Chapter 15 #2
The next door she came to was closed, and she paused to listen before easing it open. The distressingly medicalized room contained a metal table with several hoses nearby, but was otherwise empty. She didn’t want to know what manner of treatment was performed in there.
She closed the door and moved on to the next room. Moans sounded from behind the door, unease curling through her. Though tempted to see if someone needed assistance, she forced herself to continue on, fairly certain she wouldn’t be of much help.
Frustration simmered from her lack of success thus far.
Clearly her investigative skills required work.
If she didn’t find anything soon, she would simply join her aunt for the conversation with Dr. Thorne to see what she could learn—though while curious about the woman who’d founded the sanatorium, she doubted how helpful talking to her would be.
Given the popularity of Hollowgate Heights, Dr. Thorne must be clever and intelligent.
Henry’s interrogation skills, not her own, would be needed to gain information.
At the next door Amelia again paused to listen, but heard nothing. A peek inside revealed two desks with filing cabinets behind them. An office of some sort, at last.
With no one in sight, she entered, heart pounding.
Was this how a thief felt? If so, it proved she wouldn’t make a good one, even if information was all she sought.
Mouth dry, she rushed to the closest desk, pleased to find several files on top of it, and opened the first one.
This would be much easier if she knew what she was looking for, but surely the chances of them documenting improper treatment of patients were unlikely.
Doubt swirled, her resolve faltering. Perhaps she should give up on the search and join her aunt? No doubt the poor woman was beside herself with nerves.
Still, Amelia couldn’t resist quickly scanning the contents of the file. The patient’s name was a Mr. Walter Dunn. He’d been diagnosed with cancer and had entered the sanatorium well over a month ago. Treatments were listed on the subsequent page, the last one just over a week ago.
Final Treatment.
What an odd way to describe it. Had it been final because his stay was scheduled to end?
Amelia glanced at the next sheet in the file, her breath catching: the patient had died the next day. Died?
The faint rattle of keys caught her notice, followed by the murmur of voices. She quickly closed the file, hands shaking. A quick scan of the room showed there was nowhere to hide. The voices drew closer, pausing right outside the door.
Fighting back strangling panic, she decided to use her original excuse—that she was in search of a water closet. She rushed to the door and reached for the knob, only to feel the handle turn beneath her gloved hand.
The door opened to reveal a tall man in a familiar white coat, who stared at her in disbelief.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Amelia pressed a hand to her chest and hoped her flushed cheeks could easily be explained by her excuse. “I am in desperate need of the water closet and can’t seem to find it!”
“That’s her,” a voice announced from behind him. The woman who’d allowed them entrance shifted to one side of the man, her eyes narrowed in anger. “You were told to wait in the reception room.”
“Yes.” Amelia attempted a disarming smile, though it clearly didn’t work. “But I couldn’t wait a moment longer to...” She grimaced, hoping her red cheeks could be considered embarrassed. “If one of you could point me toward the washroom, I’d be so grateful.”
“I’ll take her,” the tall man said, his voice gruff. “And I’ll keep a closer eye on her.”
Rather than move aside to allow her to pass, he looked over her shoulder to the room beyond, studying the two desks as if wondering what she might have seen.
Guilt flooded Amelia, but she kept a smile on her face with the hope it would help her look flustered and innocent. “If we could hurry along,” she began with a grimace, shifting slightly on her toes.
“This way,” the man said reluctantly, taking one last look at the desks while the woman continued to glare at Amelia.
Several minutes later, after a detour to a water closet that was as clean and sterile as the rest of the rooms, the man escorted Amelia to a spartan office where a woman who appeared to be in her forties sat in a high-backed chair behind a heavy oak desk with perfect posture and cool, watchful eyes.
A quick glance at her aunt suggested the interview was wearing on her, as her expression filled with relief at Amelia’s arrival. “There you are, dear,” Aunt Margaret said in a clipped tone. “I was beginning to wonder what happened to you. No obvious water closet?”
“Mrs. Greystone, I presume?” the woman asked with reproach in her expression.
“Yes, and you must be Dr. Thorne. What a pleasure to meet you.” Amelia didn’t wait for an invitation but took the empty chair next to her aunt.
The woman’s brown hair was drawn back into a smooth, tight bun, with a single streak of gray in it.
She wore a deep blue gown with a black braided adornment and seemed to have a trim figure.
A brass inkwell sat on the desk next to a pen, both perfectly aligned with the blotter. No papers were in sight.
“How nice of you to join us. Finally.” The doctor’s reprimand couldn’t be missed.
Amelia ignored it. “Of course.”
The woman glanced at a simple pendulum clock on the wall. “I’m afraid my time is limited. The care of our guests is my priority over those who drop by without an appointment.”
“I’m sure.” Amelia nodded, then looked warmly at Aunt Margaret. “Have you had some of your questions answered?”
“A few.” Her aunt shifted to the edge of her chair, suggesting she was ready to leave. “Dr. Thorne has been quite helpful.”
“Oh, good.” Amelia remained firmly in her seat, looking around the room and committing as much to memory as possible. A framed certificate hung on one wall but was too far away to be legible. “How impressive to meet a lady doctor. Where did you receive your training?”
Dr. Thorne stared at her for a long moment before finally answering. “I’ve studied at numerous universities.”
That wasn’t much of an answer. “And what made you interested in hydropathy and fasting?” Amelia had conducted enough interviews for her position with London Life, a monthly periodical for which she wrote articles about the unique and unusual, to be comfortable asking questions.
Certainly more comfortable at asking than the doctor appeared to be at answering. Again the woman hesitated, almost as if she resented both the questions and the time it took to answer.
Wouldn’t any potential patient have similar ones? It should be a matter of routine for her to provide the information. Or had she deemed Aunt Margaret an unsuitable candidate for the sanatorium for some reason?
“I’ve already shared much of this information with your aunt while you were apparently otherwise occupied, so you’ll have to forgive me for not taking the time to do so again.” The chilliness in both Dr. Thorne’s tone and expression bordered on rude.
“But you didn’t—” Aunt Margaret began, only to be quickly cut off by the doctor.
“Your aunt doesn’t appear ready to commit to the strict regimen we offer here. I think it best if we say our goodbyes now.”
“But I didn’t have a chance to share the extent of my ailments or ask all of my questions.” Aunt Margaret was obviously affronted by the doctor’s dismissal, despite her initial displeasure at their ruse.
Dr. Thorne rose. “I wish you both a good day,” she said as she rounded the desk.
“What a lovely gown you’re wearing,” Amelia commented as she slowly stood, anything to delay their departure. Surprisingly nice to wear while working in a sanatorium, in her opinion. But then, what were lady doctors supposed to wear?
“Thank you.” The woman brushed a hand along the silk skirt even as she cast a disparaging look at Amelia’s woolen gray gown. “I am a firm believer that one’s outer appearance should match the inner one.”
“What an interesting philosophy.” And an expensive one, based on the cut and cloth of the gown. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share the name of your modiste?” Though she said it partly to annoy the woman, any insight into the doctor’s life could prove helpful.
Dr. Thorne hesitated, and Amelia had the distinct feeling she’d decided she couldn’t afford her services anyway. “Madame Fortier on Bond Street. I highly recommend her to those seeking such finery.”
Amelia smiled. “Thank you. I will be sure to pay her a visit.”
The doctor opened the door to reveal both the man and the woman from before waiting for them.
“This way, if you please.” The woman gestured toward the front door, clearly prepared to escort them out and make certain they departed.
The man’s voice echoed faintly from across the hall as they walked, apologizing to the doctor for the disruption to her day. Based on Dr. Thorne’s angry tone, she was displeased with the situation, but Amelia couldn’t discern her exact response.
“Goodness.” Her aunt heaved a relieved breath once the door slammed then locked behind them. “That was one of the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of my life.”
Amelia nodded, though she’d experienced much worse—not that she had any intention of telling her aunt as much. Had it truly only been fifteen minutes?
“One thing I know for certain,” her aunt began as the coach rolled forward to return them to the train station, “I would never willingly enter Hollowgate Heights as a patient.”
“On that, we can agree.” Amelia leaned toward the window to watch as the sanatorium disappeared from view. How she hoped Louisa would emerge from her stay unscathed.
She looked forward to telling Henry of the visit, even though it meant facing his displeasure. She only wished she’d learned something more helpful from her efforts.