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OLIVE HANDY LIVED ALONE in a log cabin even further out in the woods than her cousin. She looked to be in her forties, tall, almost manly of figure. She was wearing a blue gingham wrapper with an apron tied over it and was pulling radishes up from a well-tended garden next to her rustic little house. Mary couldn’t imagine any of the ladies of the asylum being her match in a contest of strength.
Olive seemed quite surprised to see the wagon pulling up her driveway, but her welcome was warm and sincere. She quickly shooed her two guests into the house and sat them at her kitchen table, where she put a bottle of root beer in front of each of them. Mary found the sweet, fizzy drink just the thing after a hot carriage ride.
As her hostess put a few cookies on a plate, Mary surveyed the large, open room. Though timber-walled and rough, the place was clean and neat as a pin. A narrow brass bed sat in a corner and a bent-hickory rocking chair rested before the fireplace. Atop an ancient sideboard was a framed photograph of an old couple, no doubt Olive’s parents.
“Now you mentioned, Miss MacDougall...” Olive said, taking one of the chairs and placing the ginger cookies on the table.
Mary interrupted. “Please call me Mary.”
The woman smiled at her. “Then you must call me Olive. You said that you have a friend whose mother died of cholera at Westerholm. Yet the only patient I know of that died there in many a long month was poor Annie O’Toole. And she certainly did not die of cholera and did not have a daughter.”
“Yes, well, obviously my friend was given faulty information,” Mary responded. “But, tell me, why was Annie O’Toole buried in the Dillmont cemetery. I was told there was a graveyard at Westerholm, just for its inmates.” She had considered the possibility that there had been some mix-up—Annie in Agnes’s grave and Agnes in Annie’s.
“That there is. But Annie’s cousin, her closest relative, said it was bad enough Annie had to spend so many years at Westerholm, she shouldn’t have to spend eternity there. So she paid for Annie’s plot in Dillmont.”
“And you can’t think of any other burials in the Westerholm cemetery in the past several months?”
“None that I recall.”
Mary still intended to visit the asylum cemetery herself. If Agnes Olcott was there, she would find a fresh grave. No fresh grave, no Agnes Olcott.
“Do you remember any woman of about fifty being admitted to the asylum in the last few months?” Mary asked. “A woman with black hair beginning to show signs of gray?”
The tall woman frowned and shook her head. “Doesn’t ring any particular bells.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone named Agnes Olcott? Mrs. Merton Olcott?”
Olive Handy pondered the question briefly. “No, never heard of the lady. Though there’s much that goes on at Westerholm that we ordinary attendants never hear of. We have well over two hundred unfortunates who are being cared for. And some sixty of us who work there.”
“May I ask what your duties include?”
“I’m mostly with the ones who are more troublesome or need lifting or moving. Those that are curled up in bed, yet must be washed and put upon the commode. Or those who, really meaning no harm, might have fits and strike out. I gather them up and hold onto to them, or wrap them tight in a warm, wet blanket. The really violent ones we don’t take. They have to go up to the state hospital in Newberry.”
It was probably too much to have hoped that Olive would have known of Agnes Olcott. But this friendly woman could still provide some vital information.
“Tell me about Westerholm,” Mary said. “How is it laid out? Who belongs where? That sort of thing.”
Olive explained that Westerholm had two five-story wings joined in the middle by a three-story administration building. The west wing housed a large communal dining room, kitchen, and commons area on the first floor, with four floors of dormitories above it. The first floor of the east wing was devoted to the infirmary, along with examining rooms, and an operating room, as well as a second, smaller kitchen.
“The infirmary’s where patients and local folk go if they’re sick,” Olive said. “If this Agnes Olcott woman did really have cholera, and came to Westerholm, the doctor would have put her in the infirmary’s quarantine room.”
Silent up to now, Mrs. Gray gave an audible shudder. “Cholera. Horrible. That’s the last thing this town needs. But I’d think that if there had been a case at the infirmary, we would have heard about it.”
The second floor of the east wing, Olive went on to say, was where well-to-do patients were housed. These ladies had their own dining room, parlor, library, and sunroom, separate from the general population. Even their own nurses and attendants.
“I’ve never worked on the second floor,” Olive said. “But I know it’s quite plush, with all the comforts of home, you might say. I think most anyone would enjoy staying there. Of course, their families pay a lot extra to keep them there, compared to the women in the dormitories.”
“And what about the floors above that one?”
“Directly above is another general dormitory. Then on the fourth floor, the little apartments for the nurses and attendants that live on the grounds. And on the fifth floor they have more storage and a locked ward for extremely troubled patients. Most of the time there’s no one in there. Our ladies are all pretty well behaved.”
“Is that the only ward under lock and key?” Mary asked.
“That’s correct. Everyone else is allowed to roam, so long as they don’t make trouble or wander too far. Many of the women are fit enough to help out in the fields, in the laundry and kitchen, and around the place. Healthy work can do a lot to help mend a troubled mind, after all. Even the wealthy ladies are encouraged to take on some of the chores, if they wish to.”
“What other buildings are on the grounds?”
“There are barns for the animals, a chicken coop, the maintenance shed, a greenhouse, and the chapel. Mrs. Westerholm insisted on a separate chapel, and quite a lovely thing it is.”
“And you said about sixty are employed at Westerholm?”
“About that many, I should think. The two doctors, their secretary, the folks in the business office, the farm manager, housekeepers, the engineer. And of course a lot of nurses and attendants.”
Mary thought about the delicate situations the nurses and attendants might have to deal with, given that all the inmates were women. Surely men would not be allowed to handle some of the more intimate tasks. “Are all the nurses and attendants women?” she asked.
“Pretty much. But we have a few male attendants. Once in a while an inmate gets a bit too rambunctious for even me to handle. That’s when Willis comes to help.” A little smile flitted across her lips.
From the look on Olive’s face, Mary figured that Willis, whoever he was, had a real admirer.
“And we’ve a couple of other male attendants, as well. They’re all big, strong men.”
“Who are the doctors?” she asked.
“Well, Dr. Stanley is our superintendent,” Olive replied. “A surgeon with training as an alienist. Our assistant superintendent is the town physician, Dr. Applegate.”
Mary sat back in her chair. So Dr. Applegate didn’t just treat patients at the infirmary. He was also the second-in-command at Westerholm. Suddenly things began to fall into place in her mind. The doctor would have been in a perfect position to take Agnes Olcott off her husband’s hands and write up a false death certificate in her name. While she might not have been murdered, she could have, in effect, been removed from existence, clearing the way for Olcott to claim her estate. And what was in it for the doctor? Money, no doubt. Mary presumed he could make quite a nice income, helping rich men rid themselves of bothersome wives.
Given what she had just heard, Mary was fairly certain she knew what Merton Olcott had done. But now she needed to find out if he had accomplices. She understood her next question might not be well received.
Taking a deep breath, she looked Olive Handy square in the eye. “Would there be any chance that Dr. Applegate forged a death certificate for Agnes Olcott? In your opinion, would the doctor engage in such activities?”
The transformation of Olive’s face could not have been more remarkable—from a friendly curiosity to a cold hostility in a wink. Even Tilda Gray looked angered by Mary’s insinuation.
“You could not possibly be more mistaken about our Dr. Applegate,” said Mrs. Gray with a chilly tone. “He’s saved dozens of lives in these parts, delivered many and many a child. Dillmont would be in a bad state without him.”
“To suggest that he’s corrupt...” Olive Handy shook her head and glared at Mary. “He’s a good man, a good doctor. Saw me through the pneumonia two years ago. He does naught but help people. And he has his own personal burdens to bear.” She snorted, like a fuming bear. “I won’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of him in my house. Now, Miss MacDougall, if you don’t mind, I must get back to my gardening.”
Mary had known there was a chance the women would not take kindly to her question. Still, their vehement reaction surprised her. Yet it taught a good lesson: As a detective, one ought to save one’s most provocative queries for the end of the interview. She tried to find out more about Annie O’Toole, but the big woman and her cousin were having none of it. Mary apparently had overstayed her welcome.
A moment later, she was in the wagon with Tilda Gray, who had become quite taciturn. She dropped Mary at the guesthouse and rattled off without even saying goodbye. After having a buttered biscuit and tea with Mrs. Wingate, Mary headed out, making for Main Street. She had one more thing to do before she could return to Mackinac.
At the livery stable she found a man who agreed to take her around the town and countryside in a buggy. “Just drive me to the scenic spots,” Mary said. “And I’d like to see where Westerholm is.”
The man, middle-aged and walrus-mustachioed, was a talker. And with a wink he wondered if Mary was feeling “a tad squirrelly in the brain box.”
She laughed along with him. “That might be closer to the truth than you would ever know.”
* * *
“I HAD A GOOD INTERVIEW with Mrs. Gray and her cousin, Olive Handy, the attendant at Westerholm,” Mary recounted. “Though they turned a bit cool when I questioned the character of Dr. Applegate, the fellow who signed Agnes Olcott’s death certificate. Apparently he is well liked by the townspeople.”
Mary had arrived back at the Grand Hotel just before noon, the day after her visit to Dillmont. She was sitting in her aunt’s room with Edmond and Christena, Paul Forbes being occupied elsewhere with something or other photographic.
“Olive claimed she had never heard of Mrs. Olcott, though I have no way of knowing if she was telling the truth. Apparently, the lady with the red hair—the dead woman in the shroud—was someone called Annie O’Toole, who just happened to have the same initials as Agnes Olcott. I can only presume that when Merton Olcott saw Annie O’Toole’s wooden cross with ‘A.O.’ on it, he decided to seize the opportunity and use it to help weave his little story of death in Dillmont.”
Edmond was sitting in a side chair, leaning intently toward her, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Christena, looking very serious, shared the sofa with Mary.
“Then I went to have a look at Westerholm itself,” Mary continued. “An impressive edifice, two wings joined in the center. Inmates out working in gardens and tending the flock of chickens. Not an unpleasant place to be confined, I should think. And the little cemetery was quite pretty, beneath a number of spreading oaks and maples. Perhaps forty or fifty graves with simple stone markers. Names engraved on every one. No recent burials, though. No sign of Agnes Olcott there.”
“So really,” said Christena, “you’ve come to a dead end.”
Mary was about to disagree, when Edmond piped up.
“Don’t you think it time, Mary, to send your report to Mrs. McColley and call it a day? You’ve discovered certain suspicious facts that your client can present to the sheriff. A fine job of sleuthing, I should say. You’ve done more than enough.”
No, it is not nearly enough, thought Mary. She irked her that Edmond and Christena didn’t understand how vital it was to soldier on.
Because if Agnes Olcott was alive, it wasn’t unreasonable to think that she might be in Westerholm under Dr. Applegate’s orders. If the doctor found out that Mary was snooping around the place, he might move Mrs. Olcott to another location. Time was of the essence.
Mary had a good idea now of what needed be done. On her trip back from Dillmont that morning she had thought of little else. But she knew she couldn’t finish her investigation without the help of Christena or Edmond, or both. And they seemed intent on persuading her to call it quits. She had to make them see things from her point of view.
“Christena, Edmond,” she began, “you have been very tolerant of my... What shall I call them?” She paused and deliberated over her choice of word. “Adventures, let us say. I’m sure that neither of you feels happy that my current case has become more adventuresome. Heaven knows I don’t. I wish I had an easier answer to this puzzle.”
She stopped again, hoping to gauge their reactions, but both remained inscrutable. Christena was peering at her though narrowed eyes and Edmond was fiddling with the edge of a doily on the table next to him.
Mary attempted to lend a certain gravitas to her voice, as if she were a lawyer summing up her case to the jury. “I could, as you suggest, send a report back to Clara McColley, telling her I believe her mother might yet be alive and encouraging her to follow up with the police. But, of course, I have no actual proof to present to her. What I do know for certain is that Mrs. McColley has no one else on her side. She has been told by her husband to accept reality and move on with her life. Even Detective Sauer thinks she’s merely overwrought.”
Mary looked first at Christena, then at Edmond. “I truly believe that I am Clara McColley’s last hope. And I think a great injustice would be done if we don’t go the extra mile and make one last push to discover the true fate of her mother.”
“But how in the world do you propose to do that, Mary?” sighed Edmond wearily. “Even if you could?”
Mary almost felt sorry for the man. He no doubt had thought he would be spending his time on Mackinac Island painting watercolor scenes and squiring her around. What she had in mind for him was certainly no picnic.
“We know that Agnes Olcott is not buried in the Dillmont cemetery under a wooden cross bearing the initials A. and O.,” she said. “That dubious honor belongs to poor Annie O’Toole, of the lovely red hair.” Mary stood up and started to pace. “And there are no fresh graves in the asylum cemetery.”
“Yes, so you noted,” said Christena. “But that still doesn’t explain what you have in mind.”
Mary stopped pacing and crossed her arms. “If the woman is not in Westerholm, then it would likely be impossible for us to ever know what Merton Olcott has done with her—even to know whether or not she is alive. Agnes Olcott, or her remains, could be hidden away anywhere. She might never resurface. Or she might be found wandering a street somewhere, disheveled and penniless, after her husband has vanished with the funds he looted from the family firm.”
She paused one final time for dramatic effect.
“The only thing that I can do now for Clara McColley is to answer this one, final question: Is her mother, Agnes Olcott, an inmate at Westerholm asylum?”
Christena and Edmond both regarded Mary with expressions of dread, as if anticipating an appalling end to her soliloquy.
“To do that, I’ll need you two to take me there. And have me committed.”
