Chapter 4
Four
Henry returned to Scotland Yard after departing from Amelia at the train station, and spent the remainder of the day updating notes on his cases and providing additional instructions to constables on a few others.
A new case involving the theft from a jewelry shop had been assigned to him and would require his attention come morning, but for now, the workday was nearly at an end.
He tidied his desk and decided to call on his way home on the family of the deceased ‘guest’ of Hollowgate Heights who Arthur had told him about.
Henry hadn’t wanted to worry Amelia more than she already was, but he was anxious to make a few inquiries regarding the sanatorium. The situation didn’t feel right; and while he hesitated to rely solely on a hunch, that was all he had—merely a feeling something was amiss.
If not for Amelia’s connection to a patient, would he be taking the time to dig deeper?
A question he couldn’t answer. Of course, Arthur’s opinion mattered too, but the surgeon didn’t have proof either—only an inconclusive postmortem examination. How often did one of those come across his slab?
Between the two, Henry felt compelled to do a preliminary investigation on his own, without the weight of a warrant.
Hopefully the family wouldn’t mind him calling to ask a few questions.
The last thing he wanted was to add to their grief, so he needed to tread carefully.
Given that he had so recently experienced the loss of a family friend, he well knew how tender their hearts must be.
That reminded him he also needed to call on that family to see how they fared.
It didn’t take long to locate the house on Portman Square, carrying Arthur’s note with their address in his pocket.
Henry knocked on the door of the Georgian-style townhome, showed his warrant card to the maid who answered, and waited in a small reception room by the front door for Mr. Compton to be advised of his presence.
A man with shirtsleeves rolled up and wearing a vest soon approached from the rear of the house with a puzzled look. “Good evening, Inspector. How may I help?”
“Forgive the intrusion.” Henry dipped his head in greeting, trying to ignore the awkwardness of overstepping into someone’s life without an investigation to stand behind. “And please accept my condolences on the recent loss of your father.”
“Thank you.” The man folded his hands before him, pointedly not inviting his visitor to sit down. “I confess, I don’t quite understand the reason for your visit.”
Henry offered a polite smile in an attempt to ease any alarm. “A few questions have arisen regarding the sanatorium where your father was staying prior to his death.”
“Hollowgate Heights?” Mr. Compton’s brows lifted in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Indeed. What sort of questions?”
Henry paused, wanting to phrase his queries with care. One only had a first chance to ask a witness questions. “I understand he was suffering from cancer?”
“Yes.” Mr. Compton drew closer, grief tightening his features.
“His physician prescribed a few different pills and the like without success, and said there wasn’t much more that could be done to help him.
Then my father heard from a friend that Dr. Thorne’s sanatorium offered something different than traditional medicine. ”
“And that idea appealed to him?”
The man cleared his throat as he studied Henry. “Sir, is there something amiss? A reason for these questions?”
“Someone has expressed concerns about the establishment, so we’re informally looking into the matter.
We want to ensure that any and all patient deaths at Hollowgate Heights are not a direct result of the treatments they received.
” While Henry didn’t want to alarm the man, he also wanted to encourage him to share any details he could.
Mr. Compton released a pensive sigh, staring out the window which overlooked the street while seeming to gather his thoughts.
“In all honesty, that concern crossed my mind. Then again, cancer had already taken such a toll on my father’s health, and with no end in sight…
I can’t say I cared for the description of treatments they offered.
Enemas seem like a questionable solution for someone with cancer of the lung. ”
Henry nodded. He had to agree, and waited to see what else the man might share.
“As for the fasting, my father already suffered from a poor appetite because of his illness. To take things a step further—would not eating weaken him further?”
That seemed like a logical conclusion. “How often did you visit him while he was at the sanatorium?”
The man’s expression did not change. “Visitors aren’t allowed, which was another reason I didn’t like it.
Dr. Thorne met with us prior to my father’s admission to explain their policies, stating that news from family and friends, even if well-meaning, could distract guests and impact the success of their treatments.
My father was adamant. He wanted to be a guest.”
Annoyance flickered through Henry, and it was all he could do not to comment on the term.
“Guest?” Mr. Compton grunted, as if reading Henry’s mind. “Can you believe they refer to their patients as such?” He shook his head. “Ridiculous, when people pay an arm and a leg to stay there and subject themselves to what I would argue are barbaric practices.”
“Expensive place, eh?” Henry asked.
“Quite. Not that I would’ve begrudged my father spending his own money if it truly helped him.”
“But you saw little improvement?” Henry pressed, hoping for more.
“That’s impossible to say since we weren’t allowed to visit. My father died a week before his stay was set to end.” Irritation sharpened the man’s tone. “What I resent more than anything is not being able to spend more time with him before he died.”
“Understandable,” Henry murmured.
“To have no contact with him, nothing, not even a note, then be informed by letter that he’d died with a request to know where his body should be sent.” Mr. Compton briefly closed his eyes, clearly distressed.
That truly was poor communication on the part of the sanatorium, as far as Henry was concerned. No doubt it felt cold-hearted to any family.
The man shook his head. “Of course, the doctor made no promises when we met, what doctor does? But it just seems—well, as if we should’ve been given a chance to say goodbye when they realized my father was leaving this world.”
Henry would feel the same way if in that position. He couldn’t imagine not being able to say goodbye to his own father or mother, though that happened all the time to the families of victims whose cases graced his desk.
Death was rarely easy for those left behind. He need only think of what Amelia had suffered to know that.
Henry gave the man a moment to collect himself. “Have you had conversations with the doctor or anyone at the sanatorium since his death?”
“No. I’m not sure what purpose it would serve,” Mr. Compton said dully. “Father was old, and seriously ill. Perhaps I hope the sanatorium made his last days more pleasant. I suppose I’ll never know.”
That was a common concern for loved ones.
What had happened in those final moments?
He’d had the same question about the murder of his family friend, Miss Eleanor Tisdale, just a few weeks ago. Had she been terrified when she’d seen the knife her killer held? Had she suffered? The worry plagued him.
Amelia had spent far too many hours wondering the same about her late husband, who’d been shot. They had eventually found answers as to why and who, but Henry doubted those fully satisfied her.
Finding justice and providing resolutions were part of Henry’s work as a detective, but there were times when he fell short. All detectives did. He couldn’t bring back loved ones, couldn’t reverse time…but some information was better than none.
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.” The words were inadequate, but were all Henry could offer.
Mr. Compton held Henry’s gaze with an intensity that made him wonder at his unspoken thoughts. “Do you think something questionable is going on at Hollowgate Heights, sir?”
Henry considered his answer carefully. “We’re making preliminary inquiries. That is all I can say at the moment.”
After a brief pause, his host nodded. “I truly wish I knew what happened in the month he was there. His health had improved slightly before his admission, and he felt certain that was a sign he should try something different.”
“Understandable, if he’d exhausted other avenues.”
Mr. Compton’s smile was pained. “His physician advised him against it, but Father wouldn’t listen. I expressed my doubts as well without changing his mind. He could be stubborn once he set his mind to something, an impossible man. Even more so as he grew older.”
It was often beneficial to listen to what seemed like inconsequential thoughts of those he spoke with. Sometimes they mentioned a detail that led to a clue; at other times, it proved therapeutic for them to share memories with an objective person who simply listened.
The challenge lay in sifting through the conversation for vital information.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with his physician?” Henry asked lightly.
“Again, at the moment we have no reason to believe there are any specific problems with Hollowgate Heights, but we want to make sure of that.” Amelia would be delighted by his use of ‘we’ since in this case, it referred to the two of them rather than the Metropolitan.
“I’m sure that would be acceptable.”
Henry pulled out his notebook and took down the family doctor’s name and address. “Thank you for your time.” He handed the man his card. “If you happen to think of anything else that might be helpful, please let me know.”
“Of course.” Mr. Compton sighed as he studied the card. “In turn, might I ask to be advised if anything comes from your questions?”
He had expected that. All loved ones left behind wanted answers. “I’d be happy to share what I can. It might be best if you kept this conversation to yourself, I’m sure you understand. I wouldn’t want the reputation of the sanatorium damaged without cause.”
“Right. I will.”
“Thank you for your time, sir.” With that, Henry took his leave.
He looked up and down the street in the fading twilight, disappointed not to have learned anything specific. General unease, yes, but it was marked by grief, which could be a great confuser of emotions. Perhaps Mr. Compton’s physician would be of some help.
The quiet of the neighborhood settled over him. He wished in hindsight that he had suggested to Amelia they dine together that evening, as he didn’t relish returning to his lodgings. However, he had tomorrow night to look forward to. And perhaps many more nights in the future.
After a moment’s consideration, he decided to make one more stop before returning home. It had been well over a week since he’d spoken with Marcus, the lad who roamed the streets of Whitechapel and occasionally assisted Henry.
Whether Marcus had family of any sort, or even a home, remained unclear. Henry could never get a straight answer from the boy, nor had Marcus seemed to truly consider Henry’s offer to send him to the school Amelia and her aunt supported.
That didn’t mean Henry would give up on him. After all, it was possible that Marcus might be of help with the stolen jewelry case he’d just been assigned. The lad had a knack for finding out who was involved in such things—using connections that Henry carefully did not inquire into any deeper.
Luckily they’d arranged to leave messages for Marcus at the Royal Arms, a pub on the outskirts of Whitechapel. Doing so now would save Henry time come morning, and the evening was fine with a mild temperature and a clear sky. Perfect for walking.
Within three-quarters of an hour, he’d reached his destination, left a message for Marcus, and departed.
The rough neighborhood was not one in which he cared to linger.
It took another half hour for him to arrive at his lodging house just in time for a bowl of questionable vegetable soup and two meager slices of dry bread.
Knowing he had a fine meal at Amelia’s to look forward to made it easier to eat the less-than-appetizing one before him.
In all honesty, he could imagine eating dinner with Amelia every evening—and breakfast too. But it wasn’t merely because of the unappealing soup before him or his simple rooms.
He just wanted to be with Amelia.
He’d intended to tell her the full depth of his feelings but had held back. The time had never seemed right to express his love.
Perhaps he needed to create the right moment instead.
The thought was enough to give him pause as nerves took hold. Was he ready for the next step?
More importantly, was Amelia?