'Miss Acton.'
'Go away. I don't like you. You are not clever.'
I did not budge. 'What did you see?' As she made no reply but stared determinedly in another direction, I stood and took a chance. 'I'm sorry, Miss Acton, I can't help you. I wish I could.'
She took a deep breath. 'I saw my father with Clara Banwell.'
'Can you describe what you saw?'
'Oh, all right.'
I took my seat.
'There is a large library on the first floor,' she said. 'I often couldn't sleep, and when I couldn't, that's where I would go. I could read by moonlight there, without even lighting a candle. One night, the door to the library was ajar. I could tell someone was inside. I put my eye to the crack. My father was sitting on Mr Banwell's chair, facing me, the same chair I always sat in. I could see him in the moonlight, but his head was thrown back in a disgusting way. Clara was on her knees before him. Her dress was unfastened. It had fallen down past her waist. Her back was entirely bare. She has a lovely back, Doctor, perfectly white, unblemished, the same pure white skin that you see in… in… and shaped just like an hourglass, or a cello. She was — I don't know how to describe it — undulating. Her head rose and fell in a slow rhythm. I could not see her hands; I believe they were in front of her. Once or twice, she threw her hair over her shoulder, but she kept rising and falling. It was mesmerizing. I did not, of course, understand at that time what I was witnessing. I found her movement beautiful, like a gentle wave lapping at a shore. But I knew very well they were doing something wrong.'
'Go on.'
'Then my father began making a repulsive, rasping noise of some kind. I wondered how Clara could stand that sound. But she not only stood it. It seemed to make her undulation grow faster, more determined. He clutched the armrests of his chair. She rose and fell more and more quickly. I'm sure I was fascinated, but I did not want to watch anymore. I tiptoed upstairs, back to my bedroom.'
'And then?'
'There is no more. That was the end. 'We looked at each other. 'I hope your curiosity is satisfied, Dr Younger, because I don't believe my amnesia has been cured.'
I tried to think through, psychoanalytically, the episode Miss Acton had just described. It had the form of a trauma, but there was one difficulty. Miss Acton did not seem to have been traumatized. 'Did you experience any physical difficulties afterward?' I asked her. 'Loss of voice?'
'No.'
'A paralysis of any part of your body? A cold?'
'No.'
'Did your father find out you saw him?'
'He is too stupid.'
I took this in. 'When you think of your amnesia, right now, what comes to mind?'
'Nothing,' she said.
'There is never nothing in one's mind.'
'You said that last time!' she exclaimed angrily, and then fell silent. She fixed me with her blue eyes. 'Only one thing you have ever done,' she said, 'even began to make me think you could help me, and that had nothing to do with all your questions.'
'What was that?'
She dropped her gaze. 'I do not know if I should tell you.'
'Why?'
'Oh, never mind why. It was in the police station.'
'I examined your neck.'
She spoke quietly, her head averted. 'Yes. When you first touched my throat, for one second I almost saw something — some picture, some memory. I don't know what it was.'
This news was unexpected but not illogical. Freud himself had discovered that a physical touch could release suppressed memories. I had employed that very technique with Priscilla. Possibly, Miss Acton's amnesia was susceptible to this form of treatment as well. 'Are you willing to try something similar again?' I asked her.
'It frightened me,' she said.
'It probably will again.'
She nodded. I went to her and extended my palm. She began to remove her scarf. I told her she needn't; I would touch her forehead, not her neck. She was surprised. I explained that touching the brow was one of Dr Freud's standard methods for eliciting memory. She did not look satisfied but said I should proceed. Slowly I placed my palm to her forehead. There was no reaction. I asked if any thought had come to her.
'Only that your hand is very cold, Doctor,' she replied.
'I'm sorry, Miss Acton, but it seems we must resume talking. The touching has not succeeded.' I took my seat again. She looked almost cross. 'Can you tell me one thing?' I went on. 'You said that Mrs Banwell's back — her bare back — was as white as something you had seen before. But you did not say what.'
'And you would like to know?'
'That is why I asked.'
'Get out,' she said, sitting up.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Get out!' she cried and flung the bowl of sugar cubes at me. Then she stood and did the same with her saucer and cup. Or, rather, these she did not fling; she threw them overhand, as hard as she could. Fortunately, the two objects skewed off in opposite directions, the saucer flying to my left, the cup sailing high and to my right, breaking into several pieces when it hit the wall. Miss Acton picked up the teapot.
'Don't do that,' I said.
'I hate you.'
I stood as well. 'You don't hate me, Miss Acton. You hate your father for trading you to Banwell — in exchange for his wife.'
If I thought the girl's reaction to this would be to collapse in tears on her sofa, I was mistaken. She pounced like a feral cat, swinging the teapot at me. It hit me on my left shoulder. The force was impressive; she had tremendous strength for such a small thing. The top of the pot flew off. Boiling-hot water spilled onto my arm. It hurt, actually, considerably — the scalding water, not the pot — but I neither moved nor showed any reaction. This, I guess, incensed her. She swung the pot at me again, this time at my head.
I was so much taller than she that all I had to do was draw back slightly. The teapot missed its target, and I caught Miss Acton by the arm. Her momentum carried her around, so that her back was to me. I held her arms tightly against her waist, pinning her to me.
'Let me go,' she said. 'Let me go or I will scream.'
'And then? Will you tell them I attacked you?'
'I am counting to three,' she replied fiercely. 'Let me go or I will scream. One, two, th-'
I seized her throat, stopping the word in her mouth. I should not have done so, but my blood was up. It stifled any possibility of her screaming but produced an unexpected side effect as well. All the tension in her body drained away. She dropped the teapot. Her eyes opened wide, disoriented, her sapphire irises darting rapidly back and forth. I didn't know what was stranger: her assault on me or this sudden transformation. I released my hold on her immediately.
'I saw him,' she whispered.
'Can you remember?' I asked.
'I saw him,' she repeated. 'Now it's gone. I think I was tied up. I couldn't move. Oh, why can't I remember?' She turned at once to face me. 'Do it again.'
'What?'
'What you just did. I will remember, I'm sure of it.'
Slowly, never taking her eyes off mine, she undid her scarf, revealing her still-bruised neck. She clutched my right hand in her delicate fingers and drew it toward her neck, just as she had the first time I saw her. I touched the soft skin under her chin, careful to avoid the ugly bruises.
'Is there anything?' I asked.
