“Ashkettle, I need to speak with Dr. Gibson straightaway.”
“I regret to say, sir, that the family doesn’t receive visitors at this—”
“The situation is urgent. A surgeon is needed at Westbrook House.”
“If it would be helpful, Mr. Pembroke, I can provide the name of an excellent surgeon at Dr. Gibson’s clinic.”
“No, it has to be Dr. Gibson.” The man’s impeccable poise made John miserably aware of the widening fractures in his own composure. “I’ve been working as the butler at Westbrook House,” he said doggedly. “Our housekeeper is probably going to die. I’ve come because of a small, almost nonexistent chance that an operation might save her. I’m not sure she matters to a single damn soul outside our household, but she’s important to us. She’s one of us. For the love of Christ, do something to help.”
Ashkettle’s face softened. “I’ll see if Dr. Gibson can speak with you. However, Mr. Ransom will be displeased.” He paused. “Most displeased.”
“I know.”
Ashkettle sighed and opened the door to welcome him inside. “Wait here.”
While the butler went upstairs, John pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. It had been precisely fifteen minutes since he’d left Westbrook House. Was it already too late for Tuppence? If he managed to persuade Dr. Gibson to go with him, how long would it take to gather the necessary supplies and equipment?
He tucked the watch back into his pocket and glanced up at the sound of footsteps.
Ethan Ransom descended the staircase, obviously annoyed that his evening had been interrupted. He was in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat unfastened and his necktie hanging loose on either side of his neck. As he caught sight of John in the entrance hall, he seemed to be considering which side to start dismembering him from.
“Pembroke,” he asked with dangerous softness, “would you care to explain why you’re in my house at eight fucking fifteen in the evening?”
“There’s a medical emergency at Westbrook House. Dr. Gibson is the only one who can help.”
“There are scores of good doctors in London.”
“This is a special case requiring surgery. The housekeeper—Tuppence Higget—she’s in labor and—”
“Do you know what case is special to me, Pembroke? My wife, who is expecting our second child and has been advised not to spend hours on her feet performing surgery. And while we’re on the subject of special cases, how do you intend to explain your connection to the assistant police commissioner’s wife, when you’re supposed to be a paroled prisoner?”
John was spared from having to answer as Garrett Gibson descended the stairs. “Mr. Pembroke,” she exclaimed warmly, “what a pleasure to see you again. How is your new situation?”
“At the moment, we’re in a crisis.”
“Oh, dear. Is there something I can do to help?”
Ransom began to say something, but Dr. Gibson came to stand beside him and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. The assistant commissioner shot a lethal glance at John as he subsided.
John described the situation as succinctly as possible, and Dr. Gibson’s head lifted. Her eyes were definitely those of a surgeon, or a scientist, someone who was able to view a problem with piercing objectivity. And then take a scalpel to it.
