Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

“You say it was another woman , Sara? That’s unusual-and the motive was money?”

Mr. Moore cut in, trying to blunt the questions with charm: “In New York, Mrs. Cady Stanton, the motive is generally money-and there’s very little in this city that can be accurately called ‘unusual,’ I’m afraid.”

In a snap, Mrs. Cady Stanton’s expression became much cooler, and she turned a stern eye on Mr. Moore. “Indeed, Mr.- Moore, is it? Well, I’ve lived many years in New York, on and off, Mr. Moore, and not always in the best of neighborhoods. And I think I can safely say that an attack by one woman on another in Central Park in broad daylight is not a common occurrence. Perhaps one of these policemen will confirm that.” She tossed her head in the direction of the Isaacsons, who, while at a loss as to how to handle her, were clearly annoyed at being so labeled.

“Oh!” Lucius said, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, “I couldn’t-that is-”

“Not common,” Marcus finally said, as confidently as I imagine anyone could’ve in that situation. “But not unheard of, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Cady Stanton didn’t care for that answer. “I’d like someone to give me some examples.”

While this little exchange was going on, Miss Howard had moved into one corner of the room with Miss Beaux and Señora Linares, and the señora had begun the actual work of telling the artist what her attacker had looked like. Seeing that the discussion was likely to keep Mrs. Cady Stanton out of this important business, the Doctor stepped in:

“If you have a day or two, Mrs. Cady Stanton, I should be happy to list any number of cases involving violent attacks committed by women.”

Mrs. Cady Stanton turned on him. “ By women against other women?” she said, disbelievingly.

“Against other women,” the Doctor said, with a smile that warned he was in earnest. “Daughters against mothers, sisters against sisters, rivals for affection against one another-and, of course, mothers against daughters.” He pulled out his cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke? And would you care to?”

“No. Thank you. But you go ahead.” Studying the Doctor for another minute, Mrs. Cady Stanton raised a finger to point at him as he lit his stick. “I know about you, Doctor. I’ve read some of your work. You specialize in criminal and children’s psychology.”

“True,” the Doctor answered.

“But not in feminine psychology,” Mrs. Cady Stanton said. “Tell me, Doctor, why is it that no scientists of the mind make women their field of specialization?”

“It’s odd that you should ask,” the Doctor answered. “I’ve recently been wondering about that very question.”

“Well, let me answer it for you.” Shifting in her chair so that she fully faced him, Mrs. Cady Stanton started to out-and-out lecture the Doctor. “Psychologists do not study female behavior because the overwhelming majority of them are men-and if they were to undertake such a study, they would inevitably find that at the base of all such behavior as you are describing lies a man’s brutal enslavement of and violence toward the woman in question.” The eyes narrowed again, but this time in a friendlier way. “You’ve been in some fairly hot water lately, Dr. Kreizler. And I know why. You’re trying to explain the actions of criminals in their-what is it you call it-their ‘individual context.’ But people don’t want explanations. They think you’re just providing excuses.”

“And what do you think, Mrs. Cady Stanton?” the Doctor asked as he smoked.

“I think that no woman comes into this world with a desire to do anything but what nature intended-to create and to nurture. As mothers of the race, there is a spiritual insight, a divine creative power that belongs to women. If that power is perverted, you may rest assured that a man is involved somewhere.”

“Your words are persuasive,” the Doctor said, “but I find the ideas behind them a bit-difficult. Are women, then, a separate species, immune to the emotions that move other humans?”

“No, not immune, Doctor. Far from it. More deeply touched by those emotions, in fact. And by their causes. Which, I think, go far deeper than even an educated, progressive man like yourself suspects.”

“Really?”

Mrs. Cady Stanton nodded, touching at her white curls in the way that your average woman will do but-oddly, for someone of her age and opinions-not at all embarrassed by the passing display of vanity. “I agree with some of what you’ve written, Doctor. In fact, much of it. Your only problem, so far as I can see, is that you do not take your notion of context far enough.” She put both hands authoritatively on her walking stick. “What is your opinion of the effect of the prenatal period on the formation of the individual?”

“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said. “A favorite topic of yours.”

“So you dispute the idea?”

“Mrs. Cady Stanton-there is no clinical evidence to suggest that, beyond the impact of her physical condition, a mother has any formative effect on the fetus she carries.”

“Wrong, sir! You could not be more wrong. During the nine months of prenatal life, mothers stamp every thought and feeling of their minds as well as their bodies on the plastic beings inside of them!”

The Doctor had started to look like General Custer must’ve, the moment his boys told him there were a few more Indians around than they’d originally expected. Mrs. Cady Stanton pushed him ever deeper into an argument what he’d started out thinking of as a diversion but had quickly grown into a full-scale debate. It stopped making much sense to me after about ten minutes, mainly because I wasn’t really paying attention; I wanted to get around and see what the other three women were coming up with. So at a moment when I thought no one would notice, I slipped off my windowsill and around the outermost edge of the room, eventually reaching the spot where the sketch was taking form. As I approached I heard Señora Linares saying, “No… no, the chin was less-pronounced. And the lips slightly thinner… yes, so…”

“I see,” Miss Beaux said, her bright gaze fixed on the large sketch pad before her. “Overall, then, you’d say she had more Anglo-Saxon than Latin features. Is that right?”

Señora Linares thought it over, then nodded. “I had not thought of it in such a way, but yes, she was very American, in the way one sees in the older parts of this country-New England, perhaps.”

I edged up to Miss Howard’s elbow and looked at the sketch. It was still about as vague as one of Pinkie’s paintings, though in spots Miss Beaux had been able to pencil in sharper, more definite lines. The face that was taking shape was, just as the señora said, an angular, chiseled one, not unattractive but hard, like you might see in a Massachusetts or Connecticut farm town.

Miss Howard suddenly noticed my presence and smiled. “Hello, Stevie,” she whispered. Then she cast an evil little glance at the center of the room, where the Doctor and Mrs. Cady Stanton were still going at it. “I’ll bet you wish you had a cigarette along about now.”

“Do I ever,” I said, still watching Miss Beaux’s delicate hands as they moved with quick precision over the pad. She’d make a stroke, then line it again or smudge it for shading, as was wanted, or erase it altogether if the señora said it wasn’t right. She caught me watching her and smiled.

“Hello,” she said, also whispering. “You’re Stevie, aren’t you?”

I could only nod; to tell the truth, I think I was a little smitten by her.

“They sound like they’re having quite a time,” she went on, still sketching but occasionally showing me the same delicate smile that was lit up by those remarkable eyes. “What in the world are they talking about?”