Chapter 17 #2
The thought had him scanning the street again as if he could spot a waiting bomb from the cab. The rush of fear that washed over him at the thought had him drawing a deep, painful breath.
“Is everyone at the Yard as nervous as I am about another bomb?” The question escaped his lips before he could think to halt it.
Oh, hell. Fletcher would wonder what part of his brain had been injured.
“Perhaps not as much as you must be.” Fletcher held his gaze.
“You’re the one who experienced it firsthand—but I will say seeing the pile of rubble and broken glass, and you lying on the pavement, certainly shook me.
Mrs. Greystone will attest to that. That they struck the Yard…
it feels like a direct attack on all of us. ”
“I’m sure.” Henry knew he needed to find a way to set aside this vulnerable feeling so he could do his job. Maybe that wouldn’t happen today, but he hoped it would soon.
“Everyone is taking a closer look around them.” Fletcher released a quiet sigh. “Much as I dislike it, I tend to think those who are planning more bombs will wait until our fear eases and our guard goes down before striking again.”
Henry nodded, the thought more than unsettling. Unfortunately, Fletcher was almost certainly right. Life would return to normal eventually, and that was when they’d plan another attack. When everyone was certain it was safe. “We can only hope those behind the explosions are found before then.”
“It would be easier if we were given an update or advised that some progress, any progress is being made. Instead, there’s nothing. Some of the men at the Yard have talked about doing their own investigating.”
“I don’t think Reynolds will like that, but I can’t blame them. It is tempting.” Hadn’t he had the same thought? Perhaps Henry could have a word with the Director. After all, he was the one who’d been injured. He didn’t mention the idea to Fletcher, in case it didn’t work.
Both men were lost in their thoughts for the remainder of the short ride, and soon they were alighting two streets from his parents’ residence. It had been several years since Henry had done more than wave in passing at Mr. Olson from a distance, but he was certain the older man would remember him.
A maid answered the door, and after only waiting a minute or two, they were shown into the small library where Mr. Olson rose from a chair near the hearth.
“Henry.” The man offered a beaming smile and his hand, shaking Henry’s with a firm grip. “Good to see you, my boy.” He grimaced. “Or should I say, Inspector Field?”
“Henry will do, sir. I hope the day finds you well.” He introduced Fletcher, noting that the man looked to be in fine health. It seemed apparent his stay in the sanatorium had been helpful.
Mr. Olson was several years older than Henry’s father, with bushy white hair and matching eyebrows that framed brown eyes which looked as alert as ever. From what Henry remembered, he was a retired professor whose wife had died over a decade ago.
“The day is treating me well.” He gestured to a book on a side table. “Doing a bit of reading before I go for a walk.”
“A fine day for it,” Henry said.
The older man glanced curiously between them. “I can see this isn’t a social call. Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.” Mr. Olson frowned, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. “Your mother and father are well?”
“They are, thank you,” Henry said, as they all took a seat in the cozy room. “Mother mentioned you were recently a patient at Hollowgate Heights, and we would like to ask you a few questions about it, if possible.”
“Certainly.” He paused a moment as if to gather his thoughts.
“I stayed there for about eight weeks earlier this year. I spent a miserable winter fighting gout.” He gestured toward one leg.
“Blasted problem, and I’d had enough. Decided I needed to try something different, something drastic.
I heard from a fellow professor about Dr. Thorne, and after speaking with her, I scheduled a stay. ”
“The results were satisfactory?” Henry asked curiously.
“More than that. I feel much better. Lost a couple of stone, which probably helped.” He patted his stomach. “Haven’t had a bout since I returned home, though I have changed my diet as the doctor instructed.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. You found the treatments helpful,” Henry suggested, hoping Mr. Olson would expand on what they were.
“I did. I have nothing but respect for Dr. Thorne and her facility.”
Henry nodded, somewhat disappointed. He had felt certain something was amiss at the sanatorium and was anxious to prove it. If that were the case, Mr. Olson didn’t sound as if he’d be of much help.
Yet just as he’d arrived at that conclusion, Mr. Olson shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing. “I will say there were a few strange incidents while I was a patient. They didn’t directly involve me, so…well, I didn’t think much of them after I left.”
“Oh?” Henry shared a questioning look with Fletcher.
“I’m a light sleeper, you see, mainly because of the pain from the gout,” Mr. Olson began, folding his hands in his lap.
“And I heard sounds from the room of an older woman next door. A low rumble of voices, hurried footsteps in the hall, moans and cries at times.” He gave a mock shudder.
“Quite unsettling in the middle of the night. I asked the attendants what happened, but they always denied any problem. Only said the guest had an uncomfortable night.”
Henry waited, hoping there was more to the story; what the older man had shared thus far wasn’t enough.
“It happened several times over the course of a week. I managed to speak to the older woman involved during one of our prescribed community sessions, and she acted almost frightened.”
“Did she say why?”
“She started to say something but a staff member interrupted us.” Mr. Olson shrugged. “Needless to say, I was quite disturbed the following day to hear she’d died.”
Henry frowned as excitement lurched. “And you’d just spoken with her the previous day?”
“Yes, and she seemed in relatively good health other than acting nervous.”
“Can you tell me her name, why she was at the sanatorium?”
“Mrs. Dorothy Symes. She was a widow and had cancer.” He shook his head as if puzzled. “I didn’t see how the treatments were going to help her.”
“The hydropathy, the fasting?” Henry needed to confirm whether that was all the sanatorium offered, though both sounded terrible.
“Hydropathy might be a more attractive term than daily enemas, but that was what it involved in my experience,” the retired professor said dryly. “Long enemas that required mental fortitude to endure. I tried to remember how poorly I’d been feeling in order to suffer through them.”
Fletcher’s grunt suggested he couldn’t imagine such a thing. Neither could Henry.
“On two different occasions I saw attendants carrying small trays covered with cloths,” Mr. Olson continued.
“I didn’t think much of it as they never came into my room with one.
But I caught a glimpse of an attendant through an open door and when they removed the cloth, there was a hypodermic needle on it.
I don’t know what treatment it involved, but they concerned me.
Nothing of the sort was noted in the advertisement, nor was it mentioned to me, nor offered to me.
That has puzzled me on numerous occasions. ”
“Did you ever ask?” Fletcher lifted a brow, suggesting that would’ve been the logical thing to do.
“I did.” Mr. Olson sniffed as if offended. “And I was told such things were a matter of patient confidentiality and to mind my own business.”
How often was privacy used as an excuse to hide secrets in a place like the sanatorium, Henry wondered—and how successfully?
“I heard visitors aren’t allowed,” Henry began, wondering how Mr. Olson felt about that.
“No, they weren’t.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.
“I can understand that, as fasting alone can be challenging. Patients would be asking their friends and relatives to bring them food, I would imagine. I certainly would have done so at several points. Hearing of the outside world could be distracting when you’re in the throes of one health regimen or another. ”
Henry tried to smile. It was so confusing; the man’s experience seemed so…strange. “Did you spend much time with other patients?” Just how much privacy was involved?
“A few at first. There were orientation meetings, so patients knew what to expect. Of course, they didn’t share too many details.” Mr. Olson gave a rueful smile. “With some of the treatments, it’s better not to know what’s coming, if you know what I mean.”
“Just take each hour as it comes,” Henry suggested.
“Exactly. Best not to look too far into the future. Anyway, I spoke with a few briefly on a regular basis. We were allowed to sit outside for a few minutes each day, but conversations were discouraged. I suppose they didn’t want us comparing our stay with one another, our progress, our recovery.
Books on health were available. We were instructed to keep a journal but not to write letters home other than absolutely necessary.
After a couple of weeks, you had little to say.
Each day was the same as the last, and my thoughts turned… inward.”
Henry waited, wondering what the older man meant. Inward?
Mr. Olson saw his unspoken question. “I suppose I was too busy questioning my decision to come to the sanatorium and how I was feeling, to worry about communicating with anyone who wasn’t going through the same experience.”
“At what point did you begin to believe the treatments were helping?” Fletcher asked.
“Hmmm. It took nearly a month. I started to sleep through the night, something I hadn’t done in years except on rare occasions.” The older man smiled. “That alone felt like a small miracle.”
“And you continue to feel well?” Henry wondered if Mr. Olson might be regressing without the treatments. While he could certainly fast on his own, enemas at home weren’t an option for most people.
“I am.” The older man gave a decisive nod. “I confess to worrying whether the gout will return, but I’m taking care with what I eat and trying to be more active. Meanwhile, I intend to enjoy my good health.”
“A wise choice.” Henry shifted forward in his chair, preparing to leave. “We wish you the best with that.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Olson lifted his hands as if to say he wished he could share more. “I hope I was of some assistance. I’m sure everyone’s experience at the sanatorium is unique, but though it was difficult, I’m pleased with the results.”
“That’s helpful, sir, thank you.” Henry stood as Fletcher did the same, and they said their goodbyes and returned to the waiting hansom cab.
“If only he knew what the hypodermic needles were for,” Fletcher mused.
“I can’t imagine what version of hydropathy they might involve, though I’m not a doctor.” Henry intended to ask Arthur the next time he visited the surgeon.
The cab rolled toward the Yard and Henry tried to relax against the seat, already feeling his headache worsening.
“I had hoped Mr. Olson might mention something that would require the second postmortem.” Fletcher shifted as if unable to get comfortable. “I can’t help but think something foul is going on at Hollowgate Heights.”
“Agreed.” Henry would have to risk the Director’s refusal to exhume Mr. Dunn’s body after all. “We might not have enough evidence to pursue the case, yet neither can we answer the questions that have arisen.”
Fletcher frowned. “Where do we go from here?”
“If you can discover information on Mrs. Symes from an obituary, that would be helpful. I’d like to speak with her family. And could you also leave a message for Marcus for me? I’m going to have another conversation with Reynolds.”
“Better you than me,” Fletcher said with a smile.
“Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. We also need to look deeper into the jewelry theft.”
“I thought Marcus might be of help with that.”
Henry stilled. That was what Marcus had been about to tell him before the bomb exploded. Relief rushed through him to have remembered. Surely that meant some of the other holes in his memory would fill as well. The thought was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.
Perhaps the day was going to be better than he’d expected after all.