“But sometimes nobody stops them,” said Mr. Clemens, raising an eyebrow.
“No one could stop Dr. Parkhurst when he was determined to do something,” said Dr. Ashe, and for the first time I thought I detected a note of bitterness in his voice. “One of the unavoidable facts of medicine is that patients often choose doctors for reasons having nothing to do with their competence. Dr. Parkhurst’s social standing guaranteed him a following among the best people in London—at least, so they would consider themselves. And he was sufficiently aware of his own limitations to take me on as a partner. I was fresh out of school, with good recommendations and plenty of prospects. But there are limits on what someone of my religion can achieve, Mr. Clemens. The average Briton does not like to put himself into the hands of a Jew—not even when his life may depend upon the skill of his surgeon.”
“Damn fools, if that’s true,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I reckon it’s not much better in America, or anywhere else. There’s always somebody who sets himself up as better than the rest, usually for no good reason. The only thing we’ve done in America is make it easier for a man to advance on his merits—most of the time. But that’s not the point, right now—you were talking about Dr. Parkhurst.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Ashe. “My partner recognized that his eroding skills jeopardized his ability to keep his following, and so he took on the best young surgeon he could find—or so I flatter myself. He would interview and examine the patients, he would be the physician of record—but more and more, when the ether took effect, it was I who stood there to do the real work. Many patients believed he had operated on them, when in fact he had left the surgery after seeing them go under the ether. He had the reputation, he had the following, he had the rewards of his position. And I remained the junior partner, behind the scenes, to be ordered about and reminded of my inferior status almost every day.”
“And you resented it, didn’t you?”
“It would take a better man than I am not to, Mr. Clemens,” said the doctor, spreading his hands. “But all of us have our price. To do work that benefits society, to support my parents in their old age, to give my wife and children a good home—to me, those things were worth the price I paid for them. And now, if I do not let the opportunity slip, perhaps I can gain for myself some of the recognition Dr. Parkhurst denied me.”
Mr. Clemens looked the doctor straight in the eye. “You didn’t do anything to hasten the arrival of that opportunity?”
Dr. Ashe clenched his fist. “There were times—oh, yes, there were times,” he said, and there was steel in his voice. Then he relaxed, and said, “There were times I could have cut his throat with a scalpel to keep him out of the operating room. We had very harsh words over that issue on more than one occasion. Luckily, I usually managed to persuade him to let me perform the operation in his place.”
“But not invariably,” said Mr. Clemens.
“No, I am afraid not,” said Dr. Ashe. “Even then, he was often lucky—or perhaps it was the patient who was lucky. But the luck sometimes ran out. There were . . . tragedies. You will find a brief summary of them—the ones I think are relevant to your inquiry, at least—in the records there.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ashe,” said my employer. “One last question, and then I’ll let you return to your work. You had as much reason as anyone to benefit from the doctor’s demise—not that I think you did it, mind you.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” said Dr. Ashe. “But if you want something more solid, I can produce several very credible witnesses who can testify to being in my presence the evening of the murder. Although one of them was under anesthesia, and is probably unable to swear that he saw me the entire time.”
“I looked into that before I came to see you,” said Mr. Clemens, smiling. “I like to know that kind of thing in advance. But what I wanted to ask was whether you had a strong reason to suspect any of the people in that room. I take it you know who was there.”
“Oh, yes, I read the newspapers,” said Dr. Ashe. “I must say that your name would have caught my eye even if the victim had not been my partner. But the rest of the list was full of very familiar names, as well—Cedric Villiers, for example.”
“Ah, yes, what about him?” Mr. Clemens leaned forward in anticipation.
“A pathetic case,” said Dr. Ashe. “He originally came to us for a broken collarbone, which Dr. Parkhurst set. When he complained of persistent pain, my partner prescribed morphia—to which Villiers became addicted. He began to haunt the office on a regular basis for several years, begging for more. Dr. Parkhurst finally had the good sense to stop supplying him—but not before Villiers made a dreadful scene, out in the waiting room. There were threats—”
“How long ago was this?”
“Something under a year since Dr. Parkhurst cut him off,” said Dr. Ashe. “I remember we’d had the first snowfall of the season.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Clemens. “Maybe Villiers would nurse a grudge that long, or maybe not.
