Chapter Forty

‘Tell John what you were telling me,’ Helen said, her eyes darting from Bobby to Dorothy and then to the man she loved – the man who was her only hope for saving her grandmother.

Bobby briefly explained how they had been given a note by a young boy telling them to look in the Winter Gardens to find out what was causing Henrietta to be so ill.

‘We think Henrietta has been poisoned by white snakeroot and that she has something called “milk poisoning”,’ Bobby said, his military training kicking in as he kept his emotions in check and relayed the necessary information as clearly and as succinctly as possible.

Dr Parker’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’ He put his fingers on his forehead and pressed hard. ‘Dates way back to the early 1800s … they think it was what killed Abraham Lincoln’s mother.’

‘That’s the one!’ Dorothy’s voice was shrill. ‘That’s what the placard said.’

Dr Parker looked up, puzzled.

‘The one in the Winter Gardens,’ Bobby explained. ‘It’s called white snakeroot.’

‘It has a Latin name,’ Dorothy chipped in.

‘The plant contains a natural toxic alcohol called tremetol,’ Dr Parker said, starting to feel the beginnings of hope. ‘It easily passes into the milk, which was how people at that time were exposed to it. Became quite an epidemic, if my memory serves me correctly.’ Dr Parker could feel a surge of adrenaline. Everything was starting to click into place. Getting up, he began pulling out books from the shelves behind him. He dumped one the size of a Bible on his desk.

‘Farmers used to notice their cattle becoming listless and unsteady on their feet,’ he remembered as he ran his finger down the index and flicked the book open. ‘The most noticeable sign was trembling,’ he paraphrased as he read. ‘And there was often an odour on the breath of the animals feeding on the plant.’

Helen’s hand shot to her mouth. ‘A chemical smell.’

Dr Parker looked up. ‘Exactly. Like acetone. It’s caused by the acids in the liver.’

He looked back down at the page and read: ‘“Weakness, vomiting, abdominal pains, muscle stiffness and eventually tremors, respiratory distress … ”’ His voice trailed off. The paragraph he was reading went on to explain that death from milk sickness was agonising. If a surgeon had been able to do a post-mortem on Abraham Lincoln’s mother, they would have likely noted inflammation of the gastrointestinal tract, enlarged liver and kidneys and swelling of her heart.

‘Do you think you can save her?’ Helen implored.

Dr Parker looked up at Helen, Dorothy and Bobby.

‘I’m going to give it my damnedest,’ he said, getting up. ‘I need you to go and sit with Henrietta. Take it in turns. Just try and keep her awake.’

So focused was he on saving Henrietta, he never thought of how she might have come to ingest a plant presently growing in the town’s botanical gardens. That would come later.

As soon as Helen, Dorothy and Bobby were out of the door, Dr Parker had his head back in the directory. It only took him a few minutes to find the doctor he wanted – a specialist in toxicology. He looked at his watch. Snatching up the phone, he called the number listed and left an urgent message asking for him to call back.

His next call was to Dr Eris. She had agreed to stay in her office at the asylum so that she could be instantly contactable.

‘Claire, I need you to find out whatever you can about “milk sickness”,’ he said as soon as she picked up the receiver. ‘It was prevalent in the early eighteen hundreds in North America. There must have been some research done on it at the time. Some attempt to find an antidote.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Dr Eris said, thankful to do something to help. ‘I’ll ring as soon as I’ve found something.’ She was already on her feet as she hung up. Thankfully, the asylum had a library with an extensive medical section.

‘I’m going straight back to sit with Henrietta,’ Helen said as she hurried back towards the ward with Dorothy and Bobby.

‘We’ll go and get you a cuppa from the canteen,’ Dorothy said. ‘Then we can take it in turns to sit and talk to her. She’ll never fall asleep with me gabbing in her ear.’

Helen turned to go into the ward, but stopped and turned back.

‘Thank you. Both of you,’ she said, her eyes glistening with hope.

Bobby and Dorothy watched as she disappeared through the ward’s swing doors.

‘I think “thank you” might be a little premature,’ Bobby said as they walked on, turning right and heading towards the cafeteria.

‘I know,’ Dorothy agreed. ‘I caught a glimpse of Henrietta when we turned up and she did not look in a good way.’

‘Let’s just hope,’ Bobby said, opening the canteen door for Dorothy, ‘that Dr Parker can find a cure.’

‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ was playing when they entered the dining room.

‘Goodness,’ Dorothy said, putting her hand on her chest, ‘I almost forgot it was Christmas.’

After Bobby had ordered two teas and a couple of mince pies, he looked at Dorothy.

‘You know, this is serious stuff.’ He dropped his voice. ‘There’s really only one culprit who could have done this to Helen’s grandmother.’

‘Do you really think it’s him?’ Dorothy whispered. ‘That he’s tried to poison Henrietta – to kill her?’ Dorothy looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation.

‘I can’t see anyone else having any reason for wanting to get rid of Henrietta – can you?’ Bobby speculated.

The old woman behind the counter put two cups of tea and two small plates each with a mince pie onto the counter. Dorothy put them onto the tray as Bobby paid.

‘I agree,’ Dorothy said as Bobby picked up the tray and they walked back out of the cafeteria.

Reaching the ward, Dorothy opened the door and Bobby carried the tea tray in.

‘We thought you might also need a little pick-me-up,’ Bobby said to the ward nurse.

Dorothy watched her face light up, which she thought had more to do with the good-looking bloke holding the tray, rather than the tepid tea and slightly stale mince pie he’d brought her.

‘Thank you. That’s kind. Just leave it here,’ the nurse said, making room on her desk.

‘Will you tell Miss Crawford that we’re coming back in half an hour and my girlfriend here – ’ he glanced back at Dorothy still holding the door open ‘ – is going to sit with Miss Girling.’

Dorothy scowled at Bobby as they walked back to the canteen.

He let out a laugh. ‘I love it when you’re jealous.’

‘Good job you made it plain I was your girlfriend,’ Dorothy said.

Bobby mimed wiping his forehead. ‘Close call. Disaster averted.’

They walked into the canteen and ordered a pot of tea and sandwiches.

‘On a more serious note, though,’ Dorothy said as they sat down. ‘If it’s proved that it is “milk sickness” that’s caused Henrietta to fall ill, Helen’s grandfather is going to look a likely suspect. Like you said, who else would want to see Henrietta dead?’

‘I know,’ Bobby said. ‘And he is the one to have brought the plant into the country. I can’t see anyone else having travelled to North America, never mind growing and cultivating a poisonous plant.’

‘And who was it that got the note to us?’ Dorothy mused.

‘Someone involved who didn’t want to be involved?’ Bobby speculated.

‘Someone who doesn’t want Henrietta’s death on their conscience,’ Dorothy said.

‘Someone close to Mr Havelock,’ Bobby added.

They were quiet for a moment.

‘Why doesn’t it surprise me,’ Dorothy mused, ‘that such a poisonous man liked to bring poisonous plants back to England to flourish. And I reckon he didn’t give all the plants to the Winter Gardens. I’ll bet my bottom dollar he saved a few for himself.’

‘That would make sense,’ Bobby agreed. ‘The Winter Gardens is really just a huge greenhouse. There’s no reason he couldn’t cultivate them himself – or get a gardener to do it.’

They were quiet while the woman from behind the counter brought them their tea and sandwiches. They both thanked her. Dorothy poured. She felt parched. And starving. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since lunchtime. She was sure Bobby hadn’t either.

Bobby took his cup, blew on it and took a big slurp. ‘I guess it would be proving it.’ He put his teacup back on the saucer. ‘Just because he brought a few seedlings back to England years ago and donated them to the Winter Gardens, it doesn’t mean he’s responsible. It could be argued that someone might have taken some. You saw there’s no real barrier there – just a length of rope.

‘But the main problem,’ Bobby said, picking up a sandwich, ‘is that Charles Havelock is a very rich, very well-connected man. There’s no way, even if all the evidence pointed to it being him, that he would get his collar pulled. No way.’