Chapter 14
Fourteen
By the end of the second day of his recovery, Henry was beyond frustrated. His head continued to ache, his thinking wasn’t clear, and he still couldn’t remember parts of the evening following the blast—or some of the details from his current cases.
It was infuriating.
“Give it time,” his father had suggested several times.
Sage advice, but not when Henry felt as if the clock was ticking on his investigations while he did nothing. True, Reynolds had visited and sternly informed him not to rush back—but his cases needed him. He needed to be doing something.
He’d risen on several occasions to walk the length of the room, but sore ribs, nausea, and his pounding head had him quickly returning to bed.
Pushing himself harder didn’t seem to be of any benefit.
Visits from Amelia helped to calm him, yet the worry in her eyes didn’t go unnoticed.
The longer he took to recover, the more he feared her concern would become permanent, an insurmountable obstacle between them.
Would she decide the dangers of his position were too great? That loving him carried too much of a risk?
Neither of them had repeated their declarations of love since his injury. Though the words were often on the tip of Henry’s tongue, the moment never seemed right.
Not when he feared she wouldn’t say them in return.
The sight of Fletcher following his father into his bedchamber the morning of the third day had him sitting up, feeling ridiculous that he was still abed.
“I brought you a visitor,” Henry’s father said brightly.
“There he is,” Fletcher announced, his gaze sweeping over Henry as if to check the status of his injuries for himself. “Looking a good sight better than the last time I called.”
“Am I?” Henry couldn’t keep disbelief from his tone. His recovery was progressing far too slowly in his opinion.
“Ugly as ever, but that’s to be expected.” Fletcher chuckled at his own jest.
Henry smiled, realizing he’d missed the sergeant the few days he’d been away from work. “Indeed.”
“Thought you might want a brief update on things,” Fletcher said, helmet in hand as he walked toward the chair at Henry’s bedside.
“I do. Thank you.”
“Mrs. Field suggested I tell you only the good parts,” Fletcher began with a glance at Henry’s father. “But your father said you’d see through that.”
“I would hope so.” Henry shared an amused look with his father, knowing he could easily relate to Henry’s frustration, having been in the same position once or twice when he’d been injured while on duty.
“Well, then.” Fletcher settled into the chair only to study Henry’s expression as if still gauging how he fared. “Feeling better, I hope?”
“Somewhat. Recovery is slower than I’d like, but I’m coming along.” Why was it that even thinking of the cases worsened his headache? Where was that peppermint oil?
“Good.” The sergeant grimaced. “Head injuries are nothing to ignore. The noggin is a delicate thing. Takes longer than you’d think to heal the brain.”
That Fletcher said as much eased Henry’s mind. “It needs to heal quicker,” he couldn’t help but grumble.
“This will be nothing but a memory soon enough,” Fletcher predicted comfortingly.
Memories were one of the things that worried Henry, or rather, the lack of them. He waved his father forward, knowing from the way he lingered near the doorway that he’d like nothing more than to hear about the investigations. “Care to join us for the report?”
“If you’d like.” His father walked eagerly toward a chair while Henry and Fletcher shared a smile. He had told his sergeant numerous times how much his father missed being in the thick of things.
“Which one first?” Fletcher asked.
“The bombing.” Henry hoped his sergeant would repeat the events of that night so he might better piece together what had happened—and more importantly, what he’d missed. Surely he should have noticed something out of place and been able to prevent the explosion.
“Ah.” Fletcher nodded. “I thought as much.” He shifted in his chair, suggesting the topic made him nearly as uncomfortable as it did Henry. “The Special Irish Branch is handling it, not us, of course. I assume they came to interview you.”
“No, they haven’t.” The idea hadn’t occurred to Henry, but clearly it should have. Evidence of another gap in his memory. Blast it. What else had he failed to think of?
“That’s odd.” Fletcher frowned. “They haven’t told us much. As you already know there were three bombs that evening, though the other two didn’t harm much of anything.”
Henry nodded. His father had shared that much.
“The one at the Yard caused a fair amount of damage. The rubble has been cleared and new windows in the neighboring buildings will soon be replaced.”
Henry frowned, puzzled why Fletcher was talking about the repairs rather than the status of the investigation. Then a terrible thought took hold, chilling his blood. “Marcus?”
“I have yet to lay eyes on the lad myself, but according to Jack at the Royal Arms he’s fine, other than a few cuts and bruises. Of course, he’s a bit shook. Jack says he’s got a wary look in his eyes.”
“I can imagine.” Henry probably did as well. He would have felt better if Fletcher had seen the boy for himself.
“I have yet to discover what news he intended to tell you that night,” Fletcher admitted almost reluctantly. “Do you recall…anything?”
Henry searched his memory but couldn’t say whether Marcus had told him anything of interest. Had they even spoken? “Might be worth leaving another message with Jack.”
“Agreed. I’ll see to that this afternoon.”
“Surely there’s been some clues about who set the bomb,” Henry prompted, needing to know anything the sergeant could tell him. He’d sleep more easily if he heard progress was being made on the case. “Someone who claimed it?”
“It sounds like the Irish Americans were behind the bombing campaign, with the same goal as before.” Fletcher shook his head.
“Little sways the government more than an outraged public. Targeting those in charge isn’t enough, but terrifying the general populace by making them fear that a bomb might go off anywhere in London? That can do wonders.”
Henry’s father cleared his throat. “What’s truly concerning is how good the Fenians are getting with these bombs. To set a timer for them to detonate without those involved present...” He shared a worried look with Henry. “Makes it damn near impossible to catch them.”
“Everyone is on high alert, including the military,” Fletcher added. “Then again, I thought we were before this, though it clearly did no good.”
Guilt churned in Henry’s stomach. Should he have managed to halt the explosion? Had he noticed anything out of the ordinary before it went off? He couldn’t say, memories tangled and out of reach, and it bothered him terribly. “Do they have any leads on the individuals who planned it?”
“Not that they’ve told us. Or at least, Director Reynolds hasn’t said.” Fletcher heaved a sigh. “I can tell you everyone is on edge, looking over our shoulders and wondering what might happen next. Who might be next.”
“They’re getting bolder and more frequent with these explosions.” Henry’s father’s scowl spoke volumes.
“I hate to say it, but we all feel a bit powerless to stop them.” Fletcher’s moustache twitched, a sure sign of his upset.
The admission made Henry even more eager to return to his duty. “As always, we need to focus on what we can do and remain alert.” Yet the advice felt empty. Flimsy. Not nearly enough.
The sergeant leaned his elbows on his knees, holding Henry’s gaze. “Some say the Fenians are getting more cunning with each attack. That they’re testing hidden trip wires and the like, to set off explosions.”
The news was enough to have Henry reach to rub his aching head before he could think better of it. “Then it’s all the more important that we aid the Special Irish Branch.”
“They don’t want our help. One of them told Duncan to keep his nose out of it, that they’re handling it.” Fletcher straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly dissatisfied with their response.
As was Henry, given how much he still hurt. “They don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”
Henry’s father frowned. “Terrible job—not even interviewing the main witness? But too often different branches don’t work with one another. They act like it’s a competition, and that sort of behavior starts with those in charge.”
Given that his father had retired as a Chief Inspector, he’d seen more than his fair share of the political side of things. “That’s what always happened in the past, so it makes sense it’s happening now,” Henry mused.
“Beyond frustrating.” Fletcher shrugged his shoulders as if to release his tension. “Someone has to know something. We just need them to come forward.”
Henry scoffed. “That’s true in nearly all of our cases, and it’s rare that anyone does.” Wishing for that was futile, something he knew from experience. “What of that jewelry theft case. Has anything come to light there?”
“Constable Dannon has been conducting the interviews you requested, but hasn’t come upon anything helpful yet.”
Interviews? Requested? For the life of him, Henry couldn’t remember what he’d directed the constable to do, leaving an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. He nodded, unwilling to admit he couldn’t remember. Hopefully, with time, his memory would return.
Hopefully...
He refused to consider what might happen if it didn’t—or worse, if his ability to form new memories was impaired. If he worked on new cases and couldn’t remember what he had or hadn’t done…the thought was too terrifying to consider.
“What else?” Henry grasped onto the next case that came to mind. “Anything new on the sanatorium?”
“What sanatorium?” Henry’s father asked curiously.
Henry glanced at Fletcher, hoping he could provide a more coherent explanation. While it might be good for him eventually to test his ability to do just that, he wasn’t prepared to do so in the present company.
Apparently he had more of an ego than he realized.
“That new-fangled place in Enfield that’s caught everyone’s notice.” Fletcher frowned as he looked at Henry. “What’s the name of it again?”
“Hollowgate Heights,” Henry supplied, relieved the name came immediately to mind.
“Right. They claim to be able to help those with various health issues to heal using hydropathy and fasting,” Fletcher explained.
“Hydropathy? Water? An interesting use of science,” his father murmured.
“I’m not sure you can claim their methods are scientific,” Henry protested, his ribs shooting with pain.
“Especially when there seems to be a lot of dead bodies leaving the place,” Fletcher added in his usual blunt manner.
That alone was nearly enough to make Henry smile, despite the grim subject.
“Yet they still claim to help people?” His father’s tone was incredulous. “Charging them for it?”
“Supposedly they are.” Fletcher shrugged. “Some patients insist they’ve made a complete recovery there.”
Had Henry spoken to any? If so, he couldn’t remember them.
“But one relation came forward just a few days ago,” his sergeant continued. “He claims his uncle uncharacteristically changed his will during his stay there, then died soon after. That was enough for Reynolds to agree to open a formal investigation.”
“Always helpful to follow the money,” Henry’s father said with a nod.
Fletcher looked back at Henry. “One interesting development in the case. The medical school in Edinburgh has no record of a Dr. Thorne.”
Now that was interesting.
“There are many other universities that train physicians,” Henry’s father pointed out.
“Yes, but she supposedly has a degree from Edinburgh,” Fletcher said with a shrug. “Or not, apparently.”
Henry had forgotten that. Surely he’d kept good enough notes in his case files to fill in the holes once he was able to return to work. He smothered a sigh, thinking of how often he’d held off adding his thoughts to case files when those were only opinions, not facts.
Panic took hold, hot and stodgy and suffocating, and Henry had to force himself to slow his breathing, hiding the sensation as best he could. But he didn’t miss the questioning look his father sent him. Henry hoped he didn’t say anything in front of Fletcher.
“The…the sooner we can speak with her, the better,” Henry managed.
“Would you like me to do it?” Fletcher asked quietly.
“Thank you, but no. I’d prefer to be there to see her reaction to our inquiries.” Henry couldn’t wait much longer, not when people’s lives might be at risk. “I think within a day or two, I could make the trip.”
But his father shook his head. “Rattling about on a train, no matter how short the journey, sounds like a poor idea.”
“The interview can’t wait much longer,” Henry murmured.
“Mr. Dunn’s nephew came by yesterday to ask for an update on the case,” Fletcher added reluctantly. “Insisted on it. I told him you’d been injured but were expected to return soon.”
“All the more reason to get on with the investigation.” Henry looked at his father. “One of Amelia’s friends happens to be a current patient. Needless to say, she’s quite concerned about her.”
His father frowned. “Why not just visit her to ensure her safety?”
“Visitors aren’t allowed, they supposedly interfere with the patient’s ability to focus on their health.” Henry could not keep the disdain from his voice. “We were able to exchange only a brief written message with her, though she said all was well.”
“So you thought, until a claim of foul play arose.” Henry’s father nodded. “Where there’s rumors, there’s often cause.”
“Exactly,” Henry agreed. “And with Arthur Taylor also concerned…we want to gather as much preliminary information as possible prior to interviewing Dr. Thorne and her staff.”
“Have you spoken to any other former patients?” his father asked, eyes narrowed, clearly on the case.
Yes. “One other relation. The man died while at Hollowgate Heights, but his son didn’t think it unexpected as he’d been ill for some time.
” Relief filled Henry as he remembered those details, even if retrieving them from the recesses of his brain made his head hurt.
But hopefully additional memories would soon return.
“Should I advise Dr. Thorne and her staff that we will be coming by?” Fletcher asked.
“No need to alert them.” Henry appreciated his father’s nod of silent agreement.
“I don’t want them to have time to prepare, be on guard.
Give me one more day and I’ll be ready for the trip to Enfield.
It isn’t that far.” He held tight to the thought, certain he’d feel better by then.
He couldn’t stay in his childhood bedchamber any longer than that.
Until then, he’d do all he could to regain his strength and convince his body it was healing just fine. Doing so would reassure not only himself and his parents, but also Amelia—before she decided loving him wasn’t worth the risk.