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“So, I’m building a cannery.” Anthony laughed, a musical, maniacal laugh. He imagined his mother laughing like that, at the nurses, at the alienists, at Jephson himself. Defiant. “What else?”

Mr. Wilkes’s frown had leveled off. He was a professional, adept at masking his unease with volatile subjects. But he’d accelerated. A shorter man would have had to trot to keep the pace.

“The operating theater,” he said, looking at Anthony out of the corner of his eye. “There are no procedures scheduled today, so if you like, a tour can be arranged.”

“What kind of procedures?” Anthony asked on a hard breath.

“We’re very good with female ailments,” said Mr. Wilkes. “The results have been impressive. Dr. Jephson is among the leading proponents of gynecological surgeries. His techniques are studied by surgeons across the world.”

There was no mistaking his sincerity. Bile rose in Anthony’s throat.

Twenty years ago, had Jephson wanted to test one of his procedures on a nymphomaniac? Was it fear of a forced surgery that had strained his mother to the breaking point?

Death had seemed to her the only recovery. He wished he could believe she’d sunk into soothing darkness and woken, healed, in a better place.

He closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the world, the last shreds of that faint melody drifting into silence. He let his body carry him forward up the hill to Jephson’s office.

• • •

Michael Jephson had a disarming face, even-featured and intelligent, the brows still dark beneath a thick wave of silver hair. He came around his desk smiling. The books that lined the office walls struck Anthony as smug in their abundance, hundreds of fat volumes, the bulk of them pressed into Jephson’s service, an alibi for his learnedness and unerring discernment. He had to be taken aback by Anthony’s arrival, but he gave no sign. He was handsome as an actor, and he played his part smoothly.

The respected doctor and administrator. His trim figure, clear complexion, and bright eyes seemed further proof of his respectability. No secret vices bloated, stained, or clouded his aspect.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Jephson exclaimed, nodding at Wilkes, who vanished with a touch more haste than dignity.

“Far too long in coming, wouldn’t you agree?” Anthony ignored the leather chair and strolled the perimeter of the room, inspecting it with a proprietary air. How large had his contributions been? Had he paid for these books, these furnishings? Jephson’s smile had not slipped.

“Too long indeed,” Jephson murmured. “I heard a great deal about you over the years, from your father. He did more for lunatics in this country than the lord chancellor and the entire Lunacy Commission.”

“My mother might disagree had she not died under your supervision at Normand Park.”

Jephson looked grave. His solemnity became him. He seemed even more incontrovertible, the picture of medical authority.

“An unparalleled tragedy,” he said. He circled back behind his desk, sitting and gesturing to Anthony to be seated himself.

He remained standing, fingers twisting the watch chain in his pocket. He twitched his hand free when he saw that Jephson observed him with an air of clinical curiosity.

“The Duchess of Weston suffered an acute malady.” Jephson’s voice was heavy with sadness. “The symptoms were various and severe, but none of the doctors who consulted ever imagined she would harm herself. At the time, I suspected a somatic cause.”

More Greek.

Anthony sat, accepted the glass Jephson offered, an excellent scotch, meant to be savored. He swallowed it without tasting.

“An infection?”

“Perhaps. Something physiological. Her brain tissue was healthy, no lesions. Now we understand that the reproductive organs are most often involved in these extreme cases. I wish I’d known then what I know now. I might have helped her.”

Anthony pressed the rim of the empty glass to his mouth, mashing his lips against his teeth, to choke the noise that threatened to erupt.

Her brain tissue. Jephson had performed an autopsy. Why had this never before occurred to him, that his mother had been carved up, her very organs brought to account? She was buried, at least, under her maiden name in Norwood, in the Metaxas sarcophagus at the Greek Orthodox necropolis at the South Metropolitan Cemetery. Returned to her first—and happier—family. What had always been touted as a disgrace now seemed to him a mercy.

Jephson sighed.

“Today, the prognosis for a woman with your mother’s condition is much better. That’s a professional balm that I know can only provide so much comfort to those with personal griefs.”

“I’ve no need of balms.”

Not from you.