Chapter 9
Nine
“What do you think?” Henry asked a frowning Arthur Taylor.
Henry had caught his friend in his office at St. Thomas’ between medical examinations that morning, which was always a bit of luck. Discussing cases over an open cadaver tended to be unsettling.
Arthur continued to frown as he studied the examination report Henry had received. “Impossible to know from this, as they didn’t look beyond the signs of cancer.” He met Henry’s gaze. “We don’t know what we’re looking for, if anything.”
If anything.
That was the problem. Was all this a waste of time?
“Do you think he died from the disease?” Henry asked.
“The examiner noted significant damage to his internal organs, so it’s possible—but it doesn’t appear as if he looked beyond that. There was no reason for him to do so.”
And before Henry could request a second examination, he needed evidence to justify it. Or at the very least, more than a disgruntled heir’s suggestion that all was not as it seemed at the sanatorium.
While clues remained elusive for this investigation, Henry’s spirits remained high.
Optimism filled him, despite the case’s slowness and his heavy workload.
He felt a sense of steadiness he’d never before experienced—and Amelia had to be the reason.
He held tight to the secret knowledge that she returned his love.
It provided an anchor he hadn’t realized he needed until now and a balance his life had lacked.
His days now involved more than just work and investigations, and that gave him objectivity.
Distance in a case was of course imperative. Then again, perhaps thoughts of Amelia distracted him, preventing him from becoming fully immersed in work.
Arthur shifted his attention from the report to Henry. “Do you believe the nephew?”
“I believe he is genuinely worried, though I’m not sure how seriously I would have taken his claims if not for your previous concern about the sanatorium,” Henry admitted. “But when questions arise from more than one source, it is certainly worth a look.”
The surgeon nodded slowly, clearly pondering the issue. “I keep coming back to one question which makes me think I must be mistaken.”
“What might that be?” Henry was curious. Arthur was an intelligent, logical person, and he valued his opinion.
“Why? What could cause someone at Hollowgate Heights to murder their patients? That would be like shooting themselves in the foot. The less time a patient spends there, the less money they receive. The longer your patient lives, the longer you can charge them. And dead patients can’t provide referrals. ”
“True, though I suppose someone could be testing treatments for serious diseases. Or a staff member who enjoys power over another might have decided to take matters into their own hands.” There was a long list of potential scenarios that might result in the deaths of patients.
The surgeon sighed. “I see your point. If something is going on there, whoever is doing it might simply be unhinged.”
“If is the important part,” Henry felt obliged to point out.
“There is a questionable change in the deceased’s will.
Questionable from a timing standpoint at least. However, at this point, we have only a questionable set of circumstances.
You know better than anyone that our health is precarious.
We can’t arrest doctors for their patients dying. ”
Arthur’s lips twisted, though he nodded in agreement. “I confess that I did an overly thorough examination of Mr. Compton without finding anything unusual.”
“Hmm.” Henry tapped a finger on the chair arm as he considered what to do next.
“How is Mrs. Greystone taking the news of a possible investigation into the sanatorium?” Arthur asked curiously. “With her friend there, I mean.”
“I think she would be more worried if not for the fact that we recently ventured there. Though visitors aren’t permitted we exchanged a brief message with her friend, who stated all was well.”
“That is good news.”
“Yes, though seeing her in person would have truly put Amelia’s mind at ease.”
Arthur grimaced. “I didn’t mean to cause her concern by mentioning my own questions about Hollowgate Heights.”
“You couldn’t have known she had a friend there.”
“Tell my wife that.” The surgeon shook his head, though a smile threatened. “She acts as if I did it on purpose and thinks we should call on Mrs. Greystone so I can apologize for my blunder.”
He had to chuckle at that. “While I’m certain she would enjoy a visit, apologizing isn’t necessary.”
“Perhaps Mary will believe you since she didn’t believe me.”
Henry stood. “Please give her my regards—and I will let you know if we proceed with a request for a second postmortem on Mr. Dunn.”
“I do hope nothing comes of all this.” Arthur tidied the papers on his desk as he too rose. “It’s terrible to think a place claiming to heal people is actually killing them.”
Those words stuck with Henry as he departed for the Yard.
It would come as a shock to many when, from what Reynolds had told him that morning, even London’s elite sought out the sanatorium for one reason or another.
The Director had been at a formal dinner with friends the previous evening when the topic of Hollowgate Heights had been mentioned.
Apparently Dr. Thorne was considered a genius in some circles, and the fact she was a woman was frequently mentioned in a positive light. Perhaps she had nothing to hide, but Henry intended to dig into her background all the same. Someone had to know her outside of her work at the sanatorium.
Fletcher had once again been pulled away to assist on another case, but Henry expected him to return soon. In the meantime, he would continue to press forward with the sanatorium. His next stop was to speak with the late Mr. Dunn’s physician.
Dr. Stanhope’s address on Gloucester Road was far enough away from Scotland Yard that Henry took a hansom cab.
The orderly neighborhood in Kensington featured pale stucco townhomes with tall sash windows, and the doctor’s residence boasted a green front door with a brass plaque engraved with his name.
Henry rang the bell and was directed to a small waiting room as the physician was apparently with a patient. Ten minutes later, the sound of voices in the hallway suggested the doctor would soon be available.
An older gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties, with a white beard and a mostly bald head, appeared in the doorway. Narrow spectacles and a slender frame lent him a respectable look. “Inspector Field?”
“Yes.” Henry held out his warrant card, which the man took to read before handing it back.
“Your message said this pertained to Walter Dunn?”
Henry nodded. “I have a few questions for you regarding his condition.” He could only hope the doctor proved more helpful than Mr. Barnes, the solicitor.
Dr. Stanhope led the way down the hall, past a consulting room that overlooked the front garden and into his study, a small but comfortable room with numerous books and a small desk.
“I was sorry to hear his stay at the sanatorium didn’t prove successful.
” He said that he was sorry, and yet a hint of a condescending smile curled his lips.
“How advanced was his cancer?” Henry asked, taking a seat with his notebook in hand.
“Difficult to say. Not so prevalent that I’d expected his demise so quickly.
In truth, it’s difficult to know how much it had spread.
Sometimes the tumors grow rapidly, within a matter of weeks.
But I didn’t expect that to happen in this case, given that Mr. Dunn had suffered from the disease for over two years without much change in his condition. ”
“Do you know why he decided to go to the sanatorium?” Henry needed to understand his state of mind, and the nephew hadn’t been much help in that regard.
“Not precisely.” The man leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “I do think he was weary of feeling unwell. He seemed to want a solution which would cure him rather than merely ease his symptoms.”
Didn’t everyone? Easing symptoms was helpful, but not without healing the ailment.
Unfortunately some couldn’t be healed, and cancer was a troublesome diagnosis, from what Henry knew.
How terrible it would be to know there was no cure for one’s illness.
“Did he try many treatment options? Was he open to…unusual ones?”
“We did what we could, but cancer remains a mystery to the medical community. I think that as time progressed, he became rather desperate.”
That did not sound good. “Desperate? What makes you say that?”
“He made his displeasure with me clear at his last appointment here. Said that given what he’d paid me, he should’ve been better by now.” Dr. Stanhope waved a hand in dismissal. “That isn’t unusual for a patient fighting a long-term illness and Mr. Dunn was the grumpy sort.”
“Did he pay you a significant amount?” A direct question often proved more helpful than subtlety. It might be helpful to look at Mr. Dunn’s bank records, but this was swifter.
“No.” He glanced around his modest study. “I do well enough, but I didn’t choose this profession for the financial aspect.”
Henry nodded, looking at the doctor expectantly with the hope that it would encourage him to add more. He’d already been more helpful than Mr. Dunn’s solicitor.
The doctor filled the silence. “When he mentioned the sanatorium, I didn’t say anything at first. Not until he pressed me for an opinion.”
“And?” Henry prompted as the man he paused.
Dr. Stanhope hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was honest and told him I didn’t think it was a good idea. New practices in the medical field required testing and unfortunately, the chances of his cancer ever being cured were slim. Of course, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.”
“I don’t suppose so.” The truth could be harsh, especially when one was ill. “Do you have any other patients who have gone to that particular sanatorium?”
“No, though a few fellow physicians have mentioned it. They don't have anything good to say about the place or Dr. Thorne.”
“Oh?” If there were rumors, Henry wanted to hear them, especially after the praise Director Reynolds had been told.
“It is an expensive stay, which doesn’t come as a surprise, but it seems ridiculous to pay for the pleasure of fasting if you believe a poor diet has contributed to your illness.
The hydropathy offered at Hollowgate Heights seems to be a fancy term for enemas.
While those have their place in medicine, I don’t believe for a moment that they will cure cancer—or any other disease. ”
That was logical to Henry, but if one were sick and grasping for hope, it would be tempting to try almost anything. “Are you acquainted with Dr. Thorne?”
“No.” He seemed to consider his next words carefully.
“Some of my colleagues may have expressed doubt about her skills, but clearly patients have put their trust in her, given her declared success. I would expect a few physicians to resent that. She supposedly has a degree from Edinburgh, so one would think she’s well qualified. ”
Supposedly. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might be helpful?” Henry asked.
The doctor straightened, considered the question briefly, then shook his head. “Not that I can think of. I only hope Mr. Dunn’s final days weren’t painful. Cancer is a terrible disease.”
Henry closed his notebook and stood. “Thank you for your time.”
“Do you think something strange is going on at that facility?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” That much, Henry could promise.
Dr. Stanhope hesitated once again. “Talk among physicians I’ve spoken with suggest their success in improving patients’ health is limited. That there are more deaths than one might expect.”
“Even though many of those being admitted have serious health concerns?” Henry asked with a lifted brow.
The doctor smiled. “That’s what makes it difficult to know for certain, doesn’t it?”
“Thank you, again.” Henry departed, deciding against a hansom cab and walking for a time to sort through his impressions of the interview.
It didn’t come as a complete surprise to hear that some physicians resented the sanatorium since the place was taking their patients. But it could be one more sign that all was not well, despite Miss Elmcroft’s message to Amelia.
“There are more deaths than one might expect…” The statement was a concerning one.