"Yes please, sir. I believe I will have to remain seated for a while," she gasped. She put her handkerchief away, took out a fan, and started waving fresh air towards her face, while breathing unsteadily.

Albert left Mrs. Carrington and went out of the station main doors in search of a runner to fetch a doctor. The sooner the Mayor approved one of those fancy new telephonic devices for the police, the better.

Tristan stepped the police station some fifteen minutes later. He had done some work for the courts and police in Leeds before, and he had been engaged by the Whitby police to examine and assess an arrestee before. Since the police did not only encounter injured people, but arrested the occasional lunatic as well, a doctor who was also an alienist was useful, and Tristan took the extra work with both hands, since his own practice wasn't running that well yet.

He glanced down and the well-dressed but clearly shaken lady in the chair, but moved to the desk. "Dr. Tristan Wells. What can I do for you, officer?"

"Constable Hailey, sir." Bert began by introducing himself. "Mrs Carrington 'here says that she needs to see a doctor, relating to the reason she came to see the police, sir. Will you be needing somewhere more private?"

Carrington. He had heard that name alright. The death of the murderer Carrington had been all over the newspaper. He turned to look at the lady. She didn't look like the criminal type herself. Rather like a broken creature, perhaps not in dress, but certainly in demeanor, and Tristan couldn't help feeling some compassion. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Carrington?" he asked gently.

The woman looked up, pressed her trembling lips together and lifted her handkerchief to wipe away a fresh tear. "M-my hus-.... s-someone pulled my arm, fiercely, and I am in pain, doctor. I cannot lift it properly."

Tristan suppressed a grimace. He had seen enough of the world to know that violence and brutality did not restrict itself to slum dwellings, but was just as likely to take place in mighty mansions. It was just that the latter had higher walls and greater front doors to conceal it.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, ma'm," said Tristan and he turned back to the constable. "Yes, I shall need to a look at her arm."

And of course he could never ask a lady to scandalously expose her arm in public.

"Yes, Doctor." Albert answered. There was a small office off the station foyer for private meetings, questioning miscreants, or anything requiring a closed door. Albert opened the door for the two of them, hastily stowing an errant mop and bucket.

Tristan picked up his bag, thanked the policeman, and led the poor injured lady into the room. The last time he had been in this room was when he had evaluated that thief, Anthony Rowe. At least this time he could be of some use as a doctor, rather than become a puppet in the games of an emotionally immature person who lied and played tricks, Tristan thought.

Tristan came out of the room some five minutes later, with a grim face. He closed the door to give Mrs. Carrington privacy and made his way over to the desk. "Sir, you might want to take pictures and other evidence," he said in a low voice. "Her shoulder is dislocated, and there are marks on her arm where he gripped her..."

Albert nodded gravely. Her injury together with her recollections suggested the crime of Battery. Another Carrington in trouble with the law. What was wrong with that family?

"In that case Doctor," Bert reached under the desk and produced an official form "I am required to ask you to record your medical findings in a statement as evidence. Sign and date, please." Bert pushed the blank page and pen towards the devotee of Hippocrates, not that the policeman had the foggiest idea who that was. "I'll send for a photographer; a number of them do work for us. What sort of pictures will you need'?" Bert asked with mild curiosity. In Bert's limited experience, photographs of people fell into 3 groups: grim old men in tailed coats attempting to look grand, nubile young 'ladies' astride furniture in their knickers, and babes of undetermined age and sex shoved into shapeless white gowns.

Tristan began to write: 

Patient suffers from a dislocated shoulder,

He looked up. "Ah, I thought you might want to gather evidence or something." He certainly hoped the bastard who had manhandled that poor innocent lady so would be brought to justice. Tristan hated all forms of violence, but strong men battering the weaker sex made him livid. He continued to write: 

consistent with a violent pull on the arm. Bruise on upper arm, size and shape of a hand and fingers, consistent with violent grip. Patient severely distressed, elevated heart rate, 125 beats per minute, occasional difficulty breathing.

 

He added the date and time and signed.

Albert nodded and disappeared into the small room.

"Sorry to bother you, Mrs Carrington, but do ye recall if your husband left behind evidence on yer person? Of his attack upon ye. Loose threads, a torn button, or some other sign? It'll help our investigation."