Chapter Thirteen #3
“I have my doubts, but it’s also possible Dr. Penhollow is not quite as bad as Beatrice makes him out to be.
” Although so far, everyone who had voiced an opinion of the doctor did not speak well of him.
If poison was used to kill Dr. Penhollow, then Beatrice, who had openly shared her dislike of him, must be a suspect.
Ada, whose sainthood had yet to be confirmed, was not off my list, either.
“Here we are.” Beatrice entered the room, bearing a leather-bound journal in one hand.
It was about two inches thick and the size of an ordinary book.
I took custody of it while Hetty moved the tea tray aside, allowing me to open it on the table.
We scooted to the edges of our seats, eager to delve into the details of Dr. Penhollow’s medical practice.
The first part of the journal was a schedule of his appointments.
I turned to the latest entry, dated December 21, the date of his death.
The only notation was Norwich. No time. No reason.
Nothing indicating he planned to meet with someone before taking the train, and of course, nothing in relation to meeting his own demise.
His schedule was nearly blank after that date; he’d noted only a lunch appointment with Sergeant Hewitt on the twenty-eighth.
A satin ribbon separated the journal into two parts.
The second part was a file of his patients, their particular ailments, and his treatment.
He was not especially busy, making only four or five calls per week.
With a population of about four hundred in the village, that didn’t seem unusual, but closer inspection revealed that many of his patients lived as far away as Norwich. Very few were local.
I returned to the schedule section, to a random page that included dates from several months ago.
Leafing back farther, I discovered that more of the doctor’s patients resided in the village.
As time passed and their experience with Dr. Penhollow grew, did they cease to trust him, or did they coincidentally become healthier?
In addition to his charges for his services, the doctor had noted when payment was received and what form that payment took.
Most often he was paid in normal currency, but there were also times when he accepted payment in foodstuffs—eggs, milk, bread, butter, even a pig in one case.
With the exception of the pig and probably the eggs, all those items could hide poison.
But there was no way for the potential poisoner to know that only the doctor would consume the item.
Other than the entry of Norwich, the most recent appointment was dated almost a week ago. “That’s interesting,” I said. “You mentioned that Dr. Penhollow planned to meet with someone on the day he died. I wonder why there is no record of an appointment in here.”
“He didn’t specifically say it was a patient,” Beatrice said. “Only that he had a meeting.”
With someone like Mr. Timms, perhaps? But why wouldn’t Dr. Penhollow have noted it? He had recorded his lunch appointment with Sergeant Hewitt, so it didn’t seem that only patients merited a notation in his schedule.
I mentioned that to Beatrice, who made a helpless gesture. “Perhaps he arranged the meeting while at the play,” she suggested, “and simply didn’t bother to record it.”
If that was the case, it couldn’t have been with Mr. Timms. While I mused over the possibilities, Hetty took possession of the journal.
“This is interesting,” she said. “Back in March, most of Dr. Penhollow’s patients lived outside the village, but there is one patient here whom he saw almost every day. ”
Beatrice, who’d been quietly sipping her tea, raised her finger. “That would be Mrs. Rallison. He was treating her for some sort of infection.”
The name sounded familiar. “Isn’t that the patient you mentioned when I asked if anyone might have a grudge against your stepfather?”
“It’s very possible,” she said.
“I should think so,” Hetty said in a rather heated tone. “He treated her with a phosphorus medication.” She slapped the journal closed and turned to me for a reaction.
“I take it you disagree with that plan of treatment,” I said.
“Medical science disagrees. They disagreed years ago.” She sighed when she saw no sign of outrage from either of us.
“It was once thought phosphorus could be a treatment for tuberculosis, but it was ruled no more than absolute quackery at least a decade ago. On top of that, it was very irritating and made patients who were already suffering terribly ill.”
I stared at her. “How are you so well informed on the subject? I didn’t know you subscribed to medical journals.”
“I do not, but believe it or not, if enough people are hurt by some common medical practice, these stories often make it into the newspapers. Again, that was many years ago. Phosphorus is still used in medicine, but not to treat lung infections.”
This was not heartening news. In addition to being an unpleasant man who yelled at his stepdaughters and demanded that everything go his way, I could add quack to Dr. Penhollow’s list of defects. Who wouldn’t want to kill him?
“He wasn’t even a good doctor,” Beatrice muttered.
“Not in my opinion,” Hetty said.
She reopened the journal and I perused the page over her shoulder. “The Digby ladies from the mercantile told us about this case.” I observed Beatrice through narrowed eyes. “They indicated that Martha Rallison was quite ill to begin with.”
Beatrice made a dismissive sound. “She may have been ill, but she wasn’t dead.”
Good point. If Hetty was correct, it sounded as though the doctor’s treatment amounted to quackery, but did he kill her, or did she succumb to her illness?
The Digby ladies had suggested that the Rallison family would not have sought revenge due to a lack of gumption.
But if they believed Dr. Penhollow murdered Martha, one of them might have been motivated enough to overcome that lack.