Chapter 30
Thirty
“The dedicated Dr. Thorne and her work at Hollowgate Heights are restoring the health of this country’s citizens. We’re blessed to have such a talented doctor to lead the way in modern medicine.”
Henry could only listen in stunned disbelief as Lord Alderley, a recent ‘guest’ of the sanatorium, continued to sing its praises.
Mr. Dunn’s former physician, Dr. Stanhope, had sent Henry a message earlier that morning with the lord’s information as a potential witness. Henry and Fletcher had called on him immediately to see if he could help, eager for further confirmation of their suspicions.
But the day was going from bad to worse. Director Reynolds had told him in no uncertain terms to leave the bombing investigation to the Special Irish Branch. Of course, he’d acted as if Henry had chosen to investigate it on his own—as if Reynolds had nothing to do with it.
Henry couldn’t fault his superior. No doubt the head of the Irish Branch had shared a few harsh words with Reynolds about the sudden crate of dynamite.
Perdy had approached Henry smugly immediately after the Director’s stern words. “You should know well enough to mind your own cases, Field. Can’t imagine what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking I want to know who nearly killed me,” Henry had ground out.
Luckily, Fletcher had kept him from saying anything more by presenting him with the message about the Hollowgate Heights patient. Which had not been what he’d expected.
“I’ve never felt better.” Lord Alderley, who appeared to be in his sixties, tapped his chest as if to prove it. “I lost a stone while there and feel stronger than ever. Reinvigorated!”
The man’s ruddy cheeks and obvious energy seemed to confirm his claim.
“I see.” Henry sent a warning glance at Fletcher, who was muttering something unintelligible under his breath. “You never felt concerned for your well-being while there?” he continued, aware of the footman who waited in the doorway.
“Well.” Alderley grimaced. “Naturally. There was a time or two when I felt certain I’d starve to death.
Never been so hungry in all my life.” He leaned forward as if to share a private confidence.
“And if you’ve never plunged into an ice-cold bath or experienced an hour-long enema, you haven’t lived. ” He chuckled at his jest.
Neither Henry nor Fletcher joined in.
“So you found the treatments helpful?” Henry wanted to be sure of the lord’s opinion, especially since it wasn’t what he’d hoped.
“More than helpful.” The older man gazed across the expansive drawing room where they had been escorted, all chandeliers and luxurious rugs.
“I never served in the military. Couldn’t, because of my gout, you see.
Never had my mettle tried. But I like to think I was tested mentally and physically during my stay at the sanatorium.
I’m all the better for it. It’s been a month since I was there, and I’ve maintained my good health—with the help of Dr. Thorne’s ongoing advice. ”
While Henry was happy to hear the lord enjoyed good health, it didn’t help the investigation. Though tempted to ask how much he paid for the stay at the sanatorium, as well as the ongoing help, that particular curiosity wouldn’t aid the investigation.
“And did any of your procedures involve hypodermic needles?” Henry still thought the idea of injecting water under the skin was dangerous. Arthur had shared the same concern, nor had he seen any benefit.
“Never saw a needle the whole time I was there.” The lord gave a mock shudder. “Good thing too, I can’t bear the sight of them.”
After a few more questions which gave them nothing useful, Henry thanked Lord Alderley politely for his time and the footman showed them out the door.
“He’s a walking advertisement for Hollowgate Heights, eh?” Fletcher grumbled as they headed back to the Yard.
“It certainly seems so. Doesn’t look in danger of dying.”
“Maybe the doctor doesn’t test her luck by meddling with the nobility,” Fletcher suggested.
It was an interesting thought. “That could be it. Might draw too much interest to kill them and take their money. If that’s what she’s doing,” Henry quickly added. He felt certain that was the case, despite Lord Alderley’s effusive praise.
But they needed physical proof, and soon. Unless they found something concrete in the next day or two, Reynolds would surely advise them to drop the case.
He and Fletcher reviewed their thoughts on the investigation as they walked, neither coming up with a clear plan for how to proceed.
A steady rain began to fall as they rounded the corner near Scotland Yard, and the sight of a hansom cab waiting nearby caught Henry’s notice.
Anything out of the ordinary did these days.
“Henry!”
The familiar feminine tone had him looking more closely to discover Amelia and her maid inside. Their presence was enough to send alarm bells ringing in his head.
“Amelia.” He leaned into the open door to look between them, his pulse quickening. “Is all well?”
“Yes, I just wanted a word with you,” Amelia quickly reassured him. “The officer at the desk believed you might return soon, so we decided to wait.”
Henry looked back at Fletcher. “I’ll be in directly.”
His friend nodded, touching the brim of his helmet. “Good day to you, Mrs. Greystone, miss.”
“And you, Sergeant Fletcher. I look forward to dining with you and your wife soon.”
“As do we, ma’am.” His sergeant grinned and disappeared through the door of the Yard.
Henry ignored the rain dripping off the brim of his hat. What had Amelia been up to that afternoon if she had something to tell him she hadn’t last evening? Though she was clearly well, he couldn’t help but worry. “What brings you by?”
Amelia’s eyes glittered with excitement, and that only made him worry more. “We’ve just come from Dr. Thorne’s modiste.”
He frowned, unable to grasp what that had to do with anything. As far as he was concerned there wasn’t anything wrong with Amelia’s wardrobe, though he was pleased she didn’t always wear drab mourning attire anymore. “Oh?”
The excitement grew as she launched forth with, “I forgot I’d asked the doctor who made her gowns when I was last at the sanatorium.
At any rate, the seamstress who helped me said they’d lost a customer because she didn’t want to shop in the same place as Dr. Thorne.
The customer’s father died while at Hollowgate Heights, and she feels certain the doctor is to blame. ”
“That’s very interesting.” Admiration filled him that Amelia had thought to question those who worked in the shop. It never failed to surprise him where a bit of gossip might lead.
“Yes, but that’s not all.” She paused dramatically, sending anticipation running through him. “The woman also says Dr. Thorne stole her father’s money.”
Now that was exactly the kind of lead Henry needed.
“And here’s her name and address.” She handed him a slip of paper with a pleased smile.
“I commend your investigative skills.” If not for Yvette’s watchful gaze, he would’ve kissed Amelia. “And I applaud your restraint in not going to visit the woman yourself.”
She laughed, just as he’d meant her to. “It did cross my mind, in all honesty, but I thought it best if you spoke with her. You’re the expert.”
“I appreciate your faith in me.” Henry dipped his head, only to cause a small river of rainwater to fall, making them both laugh.
His gaze lingered on her face, noting the color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.
Her beauty amazed him, but not as much as her heart or her character—and her bravery.
Gone was the woman afraid to leave the house.
She had overcome her fears. Love swelled in his chest, seeming to expand it rather than tighten it.
“May I stop by this evening to share any updates?”
Silly of him to mention the case when all he wanted was to be with her. Did she think the case was the only reason he enjoyed the frequency of their visits? Somehow, he needed to make certain she didn’t.
“I’d like that very much. Perhaps you could stay for dinner?” Her hopeful expression had him immediately nodding in agreement.
“I’d be honored to.” He held up the slip of paper with the new information. “Thank you for this.”
“I hope it helps. See you this evening.”
He nodded, watching as the cab pulled away before going inside to get Fletcher. Within a few minutes, they were hailing a cab of their own, Henry gripped by a fresh sense of urgency.
“Dare I hope this is the break we need for this case?” his sergeant asked as he watched out the window.
“Yes, I think you should.” The certainty Henry felt confirmed it. “We have numerous bits and bobs. Now we just need something to tie it all together.”
“A bit like a Christmas present, eh?” Fletcher grinned.
“Indeed.” He considered their next move. “I want another word with that Mr. Collins, the manager at the sanatorium. Do we have his home address?”
“We do, we have that for all of the staff. Thinking to press him a bit harder?”
“Yes, with all those bits and bobs we’ve gathered. We piece together the story for him and see his reaction. Perhaps he’ll choose to tell us what’s truly going on at Hollowgate Heights.”
“And just who is doing it,” Fletcher added.
“Precisely.” Henry gave a decisive nod. “But first, we’ll see what this Mrs. Digby has to say.” He consulted the paper with Amelia’s neat, feminine script. “We should be nearly there.”
The houses on Campden Street spoke of a certain level of affluence.
Not Mayfair affluence, perhaps, but still well-to-do.
They knocked on the smartly painted door and were soon shown into a small but well-appointed reception room where an attractive middle-aged woman greeted them with a curious look.
“And what brings you officers by?” Mrs. Digby asked.
“We understand your late father was a resident of the sanatorium known as Hollowgate Heights for a time,” Henry began, careful to avoid mentioning how he’d discovered that fact. “Please accept our condolences,” he quickly added.
A flash of anger swept over her expression before grief softened it. “He was, yes. Unfortunately. Poor Papa.”
He would have to tread carefully. “Some questions have arisen from other family members whose loved ones shared a similar fate as your father. Questions about the facility’s care.”
“As they should.” The lady’s chest heaved with emotion. “Dr. Thorne should not be allowed to continue practicing using her barbaric methods. They’re outrageous.”
“Was your father suffering from illness? Is that what prompted him to enter?” Henry could see a pattern emerging and was anxious to see if it proved true.
“Tuberculosis. At times, we were convinced he was improving, but then he’d suffer another relapse. It was terrible to watch him lose hope at those times.” Mrs. Digby gestured courteously toward the chairs in the small room, and they took a seat.
A grim satisfaction filled Henry. Patients who were already seriously ill appeared to be the ones who amended their wills just before they passed away.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Exactly how soon prior to their demise did they make that supposed request?
Who was dating these wills—patients, or staff?
Was Mr. Dunn’s solicitor, Mr. Barnes, always the one who oversaw the process?
Perhaps he received a portion of the proceeds in exchange for his ‘services’…
First things first. “What was your father’s name, Mrs. Digby?”
“Thomas Ambrose. He lived only a few streets from here.”
“And how long was he at Hollowgate Heights?” Henry asked, notebook in hand.
“Seven weeks.” The woman sniffed, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. “Nearly two months I didn’t get to spend with him because of their ridiculous rules.”
“The one about no visitors?” Henry suggested. The complaint was becoming a familiar one.
“Yes. My husband viewed his body at the undertakers and was horrified by how thin and frail he looked. Clearly his condition had worsened while at the sanatorium. Given his obvious suffering, why would he have chosen to leave such a large sum of money to the place and that terrible doctor?”
Why, indeed?
Henry made a note. “Did you express your concerns to Dr. Thorne?”
“I did.” She glanced away, her remorse obvious. “I confess…well, that my emotions got the better of me. Between my anger and my tears and my shock, I didn’t express myself as well as I would’ve liked.”
He could well imagine. “What was her reaction?”
“She said she questioned him carefully to make certain he truly wanted to amend his will, but he insisted on it.” The lady leaned forward, the intensity in her blue eyes undeniable.
“That he wanted to continue the sanatorium’s efforts to improve lives and change the outcomes of those with diseases. ”
“Humph.” Fletcher shifted in his chair.
“Exactly!” the woman declared. “I don’t believe that for a moment—but it was his signature on the document.
I couldn’t deny that.” She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.
“What else could I do? Besides, it isn’t about the money.
” Her face crumpled as she once again pressed a handkerchief to her nose.
“I-I lost my father. There’s no bringing him back. ”
Henry sat forward, heart aching for her—but he wasn’t about to let this go.
Not when others were in danger. “I’m sorry for your loss.
I’m sure you agree that this mustn’t happen to anyone else.
If the staff at Hollowgate Heights is not only taking people’s money but murdering them, they must be stopped. ”
“M-Murder?” Her eyes grew wide at the word.
It was a bold statement, given he didn’t yet have concrete proof. Suspicions wouldn’t get him anywhere. But the pieces were falling into place.
“You think they took his life?” Mrs. Digby frowned, shaking her head in disbelief. “I thought perhaps they didn’t properly care for him—that they allowed him to waste away.”
“An investigation is underway, but we have reason to suspect murder.” It had to be the hypodermic needles. But what were they injecting? And how did they convince their victims to sign away their estates?
That was what they needed to discover next.