Free A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt Page A

waited in the parlor while she went to inform him of my arrival, warming my hands in front of the fire, feeling a little steadier with each passing minute. If anyone could give me a fair assessment of my handling of Eliza, it was the professor. I glanced at the mementos of an illustrious career that covered the parlor walls: posters from his well-attended lectures, tinted daguerreotypes of distinguished colleagues, smaller tintypes featuring the professor in exotic locales. I spotted a recent photograph in the circular, box camera format, and drew closer. It was of my graduating class, taken the spring before the professor left Johns Hopkins to devote himself to lecturing full-time. He was standing at the end of the front row, smiling confidently at the camera, while I held pride of place on his right, my blurry face turned in his direction.
    I felt a small thrill, even now. I’d scarcely believed it when he’d asked me to continue as his research assistant after graduation. I’d known he’d been pleased with my prior work—the paper we co-wrote on Myer’s theory of extra-marginal consciousness had been particularly well received—but I was sure there were many people more qualified than I who would have jumped at the opportunity to assist him. I thanked my lucky stars that we had remained in close contact so that I could call on him now for help.
    The maid returned and led me down the hall to the professor’s study, knocking twice on the door before she pushed it open.
    â€œGenevieve!” cried the professor, rising behind his desk on sight of me. “I wondered what had become of you.”
    His plump torso was clothed in a canary-yellow waistcoat so bright it made his white beard glow. Despite the brilliance of his attire, however, my eyes were drawn immediately to the drab little man sitting across from him. “I…I’m sorry I’m late,” I stammered, struggling to hide my dismay as the seated man rose more slowly to his feet.
    â€œNever mind. There’s still a little time,” the professor assured me. “Dr. Mayhew and I have a luncheon appointment at Sherry’s, but we don’t have to leave for another quarter of an hour.” He gestured toward the other man. “You know Dr. Mayhew, I believe?”
    I nodded. I knew him all right; he was the professor who’d given me the drawing assignment on penile mechanics. “Professor.”
    â€œDr. Summerford,” he said, tipping his head.
    â€œMayhew’s just arrived from Baltimore,” Professor Bogard explained as we all sat down. “He’s going to be teaching at the College of Physicians and Surgeons for the remainder of the year. Perhaps it’s fortunate that you were delayed; now you can have the benefit of two minds, as it were.”
    I smiled with an effort. In contrast to Professor Bogard, Mayhew was a study in muted gray—gray suit, gray thinning hair, overwaxed gray mustache. His only compelling features were his bright little eyes, which were watching me now as a snake might watch a tethered mouse.
    â€œPerhaps I should come back later,” I suggested, “when you have more time.”
    â€œNo time like the present,” the professor said breezily. “Besides, I’m leaving town tomorrow on a lecture tour, so I’ll be spending the afternoon packing.” To Mayhew, he explained, “I’ve agreed to supervise Genevieve’s clinical work here in the city in return for her help with my research. She’s developing a new therapy technique based on work she did with Herbert Cassell, applying the rational psychotherapy approach within a class format.”
    â€œIs that right?” Mayhew asked, cocking an eyebrow.
    â€œYes, I’m employing Cassell’s reeducation techniques to relieve my patient’s physical symptoms,” I explained, “by correcting the faulty thoughts and emotions that underlie