Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
After their unsatisfactory conversation with the head of the sanatorium, next came interviews with a few staff members, something Dr. Thorne only grudgingly agreed to.
Henry had to think the sole reason she permitted them, as they didn’t have legal authorization to make such demands, was because he’d mentioned the needle evidence. She’d been unsettled since then, a tiny fracture in her confident demeanor.
“We’d also like to see the patient rooms,” Henry said casually as she escorted them toward the staff offices. Was it possible to find Amelia’s friend to see how she fared?
Dr. Thorne glared in response, animosity no longer hidden. “That’s simply not possible, I refuse for our guests to be upset in order to answer a few ridiculous questions.”
“Hardly ridiculous when patients have died while under your care,” Fletcher countered.
That earned them both another hostile look before she led the way down the hall. Henry was pleased when she took her leave after providing introductions and specific instructions to her staff about who they were supposed to speak with next.
A Mr. Andrew Collins was one of the managers at the sanatorium, and his office was where they were to conduct their interviews.
He had a polished and confident air that, paired with the white coat, surely made patients willing to trust him, though apparent nerves had him shifting in his seat frequently.
“Guest care is our one and only concern,” the young man assured them with an attempt at a friendly, relaxed smile. “Without successful outcomes, we wouldn’t be here.”
Yet every question Henry asked was met with a general answer that didn’t really tell them anything. “How long have you known Dr. Thorne?”
“Long enough to admire her dedication to our guests.”
“Where were you trained?”
“At Dr. Thorne’s side.”
And so it went, on and on, round and round. They managed to gather a few details from him, but none that seemed to be promising clues.
Next was a young woman with a bright smile and a sunny disposition who joined them when Mr. Collins stepped out. “We love our guests, and they love us.”
“Even while you’re starving them?” Fletcher asked nonchalantly.
A cloud darkened the sun but only briefly.
Two more staff members followed, but Dr. Thorne interrupted the last interview.
“I’m afraid we can’t spare anymore time for your inquiries.” Her earlier amusement had firmed into displeasure. “We have guests to care for.”
“If you’d prefer us to return with a search warrant, that’s your choice,” Henry advised, wanting to make clear this was far from over.
“We shall see.” She lifted her chin. “I would think the police had more important matters to occupy their time than an institution focused on healing the sick.”
Henry merely smiled. The subtle dig didn’t upset him in the least. If that was all the doctor and her staff were trying to do, he might have respect for them. But he couldn’t move past his certainty that something was amiss; the clues were small but undeniable. He just needed more of them.
“She’s not exactly the warm and comforting type,” Fletcher said as their hansom cab made its way back to the train station to return to London. “I think she’s guilty. There’s something wrong about the whole place.”
“I don’t disagree. She certainly didn’t like my mention of the needles,” Henry replied, absently rubbing his temple to ease the faint headache that had returned.
He looked forward to the day when his aches and pains were gone. Luckily he was becoming more confident that would happen sooner rather than later, even though deep breaths still weren’t possible.
“Most definitely not. And I don’t understand why she went to so many different schools.”
“To make it more difficult to verify?” Henry suggested dryly with an inquiring look at Fletcher.
His friend nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. Never heard of most of them, though I’m no expert in such things.”
“Nor am I.”
“Odd that the diploma framed on her wall was too small to read.” Fletcher sent him another skeptical look. “Can’t help but think it’s just there to make patients feel more comfortable.”
“Indeed.” Henry had been tempted to ask to see it, but paper wasn’t proof of anything.
“Now what?” Fletcher asked with a heavy sigh.
Now what indeed. “I’m going to visit her at home this evening. See what trouble I can stir up. Then we’ll move on to interviews with additional staff members and former patients, if we can get a list of them.”
“I’m happy to accompany you this evening,” Fletcher was quick to offer.
“No need.” Henry wanted to see if the doctor acted differently, not only at her home but without Fletcher’s not-so-subtle disapproval staring her in the face.
“If you begin the task of verifying her education, especially the medical degree she supposedly received in Padua, Italy, that would be helpful. I’d also like to speak with anyone who worked closely with the doctor but who isn’t working at the sanatorium to hear their impression of her.
Dr. Stanhope did not seem particularly impressed. ”
Fletcher smiled. “That should prove interesting. I look forward to seeing what I can uncover.”
They embarked on the train back to London and after pulling into the city, paused for a sausage roll on their way to the Yard. The afternoon was relatively early, the weather fine, and Henry appreciated both.
“Nothing better,” Fletcher said as he bit into the steaming roll.
“Meat pies are a close second.” Henry held back from describing some of the delicious meals he’d enjoyed at Amelia’s. Some things were still precious, and kept to himself.
“Right.” The sergeant nodded. “Also delicious.” He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. “Now then, how are your romantic plans coming with Mrs. Greystone?”
Henry nearly choked on the bite he’d just taken. Fletcher had previously offered a few suggestions for courting, a conversation he had mixed feelings about. Speaking of such things with anyone, including his sergeant, didn’t come naturally—though he appreciated his attempts to lend aid.
“I suppose I should make plans for another evening out,” Henry mused once he’d finished chewing and was certain he wasn’t going to choke. He glanced at his friend. “Perhaps you and Mrs. Fletcher might like to join us at a restaurant.”
Fletcher’s eyes went wide. “There’s an idea,” he said, only to frown. “But wouldn’t you rather have time alone, the pair of you? Seems to me you don’t get as much of that as you might like.”
“No we don’t, but we also value time with friends.
” He held Fletcher’s gaze. “And I count you among them. Both of you.” It wasn’t the first time Henry had told him something of the sort.
After all, he’d had the pleasure of dining at Fletcher’s home several weeks ago and found the sergeant’s wife just as he’d expected—kind and patient, with a good sense of humor.
“Humph.” Fletcher nodded, his cheeks turning ruddy. “As do I. We’d be honored to share a meal with you and Mrs. Greystone. As I’ve said before, she’s a fine woman. I have no doubt my Nancy will enjoy her company. Perhaps the Saturday after next?”
“I will consult with Mrs. Greystone and let you know.” Henry dusted the crumbs from his fingers, his thoughts growing serious as they returned to his cases.
He had the feeling that at any given moment, Director Reynolds would informally advise them to stand down and not pursue the bombing case.
The Special Irish Branch would not welcome their help.
The tension between the two departments seemed to be steadily increasing, according to what Henry had heard.
But he had not yet been given orders to step away from the unofficial investigation, so he intended to take advantage of it while he could.
“What do you say we stop by the construction company we noted on the crates at the dock before we return to the Yard?” he asked Fletcher.
“Good idea,” the sergeant agreed.
They found a hansom cab and were soon on their way to Southwark.
“I can’t help but wonder if we should have more men with us,” Fletcher said as he gazed out the window at the rough neighborhood not far from the docks.
Henry grimaced as he followed his sergeant’s gaze, taking in the run-down buildings. “I understand your concern, but until we can prove whether there’s anything to be found here, I think we’re on our own.”
“Right.” Fletcher gave a single, decisive nod. “I forgot for a moment that no one is to know what we’re up to.”
Yet when they stepped out of the cab, even Henry had second thoughts.
It was always difficult to tell whether having a uniformed officer at one’s side was a help or a hindrance.
Based on the wary looks they were receiving it was a hindrance in this neighborhood, drawing more attention than Henry would have liked.
Men wearing worn clothing and scuffed work boots brushed past, heads down.
Debris littered the streets from the nearby ironworks and brickfields.
Cleanliness was evidently not a priority here.
They found the address they were looking for with relative ease and entered a soot-covered brick building with a faded sign above the door.
A clerk looked up when they entered from behind a scarred desk, ledger open before him.
Several doors were closed directly behind him, though shouts and pounding could be heard from the back.
“Yes?” the thin man with a narrow nose and pockmarked skin asked, his gaze holding warily on Fletcher’s uniform.
“We’d like to speak with the owner,” Henry said, deciding not to show his warrant card unless necessary.
“He’s not in.”
“A manager will do,” Henry amended.
“Very well.” The man set down his pencil and stood. “What is this about?”
“A misplaced shipment.” Not exactly true, but he had to hope it would do. Something that might garner a manager’s interest yet not sound overly dire. It wasn’t as if he could ask if they’d received any bomb-making supplies of late, accidental or otherwise.