Chapter Twelve
Physicians and Pharmacies
From the backseat of the steamer, Oliver watched Felipe as he drove down Aldorhaven’s main road. All morning Felipe had seemed off. He had been quiet and distracted when they awoke, but Oliver attributed that to a lack of proper food. The dark circles under his eyes had been alarmingly stark against his tan skin, and the tremors were more pronounced than normal. Oliver had pressed a piece of jerky into his hands before breakfast and had covertly shoveled the sausages Mr. Allen had deposited onto his plate onto Felipe’s the moment the man’s back was turned. While he seemed physically better after eating, the emotions churning on the other end of the tether still gave Oliver pause. He could parse out pops of stale fear and dread but overlaying them like a patch were fatigue and something harder and duller that Oliver didn’t recognize. When Oliver tried to ask him what was wrong, Felipe gave him a blithe smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and reassured him that he just hadn’t slept well. Oliver wanted to believe Felipe had gotten out of the habit of sleeping in strange places after nine months of staying close to home, but somehow, he doubted that was it.
Parking the steamer in front of a light blue house that was slightly more stately than its neighbors, Felipe turned to Oliver and Gwen. “Remember the plan?”
Oliver gave the tether two tugs to show he understood.
“And three if you’re in trouble,” Felipe whispered. “Make sure you stay away from the woods.”
More than anything, Oliver wanted to kiss Felipe or squeeze his hand before they parted for luck or fear, but they couldn’t chance it. They would both just have to be careful and hope for the best.
“You too.” As Oliver climbed out of the steamer, he turned to Mr. Allen and said as cheerfully as he could muster, “Keep an eye on him for me.”
The innkeeper nodded with a laugh as Oliver shut the door. Watching the steamer pull away from the curb and disappear around the bend toward the mill, Oliver let the tether run between his fingers until it thinned like wool drawn on a spindle. He didn’t like the idea of Felipe being so far from him, and he hoped he could trust the innkeeper to keep Felipe away from the Dysterwood should he notice him straying. If he felt anything odd on Felipe’s side of the tether, there was nothing on earth that could stop Oliver from running to him. At Gwen’s elbow poking into his side, Oliver jolted to attention.
“Is this it?” she asked, hooking her thumb toward the blue house.
In Manhattan, Oliver was accustomed to physicians having an office of some sort or working out of a hospital. The country doctor who only made house calls was not something one often encountered in the city, and it was hard to imagine the house that seemed to be putting on dilapidated airs was where this man did business. In its heyday, the house had probably been quite affluent with its gingerbread flourishes under the porch roof and its stained glass transom over the front door, but after years of decay, the whitewash had worn away to reveal the pockmarked wood beneath it. From the far end of the porch, a fat, orange tabby watched Oliver and Gwen suspiciously as they climbed the steps. Unlike at the society where Gwen wore her most colorful dresses, she had taken to wearing her subdued, more formal church gowns for the investigation. Oliver understood why, but he didn’t like it all the same. Locking eyes with him, Gwen drew herself up and straightened before ringing the bell.
When no one answered, Oliver knocked the way Felipe had taught him to do on investigations. “The doctor might be out already.”
Before Gwen could reply, the door opened and a middle aged woman with grey hair pulled back in a severe bun and a plain black frock peered out. Her blue eyes went wide as she looked between them with something between fear and curiosity. “May I help you?”
“We’re with the Paranormal Society. We were hoping to speak to Dr. Miller.”
“Miriam! Who’s at the door?” a loud, gruff voice called from out of sight.
Flinching, Miriam motioned for them to follow her inside. She deposited them in the foyer and disappeared down the austere hall with Oliver’s proffered card. The house was strangely empty. No, not empty but devoid of life. There were no knickknacks to speak of on the end tables or photographs around the cold fireplace or plants near the windows in the front parlor. The furniture was several decades old but looked pristine. It was plain but serviceable and of high enough quality for a man of a doctor’s stature, though it hardly looked used. Staring at the oilcloth rugs and the off-white wallpaper, Oliver wondered if they had merely faded with time or if the man had chosen the most drab pieces imaginable. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to Louisa and Agatha’s artful chaos or Gwen’s dresses, but the lack of personality grated on him.
“Leave your hat and gloves on the table, and come this way, please,” Miriam said when she reappeared at the end of the hall.
As they followed her, Gwen pulled her notebook and pencil from her reticule and flashed Oliver a fortifying grin. His anxiety about taking the lead must have shown on his face, but he stuffed it down. They were both doctors. There was no reason for Oliver to feel nervous about speaking to Dr. Miller. When they entered the dining room, Oliver’s hopes withered. The room was just as austere as the other rooms with nary a plate on the rail or a painting on the wall. Oliver hadn’t seen a crumb cloth used in years, yet one sat under the sturdy dining table. Sitting at the head of the nearly empty table eating porridge was a squat, wizened man who looked remarkably like a peach colored toad. Oliver blinked, hoping another person might appear to claim they were the town doctor. If Miriam had been a little less skittish, he might have hoped it was her, but no, it had to be the old man, who was eighty if he was a day. It was all but confirmed to Oliver when the old man drew himself up as they entered the room.
“I heard there were strangers in town. Miriam says you’re with the Paranormal Society and that you want to speak to me. What about? I’m very busy and need to see to my patients soon,” Dr. Miller said as he donned a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes to look even more toad-like.
Oliver tried not to let his feelings show as he replied with measured slowness, “We only have a few questions, sir. I’m Dr. Barlow, and this is my associate, Miss Jones. We’re investigating the rash of reanimations that have occurred recently. We wanted to speak to you since you were the one who signed their cause of death in the registry or who administered treatments to them before they died.”
“Ah. I’m still eating my breakfast, so if you don’t mind talking while I eat, you can take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gwen replied with a smile as Oliver pulled out a chair for her.
“Miriam, get them something to eat.”
Miriam’s face whitened, and she silently opened her mouth in protest, but Gwen spoke first. “Thank you, but we already ate at the inn. We don’t want to take up too much of your time or impose.”
“Nonsense.”
“Just tea, please,” Gwen replied more forcefully but with a placating smile. “We aren’t allowed to eat while on the clock.”
Nodding, Miriam fled before the doctor could contradict Gwen. Oliver shot her a look of thanks. He couldn’t stomach the texture of porridge on a good day, and he wasn’t about to gag in front of the man he needed to interrogate.
“You said you’re a doctor, boy, or was I mistaken?”
Oliver glanced around him before realizing the doctor meant him. “Yes, sir.”
“Specialty?”
“Surgery, though I am the medical examiner for the New York Paranormal Society.”
The man let out a disapproving harrumph, which Oliver ignored. “What do you need to know?”
“Can you tell us about Sarah Lindstrom’s death? From what we understand, she was young, and it was unexpected. Did she present with any medical problems in the months or weeks before she died?”
“No,” the doctor replied between mouthfuls of porridge, “she was healthy as a horse as far as I know.”
“And when she died, did you examine her body to determine her cause of death?”
The man raised a bald brow. “There was no cause to determine. She had a fit and died. I can no more see that than ghosts.”
“How did you determine she had a fit?”
“Her husband found her facedown on the floor. She either fainted due to a syncope or had a fit. That happens to women of childbearing years, especially when they overuse their magic. It can’t be helped.”
Oliver and Gwen exchanged a look. That didn’t line up with the injury to the back of her head, the lividity on her corpse, or make any sense medically, but Dr. Miller didn’t seem to care or notice. Oliver suspected the man probably still believed that riding on a train could eject the womb from a woman’s body.
“Did you see Mrs. Lindstrom’s body after she came back and went after her husband?”
“Only to confirm it was her, and I advised Mayor Stills to cut out her heart and then stake it or burn it to keep her from coming back again. I was overruled. ”
“I see. And Mr. Ekland, he had heart problems?”
“Yes, he suffered from rheumatism and angina. I gave him Hoffmann’s anodyne, stimulants to take during an attack, laudanum, the usual. His wife also placed mustard plasters on his chest at least once a week and made sure he took warm footbaths on my orders. Ekland’s death wasn’t a surprise.”
Biting back his annoyance to keep Felipe from feeling it on the other end of the tether, Oliver tried to pretend he hadn’t heard a forty year out-of-date treatment method for angina. “Had he been declining before his death or was it sudden?”
“Oh, it was sudden. He dropped dead in the middle of dinner with Hogarth. They had been arguing; they always were.” Miller let out a chuckle as he spooned his porridge. “I told Roger his temper would be the death of him.”
“I assume there was no investigation done.”
Dr. Miller eyed him suspiciously. “Of course not. Ekland died in his own home of a condition he had had for years. The threshold for foul play must be far lower in New York.”
Beside him, Gwen quickly transcribed what the doctor had said. As she finished, she added in the margin, Make sure to ask for the medical records . Oliver was about to ask when Miriam bustled in with two off-white cups and a matching teapot. Her hands shook as she poured the translucent tea into their cups and set them before them. When Oliver’s almost tipped over as she put it down, Gwen shot out her powers to steady it. Miriam’s eyes widened in alarm, and she glanced toward the doctor to see if he had noticed Gwen do it. He was absorbed in his breakfast, and Miriam let out a nearly imperceivable sigh of relief as she stepped back with a tight bob of her head. Gwen’s brown eyes ran across the nearly empty table for a sugar bowl or pitcher of cream, but there was none. Flashing Miriam a look of thanks, Gwen took a sip. The grimace appeared and disappeared beneath a placating smile so fast that Oliver would have missed it if he didn’t know her so well.
“We’re merely trying to be thorough,” Oliver said as he ignored his cup. “I assume Mr. Fleming bled out from his injury. ”
“Yes, he was dead by the time I arrived at the mill.”
“That leaves Miss Annabelle Harrison. Can you tell us about her health conditions, especially before her death?”
“She was born early. We were surprised she made it through that first winter. She rallied, but it might have been better if she hadn’t survived. She was always sickly. My daughter, Alice, cared for Annabelle around the clock.”
“Annabelle was your granddaughter?” Gwen asked.
“Yes, my eldest granddaughter. Alice took excellent care of her. She bathed her, administered treatments, nursed her through sickness after sickness since she was a babe, worried about her constantly. As much as I hate to see it, her death was probably a blessing.”
Oliver clenched his jaw so hard his teeth crunched. While Gwen’s hands and eyes remained on her notebook, he felt her powers press against his shoulder.
“What was your diagnosis?” Oliver asked stiffly.
“She had enough ailments for twenty people: intermittent hair loss, pains of all sorts, headaches, vomiting, delirium, fevers. It all stems from her birth. None of Alice’s other children had the same problem, but they were all born hearty and hale.”
“Except one did become ill in the period right after Annabelle died but before their mother was injured, right?”
The doctor waved it away dismissively. “That was a brief illness brought on by grief. Annabelle and Agnes were very close.”
Oliver made a noncommittal noise, but when he glanced at Miriam, he found her watching him with an intensity he hadn’t seen before. The tea in his cup sloshed dangerously. Realizing she had been caught, Miriam quickly looked away and stared at the far wall of the dining room.
“You’ve lived in this town for most of your life, doctor?”
“Since 1847. I came right after I finished my training,” Dr. Miller replied proudly. Nodding to Miriam, he added, “And all my girls were born and raised here.”
“So you would know most people in town very well. Do you know of anyone who might be a necromancer?”
“Good god, no. We don’t have any of that sort in Aldorhaven. No, most of our families are purely elemental, as nature intended. The Jarngrens are plantmancers, the Lindstroms are firemancers, the Hogarths are earthmancers, the Harrisons are airmancers, and the Eklands and my own kin are watermancers, though my girls know better than to dabble in their powers too deeply. I don’t believe anyone should rely too heavily on them. It upsets the humors.”
“I see,” Oliver said, keeping his voice level and his face neutral, though he knew he was probably failing, “and do you have any theories as to why the dead are rising?”
“Hot blood and too heavy of a reliance on magic. It’s cursed them to walk after death. I’ve thought that since Sarah Lindstrom rose, haven’t I, Miriam? She showed off her powers every chance she got, and my granddaughter, god rest her soul, was a spoiled child who wanted for nothing but rebelled against her mother constantly. I can’t imagine how bad she would have been had her illness not hobbled her. The damage she did to her mother is proof enough of the stain on her soul.”
Oliver shot to his feet. “I think we have all the information we need, Dr. Miller. Thank you for your time.”
Gwen cleared her throat.
“Before we leave, may we please have the medical files for the four risen deceased?”
Dr. Miller squinted at them from behind his thick spectacles. “What files?”
“The records you kept for your patients.”
“The records are right here,” he replied, pointing to his temple. “I have no need of records. I know everyone in this town.”
Nodding tightly, Oliver pasted on his best approximation of a smile. “Of course, how silly of me. Thank you for your time, sir.”
At the wave of her father’s hand, Miriam led Oliver and Gwen back to the front door. Oliver wished he could run outside. Thoughts better kept in knocked at his lips, but when Oliver tried to take his hat from Miriam’s hand, she didn’t let go.
Holding his gaze, she blurted, “Alice made Annabelle sick or sicker.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I caught Alice taking vials out of father’s medicine cupboard that weren’t prescribed to Annabelle. I tried to confront her, but she told me I didn’t know what I was talking about since I had no training. When I told my father, he didn’t believe me that they weren’t the medications he prescribed to Annabelle. He said Alice knew what she was doing. Alice had been our father’s assistant until she married. She knows what all the medications do and the harm they can cause, but so do I after so many years. Some of what she took wouldn’t have helped Annabelle’s condition, and our father never would have prescribed them.”
“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff?” Oliver whispered.
“Because I didn’t want my sister to go to jail. I wanted her to stop.”
“Miriam, make haste! I have an appointment with the Stills in half an hour, and I won’t be late,” the doctor called from the dining room.
Giving them a pleading look, Miriam glanced down the hall. “My father needs me. Please show yourselves out and not a word of this to my father.”
Turning on heel, Miriam marched back to the dining room and shut the pocket door behind her as if the conversation had never happened.
***
They had only gotten a handful of steps away from Dr. Miller’s house before Oliver could no longer contain himself. Rounding on Gwen, he blurted in a not-quite-whisper, “That man is a menace to society! Did you hear him? Did you hear the treatments he proposed? Mustard plasters? Foot baths? Hot blood. I just—”
Oliver pressed his knuckles into his eyes and bit back what felt like a scream of frustration. That man could kill someone. Hell, he probably had killed numerous people during his overly long career in Aldorhaven from inadequate or ill-informed treatments. Oliver knew he couldn’t expect everyone to stay up to date on everything, he certainly struggled to keep up with the literature, but Dr. Miller seemed stuck in the 1830s. No files. No autopsies. No desire to do better. No action taken to stop his daughter from poisoning her child. A stab of anger thirty-seven years old lanced through Oliver’s heart. Had this man been the reason his mother died after his birth? Could she have been saved if she had stayed in Philadelphia? Oliver shook the thought away. His mother had been dead for decades. There was no sense in ruminating on what-ifs when the health of the living was at stake.
Releasing a tense breath, Oliver added, “The worst part is that if the forest is turning new people away and keeping in those who live here, there’s no way for them to hire another doctor or seek better care. These people are stuck with him. What happens when he dies? Will they just be without a doctor, or will his even more unscrupulous daughter step up to take his place?”
“Unless you’re planning to volunteer as the next town doctor, Ol, I think we’ll have to let them deal with the consequences of their inaction.” When Oliver opened his eyes, he found Gwen cleaning her glasses with a frown. “At least he likes to hear himself talk. Even if it wasn’t the information you were hoping for, it was useful.”
“I guess.”
“Has Felipe…?” she asked, making a tugging motion.
“No, not yet.” Focusing on the other end of the tether, Oliver felt only undercurrents of concentration and frustration in equal measure. “His investigation feels like it’s going as well as ours is.”
“Well, let’s walk around until he’s ready. It’s probably good to get the lay of the land anyway.”
Oliver sighed but followed Gwen as she crunched through fallen leaves back toward the heart of town. He really didn’t want to meander around a strange place, and the looming grey clouds didn’t help. He couldn’t help but worry about getting lost or acting strange and drawing unwanted attention. Oliver centered himself; with her at his side and Felipe only a panicked tug away, he could manage. For a town built on magic, he hadn’t seen anyone use theirs. While the street of houses was nearly deserted, closer to the main road, there was a woman tugging two little children along from shop to shop, old men playing backgammon under a tree, and workers unloading dry goods from a wagon. Aldorhaven was far less crowded than Manhattan, but the lack of anonymity made Oliver’s brain urge him to go back to his room and not venture out for fear of drawing their eye. Even if it was possible to go back to the inn without straining the tether to its breaking point, it wasn’t fair to Gwen and Felipe. Pushing his feelings down, Oliver let his mind wander to dull the familiar wash of anxiety.
As they walked, Gwen greeted each curious gawker they passed while Oliver tipped his hat automatically, but his mind kept looking for some hint of recognition or resemblance in the faces of every stranger they passed. He knew he shouldn’t have been thinking about his father’s family when they were still working on the case; the dead took precedence over his whims, but he couldn’t help it. Strolling past weathered houses built in the colonial style and newer ones with gingerbread moldings and Mansford roofs, Oliver wondered which one his parents had lived in and what it would have been like to grow up in Aldorhaven instead of Philadelphia. It was strange to know that his mother had probably looked upon the same tavern with its flat, red brick face and the pharmacy with its brightly colored show globes in the window and hunter green sign above the door every day as she walked around Aldorhaven. The people who created him had been dead and gone for decades, yet their world remained relatively untouched.
“Let’s go in,” Gwen said, nodding toward the pharmacy across the road. “I need to get the taste of that tea out of my mouth. Hopefully, they have a soda fountain.”
“Drinks are on me if they do.”
The bell jangled overhead as they stepped inside Hughes the ones who ran the shop clerks ragged and ruled their homes with an iron fist. Oliver could imagine that her husband was merely a mouthpiece as mayor.
Feeling her gaze stray toward him, Oliver turned back to his drink and the two framed photographs hanging on the wall near his elbow. A smile crossed his lips as he studied the pictures. The first was of Mr. Hughes and his father in front of the shop. Hughes & Son stood stark and fresh against the green paint. Mr. Hughes Sr. beamed proudly with his arm around his son, a stout and grey haired version of the younger man. The photograph below it was of the shop again, though in this one, the sign above the shop read Jarngren & Hughes Pharmacy . The glasses and supplies in the front window were different, and the whole building looked new. Once again, two white-coated men stared proudly at the camera from the front door, but while one man was presumably Mr. Hughes Sr., though several decades younger, the white man beside him must have been Stephen Jarngren .
Oliver tilted his head as he studied the other man’s face from afar, wishing he could pluck the photograph off the wall for a better look. Stephen Jarngren had a long, straight nose, and square shoulders. A small, affectionate smile curled the corner of his lips as he stared at someone just off camera. Oliver was about to ask Gwen if they should speak to the pharmacist’s father when he found her gaze narrowed as it trailed from the photograph to his face. When two tugs came across the tether, Oliver let out a silent sigh of relief at the interruption and downed the last of his orange phosphate. He didn’t want to think about what that look might mean.
“Felipe’s on his way back. We should head over to the cemetery now,” Oliver said, not meeting Gwen’s eyes as he laid more than enough money for their drinks on the counter and gave the tether a single long tug in return.
Passing Mrs. Stills and Mr. Hughes with his head down, Oliver tried to think only of the hand-drawn map of the graveyard in his pocket and not the implications of what Gwen saw in the dead man’s features.