Wednesday, June 19, 1901 — Spokane, Washington

Bernard circled the contraption before him, uncertain what exactly he was studying.

It had two wheels, two pedals, two handlebars, and one seat. That was the extent of his knowledge when it came to bicycles. As far as he was concerned, it was like asking him what he thought of a polar bear: something he knew existed, but had never before had the opportunity of studying at close quarters.

“Well, at least you don’t have to feed it,” Thomas said, scratching his bare chin and shaking his head.

“You know what Roslyn said when I told her? ‘Now I won’t be the only one on wheels.’” Bernard grunted, shaking his head.

Thomas chuckled and shook his head, too. “She’s got a point. They just gave it to you?”

Bernard nodded. “Mr. Travis said it was the least he could do after all the help I’d given him.”

Bernard was no salesman. Yet, he’d spent the greater portion of the previous day working alongside auctioneer W. S. Travis, selling junk at the annual Spokane Police Rummage Sale. What a way to spend a day—or waste it, in his opinion. By the time he’d finally been allowed to trudge home, they’d brought in a grand total of $58, the larger portion of which had been from the selling of revolvers secured from attempted holdups. The revolvers had gone for fifty cents to three dollars each, which was wonderful news, so long as they’d been bought by honest men.

The other items—two bicycles, a music box, a collection of clothes, valises, and razors—had been collected from around the city over the course of the year, and never claimed by their proper owners. Most of those had gone to second-hand dealers.

Except this bicycle. This bicycle was deemed too beat up to sell, so Mr. Travis had gifted it to Bernard in gratitude.

“Guess he wasn’t that grateful,” Thomas said with a grin. “It’s about as useful as a book cover without a book inside, since you don’t know the first thing about riding it.”

“A torn book cover, since I’ll have to get it fixed before I can do anything with it.”

“Sure there’s someone listed in the city directory.”

Bernard sighed heavily as he gazed upon the miraculous metal machine and scratched his mustache. He had no idea what to do next.

He’d never owned a bicycle. He’d never ridden a bicycle. He didn’t even know how to begin. He wondered who he could ask for assistance, without looking and sounding like an ignoramus.

“You know, I think I’ve seen Lawson on one once,” Thomas said, finally offering something helpful. “Maybe he could give you a few pointers.”

At least Lawson wouldn’t tell on him if Bernard looked foolish. Most folks didn’t speak to him anyway, on account of his skin color, an idiotic reason to judge a person, in Bernard’s opinion, considering the man had as much control over his skin as Bernard did over the dark hair that covered his Italian heritage body.

The bicycle might be worth it in the end, though. No more paying for streetcars. No more running after streetcars because he’d just missed them. He’d be his own man on his own time, capable of rushing home for luncheon even, if he so desired, seeing as it was only a little over a mile between his house and City Hall.

“Or you could always ask Hindman. He is the police’s bicycle patrol.” His brother interrupted his thoughts. “Better ask him quick, though, as he’s likely to be one of the first to go with the cutbacks, seeing as it’s such a minor position, and one he’s only held for two years.”

Bernard blew out his cheeks. He wasn’t feeling very secure in his own job after being relegated to assisting Mr. Travis all day, something any beat cop could have handled. “Did you see they’re going with fourteen cuts?”

Thomas nodded and kept his eyes on the bicycle. “At least Councilman Udhen seems to understand what’s going to happen.”

The councilman had been quoted in The Spokesman that morning as saying that “after it had become known to the general public that the police force had to be reduced Spokane would be flooded with thieves, holdups, robbers, and the city would experience a reign of terror.”

Bernard prayed it wouldn’t be that bad.

He waved his hand toward the bicycle in the yard. “Maybe if I learn to ride this thing the chief will see me as more of an asset.”

Thomas cocked his head and scratched his chin. “Maybe I should take a swing at it after all.”

Bernard tensed but then Thomas laughed. “It was a joke. I won’t take your prize from you.”

Bernard wasn’t so sure. They’d only just started getting back to normal again after last month’s tension, and now with cutbacks looming, he hated thinking that the odds were not in their favor. One of them—or both—was very likely on the chopping block.

But Thomas was already thinking about something else. It was obvious from the way he kept rubbing the back of his neck, which meant whatever he was about to say wasn’t going to make Bernard happy, and had nothing to do with the bicycle.

“What did you do?” he asked. “You didn’t go and ask Miss Kenyon to marry you already, did you?”

Thomas turned bright red and his mouth dropped open. “Biscuits, Bernard, whatever gave you that impression?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Thomas glanced over his shoulder, as though worried Marian had overheard. “No,” he whispered, coming closer to Bernard. This was getting serious. “Though it does have to do with Marian.”

Bernard raised an eyebrow. He’d heard her crying again this morning when he’d made a trip to the bathroom. In his experience, there was only one natural cause for a woman doing that regularly for a week.

“She’s not pre—”

“Cheese and crackers, Bernard. What do you take me for?” Thomas hit him hard on the shoulder, offended anger crossing his face.

“Why can’t you just say ‘damn’ like a normal person?” Bernard shook his head. “I had to ask. What is it then?”

“It’s the Baker.”

Bernard grunted. Of course it was.

***

THOMAS WAS GRATEFUL Bernard let him get the whole story out without another interruption.

“And you say Jackson claims the Baker’s been in lockdown since the third death?”

Thomas nodded.

Bernard shook his head as he handed back the letter Marian had been kind enough to let Thomas offer up as evidence. “Then you can have it. Doesn’t sound like this needs to involve me.”

“But what if it is the Baker?”

“I want nothing more to do with her. I’ve washed my hands of that case.”

Thomas was surprised. “It’s the case that very well might have secured your position as a detective.”

Bernard was still shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure solving a case wrapped around an attempted assassination of the President of the United States did that. And even then, I’m not counting chickens till they’ve hatched.”

“But that had to do with the Baker, too. Jackson wouldn’t have stuck around if it wasn’t for her.”

Bernard pointed a finger at Thomas. “There’s your in. Miss Kenyon told you Jackson was already undercover at the asylum? Use him to get your foot in the door. Then see what you can dig up. Once you have enough for an actual case, come get me. But until then, it’s all yours.”

Thomas couldn’t stop the excited smile that threatened to split his face in two. He couldn’t even think of something sarcastic to say. “You mean it?”

“Sure. I’ll tell Captain Coverly you’re working with me on a couple cases I’m looking into.”

“Like Michael Codd, that man who was brought in on an insanity plea? I think he’s in the jail still waiting for the judge.”

“Exactly. I can’t do anything in Medical Lake until you uncover something firm, something other than deaths at a hospital.”

“You got it, boss,” Thomas said with a salute, turning on his heel before Bernard could change his mind.

“But you might want to change out of your uniform,” Bernard said, causing Thomas to pause. “Not sure a policeman will be welcome.”

Thomas waved his hand, acknowledging the statement, and re-entered the house from the back yard.

Thankfully, he’d finished his term as a night watchman just in time to offer assistance to Marian. If he hadn’t been available, he worried she might have continued to look into the mysterious happenings on her own.

This unnerved him. He wanted to help her. He wanted to be there for her when she needed him.

Only last night she’d revealed the reason for her extremely late return home had been that the Northern Pacific passenger train that ran from Spokane to Medical Lake once a day had broken down on their return journey, causing a two-hour delay in their arrival.

What if she’d gone alone? At least she’d had Prescot with her, though Thomas was uncertain how much help the clockmaker could be.

This time, Thomas would be with her. So no matter what occurred, he could ensure her safety.

A stumbling trip as he made his way up the stairs to change reminded him he hadn’t slept in...how long? He sincerely hoped he could make it through the day. Maybe Marian would be the one helping him, after all.

***

“SO, DID YOU AND BERNARD decide what’s to come of that bicycle?” Roslyn asked as Thomas entered the front parlor straightening his tie.

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Thomas replied, turning his focus on Marian. “But he said you and I should take the case.”

Roslyn supposed that explained why Thomas had appeared at breakfast in his uniform, but now was in a full suit. He looked rather dashing. She hoped Marian noticed. It had been awhile since she’d seen Thomas take an effort in his appearance, outside of his usual policeman’s uniform. Yet ever since he and Marian had begun courting, he’d been cleaning up rather nicely.

“You and I?” Marian asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Roslyn could see how pleased Thomas was making her companion. “You’re suggesting we work together?”

Thomas was nodding. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ll have to put our heads together and come up with some brilliant way of getting ourselves past the front door. They won’t take kindly to a police officer from Spokane forcing himself in where he’s not wanted, especially if something is truly amiss.”

Marian nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps your photography, Marian?” Roslyn suggested. “You might play the role of photographer to Thomas’s reporter, looking to do a story on the asylum’s work with the insane.”

Thomas gave a short laugh. “You mean I’d have to pretend to be that despicable Peter Bach character?”

“You needn’t be anyone but your charming self,” Roslyn said with a roll of her eyes.

Roslyn was pleased to see her idea was being taken as a good one, though she was reticent to mention how it had come to her. In her research regarding dual personalities and the insane in general, she’d come across an account by Nellie Bly, that renowned female investigative reporter from New York.

In Ten Days in a Madhouse, Bly had revealed how she’d pretended insanity to get herself committed to the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island in order to reveal the true conditions therein. What she’d discovered was horrific.

The conditions at the asylum, once she’d arrived, had sounded more akin to jail than a hospital. Every day was a terrible repetition of walking from their cots down an ice-cold hallway to sit still in a central room. If they moved or tried to adjust their positions at all, they were beaten. If they spoke to one another or asked for anything of the matrons, they were beaten. Always they were told, “It’s charity, so it’s good enough and you should be grateful for anything you get.”

Then another hour of standing in line, waiting for their small crust of moldy bread and tasteless gruel, followed by, if the weather was somewhat manageable, a silent walk around the grounds, chained together in a long line. Then they’d return to the cold common room to sit still until the next meal.

Trying to sleep at night was impossible, what with the cold and one woman screaming out of insanity and another crying out of ultimate sadness. The stories Bly told—it was difficult to comprehend how absolutely merciless and unkind the matrons had been. Every page Roslyn turned revealed another nightmarish scene.

In the end, Bly had to be sprung by the newspaper, since the doctors refused to believe she was sane. And then, when she returned with the police and lawyers to show them the truth of the matter, the asylum had tried to cover it up, hiding the women Bly had told them about—many of which were only slowly going crazy because of the conditions, and had been perfectly without fault before being sent to the asylum.

When Thomas had seen what Roslyn was reading, he’d suggested she not share it with Marian, as he’d read it and thought it might not place the most positive images of Eleanor in her mind, and he had the impression Marian was having a difficult enough time.

Roslyn prayed things would be found to be far better at the Medical Lake asylum, especially since Bly’s account had been published for all to read back in the late ’80s. One would suppose things would be different at a modern, updated hospital that boasted all the latest appliances and conveniences.

But electric lights and heated water didn’t necessarily mean the women were being treated any better than at Blackwell’s.

“But Roslyn, I couldn’t possibly abandon you two days in a row,” Marian said, disappointment marring her brow.

“Never you mind. I have plenty on my own plate to consider,” Roslyn said. Then she leaned closer to Marian to offer in a stage whisper, “This is an opportune chance for you and Thomas to see what each of you has to offer. With his charm and your brains, you could make quite the detecting duo.”

“I heard that,” Thomas said with a grin toward his sister-in-law. “And I must say, I agree.” He turned to Marian. “I look forward to seeing your photographer skills, as well. I haven’t yet had the opportunity of accompanying you to Montrose Park on one of your photography expeditions.”

Marian beamed.

Roslyn well knew that Marian was usually not alone on those excursions, often accompanied by Mr. Prescot, a young man Roslyn had nothing against—except that he wasn’t Thomas.

She watched her brother-in-law’s face. The problem with Thomas was his fierce sense of protection. She knew he couldn’t help feeling protective of Marian, but Roslyn worried this wasn’t a good thing when it came to this particular young woman, since she was such a free spirit. If he went too far, she might feel stifled by this, rather than encouraged.

There was a delicate balance that must be found when two grown adults had made it so long on their own. One tended to assume life would not change with the addition of another. Like all things in this life, change was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to accept.

“What are you thinking about with such a belabored brow, Roz?” Thomas asked, breaking into her thoughts.

Roslyn shook her head. “At least with you gone, I’ll be free to prepare for my own crazy maids, that of applying to and joining the Ladies’ Benevolent Society.”

A task, she feared, that would be almost as daunting as the asylum.

***

FIELDS OF GRAIN WHIPPED past the train windows as Marian and Thomas journeyed the rather round-about twenty-six mile track from Spokane to Medical Lake.

But neither of them took any notice of the time.

They were too busy discussing prison.

“The Château d’If is by far the worst prison ever described in a book,” Marian declared, The Count of Monte Cristo at the forefront of her mind, it being her most recently completed novel.

“It’s certainly one of the most detailed,” Thomas said. “Most likely because it’s a real place. Mark Twain recounts his visit to the Château d’If before it was opened to the public in The Innocents Abroad. He talks about Dumas’s characters, and describes the walls covered in images and names carved by prisoners, desperate that someone might remember them.”

Marian shivered.

Thomas misread the shiver and offered her his coat.

“Oh no, thank you. I’m quite warm. It’s just the thought of that dreadful place, filled with people, and who knows how many of them as innocent as Edmond Dantès.”

Thomas shook his head. “That’s just a story. There are far more tales of innocents wrongfully imprisoned for crimes than there are actual occurrences.”

“Do you think?”

“I do.” Thomas nodded. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a police officer, it’s that those who claim innocence, and actually are innocent, are few and far between.”

Marian nodded, but twisted Nain’s ring on her pinky. Would he believe that she herself was not as innocent as she seemed? Only a month ago she’d officially buried her secret identity as a thief known as the Red Rogue, though she continually had to stop herself from donning the garb and returning to the lifestyle that had once given her such a thrill.

“A fool is someone who trusts another fool,” she heard her Nain’s voice say, but knew in her heart that it was something she never would have said. It was Marian’s own thoughts, trying to mask themselves as Nain’s advice. No, Nain was more likely to say, “It is an equal failing to trust everybody and to trust nobody.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo is one of the most well-developed stories I’ve ever read,” Thomas continued. “I appreciate Dumas’s extensive backstories of every character, and the intertwining of their lives is a marvelous example of story-work by the author, though there are aspects I still find odd.”

“Such as?”

“Such as...I still find it difficult to believe that Dantès never reveals to Jacopo the location of his wealth. Why wouldn’t he trust his right-hand man?”

Marian thought of the burgundy overcoat, candlesticks, and first editions hidden under the floorboards of Nain’s house. “I think Dantès suffers from an inability to trust people because he’s been burned before.”

Thomas scratched his chin. “Yes, that’s understandable, but eventually he has to start trusting people again. And he does trust Jacopo enough to let him assist in his grand plan of revenge.”

“I don’t think he ever quite trusts Jacopo fully, though, or anyone for that matter. After he escapes from prison, it seems like he views all the people in his life as merely pawns to be used to his advantage.”

Thomas studied Marian. “You didn’t much care for Edmond Dantès did you?”

“As a character?” Marian pushed a stray curl from beneath her hat back over her ear as she considered. “I suppose I find him conflicting. He’s taken, quite literally, into the very pits of humanity, where he meets a diverse cast of questionable, unethical, and some truly evil characters. I just wonder at his ability to climb out the other side with a positive outlook on humanity. I’m not certain it’s...believable.”

“If I began to doubt all of humanity because of the number of criminals I’ve encountered, I don’t think I’d live a very happy life. I can’t believe behind every face is a murderer.”

What about a thief? Aloud she said, “Yes, but what do you think of the moral of the tale?”

“That love and mercy triumph over justice and judgment? It’s quite Biblical.”

“Yes. It is that.” But is it true? Marian wondered, afraid to speak this question aloud, knowing full well the beliefs of the Carew family were firmly ensconced in the First Swedish Baptist Church down the road from their house.

“However, I do believe that there are consequences to our actions,” Thomas continued. “It’s why I enjoy tales of revenge against wrong-doers, like detective fiction. I think it’s why most people enjoy those types of stories, and why the genre is currently on the rise. I expect in a world filled with grays, it is nice to read something where good is good and bad is bad, and good overcomes evil in the end.”

“You mean by sending the evil to jail? Or an asylum?” Marian waved in the direction in which they were traveling. “Yet, in the end, Dantès commits as many villainous acts as his enemies, it could be argued, even if he does no more than manipulate others to do his dirty work.”

Thomas’s brow furrowed. “True.”

“What if innocence really is a matter of perspective? Sometimes people must kill for the protection of others. What if someone is driven to do something evil in defense of something good? Does that make that person as qualified for hanging?”

Thomas scratched his chin and gave Marian an inquiring look. “Are we still talking about Dantès, or someone else?”

Marian blushed and turned to look out the window.

She felt Thomas take her hand in his, and she was grateful they had the train compartment to themselves.

“I’m sorry for Eleanor. I want to help her. Not only because she’s your friend.”

Marian turned to look at him.

“But because I wanted to kill her husband myself, and I might have, if she hadn’t beaten me to it.”

He offered her a wan smile.

Marian tried to smile back. “Thank you.”

He continued holding her hand. “One of the worst parts of being a police officer is you have to uphold the law at any cost. Sometimes that means arresting the murderer who was arguably right in the murder, so that she can face the consequences of her choices. I was very grateful when I heard Eleanor would be charged with insanity, so she could receive the help she so desperately needs.”

“But what if Eleanor hadn’t been caught. What if I...”

“What if you hadn’t shown up with that bucket?”

Marian bit her lip.

“We were only two steps behind you.” He gave her a look. “We would have gotten there eventually, and instead, Eleanor had the chance to explain why she’d done it in front of you, the one she cared most about hearing it.”

Marian sighed.

“In the end it was self-defense, no one can argue with that,” said Thomas. “What she did after defending herself was perhaps a bit much, but that’s the real reason why she’s at the asylum now. Not because she defended herself against her adulterous, abusive husband, but because if she can somehow be returned to sanity, she might stand a chance of defending herself before a judge in a couple months when she’s tried for her crimes.

“If she hadn’t done something, it’s an unfortunate truth that he might have never been stopped. In detective fiction, the bad guy always gets caught. In real life,” he shrugged and shook his head sadly, “sometimes he doesn’t.”

Marian nodded slowly. And sometimes, the thief tries to take that opportunity to change for the better.

***

ELEANOR WAS NOT IN her room.

She was lost in a memory, standing just outside the chicken house, taking a very deep breath in and out.

It was quiet inside just now, but she knew as soon as she entered, it would be a flurry of feathers and beating hearts with loud calls of “bagaw!” interspersed.

It was the rooster’s time to go. The big one with feathers that glinted green in the sun, and a cock’s comb to go with his attitude. He’d been picking on one of the hens, removing her feathers to the point of a bare bottom with his...attentions. The poor thing was distressed and wary, often separating from the rest of the flock rather than staying with the other hens.

Eleanor was sick of it. The other roosters didn’t act like that. They watched over their hens, one rooster per flock, one king per harem. So when Mrs. Curry had said she needed a chicken for lunch, Eleanor had known exactly whose turn it was to grace the table.

Eleanor breathed in and out one more time as she pulled on the thick leather work gloves and pulled open the first door.

She was lucky. The other roosters and hens were out picking the yard in the spring sunshine, pulling up pebbles and gravel and bits of small bone along with the bugs and grain and kitchen scraps that were spread amongst the grass and gardens.

Unlucky for the rooster, he’d decided to stay behind with the weakling hen, who was sitting on her nest laying an egg. Eleanor came up behind him quietly and grabbed at him. He flew to the roost, clucking and cawing and crowing and practically screaming, like he knew what was coming. She reached for him again and this time managed to pin his wings, then pinned his legs together and flipped the rooster upside down; he immediately stopped moving, the blood rushing to his head making him too dizzy to fight.

She carried him outside and around to the shed where her husband had placed a hatchet specifically for this sort of thing. He’d offered to take care of the rooster himself, but she’d turned him down.

Part of her desperately wanted to do this. Needed to do this.

The part of her that understood how the hen felt.

Her forearm ached from his “attentions” as she clenched the rooster’s feet tightly.

The longer she held him like this, the less blood there would be later. Plucking would still be a mess of wet feathers stuck to her fingers and all over her dress and shoes, but it wasn’t too difficult once the feathers had been loosened in boiling water. And feathers washed off more easily than blood. Then there would be the gutting, but often Mrs. Curry wanted to do that herself, since she knew which bits could still be used, and almost everything could be used to make broth, she said.

It was time.

With practiced hands, Eleanor reached down and grabbed the rooster’s neck, cracking it swiftly over her hip.

The wings started to flap wildly. Without purpose. Without meaning. The last actions of a dying bird.

She’d heard it was true that a chicken would run around with its head cut off, but she’d been taught this way by her mother, and so had never bothered with the headless chicken running about spurting blood all over everything. This was much cleaner.

The next part would not be, but if she’d held the rooster’s head downward for long enough, the blood would drain swiftly out the neck and into a bucket she had prepared next to the chopping block.

With a swift move borne of years of practice on her family farm, she placed the rooster’s neck across the block, and brought down the hatchet smoothly and cleanly.

Was it so very wrong that when she did so, her husband’s face crossed her mind?

***

ROSLYN STUDIED THE inventors who sat across from her: one blind and Japanese, sipping out of a porcelain tea cup with poise and posture to rival any finishing school teacher, the other round with glasses he kept pushing up his nose while he slurped noisily in obvious nervous agitation at having been summoned like this.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t come until now, Mrs. Carew,” Mr. Prescot apologized. “As Mr. Matsumoto told you, I returned home rather late last night.”

“Yes, Miss Kenyon told me all about your excursion to the asylum,” Roslyn said with a wave of her hand. “I don’t want to waste anymore of your time. I’ve been tasked with joining the Ladies’ Benevolent Society, not for my own good, but for yours.” She looked pointedly at Mr. Matsumoto, who had turned out to be exactly the man Bernard had described and she’d built up in her mind’s eye. Even though it didn’t seem like it was possible, he was studying her face with eyes that technically could not see.

Mr. Prescot glanced at Mr. Matsumoto, nervously pushing his glasses up his nose. “What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid the good ladies think they still have some claim to Miss Mitchell’s estate, seeing as the new will was witnessed by a conman.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Jennings.” Mr. Matsumoto took a bite of one of Mrs. Curry’s cinnamon apple scones, seemingly at peace with the idea that he might lose everything he thought he’d just gained. “But Mrs. Carew, this is not a matter you need to concern yourself with. It is a problem for me, and me alone.”

“I’d like to help, if you’ll let me,” Roslyn said with what she hoped was an encouraging smile that carried into her voice. “Mr. Westfall, the lawyer in charge of Miss Mitchell’s will, has suggested I speak with the ladies of the society to find out if they’d be willing to come to an agreement. And in order to do that, I need a simpler way to get around. This chair is too bulky to take onto streetcars and it’s difficult to lift into cabs without two strong men on either side. That’s where you two come in: I need you to put your brilliant minds together and make me a way to travel.”

Mr. Prescot sat up straighter in his chair, for the first time appearing excited and interested in what she was saying.

“A convenience capable of traveling how far?”

“Let’s say, in general, a good five to ten miles. That would get me almost anywhere in or around Spokane.”

“And it needs to be capable of fitting you, or you and your chair?”

“An excellent question.” Roslyn considered, running her hands over the arms of her wheelchair. “I suppose me and my chair, as once I reach anywhere, I’d need it in order to get out and into a house or building.”

“And when would you need it?”

“The Ladies’ Benevolent Society—let’s call them the LBS for short—meets regularly every Monday at 2:30. You have until then to think of something.”

***

BY THE TIME ARCHIE and Matsumoto were waiting at the streetcar stop once more, it was Wednesday at eleven a.m., which gave them exactly 123.5 hours to complete their task. Less, really, because they’d need time to get Mrs. Carew to the meeting, so Archie figured 120 hours to be safe.

“What about cost?” Archie asked Matsumoto, after telling him his figuring for the time they had.

“I will not hear of Mrs. Carew paying us for such an endeavor,” Matsumoto said.

Archie agreed. “I’d rather look upon this as a project worthy of the challenge alone.”

“Especially as she is doing this to assist me.”

Archie could see how important that fact was to Matsumoto. He wondered if anyone had ever gone out of their way to assist him before, other than Miss Mitchell, who had more than redeemed herself if her will was anything to go by. And Archie felt it was.

It bothered him that anyone would try to take from Matsumoto what was clearly rightfully his, but then, he was no lawyer.

“It was very kind of Mrs. Carew to offer to speak on my behalf before the ladies of this society. I will be indebted to her should she succeed.”

“Making this convenience for her will go a long way to showing your gratitude.”

Matsumoto nodded. “Mrs. Carew is a good woman, deserving of such a convenient conveyance.”

Archie blushed. He appreciated Matsumoto’s ability to correct his malapropisms with such subtlety, never letting Archie feel unintelligent because of his slip of the tongue, like turning “conveyance” into “convenience.” The irony, however, of the Japanese man having a better grasp of the English language was not lost on him.

Together, they climbed aboard the streetcar, Archie leading the blind Matsumoto to an empty seat, ignoring the way all the eyes of the passengers were following the Japanese man. Dressed in a suit and tie, complete with homburg, he wouldn’t have drawn any notice if it wasn’t for his skin color. Perhaps there was a benefit to being blind, though Archie was certain the inventor could still feel the stares.

“Based on the measurements I took of her wheelchair, I’d say we’re looking at a good four foot square of necessary space.”

“What were the exact dimensions?” Matsumoto asked.

“The seat is eighteen inches wide, the front wheels are each twenty-eight inches, and the back caster wheel is twelve inches. It was about forty-eight inches from the back wheel to the tips of her shoes, about thirty inches wide from rim to rim of the two wheels on either side, and twenty-eight inches from the bottom of the wheel to the back top of the chair. If we need to make something over her head, it’ll have to be even higher.”

“And the distance from the seat to the footrest?”

“About seventeen inches.”

“Did you try having her tuck her legs closer to the seat?”

“She can’t because of the way the footrest is built on the front of the chair.”

Matsumoto nodded. “Those are quite wide dimensions. I would guess the width of the aisle of this very streetcar is no more than thirty inches. No wonder she has had difficulty going anywhere she cannot roll by her own strength.”

“Miss Kenyon told me about pushing her all the way to the Montvale Hotel and back. She said it was quite strenuous for both of them, but well worth the effort since they were then able to assist Detective Carew in solving the case.”

“It seems Miss Kenyon is capable of doing far more than most young ladies,” Matsumoto said.

Archie looked at him askance. He was often impressed by how much more the blind man was capable of seeing than the average person, but he worried the inventor had realized something more.

“I know you have noticed,” Matsumoto said, lowering his voice. “It is one of the reasons you are in love with her, is it not?”

Archie felt heat from his neck to his forehead. “I, well, I...Miss Kenyon is certainly...I mean, she’s not like most...”

Matsumoto smiled and looked out the window with unseeing eyes. “It is difficult to hide love from one who has experienced sixty-two years of life.”

“Sixty-two?” Archie was surprised. He would have sworn the man was no more than fifty. If he was in his sixties, he was closer to Mrs. Curry’s age than Archie’s.

“Yes. And in that time I have felt enough love and heartbreak to recognize it in my friends, especially ones like you who wear their emotions on their shirtsleeves.”

“I am honored to be considered a friend,” Archie said, trying to distract himself from the other, more uncomfortable half of Matsumoto’s conversation. “I hope you know I view you the same way. It is why I am struggling with the need to return to Connecticut. With you and Mrs. Curry and the Carews and...Miss Kenyon...I believe I have more friends in Spokane than I’ve ever had in Thomaston.”

“I, too, have found more friendships in the past two months than any other time in my life.”

“And Mrs. Carew is a true friend in need of conveyance,” Archie said, emphasizing the correct use of the word this time and hoping to get them back on track.

Matsumoto smiled. “What are your initial thoughts in regards to her conundrum?”

Archie considered the numbers before him. “We could attach a motor to her chair, so she could practically drive herself across town.”

“You mean, turn her wheelchair into a miniaturized automobile?”

Archie almost laughed at the image. “That does sound a bit odd.”

“I fear our research into sound theory has not advanced enough to provide her with your sound engine.”

Archie wondered if his engine that ran on sound waves would be small enough to attach to her wheelchair. They wouldn’t know until they’d finally built one that worked.

“Not by Monday, but perhaps we could save that idea for a later date.”

The streetcar bell dinged to notify them they’d reached the end of the line, which was their stop at 29th. After they disembarked, Archie turned and watched the streetcar begin its way back down the hill.

Archie adjusted the strap of his satchel over his shoulder as they turned up the drive to the House. “For now, what if we simply found a way to fit her chair into a larger vehicle already suited for travel?”

“Like a streetcar?”

Archie smiled, his head ringing with another, might he say, brilliant idea as they came in sight of the carriage house. And what was inside the carriage house.

“More like an automobile.”

***

THOMAS WAS EXCITED to get to spend an entire case working alongside Marian. He was not excited, however, at the prospect of having to work with the man he still thought of in his head as “Jennings.”

“Welcome to hell,” the man said around a cigarette in greeting. He was fully garbed in his hospital attendant uniform as he met them beside the lake.

“Enough with the theatrics,” Thomas said irritatedly.

He was in no mood for sarcasm. He was going to have to put on his Bernard hat, seeing as this might be his one chance to play the role of lead detective. He had a lot riding on this one, not the least Marian’s perception of him.

“No need to be rude. I am your inside informant, after all,” Jennings—that is, Jackson said.

Thomas rolled his eyes.

“And we’re very grateful to you for it,” Marian said placatingly, giving Thomas a look like she thought he was being rude for no reason.

Didn’t she understand this man couldn’t be trusted to fish with a pole? He was a conman, which meant he’d always find a way to cheat, the type who’d run to the nearest store to buy a dead fish and claim it as his own.

Thomas sniffed. Clearly, fish was on his mind for a reason. “What is that smell?”

Jackson finished his cigarette and flicked it out into the water. “It’s the lake. It’s full of minerals. The city had a New York City laboratory come out and make a chemical analysis, and they found traces of sodium chloride, potassic chloride, sodium carbonate, magnesium, lime, ferrous carbonate, and other carbonates.”

“Thank you, Dr. Jackson,” Thomas said sardonically.

“I’m no doctor,” Jackson said, “this time.” He gave Marian a wink.

Thomas almost punched him.

“That’s why we’re here,” Marian said. “I brought Officer Carew with me, as promised. I’ve already told him everything you told Mr. Prescot and me, and I’ve shown him your letter. We need to know everything you know about the hospital and its inner workings, so we can understand the best way to approach matters.”

Jackson nodded. “Superintendent MacLean is the head of the hospital. He spends most of his day making the rounds of the hospital, visiting those patients the assistant physician deems necessary in order to keep abreast of their moral and physical treatment.”

Thomas pulled out his pencil and notepad as soon as he realized he probably should be taking notes, and was thankful when Jackson paused for a breath.

“Then there’s the assistant physician, Doctor Clarke, who presides over seven doctors: Dutton, Morrison, Freeman, Brown, Munly, Kimball, and Smythe.” Jackson counted them off on his fingers. “The assistant physician visits every patient once a day, observing their condition, wants, and treatment. It’s up to him to determine whether a patient requires restraint or seclusion, though the superintendent must sign off on it.”

“So it’s his fault Eleanor is in isolation?” Marian interrupted.

“It was their joint decision, yes—Clarke and MacLean,” Jackson said. “The assistant physician, Dr. Clarke, has charge of the dispensary. He puts up the prescriptions and keeps a record of each prescription in a book, though it is the steward who requisitions the drugs and medicines per his order. Dr. Clarke keeps all the medical records of the hospital, and in the absence of the superintendent, performs all his duties and enforces all the rules and regulations which govern the hospital.”

“Sounds like Dr. Clarke does most of the work,” said Marian.

Jackson shrugged.

“Where do they all live?” Thomas asked.

“Both Dr. Clarke and Superintendent MacLean reside in-house with their families; the other doctors live in town.”

“Could the other doctors still access the hospital at night?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, and several of them work late shifts, depending on their patients. But there’s also the steward and matrons who live in-house. Each of the residents and their families is furnished with everything they need, from furniture to fuel to board.”

“Free room and board in addition to their salaries?” Thomas whistled. “I’m definitely in the wrong profession.”

Jackson raised a finger. “However, in exchange for this, they’re not allowed to leave the hospital.”

“What?” Marian asked in surprise.

“That’s right. None of them may leave the hospital for more than a day or two without consent from the board, and the superintendent and assistant physician can’t be absent at the same time.”

“So all of them were at the hospital at the times of the deaths?” Marian clarified.

Jackson scratched his sideburns. “The only death I know for sure happened during the day is the third one, when the woman keeled over next to Eleanor at mealtime. The other three were found dead in their beds in the morning.”

“Is there any security at night?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, two night watchmen patrol the wards, taking an hourly walk through.”

“A lot can happen in an hour...,” Marian muttered.

“I agree,” Jackson said. “For all four, however, it’s unclear the cause of death, so really anyone could have slipped them something that caused them to pass at any time.”

“So we’re assuming poison?” Thomas asked, noting such on his notepad.

“I think that’s the obvious assumption,” Jackson said.

“What are the symptoms shown by those who’ve died?”

Jackson shrugged. “It’s a hospital for the insane. What symptoms aren’t seen? I could get you the charts of the dead ladies, though, if you wanted.”

“Really?” Thomas’s eyebrows rose.

“You don’t seem to get it.” Jackson put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas flinched but managed not to stab the conman in the neck with his pencil. There were ladies present, after all. “I’m your secret weapon, your inside man, your informant. I can get you anything and everything you need. ’Cause I guarantee,” Jackson jabbed a finger over his shoulder toward the hospital, “you’re not gonna get squat from the docs.”

***

“BACK SO SOON?” THE receptionist’s voice seemed to bounce clear to the ceiling as she glared at them from over the glasses hovering on the tip of her nose.

Jackson had called the small woman in the reception room of the asylum “Cerberus.” Marian could see how Jackson might compare the woman behind the desk to the mythical three-headed dog who guarded the entrance to Hades’s domain.

“Yesterday I came as a friend, but this time I’ve returned in my official capacity.” Marian lifted the box camera that hung around her neck as proof.

“A photographer?”

“Peter Bach, reporter for The Spokesman-Review,” Thomas said, thrusting his hand forward with every ounce of confidence the real Bach had possessed.

Marian had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.

“This little lady is my assistant. We’re here to speak with Superintendent MacLean.”

“The superintendent is quite busy.” The woman sniffed. “He doesn’t have time for reporters.”

Obviously Thomas must be doing something right, since that was exactly the response Marian imagined Bach would have received.

“Oh, he’ll want to see me. We’re here to receive an update on the construction of the new wing. He’s just back this way, yes?” Thomas said, pushing past the desk with purpose.

But Cerberus was quicker than him. She blocked the door and glared at them both with eyes capable of turning them to stone.

“Let me see if the superintendent is available.” She disappeared, off to see if Hades, lord of the dead and insane, was available for an interview.

Thomas cocked a brow at Marian but said nothing, keeping in character in case an attendant came in, but they remained entirely alone in the reception room until Cerberus’s return. She surprised them by returning by way of the door through which they’d arrived, however, rather than the door she’d disappeared through behind her desk, which Marian knew also led to the asylum.

Cerberus frowned and held the door open, beckoning them through without a word.

They followed her across the atrium and through yet another door to a corner office space, then down a short hallway lined with four doors, each marked with a doctor’s name or two. The superintendent and assistant physician each had their own marked door, with the remaining two offices being shared between the seven doctors.

Cerberus knocked once on Dr. MacLean’s door before opening it for Thomas and Marian.

“Mr. Bach and...photographer,” she said, then left without a backward glance.

Superintendent MacLean rose from behind his desk and offered a hand to each of them. “A pleasure to meet you, truly a pleasure. Please, have a seat.”

He motioned toward the two chairs available before his desk. “So you’re interested in hearing more about our big construction plans? Yes, yes, we’ve got big plans, big plans. Preusse and Zittel have drawn up the plans and we’re working with the Washington Water Power company to get a decent cost for electric lights. They figure they can get it to us for as much as twenty-five percent less than our current system. But it all started when I had this idea for an airing court...”

Dr. MacLean continued in this vein for another quarter of an hour before Thomas could get a word in to guide the conversation toward their actual interest. The Scottish or Irish background his name implied lived up to his slick red hair and boisterous nature. It was difficult to look away from his beautifully coiffed beard and intelligent blue eyes. But while Thomas took notes and nodded his head, Marian took stock of the office.

According to what Jackson had said, it was Dr. MacLean’s job to keep the hospital running like clockwork. If his office was anything to go by, he was a very organized man. His four bookshelves were lined with medical journals and books with titles like Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body and Mental Maladies: A Treatise on Insanity. Marian recognized The Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease as one that Roslyn had used for her research into Eleanor’s case, and wondered if somewhere on those shelves she might find the notes Roslyn had forwarded to the hospital.

Something told her, however, that this man would never take advice from anyone, much less a woman.

“Being a graduate from Rush Medical College, I know a thing or two about mental illness,” he was saying now in response to some question Thomas had asked that she had missed. “I was county coroner from ’88 to ’90 and I learned a great deal about the human body after demise.”

Marian wondered how dead bodies had helped him to understand mental illness, but Thomas took a better tack.

“I hear you helped the police solve many a case.”

“Yes, yes, naturally,” Dr. MacLean said, leaning back in his chair with his fingertips pressed together. He looked at his framed diploma from Rush, which was hanging just to the right of his desk. “Of course, when they asked me to join the staff here as assistant physician in ’97, I was more than happy to oblige. One can only learn so much from the dead, you know, before one feels the need to return to a doctor’s true calling: that of prolonging the life of the living.”

“And when did you become superintendent?”

“Two years ago, in ’99. ’Course I was already living in-house with the wife and children—four to be exact,” he said, looking at Marian for the first time.

“Must be difficult for them, living in such a place,” Marian said quietly.

Dr. MacLean waved away her concerns. “Not at all.”

“Even with so many deaths of late?” Thomas asked.

Dr. MacLean sat up straight, his bonhomie disappearing with the creak of his chair. “Deaths?” he asked.

“We’ve heard you’ve had as many as four deaths in the past week alone,” Thomas pressed. “Your past as a coroner must help. Have you identified the cause?”

Dr. MacLean smiled and shrugged, but it obviously came at great cost. “It is a hospital, after all.”

He stood and Marian expected him to ask them to leave, but instead, he came around the desk saying, “Allow me to offer you a tour of our facilities. I think you’ll be pleased by what you find.”

***

ROSLYN HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED her independence. Others might look at her and think, “How could she possibly do anything on her own?” She’d always sought to prove them wrong.

But she had to admit, without Marian, Roslyn was at a loss. It had been many years since she’d gone so long without a companion. She was used to making do one day a week on her companion’s day off, but more than that? She was coming to realize just how much she appreciated simply having another person in the room with her.

She might have talked with Signora Magro, but she could only last so long dialoguing in Italian. Reading the language was much simpler for her.

Her father and Bernard’s mother and sister lived too far away to visit often. In fact, she’d never really been close with Bernard and Thomas’s sister, whom they hadn’t seen since their father's passing. She was too busy with her own husband and family, not to mention taking care of their mother.

Perhaps one of the benefits of joining the Ladies’ Benevolent Society would be for her to finally have some friends outside of her home. If they welcomed her, this could be the beginning of something quite wonderful.

She sighed and flipped through the large book in front of her. Published the previous year, within the pages of Rev. Jonathan Edwards’s An Illustrated History of Spokane County, any Spokanite, or anyone anywhere, might learn all they needed to know about Spokane, its people, its organizations, and the smaller towns that surrounded Spokane.

This would be the best place to learn more about the Ladies’ Benevolent Society in preparation for her first meeting with them.

“This organization can justly be deemed one of the most beneficent in the country. There is no work more Christlike than to provide for the little ones who are homeless.”

The first lines alone were enough to make Roslyn start questioning her mission.

She read on. From the beginning the society had focused on “charitable and educational purposes” though they didn’t originally focus on just orphaned children, but instead “endeavored to practice benevolence in any and every way opportunity offered itself.”

But in the end, God had led them to creating the “Home of the Friendless.”

Roslyn was not surprised to find most of the names listed as incorporators were names familiar to her. Most likely this was because she read the newspaper cover to cover, unlike most women who preferred to focus on the Women’s Column and fashion advice.

Interestingly, the membership at its high point had reached three hundred women, and they received one hundred dollars per month for the running of the Children’s Home. She imagined they could do quite a lot with that kind of money and wondered how many children they averaged in their care.

She was intrigued to learn the present matron was a Mrs. Mattie Shaw from Tacoma, since she’d only last month known a reporter and a murder victim from that same locale. Working full-time at the Home were the matron, but also a cook, laundress, nurse, and housekeeper.

“It takes nearly three hundred dollars a month to sustain the institution and the present officers and members (about fifty)...and it is only by constant exertion and devotion that they are able to meet expenses. About one hundred different children are taken in, for more or less time, annually, making it safe to say that no less than one thousand have found a home in the institution during its history.”

There was the answer to her question regarding the children, yet also a depressing figure regarding expenses. Roslyn knew the Society held many functions and fundraisers to make up the rest of their needed funds, but she also knew the inheritance of Miss Mitchell’s estate would certainly go far in helping them in their quest.

And it was a worthy quest, no doubt about it.

“Words are inadequate to convey the sweetness, sunshine, and joy which it has brought to this army of God’s precious children. All children up to twelve years old are taken in, if properly recommended. Homes have been found for a large number; fourteen nationalities have been represented, the majority of the whole being Americans. The matron listens to the stories that are heart-rending, of faithless husbands and fathers.”

Roslyn sighed. Perhaps they shouldn’t be fighting their getting the House. Perhaps she instead should be talking all this through with Matsumoto. Maybe if he knew more about the LBS he wouldn’t want her to fight it.

***

IT WAS OBVIOUS DR. MacLean was eager to show the best side of the hospital, and Thomas thought it wise to allow the man to do so, while he kept an eye out for the truth hidden behind the thin veneer of antiseptic.

The hospital was built in a relative T-shape, with two wings stretching out to either side of the large front atrium above a short trunk that housed the dining rooms on the second and third floors, and the storage, kitchen, and steam boilers on the first floor.

“We enjoy the use of steam for our patients with water pumped directly from the lake and heated here, available to us night or day. The steam pipes are completely covered with asbestos, so we’re kept quite safe from the incredible heat.”

Marian snapped a photograph as Dr. MacLean waved to the sconces that lined the hallway. She hoped the electric lighting would be enough for her box camera to capture the image, but it wasn’t like she could ask Dr. MacLean to hold that pose while she prepared a flash.

“The lights are electric, as I mentioned, the heat is steam, and there are windows on all sides that can be opened when it’s too warm in the summer. Unlike some hospitals you read about, we endeavor to make sure our patients receive all the comforts modern technology can provide.”

Thomas had an inkling he knew exactly to what Dr. MacLean was referring. He recalled Nellie Bly’s tell-all describing the freezing cold the inmates at Blackwell’s were forced to endure, with no extra blankets or heavier clothes provided for even the sick. Not to mention the baths given in water cold enough to turn their lips and skin blue.

It was these disturbing descriptions that had made him encourage Roslyn to keep the book hidden from Marian.

From a back window, Dr. MacLean pointed out the carpenter shop beside the pump house, the laundry, the bakery, the cellar, and the recreation room.

“You have everything you need right here,” Marian declared.

Dr. MacLean nodded. “Since most of the staff and their families live here, it’s the least we can do to provide for every need.”

“Where is the staff housing located?” Thomas asked.

“On the far south end of the male wards.”

“All of you are in the same area of the hospital?”

“Yes, so when we are needed in the female wards in the middle of the night, it does make for quite a jaunt to walk all the way to the other end of the hospital. Here, let me show you some of the rooms.”

Marian raised an eyebrow at Thomas, who nodded briefly in reply. Here they went. But he could tell almost immediately that something was wrong as Dr. MacLean knocked and then entered a room on the first floor.

It was sparsely furnished with four beds and one simple set of drawers, but even this was more than what Marian had described as being provided for Eleanor.

And the windows in this room had curtains.

“Do all the rooms look this nice?” Thomas asked carefully.

Marian took photographs, her mouth a firm line as she looked about.

Dr. MacLean smiled at Thomas’s question. “Indeed. We want our patients to feel like they’re in a home away from home, not in a hospital.”

Marian shook her head from behind Dr. MacLean, but Thomas sent her a look that he hoped encouraged her not to say anything.

“When I visited Eleanor Sigmund, her room was quite different.”

Apparently Thomas had to work on his secret signaling.

Dr. MacLean’s smile almost dropped, but somehow remained with all the reality of a theater mask. “Ah,” he said, “you’re the same young lady from yesterday. I see now what Miss Templeton was trying to convey. I’m afraid I heard ‘reporter’ and stopped listening. She does go on rather, you see.” He gave a conspiratorial nod to Thomas as if to say, Women, you know.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Sigmund has had to be moved to one of the Violent Female Wards on the far north side of the building. She is in isolation for her own good.”

“It’s a wonder you allowed Miss Kenyon to visit her at all, then,” Thomas said, with honest shock in his voice. “Surely it wasn’t entirely safe.”

Dr. MacLean stood taller, raising his nose to remind Thomas who was the doctor here. “Miss Kenyon is listed as Mrs. Sigmund’s next-of-kin, and we here at the Eastern Washington Hospital for the Insane do not stand in the way of family visits, so long as they occur within normal business hours. We wouldn’t want people to think we’ve locked their loved ones away for good where they cannot see them, should they so desire.”

“Of course not,” said Thomas. Though he had to wonder how many actually would desire.

***

“HOW IN THE DICKENS did you find him, Detective Carew?” Captain Coverly was grinning from ear to ear beneath his thick brown mustache, beaming at Bernard. It was a nice look on him.

“It was really quite simple,” Bernard said with a shrug.

Coverly shook a finger at him. “I sent Detective Burns to that same lodging house just yesterday, and the landlady told him Snyder wasn’t there.”

“But we knew he was,” Bernard said, “so I searched the building while Burns questioned the neighbors. Snyder was in the garret.”

Coverly chuckled softly. “Is he talking?”

“Not yet.”

“She regained consciousness today, did you hear?” the captain asked.

“Yes, though she didn’t have much to say. Too fearful as yet, I shouldn’t wonder, after nearly being killed just a few days ago,” Bernard said.

“Think we can get him on attempted murder?”

Bernard scratched his mustache. “Depends on how badly her injuries appear to the docs, I think. The papers reported her head as ‘almost severed’ but it was just an attempt at sensationalism. If she fingers him, he’s going away for abuse at the least.”

Coverly took a deep breath and tapped the papers before him on his desk. “Nice work, Detective. Nice work.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Bernard.

“Now what about that dog?”

Bernard narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. “Just fine, sir.”

Coverly twitched his mustache. “Details, Detective.”

Bernard grunted and pulled out his notebook. “Rover, owned by a Mr. Charles Stewart, who works for the United States weather bureau, is a shepherd weighing about a hundred pounds. According to Dr. Charles McNab, he broke no bones even though he jumped a good ninety feet from that window.”

“Sixth floor wasn’t it?”

Bernard nodded. “Apparently there was a ledge about five inches wide which wraps around the Blalock Block, and Rover liked to walk from one end to the other.”

“How does a dog do that?”

“Beats me, sir,” said Bernard. “Had several people tell me this is usual behavior for Rover, who’s been known to ring elevator bells for the exact floor at which he needs to get off.”

Coverly laughed.

“Fact is: at 4:30 yesterday afternoon,” Bernard continued, “he was sitting in the window sill and then he wasn’t. Just took a dive straight out and down. Guests at the Hotel Spokane witnessed it.”

“Good story, Detective. Nice work once again.”

“Thank you, sir, though I didn’t do much but follow up on reports of a suicide jumper.”

“A dog suicide jumper,” Coverly guffawed, slapping his knee.

Bernard supposed it was good that the captain could still find something to laugh about when the rest of the officers on the force were too worried about their jobs to find anything funny these days.

He didn’t look forward to telling Thomas about this. He’d certainly laugh, especially since he was off investigating a real murder case, while Bernard was interviewing dogs.

“And what’s your brother working on again?”

“Uh, he went to Medical Lake, sir, to follow up on Michael Codd.”

“The insane prisoner?”

Bernard nodded. “He was brought in two nights ago answering to charges of dangerous insanity from his neighbors. Said they’ve considered him ‘peculiar’ for a long time, but when they heard about the Baker, they began to worry it might be something more.”

Captain Coverly shook his head and sighed. “I’m worried this is only one of several cases like this we’re going to see in response to the Baker. Folks want to be in the paper, and they’d do anything, even turn in their friendliest neighbor who’s just slightly odd to get their five minutes.”

Bernard agreed. “He’s waiting in the jail cells for the return of Judge Chadwick, who’ll examine him on the insanity charge to determine whether he’ll be sent to the Medical Lake asylum or not.”

“So what’s Thomas doing out there?”

“Uh, following up on a lead.”

“What sort of lead?”

“Well, um...” Bernard scratched his mustache. “There’s been rumors of a few mysterious deaths at the hospital, and I wanted to know if they might be in connection to the Baker.”

“Deaths. At a hospital. Detective Carew...” Coverly wasn’t smiling anymore. He pointed a finger at Bernard. “The Baker, Codd, and all the rest can have the asylum. Crazy is as crazy does. I want you to keep your nose out of it. Your brother, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bernard. So much for that.

Captain Coverly shook his head and pointed to the door. “No good can come of sniffing around there. They keep to themselves, and we keep to ourselves. Got that?”

Bernard nodded, saluted, and turned on his heel. Guess he’d just stick to the other end of crazy, like a dog who could ring elevator bells.

***

THOMAS HAD ALWAYS BEEN under the impression that matrons were brawny Scandinavian women who’d fit right in on the force if they’d ever allow women.

But this Matron Pumi was short and full-figured with dark hair, dark eyes, and dark features that brought to mind one of Signora Magro’s perfectly cooked Italian cannoli, sweet, with just a hint of lemon.

She even smelled like cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. How could someone smell like Christmas?

Thomas cleared his throat, which was feeling quite dry all of a sudden.

“Matron Pumi?”

“It’s ‘poom-ee,’” she said. “It comes from the Salish language.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Thomas. And he meant it. “What does it mean?”

“The closest thing would be ‘snow.’”

“And your first name?”

“Ethel.”

“Really?”

She looked offended.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“‘Ethel’ means ‘noble,’ in case you were wondering.”

He could definitely make out the lemon now.

“That’s very interesting,” he said. “I’m sorry if I—”

“You can call me ‘Matron.’ Everyone else does.”

“Of course, Matron, thank you, wonderful, that’s—I mean, I love your name.”

Matron Ethel Pumi raised an eyebrow at him.

Thomas pulled at his collar. He was glad Marian hadn’t been here to witness his embarrassment.

After completing their interview with Dr. MacLean, they’d been shown the door. But then they’d re-entered, told Cerberus—or Miss Templeton, as it were—that the doctor had just stepped out for a quick smoke, and then made a dive for the door behind her desk back into the bowels of the asylum. Cerberus had looked as discouraging as usual, but evidently believed they were still on the job. At the very least, she’d made no attempt to follow them.

They’d decided to investigate the female ward a little closer, and had opted for Marian doing the searching, while Thomas questioned any passing staff.

As luck would have it, the first matron to ask him what he was doing was the very one Jackson had warned them about. The one who’d taken on the care of Eleanor a week ago, at the same time the suspicious deaths had started.

Now she stood before him, her arms crossed and a look of skepticism on her face.

“Men aren’t allowed in the female wards without permission from the superintendent and a matron escort,” Matron said, tapping her foot. “What are you doing here?”

Thomas waved his notepad and pencil, but then decided at the last second to go the honest route, figuring this particular matron may be more helpful if she knew he was a policeman, rather than a reporter. “Officer Carew. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the recent deaths.”

“Officer? Like police?”

Thomas nodded, then leaned in and opened his jacket just enough to reveal where he’d pinned his badge to the inside pocket. “I’m undercover.”

“Right.” Matron uncrossed her arms and glanced at the nurse’s fob watch that hung from a small chain attached to a pin on her chest. “You have exactly three minutes to ask me your questions and then I’m due at my next patient.”

“Who’s your patient?”

Matron pursed her lips.

“Sorry, right, well, then, what can you tell me?”

Matron took a very deep breath and crossed and uncrossed her arms, then looked up and down the empty corridor.

She leaned in and the smell of cinnamon grew stronger. “Listen, if you’re serious, and you’re really with the police, then I’m glad you’re here because something very fishy is going on.”

“And it’s not the lake,” Thomas said with a grin.

Her lips twitched slightly, but she didn’t break. “You want to talk to the female morning matron who found the three women who died in their sleep: Anna Lionelle.”

“The same woman found all three?” Thomas’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?”

“Not at all. We’re assigned by ward. Anna and I share the Third Floor Violent Female Ward. She’s the morning shift, I’m the afternoon. And before you even go there: she’s innocent. You’ll need to speak with her today. She put in her notice this morning. Left me to take care of the Baker and her entourage all by myself.”

“The Baker?” Thomas faked surprise.

Matron scowled at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb with me. I know that’s why you’re here. You cops thought you could dump her on us, but then these deaths started and you’ve got to investigate, don’t you? Gotta make sure she’s not on the rampage again. So you send in a young, handsome cop in plainclothes to discreetly ask some questions.”

Handsome? Thomas brightened.

Matron leaned in again. “Don’t think you fooled me for a second, copper. I knew you from the instant I laid eyes on you.”

“I knew you were the woman I wanted to speak to the moment I saw you, too,” Thomas said, then immediately started backpedaling. “I mean, the matron I wanted to speak to, the woman who could answer all my questions, seeing as you’re in charge of Mrs. Sigmund, and only started a week ago, just as the deaths started up.”

Matron stiffened. “Time’s up, Officer.”

She turned on her heel with a snap.

Thomas reached out and grabbed her elbow. The glare she leveled at him caused him to drop her like a hot roll. He raised his hands defensively, still grasping his notepad and pencil in his right hand.

“Just one more question, Matron Pumi, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Matron didn’t move.

“Do you think she did it?”

“Matron Lionelle? No, I already told you I don’t. She wasn’t even a trained nurse. Just a young thing hoping to snag a doctor.”

Thomas’s mouth twitched. “Actually, I meant the Baker.”

“Oh.” Matron shook her head firmly. “Not at all. There’s no way. She’s been in a straitjacket in isolation since Monday. She couldn’t have done it.”

Thomas gave a succinct nod and bowed, tipping his hat. “Thank you, Matron Pumi. You’ve been most helpful. Have a delightful rest of your day.”

***

“PERFECT,” SAID ARCHIE, pointing with his measuring stick at the automobile before them. “This should be no problem at all. All we need is a ramp and her wheelchair should be able to slide right in.”

“After we remove the seats already inside,” Matsumoto pointed out.

Archie scratched his head. “That should be a simple matter, companionably...I mean, comparatively. Don’t forget: we still have to figure out how to drive this thing in the first place, so we can teach Mrs. Carew.”

“I am not certain I will be able to help you,” the blind man said.

Archie shook his head. “No, I think I can do it myself. You go on to the workshop and get started on the ramp. I’ll take care of the seat removal.”

The blacksmith nodded and left him to it, though Archie quickly realized he sure could have used an extra set of hands, whether they came with blind eyes or not.

Before he pulled the seat completely out, he thought he’d take a gander at the inner workings.

With a grunt, he hoisted himself up and into the electric automobile. He sat down with a contented sigh and ran his hands over the two shiny hand-cranks protruding from the floor.

It really was a thing of beauty.

And simple. All he had to do was push this button, right?

He did so.

The soft whirring hum of electrical workings came to life beneath his feet. He looked down. There was nothing on the floor besides the two cranks. He recalled hearing something about using them to turn the front wheels in the direction one desired, like the rudder of a boat. He imagined one of them was also the brake.

He grabbed hold of one and pushed with all his might forward. He felt something turn beneath him. He tried pulling back on the same handle and felt a similar movement but to the left this time.

That meant the other crank must be the brake. He tried to push on it and beneath him he heard a whir that meant the wheels were turning faster. He was increasing the speed, but still not moving anywhere. Good thing, too, since he was still in the carriage house. He pulled back until the car wasn’t trying to move against the brake.

Speaking of which: where was it? Archie looked about, then ran his hand along the bench seat. There it was. Tucked to his left between the seat and the door, but just far enough back one didn’t trip on it climbing in.

He tried to push down on the lever and nothing happened, but then when he pulled up on it, he felt and heard a loud kachunk that told him he’d been correct in his assumption and something had lifted from the wheel rods. Sure enough, now when he tried to push the hand-crank forward—just a little so as not to ram into the wall in front of him—he found he could do so. By pulling back on it, the vehicle slowed. Then, when he pushed down on the brake, a softer kachunk told him the brake had stopped the car altogether.

Simple as that. And the driver didn’t even need feet to be capable of running it.

Mrs. Carew would certainly be riding in style.

He pushed the button again and the automobile turned off.

Archie shook his head. That was the problem with these electric cars. At least the ones with a combustible engine had a strong smell and a loud, rumbling noise, so you knew when one was coming toward you.

Not so with the electric models.

Archie recalled a trip he’d taken to New York City, the center of all the latest technology had to offer. There’d been dozens of electric vehicles on the road, silently competing with the horse and buggies. He’d admired their quiet nature, noting how the combustion models made even the most trained horse skittish at the impending sound.

But then, suddenly, a great honk had blared in his ear, reminding him that he was standing off the sidewalk in the path of the very same contraption he’d just been admiring.

It was in that moment that he’d had the idea for his Sound Engine. He’d thought, “Cars should have a sound like a bell that constantly goes so you can hear them before they hit you.” And the natural thought that had followed on its heels: “What if there was a way to make sound itself propel the car forward?”

And that was it.

Archie leaned over to begin unscrewing the screws holding the car’s long bench seat in place, the dark green upholstery plush and like-new. This particular car was a three-seater: two facing forward, one facing backward. In place of where the fourth seat would have been in a carriage protruded the two hand-cranks.

While he worked, he let his mind wander to his other project: the clock tower.

He’d finalized all measurements for the project earlier that week. Inside the tower, 155 feet above the ground, behind four clock faces nine feet in diameter with yard-long hands, his clock would set the record as the largest clock in the Pacific Northwest.

The temporary depot wouldn’t include a clock, so his services wouldn’t be required there, though he’d suggested the idea to his employers. The Seth Thomas Company back home had even mailed him a contract to have signed, should he find himself capable of selling G.A. Johnson on a second clock.

But he’d had no luck on the matter. The city was willing to shell out another thousand dollars for a temporary depot, but no more than that.

As Archie continued to work, his mind running over any number of mechanical things, for just a moment, he forgot all other worries.

Including Marian.

***

MARIAN WAS IN HER ELEMENT once more. She needn’t worry about giving up the Red Rogue if she could consistently find ways to apply her very special skill set in a legal capacity in the assistance of the Carews.

As she was doing now, giving a ward room a once over. It wasn’t the same room Dr. MacLean had shown them, but apparently they all looked the same in this section of the hospital, and remained empty during the day while the patients enjoyed the common room.

The four beds were made with hospital corners, tight and clean. The chest of drawers housed sets of brown hospital garb used to clothe all of the patients. There was no sign of any personal effects belonging to the patients. It was quite possible the women didn’t always bed in the same quarters at night, as there was nothing to tie them to a particular room.

The windows were locked shut, requiring a key to be opened, something she imagined was attached to matron chatelaines. The door had contained a lock, as well, but during the day was left unlocked, no doubt so housekeepers could clean the rooms while the patients were elsewhere.

Dr. MacLean had said the patients benefited from a full and regimented day. Starting at sunrise, they were woken, washed, dressed, and taken to the dining room, where they enjoyed a hot breakfast before retiring to the common room. While there, patients were encouraged to converse, read books, or write letters home to loved ones.

Lunch was followed by an excursion outside, if the weather was amenable, with matron-led walks and exercises on the fully fenced grounds. Dinner was shared once more, with bedtime at six p.m. to guarantee patients received a full night’s sleep.

Marian knew she’d find it much different in the Violent Female Ward, but they’d have a tough time accessing that during the day. Perhaps Jackson could sneak her in at night?

Marian finished and put her ear to the door to make sure Thomas wasn’t outside speaking to someone.

“Thank you, Matron Pumi. You’ve been most helpful. Have a delightful rest of your day.”

She waited a couple beats to allow Matron to walk down the hall before tapping three times to signal Thomas.

“Good timing,” he said, opening the door and shutting it behind her quietly. “Anything?”

Marian shook her head. “Nothing. What did Matron have to say?” Marian asked.

Thomas glanced in the direction of her retreating form. “Not much. Doesn’t think it was Eleanor, though.”

Marian nodded. “Good. So what’s next, Officer Carew?”

“I think we should divide and conquer. I’m not allowed in the female wing without an escort, but I think you could travel down the halls just fine. I’ll head to the offices, see which of the doctors I can speak with, while you learn what you can from the patients.”

“Kind of nice being the one organizing things, huh?” Marian asked. She knew Thomas was enjoying playing Bernard’s role in things. He’d make a wonderful detective himself, if he ever got the chance.

Thomas grinned, then snapped his fingers and flipped through his notepad. “See if you can find a Matron Anna Lionelle. She’s the matron who found the three dead women. It’s her last day today, so it would be nice if we could get her to open up to us before we have to track her down after she leaves.” He tapped his chin with his pencil. “There’s definitely something going on. We just need to collect enough evidence to convince Bernard this is a real case.”

Marian agreed. “Better give you this, then. Don’t think they’ll like a visitor with a camera.” She lifted it from around her neck and placed it upon his, letting her fingers caress the back of his neck and run down the straps as she placed the camera to rest upon his vest.

“I’ll miss you,” she said with a shy smile. She almost reached out to squeeze his hand, but stopped herself.

Thankfully, he didn’t. Thomas reached out and grasped her gloved hand, lifting it to his lips. “Until we meet again.”

Marian blushed, then headed toward the common room.

***

“COME IN.”

“Dr. Clarke? I’m Mr. Bach, a reporter for—”

“Ah, yes, Dr. MacLean warned me about you.” Dr. Clarke studied Thomas from behind his desk.

Thomas was glad he’d decided to stick with calling himself Bach, for this very reason. He’d suspected that to tell the superintendent one thing and the assistant physician something else would not end well. He did, however, change the reason for his interest in an interview.

The assistant physician was tall, with thinning black hair that had shrunk from the top of his head almost entirely. Thick glasses enlarged his eyes, but his nose distracted from them. It wasn’t aquiline like Jackson’s, being more bulbous toward the tip. His face was pockmarked, indicating he’d most likely lived on both sides of the medical world.

Behind his desk hung a framed diploma from Bellevue Hospital Medical College, alongside several certificates of membership to county and state medical societies, including the American Medical Association.

“I was wondering if I might speak with you regarding a Mrs. Fred Wein,” Thomas asked, “who was brought to this institution most recently.”

“Ah, yes, the one who pulled the horse’s tail.”

Thomas smiled, recalling the brief blurb he’d read in The Chronicle, never knowing it would come in handy later on.

“You’d have to speak with Dr. Dutton or Dr. Morrison for the details on that one,” Dr. Clarke said. “Dr. Morrison would probably be best. He’s served on the Board of Health for the past two years.”

“I understand she caused quite the commotion.” Thomas took a seat across from the assistant physician and pulled out his pencil and notepad.

“Pulling a horse’s tail in the middle of a busy street can have that effect,” Dr. Clarke said sardonically. “It was an easy call for Judge Belt to have her sent here. Deputy Sheriff Butler and one of our matrons went along in the ambulance to collect her, though unfortunately she had to remain in cuffs for her own safety and theirs.”

“It must be difficult keeping everyone safe in a place like this,” Thomas said.

Dr. Clarke adjusted his glasses and clasped his hands on his desk before him.

“Indeed. We have many by-laws in place to ensure the safety of all our staff and patients. We hold everyone to a very strict moral and ethical code of conduct. It is my job to see to it that every patient under our care has everything they need for their comfort and recovery. I make certain that the attendants are kind and attentive to their patients and faithfully discharge their duties.”

“And what are their duties?”

“The attendants are there to watch over and care for the patients. Every morning, the attendants see to it that each patient under their care is washed, at least once a week, and dressed and taken to breakfast. If a patient cannot go to the dining room, food is brought to them and served properly. During meals, it is the attendant’s duty to count and care for all knives and forks used by their patients, and to make certain they are carefully locked away after the meal. At bedtime, the attendant checks that every patient is in bed without any harmful materials to hand.”

“Are the attendants trained in medical knowledge?”

Dr. Clarke shook his head. “There’s no need. That is where the matron and doctors come in. The attendants are to call one of them if they need medical assistance for a patient.”

“I see.” Thomas scribbled in his notepad. “So patients are never left unattended?”

“Never. If a ward contains patients, it must contain attendants.”

“Male to male, female to female?”

“Yes. Male attendants may never enter the female wards at any time. Doing so would end in dismissal from the premises.”

“May the attendants speak with the patients?”

“Of course they may,” said Dr. Clarke quickly, but then added, “that is, they may do so as long as they avoid talking to patients about their delusions. They may not laugh at patients, or ridicule them, or speak to them harshly or derogatorily, especially in regards to their delusions or any peculiar behavior.”

Thomas nodded. “I had an uncle once who was convinced that brownies kept stealing his socks, but only ever the left one.”

He chuckled softly and Dr. Clarke did so, too, lightening the mood for just a moment.

“But what if the patient has a violent delusion?” Thomas went on. “May the attendant restrain the patient? Like the cuffs that were kept on Mrs. Wein?”

“That was only during her transference to the hospital. Once she was here and confined to the safety of her room, her cuffs were removed.”

“So the attendants aren’t allowed to restrain a patient?” Thomas asked, thinking of Marian’s description of how she’d found Eleanor.

“If you’re asking about straitjackets, these are put on patients by order of myself or the superintendent only. The attendants are not allowed to make that decision without our say-so. The same goes for patients placed in isolation.”

“Even in the violent wards?”

Dr. Clarke hesitated and adjusted his glasses.

“In the care of the insane, sympathy, kindness, and tact should take the place of force and display of authority.”

“What if a patient kicks or bites an attendant?”

“A blow or kick in return is never to be inflicted upon a patient.”

“Under any circumstances?”

“Under any circumstances. If we discover such things are occurring, this is cause for instant dismissal.”

Thomas had the distinct impression it was because of the tell-alls like Nellie Bly’s that such rules were now written into the very by-laws of institutions. It was a sad truth that such rules had to be spelled out, but a positive repercussion of reveals like Bly’s.

“It sounds like you run a very commendable institution, Dr. Clarke,” Thomas said, rising from his seat. “Thank you for your time.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Dr. Clarke responded, standing to shake Thomas’s hand. “I’m glad you caught me. I leave at the end of the month to open my own country practice in Spokane.”

“Oh?” Thomas raised a brow.

“It’s time for me to put all I’ve learned under Dr. MacLean to good use.” He pulled out his card case from inside his coat pocket and handed Thomas a calling card. “Here, take my card.”

“Thanks, again, Dr. Clarke,” Thomas said.

Dr. Clarke nodded. “I am certain the readers of your paper will be most pleased to know their friends and family members are receiving such sterling care in our hands.”

And yet, there were still those four deaths unaccounted for. Thomas was going to have to search elsewhere to hear what was really going on under the asylum’s roof.

***

IN THE FEMALE WARD’S third floor common room, Marian found women engaged in a variety of activities from reading to talking to writing.

“It is expressly forbidden to deliver or receive letters from patients, or parcels or packages, without the knowledge and consent of a medical officer,” Dr. MacLean had said. “By reading every letter before it is mailed, and keeping the paper and ink in the common area, we know about everything entering and exiting the asylum. In this way, we maintain the safety of our inhabitants.”

They could also censor what was going in and out, Marian thought. She would have to see what letters she could get her hands on. She was certain the truth would be found within their pages.

It had been simple enough to enter the common room after telling the female attendant at the door that she was here to see her aunt, and then waving at a random patient, who’d just stared at her in return. Apparently this was typical, as the attendant hadn’t even hesitated to allow her entrance.

The large room was full of about twenty women patients in brown and half as many female attendants, each sporting a chatelaine heavy with keys and other useful items. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and overstuffed armchairs and tables sprinkled the room. It was just full enough for Marian to make her way through and then change directions without being noticed.

At a simple wooden desk in the corner, a woman in brown was currently hunched over a letter.

Nodding to the female attendant standing beside the desk, Marian approached and leaned over the woman’s shoulder, as if to see what she was writing, letting her hand rest on the desk beside the day’s stack of fresh letters.

“Please back away, miss,” the attendant said sharply, pressing her palm out toward Marian to encourage her to take a step back.

“Oh! I’m sorry—” Marian moved swiftly, accidentally knocking over the stack in her haste.

The letters flew out in a chaotic jumble onto the floor.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Marian cried, kneeling to help pick up the mess.

Everyone else in the room stilled as she did so, except for the attendant, who immediately knelt to pick up the letters.

“Please, allow me, miss,” she said, shooing Marian away.

But not before Marian had successfully tucked several of the letters into her sleeves and the folds of her dress.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized again.

Then she dove into the crowded room, nabbing a large book off the shelves on her way to an armchair.

Once seated, she opened to a random page and placed her borrowed collection of letters on top so it would appear to anyone else that she was simply reading the book.

At first, the letters seemed uncomplicated for the most part. Words of affection, questions about how life was going outside the walls of the asylum, and reports of doing well inside. Then certain phrases began to jump out at her.

“Why am I here?”

“What’s going on?”

“What did I do wrong?”

“I love you, you know that right?”

“When can I come home?”

“Are you here to see me?” a creaky voice asked at her elbow.

Marian looked up quickly.

“I’m Mrs. Stevenson,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

“Nessie,” Marian said, uncertain why she’d just given a false name.

“Are you here because they think you’re crazy?”

Marian’s eyes widened in surprise and she looked around. There was no attendant nearby, so she wasn’t sure who should have been watching this Mrs. Stevenson. The point was, no one was paying attention right now, so this was Marian’s chance to interview a patient.

After all, she had said she was here to speak to her “aunt.”

“No,” said Marian.

“Then you must be here to help us uncover the truth.”

Marian’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

The woman shrugged and took a seat across from Marian.

“I’m not crazy, either. For several months I’ve been having violent attacks. Like when my neighbors’ damn dogs wouldn’t shut up, I took a pistol and shot at them.”

“I’ve felt like doing that myself a time or two,” Marian said confidingly.

Mrs. Stevenson leaned closer. “Unfortunately, nearly hit my neighbor instead of the dog. Then one night, as my husband started to leave the house to see that hussy he keeps on the side, I lost control and shot him with my revolver. The ball grazed the back of his neck. What my children must have thought, I’ll never know.”

“You have children?”

The woman’s face relaxed into a smile. “Two.” She leaned back into the chair and shook her head. “They’re why I’m thankful to be here. I’m hoping the doctors can help me control my anger so I can go home to them soon.”

Marian bit her lip, but she had to ask. “Why aren’t you in the Violent Female Ward?”

Mrs. Stevenson shrugged. “Without a revolver handy, I’m just as sane as the next mad woman.”

***

THE BAKER WAS THINKING about baking. She imagined the smell when she pulled out a fresh-baked pan of blueberry muffins. Of how the top of the muffin was always crusted with sugar, while the bottom would be fluffy and light. She thought about the taste as she bit into the muffin, the burst of blueberries in her mouth combined with the soft, sweet texture of the bread. The crumbs that would fall from her lips...

The crumbs. Falling...

Crumbs of bone mixing with the ash. Pulling away from the heat and burrowing beneath the soft blanket of black and gray.

Bones were such silly things. Dogs chewed on them. Children made up rhymes about them. Doctors worried about them. But what were they really? They held the body upright. Gave the body structure. But in the end they were just a frame. A framework defining what a thing was. A human. A dog. A cat. A bird...

Once you’d stripped away everything else. Stripped away the skin. The muscle. The fat. The organs. All that unnecessary...material... What was left? Just bones. White and hard, yet...breakable...

Snap! No more bone.

Snap! No more structure.

Snap! No more framework for humanity.

Just dust. Dust and ash... Ash and dust... And bits of bone...

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

“I smell the blood of a...I think he was Dutch,

“Be he alive—well, not anymore—or be he dead—yes, that’s better,

“I’ll grind his bones to make my...today I feel like muffins.”

The Baker grinned.

There was nothing quite like a successful bake.

“All done,” she said in a sing-song voice. “All done. The day is done, and so are you. Well done. Well done.”

Like a well-done pie. Like a well-done body. Cooked to perfection.

The way a good man should be.

***

“DR. MORRISON, THANK you for speaking with me.”

“No problem at all.”

Thomas was beginning to realize not all doctors looked alike. This one was very short, no more than five foot two, with dark-blonde hair parted in the middle, and a clear penchant for chocolates.

“Care for one?” he asked, offering the box to Thomas.

Seeing as it would have been quite rude to decline, Thomas grabbed the nearest truffle and took a bite. It was filled with a soft caramel that oozed out onto his fingers, so that he was forced to shove the whole thing into his mouth.

He nodded with a huge smile to show his gratitude as he took his seat.

“Chocolates soothe the soul, don’t you think?” Dr. Morrison asked, closing the box, much to Thomas’s chagrin. “Now, how can I help you?”

Thomas pulled out his pencil and notepad, then flipped in his notes to where Dr. MacLean had mentioned Dr. Morrison. “I hear you’re a member of the Board of Health?”

“Yes, for the past two years.”

“And how long have you been at the asylum?”

“Five years.”

“I see. I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about some of the patients you’ve diagnosed for admittance recently, such as Mrs. Wein and Mr. O’Ray?”

Thomas really was curious to know what was wrong with John O’Ray, since Officer Howard Woodard, a shy and quiet man, had only said he was “a crazy man” he’d brought in earlier that month. Thomas knew O’Ray had been sentenced to the asylum, but Woodard hadn’t wanted to go into details. Thomas had guessed at Morrison being the admitting doctor, figuring his chances were one out of seven, and if it hadn’t been Morrison, he’d have an in to another doctor soon enough.

“Interesting choices,” Dr. Morrison said, standing and walking toward the corner window. “Mrs. Wein, you may have read in the paper, was caught after she pulled a horse’s tail. In fact, you may have been the reporter who wrote the blurb?” Dr. Morrison turned toward him.

Thomas shook his head.

“No matter. Mr. O’Ray, on the other hand, well, I’d rather it didn’t go any farther than this room.”

Thomas closed his notepad and placed it and his pencil on the desk in a sign of understanding.

Dr. Morrison nodded and went back to speaking to the window.

“Mr. O’Ray was found huddled in a pool of his own filth in a room at Dutch Jake’s. In his hand was a carving knife and an apple. He was quite convinced he’d just stopped the apple from killing him.”

Thomas tried not to laugh.

“Dr. Munly and I felt it was best he come to the asylum for a short respite from the world.”

Thomas bit his lip. “Yes, that was probably quite smart on your part.”

Dr. Morrison scratched his nose and turned from the window back to Thomas. “Any other questions?”

Thomas flipped through his notepad as he searched his brain. What else could he ask about without asking straight out concerning the deaths?

“I heard you’ve got the Baker locked up here.”

Dr. Morrison stiffened. “No one speaks to Mrs. Sigmund.”

“No, no.” Thomas waved a hand. “I was just wondering if you keep a close eye on your fires at night? I mean, how difficult would it be for her to get out, take a jaunt down to the kitchens, and throw a couple live ones in for practice?”

The doctor turned back to the window and Thomas almost sighed. What was he watching out there that fascinated him so?

“No one may leave their rooms at night, not even Mrs. Sigmund. All the doors are locked after six p.m. Only the matrons and wardens hold the keys, and the keys don’t ever leave the premises.”

“But what if she did get out. Remember, this is the woman who claims to have started the Great Fire.”

Dr. Morrison finally returned his gaze to Thomas.

“We have a reservoir on the hill that holds 500,000 gallons filled from the lake three miles east of the asylum. Direct pressure from the pumps would carry 100,000 gallons per hour in case of fire. Thirteen fire alarm stations are located in and around the building—”

“Thirteen?” Thomas asked. “Isn't that unlucky?”

“Nonsense. Thirteen is lucky.” Dr. Morrison glanced toward the window, then back at Thomas. “Anyway, the signal bells ring at the pump house, and then there’s a hose cart with a 250-foot hose that can come running if need be.”

“But what about the inmates? You just said they’re all locked in their rooms.”

“We’ve organized a drill run every summer.”

But he didn’t mention how the drills had gone.

“If that’ll be all?” Dr. Morrison took a seat behind his desk, indicating they were done.

As Thomas stood to leave, he peeked out the window. On the lawn stood three lines of women in brown, all following a leader in reaching up to the sky and then swinging their arms from side to side in unison.

So Dr. Morrison likes chocolates and exercising women. It’s good to know where a man stands on such things.

***

MRS. STEVENSON’S ATTENDANT had accosted her as soon as she found out she’d been talking with Marian.

She didn’t have to wait long, however, before another woman approached her, taking a seat across from her like Marian had invited her to join her for tea. This woman’s attendant stood just behind the chair, watching both of them. Marian gave the woman in the chair a smile that she didn’t return. Instead, she just stared vacantly over Marian’s shoulder, as though trying to make the flower print on the chair form words, and then began rocking back and forth, back and forth.

“Are you here about the deaths?”

Marian’s eyes leapt from the woman to the attendant, who crossed her arms across her ample middle, barely contained by a corset.

“Well?” she asked, gruffly.

Marian nodded slowly.

The attendant relaxed and grabbed a chair, pulling it closer so the three of them were in a tight circle.

“I knew something was going on,” she said.

Marian glanced toward the woman in brown who continued to rock back and forth, but the attendant waved a hand.

“She’s mute. Hasn’t spoken in months. So who are you? Are you a lady detective?”

Marian considered how to answer this. In some ways, she supposed she was.

“I’m assisting an officer of the Spokane Police in inquiries,” she said, sticking with the truth, even if it didn’t directly answer the attendant’s question.

The attendant scratched vaguely at her mustached upper lip. “Listen, we’ve all heard about them, even though they asked the staff to keep it quiet. They had to tell us about them—they tell us about every death.”

“Don’t you have deaths all the time?”

The attendant shrugged. “Maybe one every couple of months. But there’s been four in less than a week. And it’s not the smallpox again. They would’ve told us that.”

“Do the patients know?”

“Those as have the faculty to understand, yeah. They swap gossip every day in the common room and in the dining room. When they go for walks or work in the garden, they’re not allowed to talk.”

“What about the women in the Violent Ward?”

“We don’t ever see much of them, except occasionally when we’re out in the yard. They’re not allowed to work in the garden, and on their walks, they’re chained together in a long line.”

Marian shivered.

“They eat at a separate time, too, or are fed in their rooms, not sure which, but we never see them in the dining room.”

“So if the doctors hadn’t told you—”

“No one outside the Violent Female Ward would’ve had any idea about them. But Dr. Clarke’s told us at our morning meetings. Said we needed to keep our eyes open for suspicious activity.”

“And have you? Seen anything suspicious, I mean?”

The attendant shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. No one has. Then, again, you’re in the wrong ward to be asking. If you want details, you’re going to have to visit the Violent Female Ward.”

Marian nodded and bit her lip. She was beginning to see that.

“How do they decide who’s a ‘violent woman’ and who’s not? I’ve heard the Baker’s in here...” She hated referring to her friend by her ignominious name, but there was no way this attendant would recognize “Eleanor Sigmund.” “And that makes sense, but Mrs. Stevenson, who I was just talking with, shot her husband, yet she’s out on this side.”

The attendant shook her head and sighed. “It’s like these doctors are playing darts. They just throw things at the patients until they hit something that works. Now, I’m no nurse, I’ve got no training, I’m just here to follow orders and keep the patients in my care safe.” She looked at the woman in the chair, who was still deciphering the code of the fabric covering whenever she paused between rocking motions. “But even I can tell those as should be in the Violent Ward, and those as shouldn’t.”

The attendant leaned in closer to Marian and whispered, “To be honest, I think it’s just a matter of whether they fight the system or not. Play the game, and you’re safe. Try to fight it, insist you’re not crazy, and you end up in the Violent Ward.” The attendant leaned back again, a grim look on her face. “Simple as that.”

Marian shook her head. “Could you get me in?”

The attendant scratched her upper lip again and glanced around the room. “Sure. Yeah, I could do that. I want the deaths to stop as much as the next woman.”

“No attendants have died, just patients.”

“I know, but until we know what’s causing it, there’s no saying who’s next.”

***

ROSLYN KNEW EXACTLY what she needed to do first, though the idea had paralyzed her for a moment or two when she had it—and not just from the waist down.

While she’d been waiting for the inventors’ arrival, she’d sent a letter to Mrs. Grace Campbell at 2316 1st Ave. She’d worked on what to say most of the morning, worrying over the wording. She wanted to sound polite but not bumptious, bold but not audacious, beseeching but not presumptive, gracious but not fawning.

It was quite a difficult balance to obtain in a single letter.

What she had certainly not expected was an almost immediate response a few hours after mailing it, followed by Mrs. Campbell’s appearance on her doorstep that very same afternoon in time for tea.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Mrs. Carew,” she said as she entered.

Roslyn was instantly aware of how middle-class her home must appear to someone as grand as Mrs. Campbell. Her eyes drifted about her foyer, decorated in the Swiss bear furniture style she’d always found a perfect combination of adorable and functional, but now felt might be interpreted as frivolous or silly. She wished she had waited to reach out to Mrs. Campbell on Friday, after the maid had completed her weekly clean. Indeed, this had been her idea when she’d written, not having the slightest supposition that Mrs. Campbell might respond so quickly, nor attend to her the very same day.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Campbell,” Roslyn replied.

“Please, call me Grace.”

“Roslyn,” she said with a smile, then beckoned for Grace to follow her into the front parlor.

“I was very interested when I received your letter,” Grace said. “I’d love to be of any assistance to you that I can, seeing as your husband defended my husband from the press’s libelous accusations in that case last month.”

Roslyn invited Grace to take a seat and she did so in a way that allowed her skirts to swish deftly about her.

Grace Campbell was an elegant woman with sandy brown hair streaked with silvering gray, which framed her face in a perfect pompadour. She was most likely a decade older than Roslyn, refined like fine wine in a manner which Roslyn hoped she could attain at such an age. Her nose was thin and her neck long and graceful, accentuated by her chosen lace-lined collar. The muted gray-blue of her gown highlighted the color of her eyes, which reminded Roslyn of the quiet strength of the sea.

“I cannot thank you enough for coming on such short notice,” Roslyn began. “I did not expect to hear from you, much less receive a visit in the same day.”

Grace smiled kindly. “I never turn down the chance to be of service. Your husband has more than proved your family’s worth, in my opinion.”

“You are too kind,” Roslyn said. “The assistance you can offer is really quite simple. You see, I was hoping you might be able to introduce me to the Ladies’ Benevolent Society, as I hear you are a member.”

Grace straightened at this. “Yes, indeed, I am. It is one of the few social activities I enjoy. I find I am kept quite busy running the house and spending time with Helen, my daughter.”

Roslyn nodded. “Yes, I believe my husband had the honor of meeting her. Do you enjoy many activities with her?”

“Oh, quite. Our most recent amusement has been embroidery. I remember the drudgery of learning beside my own mother, though I find it quite engaging now.”

“I am the same!” Roslyn said, waving toward her own sewing basket nearby.

“I quite relish doing it with my daughter, and often find myself wondering why I fought it for so long when I was her age.”

“I know for me it was because it was forced on me when I would have much rather been playing outdoors, but my mother always said that was ‘no place for a young lady.’”

Grace laughed. “Indeed! Torn stockings were always looked down upon, and a cause of great consternation.”

“Does your daughter enjoy playing outside?”

“Very much so, usually accompanied by her dog, which our coachman is training to do tricks. But please, tell me more about how I can be of assistance to you. You’d like me to introduce you to the Ladies’ Benevolent Society?”

Roslyn returned her focus to her problem. “Yes, you see,” she waved toward her chair wheels, “although it may be assumed that someone such as I would normally receive assistance, there is still much I feel God has prepared me to do for the benefit of others, those less fortunate than even me.”

Roslyn suddenly worried Grace Campbell might not think the wife of a detective adequate enough of a social standing to join their ranks. Most of the members of the Society had names familiar to all in Spokane: Fannie Cannon, Mary Todd, Anna Stratton Browne, Lucy Ide, and Alice Houghton. They were women whose husbands had molded Spokane, with additions and parks and buildings named after them.

Roslyn’s eyes fell on Grace’s large-brimmed hat and recalled what she’d read that morning in Edwards. “I believe I read somewhere that the Society was started by a Mrs. Butterworth in a millinery store, so I assume that all are welcome, no matter their social standing?”

Grace waved a hand at this. “Of course, of course. I would be most willing to introduce you. It would be an honor. I think you’ll find the women in the Society truly wonderful ladies dedicated to the children of this city.”

Roslyn beamed.

Grace clasped her hands together on her lap. “I do have one question for you, though it feels quite...indelicate.”

“You’re wondering how I will be able to attend a meeting in my wheelchair?”

Grace finally let her eyes fall to the chair and back up to Roslyn’s eyes, making it clear she’d been purposefully avoiding looking until now. “Yes.”

“I assure you, I will make my own way to the next meeting.”

Grace gave a nod and then smiled, standing. “In that case, we would love to have you join us. We meet every Monday at 2:30 at the Children’s Home on the corner of Boone and Washington.”

“The Home of the Friendless?”

“Yes, that’s the one. I am quite excited to have you join us. I think you’ll find you have much to offer in many unique ways.”

Roslyn smiled. Now she just prayed that the inventors could deliver, or she’d be done in more ways than one.

***

MARIAN AND THOMAS MET in the dining room when everyone moved there in a wave at noon. It took another half-hour before they were seated, thanks to the slow trickle of each patient getting a plate and bowl, taking a seat, and then waiting for their assigned attendant to supply them with utensils.

The food wasn’t much to look at. It comprised beef, potatoes, bread, and some kind of pudding, and had probably once been hot. Marian looked around and quickly realized there were no doctors in the room. She wondered what they ate.

As they nibbled at their food, she and Thomas exchanged notes, still feeling they hadn’t got much of anything.

“We both know what I have to do,” Marian said firmly.

Thomas avoided her eyes. He clearly didn’t want her to do it, but even he must admit that only she could go to the Violent Female Ward. Men weren’t allowed.

“There’s no other way.” Marian counted off on her fingers. “That’s where Matron Lionelle is, and where three of the four dead bodies were, and where all four women used to reside. It can’t be coincidence.”

Thomas sighed and pushed around his mushy potatoes—not mashed, mushy.

“I know. I just don’t like sending you into the lion’s den.”

Marian reached out and touched his hand, then pulled hers back again. It was too intimate in such a public setting. It was bad enough he was joining her in the dining room surrounded by women.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been there before, remember? I went to see Eleanor.”

“With Mr. Prescot.”

“True.”

He finally looked up at her and she tried to give him her bravest and most encouraging smile.

“I’ve got this. Should I take the camera with me, do you think? Just in case I come across something you should see?”

“If you come across something I should see, you’re going to come out and grab me immediately and I’ll be there in a second.” Thomas snapped his fingers. Thirty heads turned to stare at him in the dining room. “Oops.”

Marian nodded and whispered, “I’ll be back quicker than you can say—”

“Mrs. Curry’s scones?”

Marian smiled. “Exactly.”

She lifted her plate and utensils and cleared them to the side, then left out the side door that led toward the bathrooms. It wasn’t long before she was joined by the female attendant who’d offered to get her into the Violent Ward.

“Naturally, I don’t have a key to the Violent Ward, but I passed the word along and you should be met by Matron Lionelle at the entrance doors. She’ll have all the answers you need.”

“Thank you,” Marian said.

“Thank you for showing an interest in us here,” the attendant said. “And for bringing along that frightfully handsome officer. It gets terribly lonesome looking at nothing but crazy old maids every day of the week.”

Marian blushed and then walked quickly toward the entrance to the Violent Female Ward. Sure enough, standing in front of the doors was a nervous young woman. Her blonde hair and pale complexion bespoke a Swedish background, though her last name suggested French.

“Matron Lionelle?” she asked.

The young woman in white nodded and unlocked the doors behind her, leading the way through and then beckoning Marian into the first room on the left. She looked both ways down the hall before closing them into the white-washed room.

As Marian had suspected, this room was like Eleanor’s: a bed was all that adorned it, and the windows boasted bars rather than curtains.

It was a simple matter of using her eyes to see there was nothing more to be learned from any rooms in this ward.

“I’m Marian Kenyon,” she said, offering her hand to the matron.

“I don’t have much time,” Matron Lionelle said, ignoring Marian’s hand and stalking toward the window to peer out. “Matron Pumi told me you’re here with an officer?”

Marian nodded. “I’m also a close friend of Eleanor Sigmund.”

Matron Lionelle paused at that and studied her. “I didn’t realize someone like that might still have ‘close friends.’”

Marian straightened, though this barely brought her up to the matron’s chin. “I care about Eleanor very deeply, and I know she hasn’t been behind these deaths.”

Matron Lionelle shook her head. “No one thinks she is except the doctors. For some reason they seem to think she’s capable of anything, but I’ve put the straitjacket on her before, and taken it off. She’s usually quite docile, almost completely out of it. ‘The Baker’ side only seems to come out when there’s a man in the room.”

“Like a doctor,” Marian murmured. Archie had been with her when she’d visited before. Perhaps she should try again without him?

“Exactly.”

“Tell me about the women who died.”

Matron Lionelle sighed and massaged her temple. “It’s been terrible. Four deaths in seven days.”

“When did they each happen?”

“The first was last Tuesday: I found Mrs. Smith dead in her bed in the morning. It didn’t strike me as odd. We hadn’t had a death since the smallpox last month.” Matron Lionelle held up a second finger. “The next wasn’t until last Friday, the 14th. Again, Mrs. Latham had died overnight in her bed where I found her the next morning.”

“Then came the only one I’ve heard about: the third death, the woman who died in the middle of dinner.”

“Yes. How did you hear about Mrs. Jones?”

“It happened next to Eleanor in the dining room.”

“Exactly, so how did you hear about it?” Matron Lionelle was suddenly standing directly in front of Marian, using her height to try to intimidate her.

But Marian held her head high. There was no way she’d give up Jackson.

“Eleanor wrote to me—”

“Wrote to you? She hasn’t been allowed near a common room since she arrived. There’s no pen and paper accessible to the patients anywhere else.”

Marian shrugged. “I don’t know how she did it, but I definitely received it.”

Matron Lionelle stood there another beat before taking a step back. “All right, fine. So that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes, she wanted my help, and the help of my employers, Detective and Officer Carew.”

Matron Lionelle nodded. “Which one is with you today?”

“Officer Carew.”

The matron bit her lip. “Not the detective?”

“Not yet. We were sent on ahead to gather evidence first.”

“Very well.” Matron Lionelle checked her fob watch. “The fourth death was Mrs. Adams, who again died in her sleep. It’s clearly some sort of poison, but I don’t know how it’s getting to them.”

“Do you have any suspicions?”

The matron shook her head sadly and rubbed her temple again. “All medicines, razors, and other dangerous instruments are kept locked in the medicine closets except when in use.” She shook the numerous keys that hung from her chatelaine in proof. “Employees aren’t even allowed to bring alcohol, liquor, or tobacco in any form into the wards.”

“You mean the doctors here don’t smoke?”

“The attendants and doctors may smoke outside, just not in the wards, halls, basements, kitchen, bakery, workshop, storage, barns, stables, or amusement halls. Also, none of the employees may use intoxicating liquors of any sort at any time.”

“Wow. That's very strict.”

Matron Lionelle shrugged. “They have to be. These poor women and men—it is our duty to ensure they receive the very best care possible, and removing any and all temptations is an admirable step.”

The matron looked at her watch again. “I’m afraid I have to go. But there was one more thing I wanted to tell you.”

Marian waited.

The matron took a deep breath. “A few months ago, one of the attendants here died.”

“An attendant?”

“Yes, a male attendant: John Beattle.”

“Did he catch something from a patient?”

Matron Lionelle shook her head. “He was only twenty-four and yet died of pneumonia. Pneumonia. His job was in the men’s wing, but he was kind to the few women he interacted with. Not in an overly friendly way, but he was considerate and thoughtful.” Matron Lionelle’s face fell. “I was very sad when he died. He was one of the good ones.”

She looked straight at Marian. “The thing is: a few days before, he’d told me he was on to something, something one of the doctors was doing that wasn’t right.”

“Which doctor?”

“He wouldn’t say. Just said he was going to confront one of them about it, make sure they knew they couldn’t get away with it. Then suddenly, he got so sick he had to quit work, and then he died.”

“That does sound suspicious,” Marian murmured.

“All I know is, there’s something going on,” said Matron Lionelle, “and I want none of it.”

***

AT FIRST, THOMAS WAS frustrated that following such an abysmal lunch, he’d been cornered by the steward of all people. He’d hoped to catch one of the doctors on their way back in from lunch before they disappeared again into the bowels of the hospital.

But as he exited the building to check out the yards in back, the steward had nabbed him, asking him what he was doing on the property.

Again, Thomas had felt it better to go with the truth of his identity for this elderly man. There was something about the doctors that made him want to remain undercover, but for everyone else, it just seemed more likely he’d get a straight answer if he was honest.

“Oh, I see, sir,” the steward said. He rubbed his hands clean of dirt from the front gardens, though it still clung to the knees of his trousers. “Well, I don’t know much about the goings on within the hospital, if you get my meaning. My job covers more of the outer workings.”

“Your landscaping is quite beautiful,” Thomas said, waving toward a bed of some red and yellow flowers. He’d never been good with fauna—or was it flora?—but he hoped a vague compliment would keep the man talking.

“Thank you kindly, sir. My job pertains to much more than the flora, though, you see.”

Flora—he’d been right.

“I keep the accounts for livestock received, farm and garden produce, the time books for employees, supplies, and the like. It’s my job to see that the grounds are taken care of and the machinery kept in repair and fueled.”

“You take care of all of that on your own?”

“Sometimes patients are permitted to help. Superintendent MacLean or Dr. Clarke lets me know which patients might be interested and capable of assisting in outside work. Then I have to direct the attendants in charge of those patients to see to it that escapes are prevented and that improper implements are kept from such as are dangerous or careless.”

“Have there been many escapes?”

“A few. Had a man run while working in the garden. Didn’t get far, though. Was caught the next day.” The steward patted his pockets like he was looking for a cigarette. “I walk the perimeter every day, check the fence. But a man can miss a few things now and then.”

“Noticed anything odd?”

The steward scratched his scraggly chin.

“Anybody coming in and out at odd hours? Suspicious behavior of any visitors? People where they shouldn’t be?”

“Right you are, sir.” The steward brightened.

Thomas wondered if the steward had perhaps seen Jackson creeping in and out. Maybe the conman wasn’t so sneaky after all.

But the steward went a completely different direction.

“It’s my job, you see, to make sure the halls and dormitories are kept clean and in order, that they’re properly heated and ventilated. I keep reports of all furniture, stores, supplies, and other articles for the hospital, should you so desire to see them.”

“I thought you said you only accounted for the outside?”

“I account for all of the hospital, just not the folks inside it and whatever they is doing.”

“Ah,” said Thomas, things as clear as mud.

“So you see, it’s my duty to report to the superintendent when something don’t seem right. And something don’t seem right about them lightbulbs.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Lightbulbs?”

“Yes, sir, in the Violent Female Ward.”

“Near the construction?”

“Sure, but it don’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Aren’t they putting in better lighting?”

The steward waved a hand. “Nah, they’re just getting the lighting from someone else. That’s the back end. I’m talking about right here in the hospital. Them lightbulbs is fishy. And it ain’t the lake...”

Thomas almost laughed.

***

ARCHIE AND MATSUMOTO worked all day on the automobile for Mrs. Carew.

The collapsible seat had been his idea, his thinking being that if a Pullman train car could hide a bed inside one, why not a driving seat?

This way, whenever someone other than Mrs. Carew wanted to drive, they could still have a seat pulled down for them. And if Mrs. Carew chose to do it herself, she could simply lift the seat, making room for her and her chair.

They divided the driver’s seat in two, making both collapsible, so Mrs. Carew could decide whether she wanted to drive herself or not. Then, someone could be seated next to Mrs. Carew as she drove, like Bernard, whom Archie could just imagine proudly joining his wife in such a contraption, or Marian, who’d be the most likely to travel with Mrs. Carew when she went places.

While Archie worked on the seat, Matsumoto worked on the ramp: a sort of fold out design that could be slid back under the car when not in use.

With just these few modifications, Mrs. Carew would be capable of traveling anywhere at the touch of a button.

Just like that surreal book, The Time Machine. Archie wondered what it would be like to travel forward in time. What modern marvels might he witness in the future?

Right now, he’d be much more interested in traveling back in time, and somehow contriving it so Marian never met Thomas.

Then again, if she hadn’t met him out at the workshop, she’d have met him anyway when she started working for Mrs. Carew.

No matter what, it seemed, Archie couldn’t keep them apart.

He sighed heavily. He had to stop this. Moaning over Marian wasn’t going to make her his. He had to come up with a plan. He had to do something that would cause Marian to look on him with such awe and wonder she’d drop Thomas like a hot potato and—

“Thinking about Miss Kenyon?” a voice asked at his elbow.

He dropped the screwdriver in his hand with a clatter and looked out from the automobile and into the too-wise-for-her-own-good eyes of Mrs. Curry.

“I...uh...”

“It’s all right. I know the face of a man in love when I see one.”

“Oh?”

“It may have been several years since my husband passed, but a good man isn’t hard to find if you’ve got eyes to see.”

“Do you think that’s true for all women?” Archie asked.

“I do.”

Archie sighed. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“You don’t think Miss Kenyon will notice a good thing standing in front of her?”

“I do, and right now that’s Thomas.”

“Want me to get him out of the way? He’d never notice if I put something in my scones. He’d gobble them up anyway.”

Archie smiled. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, Mrs. Curry, should you be caught on my account.”

“It’s all right. Hayate and I would simply run away together. Speaking of which, we have a question for you.”

Hayate? Funny, Archie just thought of him as Matsumoto.

“We were wondering if you might be able to get us in to see Eleanor.”

Archie turned to give the cook his full attention. “Me?”

“Yes. Since you visited her with Miss Kenyon, we were wondering if perhaps we might be able to see her, as well. We’d like to remind her that she’s not alone, that it’s not only Jennings and Miss Kenyon who care about her. We all do. It sounded like you were only allowed in because Miss Kenyon was with you, and since you and she are so close...”

Archie shrugged. “No harm in asking her. I’m sure she’d love to visit again. But maybe we should wait until this whole debacle has died down a bit?”

“Why should that stop us? It is a hospital after all.”

“True.” Archie considered. They were all adults, after all. “I’ll ask her tomorrow when we deliver the finished car to Mrs. Carew.”

“Finished already?”

“Didn’t take long once we had a plan.”

“Just as I suspected. You two are the smartest men I know.” She patted Archie’s hand, then nodded her thanks and began to head back to the kitchen.

“Besides,” Archie murmured to himself, “I bet Marian and Thomas have it all solved by now.”

***

BY THE TIME THOMAS had escaped the steward and his lightbulb theory, Dr. Dutton was back in the corner offices.

“I can give you fifteen minutes. No more,” said the doctor, shuffling papers back and forth on his desk.

Dr. Dutton sported a tidy little mustache just below his tiny little nose, which seemed somehow incongruent given the bulk of the rest of the man. Where Dr. Morrison’s bulk came of eating chocolates, Dr. Dutton’s came of lifting weights. Thomas had no doubt the man could have thrown him across the room if he wanted to.

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said deferentially, pulling out his notepad and pencil like the reporter he was meant to be. “I’ve been told you were one of the admitting doctors in the case of Mrs. Fred Wein.”

“Yes. As head of the Violent Female Ward it’s my job to determine what sorts of women require a more focused treatment.”

“And Mrs. Wein was one? By my account all she did was pull a horse’s tail.”

“That was only the event that drew her to our notice. Like many women here, she claimed she was not crazy. They often fight against the diagnosis, and even attempt to pretend sanity for the first few days. But they soon tire and their symptoms begin to show through a couple days or week into their stay here. They give up the pretense or can’t hold up the charade for too long.”

Dr. Dutton leaned back in his chair. “As doctors, it is our job to see through the charade to the reality of the situation. Then we treat the ladies with sympathy and kindness.”

“And drugs.”

Dr. Dutton straightened. “Excuse me?”

“And drugs. Don’t you prescribe an inordinate amount of drugs? I’d say that’d be enough to drive even the sane insane.”

“We’re done here.” The doctor stood and held his hand toward the door.

Thomas quirked his mouth and stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I don’t appreciate the implication of your tone or questions.”

“My assumption that doctors prescribe drugs in a hospital offends you?”

“We only prescribe drugs in reaction to symptoms. Common symptoms of the women confined here can be vast and innumerable. We have patients who suffer from mental depression, weight loss, headaches, anxiety, insomnia, instability, hallucinations, tremors, convulsions, and pain in any or all parts of the body. Then we also have women with some complications as easy as alcoholic addiction, which is a simple fix. By removing access to the addiction, we remove the symptoms, but on the road to recovery, the woman might suffer from other issues. All of these and more require the use of different forms of treatment. And yes, some might include drugs.” Dr. Dutton looked at his pocket watch. “That’s fifteen minutes. Your time is up, Mr. Bach.”

Again, Dr. Dutton pointed to the door. This time, Thomas left with a tip of his hat.

He hoped Marian was having better luck.

***

MARIAN WAS GETTING a headache.

So much information, yet she wasn’t sure they were any closer to understanding what was going on here, other than the fact that there most certainly was something going on.

She wondered how Thomas and Bernard kept everything straight in their heads. Then how did they decide what was important and what wasn’t? How did Detective Gryce know the making of a fire at a particular time of day was important? How did Sherlock know which footmarks were important and which were inconsequential?

Because they’re fictional, Marian reminded herself. The author knew what was important, therefore, so did the detective.

Marian sighed.

At least Matron Lionelle hadn’t simply left her after their interview. Instead she’d  encouraged her to speak with a patient in the Violent Female Ward, letting Marian into her room with her key before leaving them alone.

Marian had felt nervous at the prospect at first, but the matron had insisted there was nothing to fear from this particular patient.

“She’s not insane,” Matron Lionelle had assured her. “There is absolutely no reason for her to be here, especially in this particular ward. I want you to speak with her because perhaps she can help shed some light on the situation. I’ve spoken with her myself and felt maybe she holds the key to the whole question regarding these mysterious deaths.”

So Marian had agreed. And now she stood before Mrs. White, who sat on the edge of her lone cot in the simple brown garb of the hospital patients. Her arms were free of constraints and her eyes were clear and focused.

The only symptom Marian noticed was the woman’s size. She was extremely thin, and not in the petite yet muscled manner of Marian herself, but in the sense that Marian could make out every groove and contour of the woman’s skull through the slack skin that hung over it. Her collarbone was clearly defined, and every bone in her hands stood out beneath the bright lights in the room.

The woman welcomed her with a smile that was clearly meant to put Marian at her ease, but only heightened Marian’s anxiety—it reminded her of Tenniel’s illustrations of the disappearing cat from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs. White,” Marian began.

“I’m not crazy,” the woman responded.

Well, I’m glad we cleared that up, thought Marian.

“Please, could you tell me more about why you’re here, then?”

Mrs. White nodded and crossed her legs. “It’s really quite simple. My husband wanted more time with his mistress.”

Marian was surprised by the woman’s bluntness and her face must have shown it.

“It’s really no secret. Most of the women in this place are here for the same reason. It’s not very difficult for a man to get his wife locked up in the asylum on account of ‘hysteria’ or some other such nonsense.”

Mrs. White pulled up her sleeves on either arm. “You see these?”

Marian could clearly make out the yellowing signs of bruising up and down her arms and wrists. She recalled seeing similar marks on Eleanor when they’d first become reacquainted.

“My husband claimed these bruises were self-inflicted, that I was trying to harm myself, which of course is complete nonsense.” Mrs. White let her sleeves fall back down. “Yet, since getting locked up here, I’ve begun to see stars shining in the daytime.”

“Stars?”

“Yes.” The woman in brown coughed slightly. “Right now, I can see stars twinkling in a halo around your face. I know they’re not really there, but I can see them, plain as can be.”

Marian glanced to either side, even though she knew there’d be nothing there.

“I also get these terrible headaches and recurring nightmares.”

“What sort of nightmares?”

“You’ll think it’s silly, but I dream about all my teeth falling out.”

“I’ve had that one,” Marian admitted. If that was a sign of insanity, she very well deserved to be locked up with Mrs. White.

“It’s quite unnerving when I’m in the midst of it.” Mrs. White coughed again. “And now, when I’m awake, it feels like my teeth are coming loose and I can still taste the metal stick that was knocking my teeth out in my sleep.”

Well, Marian hadn’t had that. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

“About a month, I think.” Mrs. White rubbed her temples. “I’m having trouble keeping track of the days lately. They all run together when they’re all the same.”

Marian could imagine.

She rubbed her own head, which was starting to throb again.

Mrs. White’s eyes narrowed and she coughed more heartily. When she’d caught her breath she asked, “Are you getting headaches, too?”

Marian dropped her hand. “Yes. In fact...” She thought back to when the headaches had first started. She’d had one after visiting Eleanor, and another since her interview with Matron Lionelle. The matron had been rubbing her temple a lot during their interview, too.

Could there be something in the Violent Female Ward that was causing headaches? Perhaps the construction: the combination of fresh paint and constant pounding and hammering noises would make anyone’s head hurt. All she knew was, when she got a bad headache, she certainly might appear to be going crazy. They made her irritable and anxious, she had trouble sleeping, and she knew the effects of lack of sleep could cause all sorts of further issues, including mood swings and mental depression, all of which might contribute to a woman being diagnosed with “hysteria” or “insanity.”

“Mrs. White, do you feel you’ve had more symptoms since coming to the asylum?”

“‘More symptoms?’ How about any symptoms?” Mrs. White coughed again, covering her mouth with her elbow. “I was perfectly fine until my husband put me in here. And now I’m seeing fireflies and ladybugs!”

“I thought you were just seeing stars?”

“Oh, they were stars. But just now I realized they look more like fireflies. And aren’t those ladybugs on my sleeve?”

Mrs. White turned the elbow into which she’d just been coughing toward Marian, revealing it to be spattered with little droplets of blood.

Marian turned to the door and banged on it, calling for help.

Matron Lionelle and Matron Pumi both arrived in a matter of seconds.

“What are you doing in here?” Matron Pumi asked, glaring at Marian.

“I let her in,” Matron Lionelle said. “Get some water for Mrs. White.”

The smaller matron left while Matron Lionelle asked Mrs. White to lie back and rest, but this only caused more coughing.

“What happened?” She turned on Marian, as though she’d given Mrs. White something to cause this.

“Nothing! We were just talking!” Marian exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defense.

Matron Pumi returned with the glass of water and helped Mrs. White sit up to drink it.

Almost immediately it got worse. Mrs. White’s face blanched as she began convulsing wildly, her entire body shaking.

The matrons shouted for Marian to go get a doctor.

Marian ran out into the hall and called out. A doctor with enough muscles to contradict his small mustache and nose appeared from one of the other rooms down the hall.

But by the time he’d pressed into the small room and taken over from the matrons, it was too late.

The killer’s count was now at five.

***

RING AROUND THE ROSIES,

A pocket full of posies,

Ashes, ashes,

We all die sometime.

The Baker laughed to herself at her little rhyme. She rolled on her bed side to side, side to side, singing and smiling.

It was so nice to have a room of one’s own, where a woman could be anything she needed to be. Wanted to be. Dreamed to be.

Most people thought the asylum was an evil place. A place to send those unwanted by society.

But what if they all worked together? What if the insane gathered together, fevered together, cooked together—what lovely concoctions might they bake then?

It was a good thing they kept them separated. Alone in a room of one’s own, all one was left with was one’s own thoughts.

And what lovely company such thoughts could be.

Snap. Pop. Heat.

Fire was back. And he wanted to play.

Oh, how he wanted to play and dance and cavort.

Such spirit, such energy, such vigor. Such vitality.

“However do you keep up such zeal?” the Baker asked Fire.

Fire never said anything. He only ever danced.

The Baker envied his vivacity. She had been young once and full of the same animation. Now she was just a cold, aging woman curled up in a cell. There was no warmth here. Except when Fire came to visit.

She could feel it now. The heat. The fierceness of it. It had licked at her face like warm kisses.

“I can’t play today. I have to stay inside. Mother says.”

Fire smoldered.

“You know how much I’d rather be playing with you.”

Fire flushed.

“Someday, Fire. Someday, you and I will play again...”

How she longed for Fire’s embrace once more.

***

IT WAS TIME FOR THOMAS to reveal his true identity to all, including the doctors and Superintendent MacLean. With this fifth death, he knew Bernard would be on the next train out to Medical Lake; unfortunately that train wouldn’t leave until tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, it was up to Thomas to collect as many details as he could about the murder.

Luckily, he had an inside informant: Marian.

“We were just talking and then she had this coughing fit. She coughed blood so I called for the matrons. When they came, they gave Mrs. White a glass of water. It was only then that she went into convulsions. By the time the doctor came, Mrs. White was dead.”

“Did you leave the room at any time?”

Marian nodded. “I went to get the matrons, but Mrs. White was alone then. The second time I left Mrs. White with the matrons, both of them, to shout for the doctor. I was only gone half a second.”

“That could have been long enough for them to slip her something.”

“But Mrs. White was having the convulsions before I left for the doctor,” Marian clarified.

“Yes, but she didn’t die until after your return. Why send you for the doctor? You wouldn’t know where to find one. That’s their job. They didn’t know Dr. Dutton was just down the hall from them. What if they gave her something, even a syringe of something they already had ready, when they sent you for the doctor?”

Marian’s brow furrowed. Thomas would have thought it adorable if they weren’t in the middle of a very tense moment.

“Or they could have given her something in the water,” Marian suggested.

Thomas nodded. “Exactly. Either way, we need to talk with those matrons.”

Marian gave a succinct nod in agreement. “Who do you want?”

Thomas glanced toward the door that led to Mrs. White’s room.

“I’ll take Matron Pumi, you take Matron Lionelle. She opened up to you before, maybe she’ll do so again.”

Thomas reached out and gave Marian’s hand a squeeze. He wished he could do more. “Thank you for your assistance, Marian. I know it must have been terrible witnessing something like that.”

Marian’s eyes glanced toward the room and back again and she gulped. “It was pretty terrible. But now that it’s over, my heart is beating so fast and my mind is going a mile a minute. All I can think is, ‘I have to solve this, for Mrs. White’s sake.’ She didn’t deserve to die, Thomas.” Marian looked up at him. “She wasn’t even crazy.”

“You said she was seeing things.”

“Yes, but, well, you’ve met Eleanor and the Baker. It was nothing like that. Eleanor needs help, but Mrs. White, I think she only went crazy after coming here, not before.”

Thomas shook his head. “None of this is making any sense.” He almost added, “I wish Bernard were here,” but he didn’t want to admit as much in front of Marian.

Instead, he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “All right, I’m going in.”

“Good luck,” Marian said, letting go of his hand and giving him a look that made him want to kiss her.

Thomas cleared his throat and pushed into the late Mrs. White’s room.

Inside he found both matrons and the doctor still leaning over the patient. It suddenly occurred to him that he probably should have asked them to clear out as soon as he arrived, but he’d wanted to get as much information from Marian as possible first.

He cleared his throat again and realized maybe this was where Bernard’s grunting habit had started.

“I’d like to speak with each of you individually, if you please,” he said. “Starting with you, Doctor.”

Dr. Dutton nodded and waved toward the body. “Perhaps we should begin here, Detective.”

Thomas didn’t correct him.

Marian had sent an attendant for him, to tell him another murder had just occurred. Thomas had hurried over to the wing as quickly as possible. He’d been pleased by Dr. Dutton’s response to the revealing of his badge. He’d gone up in the doctor’s estimation several notches, it had seemed, and it was clear the doctor would be willing to give him more than fifteen minutes of his time the next chance they had for an interview.

Thomas asked the matrons to please remain outside until he called them, and once they’d closed the door behind them, Thomas joined the doctor beside the dead woman.

The first thing he noticed was that her eyes were wide open. That, along with the fact that she had no body fat to speak of, made her appear more like a skeleton than the freshest corpse he’d ever laid eyes on.

“I suppose in this case we have a pretty firm time of death,” Thomas said.

He pulled out his notepad; Bernard would want to know everything Thomas could possibly think of, and then some.

“Yes, time of death was 3:03 on the dot,” the doctor said, examining his pocket watch.

“When you arrived, was the woman still alive?”

Dr. Dutton nodded. “Yes. She was experiencing fatal convulsions consistent with a reaction of some sort.”

“Had the matrons given her any medication?”

“Not that I’m aware of. According to them, Mrs. White was having a coughing fit when they arrived, so Matron Pumi gave her a glass of water. Often a patient can experience coughing merely from an irritation of the throat. We do not allow the patients in the Violent Wards to keep anything in their rooms that might harm them, including glasses and water. A dry throat is therefore not uncommon.”

“But a dry throat that led to coughing up blood?”

The doctor raised a thin eyebrow. “How did you know that? Ah, yes,” he answered himself, “your little assistant. What, may I ask, was she doing here alone? I was unaware the police had acquired female officers.”

“She’s not a police matron.”

“Then what was she doing here?”

Thomas’s voice caught in his throat a moment as he considered. But when he looked down, he realized he still wore Marian’s camera around his neck.

He pointed to it. “She’s here to take photographs of suspicious activity. And it’s a good thing, too, considering we’ll want images of this room for evidence.”

“And how did you know there would be suspicious activity that warranted photographing?”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “This the fifth death in eight days, Doctor. You don’t find that suspicious?”

“It’s a hospital, Detective,” Dr. Dutton said derogatorily.

“Precisely,” said a firm voice from the doorway. “And as such, your services will not be required. I believe we doctors can handle this from here.”

Thomas glared at Superintendent MacLean as he stalked across the room to stand between him and the body.

Thomas lifted his jacket to reveal his badge.

“I don’t care,” said the superintendent. “As Dr. Dutton has already stated, this is a matter for doctors, not policemen. When we require your assistance, we will call for it. Please leave now before I have to call for the hospital security.”

All Thomas could think was, What would Bernard do?

***

BERNARD HAD DECIDED the bicycle was an instrument of torture not to be borne by men of his status.

“It’s impossible, Roslyn. At least your seat on wheels is comfortable.”

He slopped down into a chair, never minding the protocol. After all, it was just he and his wife in the house this evening, what with Thomas and Miss Kenyon still out gallivanting about the hospital.

“Comfortable?” his wife asked with a raised brow. She waved to her torso. “You just try sitting in a chair all day in a corset.”

“Touché.”

“Lawson manages to do it every day.”

“Wearing a corset? I don’t think—”

Roslyn threw a pillow at him.

“I know, I know.”

“You’re getting as impudent as your brother.”

Bernard grinned. “And how has your day been, my rose? I came home as soon as I could, knowing you’d been alone all day once more.”

“Thank you,” Roslyn said, taking his outstretched hand in hers. “It’s been interesting. This afternoon I had a most beneficial meeting with Mrs. Campbell.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It seems your work in defense of her husband has paid off in dividends. She has agreed to introduce me to the Society at their weekly meeting on Monday.”

“That’s wonderful, my rose.” Bernard smiled beneath his mustache. “You’re halfway to gaining their trust, worming your way into their hearts, and convincing them to let Matsumoto inherit Miss Mitchell’s estate.”

Roslyn bit her lip and frowned.

Bernard sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just... The more I look into the Society, the more I think we might have the wrong end of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Society is a wonderful organization. They’re doing marvelous things for the orphaned youth of this city. If it were possible, I’d want to do everything in my ability to assist them in their endeavors.”

“But Mr. Matsumoto is the rightful heir, Roslyn. Miss Mitchell changed her will to repay him after she’d stolen and wrongfully benefited from his ideas.”

“But not all of her money came from Mr. Matsumoto’s inventions...right?”

Bernard rubbed his mustache. “No, I suppose that’s right.”

“Have you spoken with Mr. Matsumoto about all of this? Are you certain he wants our help?”

Bernard’s brow furrowed. “No. I see what you mean. I’ll have to speak with him before you go to the meeting on Monday.”

“Or perhaps I will broach the topic. After all, I may see him before you.”

Bernard was surprised by this. How did his wife plan to see the man when she couldn’t leave the house? Then it hit him.

“I see from your face you just realized the same problem I did last night.” Roslyn waved at her legs. “But not to worry. I’ve asked Mr. Matsumoto and Mr. Prescot to work out an answer to the problem of how I am to get to those meetings.”

“Ah,” Bernard said, glancing at Roslyn’s wheelchair. It had seemed an answer to their problems when they’d gotten it, but he suddenly realized it wasn’t the answer to everything. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Neither had I. But like I said: the inventors are on the case.” Roslyn smiled at him.

“You really are the smartest person in the room. Not the smartest woman, the smartest person.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss. “I would have carried you to the meeting myself if the whole point wasn’t to avoid police involvement.”

“No, no, it’s much better that I do this. You were right to involve me.”

“It’s all up to you now, my rose. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

***

THOMAS LET THE DOOR shut firmly behind him as he left Mrs. White’s room and the two doctors within.

He hadn’t wanted to slam it shut because he didn’t intend to leave as the superintendent had suggested.

“Matron Pumi, Matron Lionelle, may we have a word with each of you? Perhaps in unoccupied rooms so as to avoid attendants overhearing?”

“Of course,” Matron Pumi said in answer for both of them. She turned and led them down the hallway. “Unfortunately, we have quite a few rooms to choose from,” she said with a nod of her head toward one on the left.

“For obvious reasons,” said Matron Lionelle. “I’m thankful this is my last day. That was the last death I’ll ever have to witness.” She shook her head sadly.

“Matron, let’s pop in here,” Marian said, beckoning to Matron Lionelle. “Officer Carew and Matron Pumi can take the next door down.”

Thomas gave Marian a smile and a nod as he left her with the fair-haired matron, then turned into the next room with Matron Pumi.

And none too soon, for as the door closed behind them, he heard the voices of the two doctors conversing as they left Mrs. White’s room farther down the hall.

“Well, Officer, I suppose you want to know if I slipped anything into Mrs. White’s water?”

Thomas turned on the matron in white, who stood with her arms crossed and tapping her shoe not five feet from him.

Her eyes were like drops of chocolate floating upon a warm mug of milk, though they conveyed quite the opposite in coolness.

He straightened his tie. “I’ll be asking the questions, Matron.”

She pursed her lips.

“So...did you slip anything into Mrs. White’s water?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then tell me exactly what happened.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty of times already.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Fine. Do you mind if I sit? I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Yes, about that. I thought you said Matron Lionelle works the morning shift—why was she still here?”

Matron Pumi sighed as she took a seat on the edge of the empty bed. “Anna stayed for a full last day to ensure I could handle both of our duties. Starting tomorrow, I’m on duty until they find a replacement, which means I’ll be working twelve-hour-or-longer shifts for as long as I can until I put in my notice, as well.”

“You plan on quitting, too?”

Matron Pumi glanced toward the door, then lowered her voice. “Wouldn’t you if every patient you worked with kept dying?”

“Is that a guilty conscience speaking?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Quite the opposite.” Her face saddened. “It’s difficult, you know, for a nurse. I’m here to help my patients, to see to it they’re kindly looked after, that they’re fed, bathed, clothed. I’m here for them from the moment they arrive, marking down every bit of clothing and valuables they come in with, to the moment they are discharged and I get to return those items to them.” She shook her head. Tears were filling her eyes. “Now there’s five women who’ll never get their wedding rings back.”

Thomas crossed the room and sat next to the matron, offering her a handkerchief.

She took it gratefully and blew.

“Wow,” he said, covering his ears in mock response. “That’s the loudest nose blow I’ve ever heard. And I’ve got a twin brother.”

Matron Pumi laughed. “Really? Is he single?”

Thomas gave her a look as she wiped her nose and eyes.

“No, but I am.”

Matron looked up at him. “That pretty red-head isn’t your wife?”

“Marian? No, she’s...” Thomas shook his head. “We’re getting off track.” He stood and waved toward the dirty handkerchief in Matron Pumi’s hand. “I’m getting the feeling you care about these crazy maids.”

Matron nodded. “Absolutely, as does Matron Lionelle, which is why it’s impossible that either one of us could be the murderer.”

Thomas agreed, but maybe it was something else. “What if it’s not on purpose?”

Matron Pumi stood up and held out his handkerchief. “I am a good nurse. I know what I’m doing.”

Thomas waved away the handkerchief. “You’re saying there’s not even the slightest chance there might have been an accidental one-too-many of something given to these women? Who gives them their medication?”

“We do, but it’s not that simple. The doctors prescribe it, then Dr. Clarke makes the prescriptions. He’s in charge of the dispensary. He has a record book where he writes down every one of them for each patient. He’s very meticulous.”

“So Dr. Clarke makes all the prescriptions?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible he’s made a mistake?”

Matron Pumi scoffed. “Not likely. He studied at Bellevue and is a member of the American Medical Association.”

“Then could it not be an accident?”

But again Matron shook her head. “What possible motive could he have for poisoning patients? It’s not like we’re running out of room and need a few of them to move along so we can fit more in.”

“Then I don’t get it. I don’t see why anyone would kill any of them.” Thomas wanted to throw up his hands in frustration.

Maybe there wasn’t anything going on after all. Maybe this was simply how hospitals worked and Jackson had read too much into the whole thing because of his tendency to worry when it came to Eleanor. Maybe it was a wild goose chase.

Bernard always said motives came down to two things: love or money. The only way to find out if these deaths came down to money would be to talk with the doctors, and that wasn’t going to happen without Bernard getting involved.

He looked over at Matron Pumi’s worried face. Unless...

Love came in many forms. What if it was love of a type you didn’t normally find? A love that cared so deeply, so strongly that to see someone continuing to suffer was too much. A love that caused someone to want to do something to help that person on to the other side, into God’s healing embrace, where there was no more sickness, no more pain, and only forgiveness. Even at the cost of one’s own soul?

Thomas studied the woman in white before him.

What if the Medical Lake asylum had an Angel of Death?

***

MARIAN WORRIED THEY were looking for an Angel of Death. And what was worse, she felt pretty sure she knew where to find her.

The idea had come to her while she was talking with Matron Lionelle, who’d wrung her hands and said repeatedly she just wanted out of this cursed hospital.

“I’ve been running it through my mind over and over again,” she’d said, “and the only thing I can think of is the sleeping draughts.”

“Go on.”

“The doctors will often prescribe bromides or chloral hydrate, which are kinds of sleeping draughts, but they don’t prescribe an exact dosage. They leave it up to us to decide what’s best for the patients. Some of them suffer from insomnia. Sleep is the most important factor when it comes to health. Too little sleep can cause the worst symptoms, symptoms that would make you think anyone was crazy.”

Matron Lionelle had been pacing the floor but stopped as Marian asked, “Wait, isn’t chloral hydrate mixed with alcohol what’s known as ‘knockout drops’ or a ‘Mickey Finn?’”

The matron raised a brow but didn’t question why Marian knew something like that.

“Yes, that’s exactly it. When used correctly and carefully, a small amount of chloral hydrate alone works very quickly, putting someone to sleep in less than an hour. It’s very helpful for our patients, especially as some of our patients suffer from absolutely terrible hallucinations. I mean, the very worst you can possibly imagine. The kind that keep you up at night.”

“And sometimes you wish you could help? So you give them something to help them sleep at night.”

Matron Lionelle had nodded, her brow furrowed.

“Would an overdose match what you just witnessed with Mrs. White?” Marian had asked.

Matron Lionelle hadn’t taken long to consider before nodding her head. “Overdose of chloral hydrate can cause confusion, difficulty breathing, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and seizures. But those are symptoms many of our patients are experiencing in response to any number of drug interactions. That’s what I’m worried about. We matrons are trained nurses, so we don’t think we’re overdosing, but...”

“But what? Aren’t you the only ones with access to the patients’ medications?”

Matron Lionelle bit her lip. “What if someone is adding a little extra chloral hydrate to their evening cups of water? It wouldn’t be difficult, and only a little more could have drastic effects. Anyone could do it: a doctor, an attendant, a patient...”

That was when the terrible thought crossed Marian’s mind.

She’d heard the term before: “An Angel of Death.” She and Roslyn had discussed it in relation to Eleanor and the Baker. Roslyn had explained that, in Eleanor’s mind, the Baker was her Angel of Death, someone who delivered her from the bad things in her life.

But now, as Marian stood in the hospital just a couple doors down from Eleanor, she wondered. If Eleanor was losing her grip on herself, and the Baker was taking over, was it not conceivable that the Baker might move on from protecting Eleanor to protecting all the women in the ward?

Marian turned to Matron Lionelle now. “When you were listing off the women who’d died before, I noticed they were all ‘Mrs.’ Were they all married?”

The matron nodded. “Yes.”

“Were they all from abusive homes?”

Matron Lionelle’s blonde eyebrows rose. “Well, yes, in some way or another, but how did you know?”

Marian waved a hand. “What do you mean by ‘in some way or another?’”

“Mrs. White probably showed you the bruises on her arms and told you her husband had simply wanted her out of the way, right?”

Marian nodded.

“It’s a similar story for most of the women in this hospital. Either their husbands are having affairs and getting them admitted on ‘hysteria’ so they can continue, or their husbands are having affairs, beat them, and then get them admitted on ‘self-harm’ while they continue.”

“Like Eleanor,” Marian muttered. “Matron Lionelle, what if the Baker is helping the women who come from abusive homes escape this life?”

The matron shook her head. “Eleanor cannot get out of her room.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Matron Lionelle answered it, and when she turned, her face was pale.

“Superintendent MacLean is asking for you and the policeman.”

Marian gulped and nodded. She went down the hall, knocked, and notified Thomas. Then she and Thomas followed the attendant down the long hallways and stairs back to where they’d started in the superintendent’s office.

He lifted his slicked red head as they entered. “I knew you hadn’t left.” He didn’t immediately throw them out, however, but instead beckoned them both in.

“I had a few more questions for—,” Thomas began, but he didn’t get to finish.

“It doesn’t matter now. We know who’s to blame.”

Marian and Thomas exchanged a look.

“You do?” Thomas asked.

Marian worriedly twisted Nain’s ring on her pinky, afraid she knew exactly what the superintendent was about to say.

“It’s the Baker.”

Marian’s heart plummeted.

“It can’t be. I was told most assuredly that there’s no way she could’ve escaped from her room,” Thomas said.

“Did the someone who told you this have a set of these on them?” The superintendent shook a chatelaine full of keys before them.

Thomas frowned. “Yes.”

“Then that particular matron isn’t to blame. But one of them is. We just found this set in Eleanor Sigmund’s room. We also found this hidden beneath her mattress.” With a magician’s flair, Dr. MacLean revealed a small, dark vial. “Do you know what this is?”

“Chloral hydrate,” Marian murmured.

“Right in one, Miss Kenyon. Perhaps you’re really the detective in disguise?” The superintendent gave a fake smile. “We believe it’s possible she has been sneaking from her room to dissolve a bit of this into the waiting water glasses for the other women in her ward.”

“I thought she was confined in a straitjacket,” Thomas pointed out.

Dr. MacLean shrugged. “If she could find a way to steal a set of matron keys and a vial of chloral hydrate, I’m certain she could figure out how to free herself from a straitjacket.”

Marian sat heavily on one of the chairs and put her head in her hands. Her head swirled.

Five deaths. And it looked like the Baker had done it after all.

***

“CREMATION IS A WAY of cleaning up after the dead,” he’d told her once.

The Baker and Eleanor owed it all to her first husband. He’d been so wonderfully brilliant. One of the first in America in his field. And so passionate about his job.

“When a person dies, and their heavenly soul has left their body so that nothing remains but the husk of humanity, they don’t want their body to take up space on this earth any longer, since there’s nothing in it. That’s when I come in. I take the husk and throw it in an oven of sorts, so that those who remain behind don’t have to worry about taking care of it.”

It was such a thoughtful practice, really, when one took the time to consider it.

He’d been there when Dr. Julius LeMoyne built the first crematory in Washington, Pennsylvania. And like a good Protestant, he had believed the reformation of burial practices was a matter of health and space. After the Civil War, there had been so many dead the states had been hard-put to find a place to bury them all.

Someone had to clean up the mess left behind.

But when their travels took them out west, to a new Washington, they’d found there wasn’t a crematory. With all that space, few people saw the need.

And so they’d tried to start one themselves. They’d approached Mr. Patton at the Spokane-Washington Undertaking Co. on Riverside Ave., having heard that he might be of a more open-minded nature toward such practices.

How wrong they’d been.

Her husband’s inability to find support in the town had led to drink, which had led to women of ill-repute, which had led to the Baker waking one morning and deciding he’d be much better off as a pie.

He just hadn’t understood. The way she did. He hadn’t seemed to understand that she wanted him to bring his work home with him. Not like other wives. Wives whose husbands made messes. Hers cleaned up those messes.

So she’d cleaned up the mess he’d made.

Cleaned him up.

Cleaned him up completely.