Chapter Nineteen
“Dr. Bertram would like to meet me in the drawing room in twenty minutes, if convenient.”
“To go over his findings, I assume.” Fiona leaned over my shoulder to glance at the note. “Shall we go now?”
“You wish to join us?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I could hardly fault her for being curious, but … “You don’t expect the doctor to reveal the killer, do you? I can’t believe he’d know that.”
She took a step back and gazed at me in confusion.
“What do you mean? Don’t we already know who did it?
Dr. Bertram says phosphorus killed Dr. Penhollow.
” She gestured to the medicine bottle in my hand.
“You have the phosphorus medication. Where did it come from? Ralph Rallison’s house. Ergo, he must be the killer.”
“No.” Though I hated to dispute Fiona’s logic, she was presuming too much.
“No?” Fiona drooped from disappointment. “Whyever not?”
“I just realized it myself,” I said. I drew her back to the dressing table, where I set down the bottle and note, and opened Dr. Penhollow’s journal.
Turning to Martha Rallison’s record, I pointed to the entry of the sixth of March.
“He brought three of these bottles to Martha, with instructions to take one tablespoon in the morning and another in the evening. If she followed those instructions, and I assume she did since the doctor called on her almost every day, over the following three weeks, she would have consumed most, if not all, of it.”
I lifted the bottle up to light. “This is about half full, and I’m surprised there is even this much, but that means all the medicine Dr. Penhollow brought to the Rallisons’ home was either consumed by Martha or is right here.”
“Then Ralph Rallison couldn’t have used any of it to poison Dr. Penhollow.”
“I’m afraid not. And I’m not entirely convinced that this particular medication is even poisonous, considering Martha took it twice a day for three weeks.”
“She did die,” Fiona pointed out.
“True, but we don’t know if this is what killed her.”
I collected the journal, Dr. Bertram’s note, and the medicine bottle. “Let’s go see what the doctor can tell us.”
We found Dr. Bertram already in the drawing room, sharing tea with Hetty. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting,” I said as Fiona and I joined them.
“Dr. Bertram was just telling me about his findings,” Hetty said. She lifted the teapot with a questioning glance and, at our nods, poured a cup for each of us.
“Your note said you believe Dr. Penhollow was killed by phosphorus,” I said, hoping to get right down to business.
“Yes, quite took me by surprise,” the young doctor said.
He set his cup on the table and gave me a sheepish look.
“I have to confess that I originally had no expectation of finding any indications of foul play. It is only down to your insistence, Mrs. Hazelton, that I examined him as closely as I did. And phosphorus! Who would have expected that?”
“Perhaps we ought to have expected it.” Hetty’s expression was tight.
The doctor’s gaze sharpened on her. “What do you mean? It’s not commonly used these days, well, at least not by a doctor. And Penhollow would have been well aware of its toxicity, so I don’t believe he ingested it by accident.”
Hetty glanced at me.
“Dr. Penhollow was treating a patient with a phosphorus medication,” I said.
“Was he indeed?” Dr. Bertram looked rather appalled. “What was the patient’s diagnosis?”
“A lung infection of some sort.”
“I presume the medication didn’t help?”
“She died about three weeks after starting the treatment,” I said. “And her family believed, at least at first, that it was the medication that killed her.”
The doctor twisted his handsome face into a grimace. “Are you certain it was phosphorus? If so, they could be correct.”
“I have it right here.” I swept up the bottle of medicine and handed it to him. “Perhaps you can analyze it?”
Dr. Bertram took the bottle and stepped away from us, off the carpet, and toward the doorway before carefully pulling the cork from the bottle.
He held it at arm’s length for a moment, then took a sniff of the contents and dripped a small amount on the tip of his finger.
Satisfied, he returned to us and placed the bottle on the table.
“Some forms of phosphorus are flammable, even explosive,” he said, as if to explain his actions.
“This is more of a patent medicine.” After pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the residue from his fingers.
“Probably hypophosphites of lime and soda, mixed with a little syrup to make it a bit more palatable.”
That sounded so familiar, I picked up Dr. Penhollow’s journal and checked Martha Rallison’s page. “Yes, that’s exactly what he called it. He brought her three bottles, and over the course of three weeks, she took most of it. The bottle in your hand is all that is left.”
“Then I highly doubt this medication had anything to do with her death.” Looking far more at ease, Dr. Bertram returned to his seat.
“The amount of actual phosphorus present in this tonic is so minimal, the patient would have had to ingest far more than two of these bottles to cause herself any harm.”
“Well, I’m confused,” Fiona said, expressing my feelings exactly. “If that medication didn’t kill Martha Rallison, how did it kill Dr. Penhollow?”
“This?” Dr. Bertram gestured to the bottle. “This isn’t what killed Penhollow. He ingested a much purer form of phosphorus, and plenty of it.” He gazed at our blank faces. “I’d hazard a guess that Penhollow himself compounded the medication he gave to the patient.”
I glanced at my companions, whose expressions remained blank. “If you are offering that as an explanation, Doctor, I’m afraid it isn’t quite sufficient.”
“Allow me to elaborate,” he said, holding up the bottle once more.
“There are numerous patent medicines like this that one can purchase—too many, in fact. Unfortunately, one can never be confident that what is said to be in the medicine is actually in there. To avoid that problem, Dr. Penhollow very likely bought the individual ingredients and mixed this concoction himself.”
Judging from the sound of their “Ahhs,” Hetty and Fiona found his explanation satisfactory, but I wasn’t so sure.
I leafed through the pages of the journal until I found the date I was looking for.
“Here is where he ordered the phosphorus.” I turned to the doctor.
“You are right. It simply reads, ‘Phosphorus.’”
“May I see it?”
I handed him the journal and pointed to the entry. “I suppose the fact that he ordered three vials of the drug, then took three bottles of medicine to Martha is what made me think that what he ordered and what he delivered were the same thing.”
“It looks as though he didn’t receive his full order.
” Dr. Bertram squinted at Penhollow’s crabbed writing.
I moved next to him to peer at the words.
“It says, ‘Two vials missing from order.’ I wonder if he ever received the rest of it. Would one vial of the drug have been enough for the three bottles of medicine?”
“More than enough,” Dr. Bertram said, still studying the journal. “Penhollow pursued it, though. First, blaming the chemist, then noting that the package was damaged. He blamed Dotty Digby.” He chuckled. “I don’t imagine that went very well.”
The three of us indicated our agreement.
“Do you know Mrs. Digby, then?” Fiona asked.
“She’s a patient,” he said. “I know she does things just so and would not take well to a reprimand.”
“Certainly not about her handling of the post,” Fiona agreed.
She and Hetty chuckled, but I was pondering the missing drug. “Would you say that was the form of phosphorus Dr. Penhollow ingested?”
“I’d say it’s almost a certainty,” Dr. Bertram said. “The only other common source would be matches, and it’s highly unlikely anyone would go to the trouble of scraping hundreds of match heads when there are so many other poisons within reach.”
“Would there have been enough phosphorus left from the vial Dr. Penhollow did receive once he made up the medications for Martha?” I asked.
“Enough to kill him? Probably not.”
“Then the rest of his order must have been delivered at a later date,” Hetty said. “Perhaps he noted it in his journal.”
The doctor handed the journal to Hetty. “I haven’t come across it yet, but it could be in there.”
Since it was our only likely source, I tended to think Hetty was right, but I still had questions for Dr. Bertram. “How do you suppose Dr. Penhollow came to ingest the phosphorus? And when?”
Bertram took a sip of tea. “That’s the tricky part.”
Of course.
He set his cup down and glanced warily at the three of us.
“You all know I had to do a thorough examination of the body?” At our nods, he continued.
“Part of that involves the contents of his stomach. While I was updating my account of the proceedings, I had cause to turn back after a few minutes and saw that the material was luminescent.”
“You mean to say it glowed?” I asked. This was an astonishing development.
“Indeed, phosphorus can glow when it mixes with air.” He waved a hand.
“But that doesn’t really answer your question, does it?
Let me see, it might well have been cooked into something he ate.
Most likely it would have been in something flavorful, like a sauce.
Something that would have disguised its taste. ”
“Could it have been in preserves?” I asked.
“Possible, but I would think it unlikely, given the amount of phosphorus he ingested. If it was highly concentrated in the preserves, they would have tasted simply appalling. If it was less concentrated, he would have had to have eaten a full jar.” He shrugged.
That would rule out the preserves the Rallisons gave him. So far, this report was not as conclusive as I had hoped. I gave up the pretense of drinking my tea and set the cup on the table. “Can you state approximately what his time of death was?”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I can only estimate, and much of that is based on your observations of the body when you found him.
” He held up a finger. “Those observations were good, but taking into consideration the temperature that morning, I would say he might have been dead anywhere from the two hours you estimated up to as much as seven or eight hours.”
That meant he might have died as early as three o’clock that morning until perhaps nine.
Far too broad a range. If Dr. Penhollow died at the earlier end, that meant Ada was lying about the time he left the house—or that he ever left the house—at least under his own steam.
If he died closer to the later end of the range, Ada might be telling the truth, which still didn’t exonerate her and did nothing to help narrow down my suspects, which was anyone who might have sent over poisoned food. Bother!
I stopped my internal rant as a germ of a thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, one that protested that it couldn’t have been just anyone. It could only have been someone who had the unadulterated version of the phosphorus. Hetty was right: it must have been delivered later.
“Is it possible that Dr. Penhollow managed to ingest the phosphorus accidentally?” I asked the doctor. “You mentioned that he mixed the medication for Martha.” I made a helpless gesture, not certain what I was asking. “Mistakes happen.”
Dr. Bertram frowned. “As I said, he would have known about the toxicity of the materials he was using. I can’t imagine him being that careless. The phosphorus killed him, but I don’t know how he ingested it.”
Dr. Bertram drained his cup and set it on the table. “Since I have finished my analysis, I’d say you are safe to have the family or the undertaker collect the body. I’m sure Lady Fiona is ready to have use of her conservatory.”
“We are very grateful for your help in this matter,” Fiona said. “I’ll send a note to the undertaker. It’s a little late now, but we shall let Mrs. Penhollow know in the morning.”
“What an awful and heartrending Christmas missive,” I said. The thought of the holiday reminded me of the doctor. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, Dr. Bertram. Have you time to travel to your family?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think I can get that far in time for Christmas but maybe for Boxing Day.”
“Well, you are welcome to stay and enjoy the festivities with us,” Fiona said. “I don’t wish to keep you from your family if you want to attempt the journey, but you might encounter some difficulty traveling on Christmas Day.”
“That is a distinct possibility, Lady Fiona.” There was a suggestion of a smile on his face. “If it’s not too presumptuous, I’d be happy to stay. You have all made me feel quite at home here. A few of the villagers have been to my practice recently. I wouldn’t mind catching up with them.”
That didn’t surprise me, given many of the villagers’ aversion to Dr. Penhollow.
“We were very lucky to have you here to lend your expertise,” Fiona said. “Of course you are welcome to stay.”
He came to his feet. “I’m happy to have been of service. I’ll just go and finish my report for Sergeant Hewitt and clear my things from the conservatory before dinner.”
Once he left the room, Fiona cast me a fraught glance. “Now what? If Dr. Penhollow didn’t accidentally swallow the phosphorus, does that mean Ada poisoned him?”
I heaved a sigh. “We must assume the two remaining vials were delivered to his home. Who else would have access besides Ada?”
Hetty looked up from the journal. “Your first premise is incorrect. Dr. Penhollow states that he never received the remaining two vials.”
“He recorded that in his journal?”
Hetty flapped two sheets of paper. “This correspondence was tucked among the pages. Penhollow wrote to the chemist to complain about the short shipment and ask when the balance would be sent. The chemist replied that all three vials had been shipped together and that Penhollow should take up his complaint with the Royal Mail service.”
“He had noted that the package had been damaged,” Fiona said. “Perhaps the other vials were lost.”
“Or someone stole them,” Hetty said with a grimace.
“Or they eventually turned up and were delivered to Dr. Penhollow. He may not have recorded it.” I gestured to the journal.
Fiona winced. “That leads us back to Ada.”
“Wherever the phosphorus ended up, I’m relieved that the sergeant will be back tomorrow. Then this will be his investigation.”
“You can’t be thinking of giving up now, can you?” Fiona looked aghast.
“We are so close, Frances!” Hetty said. “To find the killer, we simply have to find out who took the vials of phosphorus.”
If only I knew how we were to do that.