Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Henry waited well over an hour outside Dr. Thorne’s home on Victoria Grove that evening before a hansom cab finally pulled up before the house. The doctor entered the cream stucco home with triple arched windows, the Kensington neighborhood picturesque, and shut the door emphatically behind her.
With no small measure of relief he straightened from the fence post he’d been leaning against, prepared to give her a few minutes before he knocked. His head throbbed with a dull ache, more than likely the result of a long day with too much activity.
Director Reynolds had expressed mixed feelings about the crate he and Fletcher had found at the construction company’s office. Evidence was good. But evidence meant Reynolds had to explain how they’d acquired it when he turned it over to the Special Irish Branch.
Henry liked to think they had prevented the creation of another bomb and therefore saved lives.
Whether that was true in the long run remained to be seen.
Chances were, several crates filled with the same cargo had arrived on the ship and been dispersed throughout the city.
Those others might have made it to their destination and were in the hands of the Fenians even now.
No wonder his head ached with thoughts like that circling through it.
Fletcher had seen that the jewelry thief had been arrested and charged, and most of the items the man had stolen were recovered. Case closed—at least, for Henry. That was one less problem to ponder.
He had considered stopping by Amelia’s before coming here, but she would have wanted to accompany him. She very well might have convinced him, partly because he wasn’t feeling himself, and partly because he’d like someone else’s opinion. Someone he trusted.
With a shrug of his shoulders to ease the tension there, he told himself he’d call on Amelia after this. Having that to look forward to would make the interview with Dr. Thorne easier.
Thoughts of Mr. Dunn’s distress at what his uncle might have suffered, and what poor Miss Louisa Elmcroft might be enduring had Henry striding up the steps to knock with renewed energy.
Better that he didn’t give the doctor too much time to relax after her journey home from the sanatorium.
As before, he intended to do what he could to keep her off balance with the hope she’d share something helpful.
“Good evening.” He showed his warrant card to the large male servant who opened the door. “Inspector Field to speak with Dr. Thorne.”
The man frowned as he read the card. “Field. I will see if the doctor is receiving callers.”
Though it was on the tip of Henry’s tongue to say that she didn’t have a choice, he held back.
Surely she would know that when he was announced.
She didn’t seem like the kind of person to avoid unpleasant tasks, from the little he’d learned.
The woman had more confidence than even Inspector Perdy—which was saying something.
The elegant décor didn’t escape his notice as he waited.
Black and white Italian marble on the floor.
Dark wood paneling along the walls. Gold gilt frames around tasteful oil paintings.
Vases on marble pedestals filled with fresh flowers.
An impressive grandfather clock. What might the rest of the house look like?
He bit back a knowing smile when the servant returned stiffly to show Henry into the library, where Dr. Thorne sat at a large mahogany desk with ornately carved legs with a glass of whiskey at her elbow.
The same dark wood paneling covered the walls here as well.
An impressive crystal chandelier cast a warm glow over the space, lending a feminine touch.
An ornate brass ink well and elegant pen sat on the desk, along with a marble statue of Athena dressed in war garb.
A polished sideboard boasted an array of crystal decanters that glittered in the candlelight.
The entire room spoke of wealth and opulence, a stark contrast from the sterile environment of her office at the sanatorium. How enlightening. He was pleased he’d visited her lair.
“Inspector.” Dr. Thorne looked less than happy to see him as she leaned back in her chair and took a leisurely sip of whiskey. “I would have thought you’d be done with work at this hour.” She glanced at the gold-scrolled clock on her desk. “What brings you by this evening?”
“A few more questions for you.” He took the chair before her desk, though she hadn’t offered it. After retrieving his notebook and pencil from his pocket, he glanced around the room as if just now noticing it. “Nice library.”
“Thank you.” She set down the drink and folded her arms across her chest, impatience evident in every line of her body. “Are you here to take up my evening discussing my décor choices or do you have actual questions?”
He smiled, taking his time, doing his best to ignore his worsening headache. “I do have more. Thought it might be easier to ask them now rather than traveling to the sanatorium.”
“What is it you want to know?” she asked before taking another deliberate sip of her drink—and not offering him one.
Did she think to make him envious? Far from it, when he was already anticipating sharing a drink with Amelia. That would be far more enjoyable.
“What is involved in the hydropathy treatments precisely?” He lifted a brow. “Cold baths or more...invasive options?”
Her lips tightened. “As you must already know, we have found significant success with enemas for many of our guests. They flush toxins from the body more speedily and more thoroughly than a simple bath, regardless of whether it’s hot or cold.”
“Rumors suggest they are not the usual sort of enemas.” This had to be one of the more bizarre conversations he’d had while interviewing a suspect.
“Longer treatments are much more effective in truly dispelling toxins.” She lifted her chin. “I can attest to that from personal experience, having healed my own illness with a combination of hydropathy and fasting. As I said this morning.”
Henry still had difficulty believing people paid money to subject themselves to a form of starvation and what must be uncomfortable, prolonged enemas. Could not half of that treatment, at least, be suffered at home? “Your belief is that toxins of some sort contribute to disease?”
“I know it.” A gleam entered her eye, a sign of what Henry had to think was a forceful personality. The question was, whether she used that confidence to inspire others or to bully them. “As I said, I’ve experienced the transformation myself.”
“Interesting.” Henry jotted down the information to give himself time to ponder how that fit with a potential motive. “Tell me—”
“Inspector Field, unless you have been truly ill and in fear for your life—”
The memory of the explosion suddenly rushed in, catching him off guard. Lifted from his feet and thrown to the ground. Debris raining down. The sharp stab of pain in his head and side—
In that moment, he had feared not only for his life but also for Marcus’s. The vivid memory was enough to cause his heartbeat to quicken and his mouth go dry. He touched his temple, his headache worsening, bringing an unwelcome wave of nausea with it.
He straightened in the chair and drew a slow breath to ease his distress, hoping it didn’t show.
“Ah.” Dr. Thorne smiled, though he wouldn’t have called it friendly in the least. More like a lioness who had spotted a vulnerability in her prey. “So you have experienced the fear of death.”
Fear. It was a terrible word that suggested weakness. The victims he spoke with used it often after surviving a horrifying ordeal. He didn’t like being in their company and had thought he was already past it.
Apparently, that wasn’t the case.
Doing his best to smooth his features, he nodded carefully, not wanting to worsen the pain in his head. “Yes, as a police officer, I have encountered dangerous situations on numerous occasions.”
There. That made it sound normal and he’d kept his tone bland. He had no desire to reveal anything personal to Dr. Thorne, as it would surely be used against him. This woman was clever.
“But something recent has left you unsettled, perhaps?” The knowing look she sent him made him more than a little uncomfortable. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “And in pain.”
“A headache,” he agreed reluctantly, unable to lie. “Nothing more than—”
“I’m happy to provide you with something to ease it,” she offered. “I am a doctor, after all.”
“No need.” He didn’t trust her not to poison him, even if she was a doctor.
He glanced at his notes, the words swimming before him, trying to regain his focus.
“How do you determine the methods of treatment to employ with a particular patient?” He’d asked the question before, but suspects often revealed additional details the second time.
She merely looked at him for a moment. “It is interesting, isn’t it, how much those who have been through traumatic experiences suddenly value life. We frequently see that with the guests we heal.”
Henry pressed his lips tight to keep from responding. Who wouldn’t value life’s simple pleasures after enduring a challenging health regimen? Mr. Olson was proof positive of that.
“But back to your question. Each guest is examined and evaluated, as I believe I told you before, and I oversee all treatment plans.”
“And all involve water?” It sounded too simple to work. If water was so healing, why charge for it?
“For the most part, yes. Filling the body with water flushes out impurities. The goal of hydropathy is to induce a crisis where any contamination rises to the skin’s surface.
Preferably in the form of pus, sometimes as sweat.
There are a variety of baths used, including plunging, half, head, sitting.
” She tapped a finger on her desk. “But the most effective hydropathy in my experience is enemas.”
“And the patient is monitored during this process to make sure they don’t come to harm?”