Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Henry felt a tad more refreshed the next morning, making him grateful he’d retired early, though leaving Amelia the previous night, even with Mrs. Appleton’s fruit cake in hand, had been challenging.
He’d had to make do with remembering their evening as he drifted off to sleep, which kept thoughts of his cases at bay for most of the night.
The new morning, however, meant he could no longer ignore those cases. The train ride to Hollowgate Heights was much different than when he’d gone with Amelia; Fletcher’s companionship wasn’t the same, and the shaking carriage hurt Henry’s side and head.
The gruff sergeant didn’t particularly care for trains or riding in them.
Apparently he’d had a poor experience as a child, and the few trips he’d taken since then hadn’t improved his opinion.
He shifted on the seat so often Henry thought he might break it.
The other passengers sent the sergeant wary looks and kept their distance.
Soon enough they arrived at the station and hailed a hansom cab to take them to the sanatorium.
They had already reviewed the questions they planned to ask, but more importantly, he wanted an impression of Dr. Thorne.
A female doctor was unusual even in this modern day, and while he had respect for any woman who managed to forge a path in what was the male-dominated field of medicine, he wasn’t certain she in particular deserved the admiration she received.
Fasting and enemas didn’t sound like treatments a physician would normally recommend, to the exclusion of everything else.
However, he told himself to keep an open mind and not rush to judgment, though already that was proving difficult.
“Ready?” Henry glanced at Fletcher as they walked toward the entrance.
“As ready as I can be.” The sergeant reached for the door, and was obviously taken aback to find it locked.
“Forgot to mention it would be locked.” Henry shook his head. “Visitors are definitely not welcome here.” Were patients truly allowed the choice to leave?
“Hospitals don’t lock their doors. Why would this place?” As if he took the locked door as a personal affront, Fletcher pounded on the door with enough force to rattle its hinges. Still, several minutes passed before someone came to answer it.
“Yes?” A young man of twenty-some years who Henry hadn’t seen before looked between them with a raised brow.
“We’d like a word with Dr. Thorne,” Henry stated plainly. He held up his warrant card, which the young man took and read carefully.
“Inspector Field, is it?” the man asked as he handed back the card, placing a hand in the pocket of his white jacket.
“Yes, with questions for Dr. Thorne,” Henry repeated firmly.
“But you don’t have an appointment.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied them, clearly pondering what to do about that problem.
“Well conveniently for us, we don’t need one,” Fletcher shot back roughly. “Please let the doctor know we’re here.”
The man looked back at Henry, who nodded to confirm what Fletcher had just said.
His sergeant placed a hand on the door. “And we’ll wait inside while you tell her.”
The man took a quick step back, and that was all the invitation Fletcher needed to lead the way in.
Henry couldn’t help but smile. The sergeant’s tactics were effective more often than not.
The man glared at them before gesturing to the same room Henry and Amelia had waited in before. “You may wait in there while I speak with the doctor.”
“Definitely not welcoming.” Fletcher muttered as he paced back and forth in the small room.
“Not in the least.” Henry lingered in the doorway, looking about, but didn’t see any patients or staff. Just like last time, the place was eerily quiet. Odd, given the number of patients supposedly in the building.
Nearly five minutes passed before the man returned, his mood unimproved. “This way, please.” He marched down a short corridor and tapped on a closed door. A soft murmur sounded, he opened the door wider, then stepped aside.
The simple room contained little other than a desk and chairs, just as Amelia had said. That only made Henry wonder what the doctor was hiding.
He shifted his attention to the woman seated at the desk. She looked to be in her mid-forties with dark hair drawn into a bun at the nape of her neck, a single streak of gray hair lending her an eccentric look. Her figure was trim, her green gown elegant and of fine quality.
She stood almost reluctantly, an amused smirk on her face, which immediately set Henry’s teeth on edge. “Gentlemen. How kind of you to call.”
Henry held out his warrant card, which she read but didn’t take. “Inspector Field and Sergeant Fletcher from Scotland Yard. We have a few questions for you.”
“How may I be of assistance?” Dr. Thorne gestured toward the chairs before her desk then took her own, her back as straight as a rod.
“Are the two of you interested in the treatments we offer? It’s not uncommon for two friends to inquire together,” she remarked, clearly finding the idea entertaining.
Fletcher cleared his throat, making Henry worry about what he might say.
“We have received inquiries from concerned family members of a few of your former patients,” Henry quickly explained before Fletcher could speak.
“Oh? And who might they be?”
Henry wasn’t willing to offer any names at this point. “Suffice it to say, the unexpected deaths of their loved ones have caused them concern.”
Dr. Thorne leaned her forearms on her desk, hands clasped, her demeanor confident.
“Surely you understand that many of those who come to us are ill, often with serious diseases. We cannot guarantee outcomes in any situation, certainly not in those cases—no doctor can. Too often guests wait too long before seeking our expertise.” She fluttered a ringless hand in the air. “By then it’s too late.”
“They’re advised of the potential danger of the treatments beforehand?” Henry asked as he pulled out his notebook.
Her expression remained steady. “Our methods are not dangerous but understandably carry risks for those who are already seriously ill.”
“We’ll need a list of those who died while at the facility.” Henry stated the request in a firm tone with the hope she’d acquiesce.
Again came the amused smile, increasing Henry’s irritation another notch. “I’m sure you understand we must respect guest confidentiality—unless you have a warrant.”
“But they’re dead. What do they have to be confidential about?” Fletcher asked bluntly.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the doctor’s expression. “Their families may not want that information shared with anyone.”
“That they’re dead?”
“If you’d prefer, we will obtain a warrant,” Henry said, speaking over his friend.
“I look forward to seeing if you succeed.” A hard light glittered in her eyes, suggesting she was not the least intimidated by a visit from the police.
Or that she had expected it.
“Where did you receive your training, Dr. Thorne?” Henry asked, pencil at the ready.
If he hadn’t been watching closely, he might’ve missed the tightening of her lips. “A variety of schools, mainly abroad, including training with a well-known physician.”
He deliberately shifted his gaze to the diploma framed on the wall behind her, the print—other than her name—small enough to be illegible from this distance. Was that purposeful?
“Beginning with?” he asked. If he had to drag the information out of her, he would.
She heaved a sigh and glanced at the watch pinned to her chest, suggesting her time was precious.
Henry simply waited for an answer.
Another huff. “I began my education in America at New York University.”
“And why did you decide to pursue medicine?” Henry asked.
“I was often ill as a child, something that distressed my parents.” She paused to draw a breath as if emotion flooded her, and she was uncertain how much to share.
Was that real or feigned vulnerability, Henry wondered. He’d wager the latter. Clearly, she’d told this tale many times and had perfected it.
A shadow crossed her expression. “When one is ill from a young age, there is a tendency to turn inward for answers.”
Fletcher’s fingers drummed against his uniformed trouser leg, a sign he’d prefer specifics instead of a story.
So would Henry, though he wasn’t opposed to listening to what the doctor thought they should know. Often that provided insight into a person’s character, even if they did not realize it.
Dr. Thorne continued, “As with many less fortunate families, food was sometimes scarce in our home. Through inadvertent testing, I realized some of my...my symptoms eased when I didn’t eat.”
“Starvation and fasting are hardly the same thing,” Fletcher murmured.
“Yes and no,” the doctor said politely with a patronizing look. “But if you endure either, you soon realize what the human body can stand, and what makes you stronger. If positive results await you afterward, you can manage the uncomfortable feeling, knowing it is but temporary.”
“So you used the success with your own health to refine the health regimens here,” Henry suggested.
“In many ways, yes.”
“Along with education from where?” Fletcher glanced at Henry’s notebook, where he’d written the one university she’d shared thus far.
Trust the sergeant to stay focused, like a dog with a bone.
Dr. Thorne released an impatient sigh then listed several schools, none of which Henry had heard of. One additional one in America, one in Switzerland, and another in Italy.
“Your medical degree is from which one?” Henry asked, unsatisfied with her rambling answer.
“The university in Padua, Italy.”
“Why did you attend so many?” Henry asked. Had it been her choice, or had her unconventional ideas forced her to leave?
Dr. Thorne was clearly unworried by the question. “My interests were varied, and not all educational institutions respond well to that. My preference is to treat the whole person, not the ailment. The human body functions together, so why shouldn’t we understand the whole system?”
“Hmmm.” Fletcher ran a finger over his moustache, a clear sign he found logic in that statement.
Henry did as well, but perhaps not in the same manner as the doctor. “How many patients are in this facility, Dr. Thorne?”
“Forty-three guests at the moment.”
Guests, of course. “What is the length of the average stay?” Henry continued his queries as he jotted down her answers.
“Anywhere from two weeks to two months. By then it’s obvious if we’ll be able to help them.”
“And your success rate?” Henry asked, keeping his gaze on the notepad with the hope she’d feel less threatened and answer the question.
She smiled. “Approaching fifty percent.”
That was higher than Henry had expected. But was it truthful? He’d like to calculate the percentage himself. “You must have many satisfied clients.”
Dr. Thorne’s eyes flashed with sudden temper. “They’re guests, Inspector. Not clients.”
“Right.” Henry noted Fletcher’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. “Most are older?”
“Many but not all. We’ve had a few younger guests.”
“Are there any cases you won’t take?”
“Of course,” the woman before him said with a shrug. “Each potential guest is evaluated based on a medical examination and a review of their medical history.”
“But there’s no particular disease you consider out of the realm of possibility to heal with your…your regimen?”
“No.” She shifted in her chair, as if growing weary of the questions, her gaze darting to the door.
Good. That was often when they learned something the suspect hadn’t meant to say.
“Do you live on premises?” Henry asked politely.
Another taut smile. “I have a home in London, though several staff members remain overnight to see to our guests.”
Henry took note of the address, looking forward to visiting her there. “As for your fees,” he continued, “do they vary by patient as well?”
“Yes, and the level of care they need.”
“But you only offer hydropathy and fasting. That’s a lack of food, and an excess of water. Surely those don’t cost much.” Henry frowned to make certain she noted his doubt.
“Hydropathy is not an excess of water. It requires special equipment and trained professionals to oversee the treatments,” the doctor countered, her features sharpening.
“I’m sure.” Henry lifted a brow. “All the money you receive goes toward patient care and expenses?”
She hesitated a moment. “Yes. Along with research.”
“What sort of research?” Fletcher asked before Henry could.
“The medical field is ever-changing. Advances occur frequently.” She straightened in her chair. “We pride ourselves on giving our guests the very best care, and staying on the cutting edge of those advances.”
The edge sounded like a dangerous place when it came to enemas.
Henry pressed a little harder. “And how are hypodermic needles used? Are they part of a newly researched regimen?”
She blinked, a small tick briefly twitching one eyelid. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I understand needles are used in some instances.” Henry flipped the pages of his notebook as if to consult a statement from a previous interview, his pulse quickening. He was close, he was sure of it.
“We don’t have a need for hypodermic needles.”
“Oh?” He glanced at her and back at his notebook. “The postmortem on Walter Dunn revealed a puncture in his arm consistent with that of a hypodermic needle.”
Dr. Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “No, it didn’t. I read the report myself. I would have to consult our records for absolute accuracy, but from what I remember, he died of cancer.”
Henry was going to enjoy delivering this bit of news. “The initial postmortem mentioned that, but a second was performed.”
“Oh?” She shook her head, her expression carefully blank. “I can’t imagine why. What else was discovered?”
“I couldn’t say.” Henry offered a polite smile. “Patient confidentiality.”
Dr. Thorne looked less than pleased by the answer.