Chapter 31
Thirty-One
“Who do we talk to first?” Fletcher asked as he looked over Henry’s arm at the staff list.
They’d returned to the Yard to retrieve the list. The day was passing quicker than Henry would’ve liked and would soon come to an end. Who first?
“The time has come to divide and conquer,” Henry decided.
The case had already dragged on too long, from his standpoint.
“We already spoke with several employees when we were at the sanatorium—at least, the ones we suspected could be involved.” He considered their options.
“I want to catch them at home, outside the sanatorium walls and away from Dr. Thorne. And we don’t want them to have the chance to warn one another. ”
“Right.” Fletcher studied the names and addresses. “So it needs to be done this evening. I’d say it’s between these four as to who could be involved, since they’re managing the rest. What do you think?”
“I agree.” Keeping in mind the previous interviews and picturing the map of London in his head, Henry pointed to two names, including Mr. Collins.
“I’ll take these, and you take the other two.
” He sent his sergeant a regretful look.
“Possibly another late night for us, so my apologies to Mrs. Fletcher.”
“It will be worth it if we can convince at least one of them to talk.”
“Yes, it will.” They were close, they had to be. “Mention the hypodermic needles and see if you gain a reaction. At the slightest hint of unease, press harder. Mention the money, mention lawyers—bluff and tell them we know what’s happening if need be.”
Fletcher offered a grim smile, watching as Henry jotted down the two addresses he needed. “My pleasure. I’ll leave word here if anything of interest arises.”
“I’ll do the same.” With that, Henry departed. He didn’t have a good impression of either employee he was to speak with; though courteous, neither had struck him as the kind of person he’d want watching over him if he were ill.
Andrew Collins was his first target. He hoped the man was at home—the lodging house where he lived wasn’t so different than his own, though smaller in size, from what he could tell.
If the man was receiving extra pay for nefarious activities at the sanatorium, he wasn’t spending it on his living accommodations.
The man’s landlady frowned as she looked at his warrant card. “What’s Mr. Collins done?”
“I have a few questions for him about his work,” Henry said smoothly. “How long has he been staying here?”
“Nearly a year.” The woman lifted her chin. “He’s tidy and keeps to himself. Don’t cause no problems,” she added, as if feeling the need to defend him.
That was somewhat helpful to hear. “If you would let him know I’m here,” Henry requested.
She scowled but left him in a small sitting room and trudged up the stairs. The muffled sound of voices suggested thin walls, and soon Mr. Collins descended with a worried look, wearing a worn jumper with patched elbows and brown trousers.
“Inspector Field?” He glanced around the room as if he expected more officers than just Henry, then managed an uneasy smile. An interesting reaction. “What’s this all about?”
“A few questions for you regarding Hollowgate Heights.” Henry gestured to the chairs by the fire and settled into one. Better if Mr. Collins had the impression this would take some time.
The younger man sank into the chair, a finger tapping against his trouser leg where he rested his hand. “But I’ve already told you… What more do you want to know?”
Henry retrieved his notebook and turned to the notes from their last interview. “Remind me of your duties at the sanatorium?”
“I oversee our guests’ welfare. After Dr. Thorne approves a treatment plan, I make certain it’s carried out.”
Henry waited, but when the man didn’t add anything more, asked, “You make sure their meals, if they are allowed any, are properly served, and any hydropathy treatments are scheduled.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“How well do you come to know the patients?” Henry refused to use the term ‘guests’.
“Guests,” corrected the man, as though trained into it. “Quite well. Most stay a month or more. Sometimes two. Rarely any longer.”
“They must be rather lonely if they’re not allowed visitors,” Henry suggested. He would’ve thought that meant they would lean more heavily on the staff for support.
“Some attend group meetings, if Dr. Thorne deems it appropriate. Others are kept separate so they may focus on themselves.” Mr. Collins offered a weak smile, much different from the confident one at the sanatorium. “It is a time when we encourage them to be selfish.”
An odd way to put it. “How well did you know a Mr. Walter Dunn?”
Alarm flashed in Mr. Collins’s eyes before he quickly looked down. “Fairly well. Rather a grumpy individual overall, didn’t enjoy conversing that much.” He shrugged. “Some guests are harder to know than others. It also depends on how they’re feeling, of course.”
“How much weight are patients allowed to lose before concerns arise?”
Mr. Collins frowned. “That’s up to Dr. Thorne. She monitors such things closely. A guest is weighed each day when fasting.”
“Are hydropathy treatments also done daily?”
“Depends on the health regimen prescribed.” Impatience sharpened his features. “You must understand, every guest’s treatment plan is different—we strictly follow the doctor’s orders.”
“To the letter?” Henry asked with a lifted brow. “What if you disagreed with those orders?” He needed to get a feel for just how loyal Mr. Collins was to the doctor. How far would he go to see her directions followed?
Again the younger man looked away, his lips twisting. “She’s the doctor, not me, she’s got the fancy degree on the wall. Who am I to suggest her plan isn’t working?”
Henry shrugged. “Given your position there, you must have an opinion. A feel for when something is effective...and when it’s not.”
The finger on his trouser leg tapped faster. “It can be difficult to tell. Sometimes the guest’s health worsens before it gets better. We must trust the process.”
“Is that what Dr. Thorne says?” Henry could easily imagine her stating those exact words.
“Yes,” he murmured, a hint of resentment finally slipping through in his tone.
Somehow Henry didn’t think the resentment was directed at him. He consulted his notebook to give them both a moment before he put forward the next question. “How often is Mr. Barnes sent for?”
The solicitor was part of the scheme. Henry felt sure of it.
The tapping finger stopped mid-air. “W-Who?”
Ah. “The solicitor who amends the wills. Is it once or twice a month, or more?”
“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.” The younger man straightened, wiping his now seemingly sweaty palms on his trousers.
Henry glanced around the room with its faded furnishings and worn carpet. “Surely the doctor rewards you for your silence, but you must not be receiving much of the money if you’re living here.”
Mr. Collins jerked to his feet. “You—you don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if you’re done with these ridiculous questions, I have plans for the evening.”
“We know about the hypodermic needles.” Henry remained seated, waiting to see if his bluff struck home. “Needle marks were noted during the postmortem examinations. We know about the wills changed by certain patients. Walter Dunn, for example.”
Mr. Collins’s face paled. He dropped back into the chair as if his legs had given out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, this time without conviction.
“I think you do,” Henry returned calmly. “I think you were involved in the murder of Walter Dunn and Thomas Ambrose, among others.”
“No, no.” He shook his head adamantly. “Not murder—I only followed orders.”
“And were orders given to end a life if the patient was no longer cooperative? If they didn’t have especially strong family ties? If it was decided there was enough money in their estate to take the risk?”
Mr. Collins pressed his lips tight, as if to prevent any details from escaping.
“If you were to cooperate, the charges against you might be lessened,” Henry held the man’s gaze. “I can’t make any promises, but if you are willing to testify against Dr. Thorne, it could well be to your benefit.”
The man shook his head again but still didn’t speak, yet his body trembled.
Henry lifted a brow. Just a little further.
“Was she paying you so much you’re willing to take the blame for all of it?
For the murders, the fraudulent activities, and the rest?
” He waited a moment for the question to sink in, then added quietly, “It’s all over now.
You need to decide how deep your loyalty is to her. ”
Mr. Collins dropped his head into his hands, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“What was in the needles?” Henry asked, his voice low. That was the part he couldn’t make out. Something untraceable, given that Arthur hadn’t found any unusual substance during the postmortem.
“Nothing,” came a muffled reply. Mr. Collins lifted his head, a mixture of grief and remorse sharpening his features. “That was what made it easier to bear. It was air. Only air.”
Henry frowned, hardly able to believe that. “Air,” he repeated, trying to sort through his limited medical knowledge. How could air injure?
The younger man closed his eyes briefly before opening them. “They were going to die sooner or later anyway, given the severity of their diseases, there was no hope of curing them—Mr. Dunn’s cancer had continued to spread, despite our efforts.”
“But you stole the last few weeks of his life.” Henry wasn’t about to allow the younger man to convince himself or anyone else that he hadn’t truly done anything wrong. “You knew what Dr. Thorne told you to do was wrong, yet you did it anyway.”
Distress tightened Mr. Collins’s face and his eyes filled with tears.
His shoulders shook with silent sobs before he drew a shuddering breath.
“It was only supposed to be the one time to…to put them out of their misery. A mercy, she called it. But when no one realized—” He bit off the words, his emotions evidently getting the better of him.
“It was done again. Dr. Thorne said the money would go to research. To improve the treatments, so we could help more people.”
“But that wasn’t the case, was it?” Henry had seen the expensive objects which decorated Dr. Thorne’s home.
Mr. Collins swiped a hand over his eyes and drew another shuddering breath.
“I wouldn’t have known, except I brought some files to her house one day.
Workers were redoing the front entrance with Italian marble, and gold framed paintings, and Chippendale tables.
” He looked at Henry. “Can you imagine the cost?”
He waited, allowing the younger man to gather his thoughts.
“I was so angry.” Yes, Henry could hear it in his voice.
“The additions to her library were even more extravagant—and one of the nurses, whose cousin works as a seamstress, said Dr. Thorne had purchased an entire new wardrobe at great expense. And here I thought we were making a difference! After all, many guests saw success with the treatments.”
“Many?” Henry would like to know if that was true.
“Oh yes. They were grateful once they completed their stay.”
Grateful to escape, perhaps. “But not during their stay,” Henry suggested.
Mr. Collins shook his head. “Definitely not. Some manage to keep a stiff upper lip…but not all.”
“How many died?” That was the question. Henry wanted to return to the issue. To numbers. To facts.
The man looked away. For a moment, Henry thought he would refuse to answer. “I’m not certain. Over a dozen this year, but some passed from natural causes.” He met Henry’s gaze at last. “And I wasn’t involved in all the...other ones.”
“Other staff members knew, too?”
“One. Maybe two.” Mr. Collins cleared his throat and told Henry their names, one of whom Fletcher was hopefully speaking with at that very moment.
Henry nodded as he slowly exhaled. “I appreciate your cooperation, and I will make sure the judge is aware of it.” That was the most he could promise given the terrible circumstances.
Then he stood. He had a duty to perform.
“For now, I must tell you that you are under arrest for the murder of Walter Dunn, Thomas Ambrose, and possibly others. We’ll have more questions and take your statement at Scotland Yard. ”
The younger man released a shaky breath and slowly pushed to his feet. “I…I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’m done with Dr. Thorne and her false promises.”
Henry had to wonder what the doctor had promised that was enough to make the man willing to commit murder.
Something he intended to find out.
He couldn’t help but release a sigh of disappointment as he glanced at his pocket watch.
Dinner with Amelia was out of the question.
He’d have to send a note with an apology and hope she’d understand.
Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the last time their plans would change because of his work.
Perhaps she wouldn’t mind if he came by after he’d seen to Mr. Collins so he might share the latest news.