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The Red Rogue had decided there was only one answer to the current predicament, and that lay in a late-night investigation. So when the Carews’ house clock struck midnight, Marian was already far gone from her bedroom.
Wrapped once more in her burgundy overcoat, her incongruous driving cap tucked in one of its many pockets, she’d paid a cabbie two solid gold candlesticks to take her to Medical Lake in the middle of the night. He probably thought she was a mistress heading over for a late-night rendezvous.
It didn’t matter to her what he thought. All that mattered was that he stuck around long enough to take her back once she was finished and didn’t ask any questions.
She bade him to park near one of the more affluent houses closest to the hospital, and then slunk the rest of the way on her own.
The fence was a simple matter of vaulting over, though her dismount offered much to be wished. It was clear a month as a companion had done her no good in keeping her climbing muscles strengthened. She’d have to find some way of fitting some form of exercise into her routine...
Not that she was considering returning to a life of crime.
Of course not.
That would be silly.
She gauged the distance from the ground to the third floor window she knew to be Eleanor’s. A very convenient drainpipe just happened to live right next door.
Once she reached the window, she rested her feet on the ledge while she used her tools to cut the bars and slide a diamond—stolen from a necklace she’d acquired back in Seattle—along the very top of the glass frame, just over where the lock latched inside. Then she used a gutta-percha suction cup—gutta-percha really was the material of the future, as someone like Archie could easily attest to—to remove the glass, balancing it gently on the ledge for reinsertion later when she left.
Carefully, she reached a small hand through the opening and flipped the latch on the window so she could raise it fully open. Thankful being a companion hadn’t changed the width of her shoulders or her hips, the Red Rogue slipped inside, landing on the floor of Eleanor’s room without a sound.
Only, it wasn’t Eleanor who greeted her. It was the Baker.
She cocked her head above her straitjacketed arms.
“There’s a birdie in my room,” she said softly, cocking her head just like the animal. “Why is there a birdie in my room?”
“Eleanor, it’s me,” Marian said, reaching out to her friend.
The Baker took a step back.
“Eleanor is not here. Only I, the Baker. What would you like me to bake for you today? A pie? A cake? A man?” The Baker’s eyes twinkled in the darkness.
Marian shook her head. She’d hoped Eleanor might be more lucid if it was just her in the room, without a man, like Matron Lionelle had suggested.
This was hopeless if she couldn’t speak to Eleanor.
A knock at the door caused the Red Rogue to leap back into action, moving toward the window. She was out on the ledge by the time she heard a man’s voice as he entered Eleanor’s room.
“Eleanor?” It was Jackson.
The Red Rogue let out a woosh of air. She hoped the open window might go unnoticed, since she hadn’t had time to close it behind her. Perhaps it would appear to be simply cleaner than normal as it looked out upon the night sky?
“Miss Kenyon?”
Marian turned to the window, still clutching the edge of the building.
“Miss Kenyon, please, let’s not stand on ceremony.”
The Red Rogue took a deep breath and let herself back in through the window. This time when she landed, she was met by an odd pair of gazes: one of them was what was left of her friend, and the other was a man she was beginning to dislike wholeheartedly.
“Mr. Jackson.” She gave him a curt nod.
“You’re looking very well this evening,” he said with a smirk. “The driving cap is a nice touch. Might lead one to believe you were a man should they only catch your silhouette.”
The Red Rogue bowed.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we continue with the reason we’ve both come here. To get Eleanor out.”
Marian raised her hands. “I’m not here to help her escape. I just wanted to ask her some questions. I don’t think she’s the murderer.”
Jackson nodded. “I agree, which is why I’m here to spring her for the last time. I’m done waiting for the police to get the hint. She’s getting worse in here, and if I don’t get her out now, there’s no telling how bad she might get. Or worse...” He looked at the woman he loved. “She might be the next victim.”
The Baker stared at him and cocked her head. If her arms had been free, Marian was certain she would have put a hand out to caress Jackson’s chiseled jaw.
“But she’s not alone,” Marian said. “There are other women here, suffering as much as she is. The patients here don’t deserve to die, no matter who they are. We have to stop whoever is behind this.”
Jackson ran a hand over his head.
“Do you have a headache?” Marian asked suddenly.
Jackson raised a brow at her. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve gotten a headache every time I’ve been in this ward...” She looked around, hoping for some sign.
“All the patients in this ward suffer from headaches,” Jackson said.
“What else?”
“What else do they suffer from?”
“Yes, you said you’ve seen the charts.”
“Hallucinations, anxiety, confusion, mental depression, tension, excitability, instability, insomnia, tremors, seizures, vomiting, nausea, diarrhea, loosening of teeth, metallic tastes in the mouth—”
“Mrs. White told me she had some of those. The teeth thing and the metal taste. And Matron Lionelle said some of those could be caused by chloral hydrate overdose.”
Jackson shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. I couldn’t tell you what kind of poison could cause all that.”
“Tick, tock goes the clock,” sang the Baker.
Marian turned to her.
“Tick, tock goes the clock. But why does it go, ‘tick tock?’ It ticks because it’s time to. It tocks because it can. The world could learn a lot from the ticking of the clock. Forward only, never back. Tick, tock...tick, tock...tick...tock.”
“You’re right,” Marian replied. “I know who I should talk to.”
***
“I HATE TO ADMIT IT, but I don’t think I much enjoyed playing detective yesterday,” Thomas said, blowing a sigh from between his lips and leaning back after a full breakfast.
The brothers were the only two remaining at the breakfast table. Thomas and Marian had spent most of the meal filling in Bernard and Roslyn on all that had happened the day before at the asylum. Now the ladies had retired, Marian to begin developing some photographs in her makeshift darkroom upstairs, and Roslyn to read in the front parlor.
“It was crazy, Bernard. I don’t know how you ever solve anything on your own. Even with Marian’s help, I feel lost under the immense weight of information we gathered. None yet all of it seems crucial.”
“‘You know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands,’” Bernard quoted.
“Sherlock?” Thomas asked.
“Gryce,” Bernard corrected.
Thomas nodded. “Nice to see you’re changing things up a bit. But seriously, what do I do next?”
“I thought it was over, that the murderer really was the Baker after all?”
Thomas shook his head. “That’s what Superintendent MacLean said, but I’m not so sure. I agree with Marian.”
“Of course you do,” Bernard grumbled.
“Hey now, if it was Roslyn you’d say the same thing. And not just because she’s your wife but because you know a woman’s intuition is nothing to scoff at, especially when it’s backed by brains that could beat yours any day of the week.”
Bernard raised his hands. “Fine, fine, you got me. I’ll admit: now there’s been five deaths, I’m interested.”
“Didn’t realize there was a quota to meet before the police could get involved.”
Bernard frowned at that. “You know very well Medical Lake isn’t exactly in our jurisdiction.”
“But the sheriff isn’t doing anything about it. So now the great Detective Carew will swoop in and tell them what fools they’ve all been, find all the necessary clues, piece the puzzle together, and—voilà—you’ll have the case solved by midnight.”
Bernard grunted. Which meant he knew Thomas was being sarcastic, but he still appreciated the sentiment.
Bernard scratched his mustache. “Explain to me again what the matrons said.”
Thomas repeated what he’d scribbled in his notepad.
“And this is all from Matron Pumi?”
“And Matron Lionelle. Marian and I made certain our notes lined up on the train back home.”
Bernard’s brow furrowed. “Matron Lionelle’s the one who found three of the women? The one who’s since left the hospital?”
“Yes, yesterday was her last day. Matron Pumi is still there, though, so you could question her yourself.”
“So if another death occurs, I guess we’ll know which matron is in on it.”
“Matron Pumi?” Thomas scoffed, picturing her small, plump form and the smell of cinnamon and cloves. “Never.”
Bernard raised a brow as though he could see inside Thomas’s head. He quickly dismissed the image and tried to focus on Marian and all she’d done to help yesterday.
“Who else has access to that wing?” Bernard asked.
“Doctors, matrons, Superintendent MacLean.”
“Sounded like Dr. MacLean wasn’t too happy when you revealed you were a policeman rather than a reporter.”
Thomas nodded. “Would’ve thought it would be the other way around.”
Bernard grunted in agreement. “All right, I’ll do some digging, see what happens when I turn over a few rocks.”
“Thanks, Bernard, you’re the best.” Thomas stood from the table and pointed a finger at him. “And don’t you dare say, ‘I know.’”
***
MARIAN WAS IN THE DARK. Figuratively and literally.
She’d searched the Spokane City Directory for a place that might sell the items she required to make her own darkroom at home to develop her film. There’d been plenty of listings for photographers, but only three under “Photographic Supplies.” Shaw & Borden on Riverside Ave., and Washington Dental and Photographic Supply on Sprague had only offered her plates, film, and cameras. Finally she’d found what she’d wanted at John W. Graham and Co. on Sprague Avenue.
Now she stood in the upstairs bathroom of the Carews’ house, the smell of chemicals sharp like vinegar in her nose. A lamp with a red bulb allowed her to see her work without ruining the development of the orthochromatic film, a towel tucked along the crack under the door to block out the light from the hall, as she clipped, dipped, and hung the negatives from her box camera.
It really was the most marvelous invention. Up until now, the only possible way to take a picture was with a large tripod camera and plates. It was bulky and time-consuming, requiring several seconds of sitting absolutely still to ensure the plate recorded the image perfectly.
But with the advent of the Kodak Brownie, anyone from women like Marian to the smallest child could take photographs anywhere and everywhere. Because it was a small, portable device it was easy to hide behind large hats—as they’d done just last month—or carry around her neck—as they’d done at the asylum. The camera had only cost her $1.00, and a six exposure roll of film could usually be found for less than twenty cents.
The box itself was light, being made of cardboard and wood covered in soft leather. V-shaped sighting lines on the top helped her to line up the shot at her chest, though she’d gone ahead and purchased the clip-on reflecting finder last summer when they’d released it. Then it was a simple matter of point and click, then winding the key to advance the film. She didn’t even have to remove the film roll until all six shots had been taken. She’d heard them called “reflex cameras” because it was as quick and easy as that to take pictures.
She bent over the 2 ¼ inch square negatives as she turned them, one by one, into contact prints, hoping the camera, and her photography skills, might prove their worth. The negatives had developed in around five minutes, but the prints should only take thirty seconds before she’d start seeing the image clearly.
It made her think of Archie and all the advancements in sound he’d shared with her. She couldn’t get enough of it. She loved nothing more than to listen to him talk about the inventions he’d seen or created himself over the years. When he opened a pocket watch and showed her what made it work, she couldn’t help but want to know more.
Just like during their first interaction at Montrose Park all those months ago. It felt like ages, but it had really only been two months.
She smiled recalling his declaration that his clocks didn’t “bong” but instead played a different chime each hour.
How easily they’d fallen into conversation then. Their friendship had begun in an instant, but she’d felt even then it was something she’d cherish for a lifetime.
Her hands drifted down to her sides after hanging a photograph print as she thought about her future. Unfortunately, Archie wouldn’t be here forever. He had a whole life back in Connecticut. When they’d first met he’d said he would only be here through the end of the summer, then he’d be heading home.
It was difficult to imagine life in Spokane without him. Without their conversations in the park. Without his sound theory inventions. Without his reading.
Most people wouldn’t think he’d be a good reader. Although Archie did have a tendency to stumble over his words—something she found to be endearing, like a puppy tripping over its large feet—he didn’t make mistakes when he was reading aloud to her. The few times she’d had the pleasure of listening to him reading in Montrose Park while she snapped pictures of the flora and fauna, she’d been impressed by his inflection and lilting phrasing. It was almost like he sang the words to her.
An image flashed across her mind. Archie was sitting in an overstuffed armchair before the fire, comfortably drinking a cup of coffee, a book in his hand, his glasses slowly slipping down his nose. And then she saw herself, seated across from him, in a mirrored pose of relaxation.
She sighed happily at the thought.
But she wasn’t being courted by Archie. She was being courted by Thomas.
She tried to change the image like a double-negative, so that this time it was Thomas seated across from her. But he was talking. She just couldn’t imagine him without a quip escaping his mouth, and as much as she enjoyed that, there was a very real and deep part of her that would much prefer sitting quietly with someone reading a book.
It was why she enjoyed being a companion to Roslyn. Some might think it a difficult job, but she could never resent spending more time reading and talking about literature.
What did her future hold? Would it be one with Thomas at her side? If so, then she knew what she had to do. She knew the only way to start a marriage was in complete honesty, otherwise it was destined for ruin. Too often she’d seen couples torn apart by lies. Sure, they wouldn’t admitted the truth to her, but she didn’t have to be a psychic to see the way a man looked—or didn’t look—at his wife.
You could tell in an instant that Bernard loved Roslyn just by the way he looked at her.
Thomas used to look at her like that, but lately...
She thought about their encounters at the asylum. There was that matron. Short and round, decisive and forthright. Marian had caught Thomas noticing her a couple times...like after she’d been searching the room and come out just after he'd been speaking with her. He’d had this look on his face...
And it didn’t bother her. Did that mean something?
Archie looked at her the way Bernard looked at Roslyn and the way Thomas looked at—
Marian leaned in closer to the photograph she’d just hung.
It wasn’t Matron Pumi; it was Matron Lionelle—blonde and tall. She was standing behind Superintendent MacLean, and the Kodak had caught the look on her face clear as crystal.
Matron Lionelle looked like she would like nothing better than to murder Dr. MacLean.
***
ARCHIE LAY BENEATH the automobile on an old towel, not minding the fact that he was getting a bit of grease and dirt on his trousers and most likely in his hair.
He was doing his favorite thing: tinkering. What’s more, he was finding that the inner workings of an automobile were quite similar to a clock’s.
The fixed front axle had wheels on either end that turned when the crank on the driver’s side was pushed. The pinion came out at the side next to the wheel and engaged with a large gear wheel fixed against it. The gear and pinion were enclosed in a tight case so that each wheel was turned independently by its own motor. The whole system turned about a central pin, steered by the crank above by means of a pinion and toothed sector.
The batteries were supposed to allow a run of at least sixty-five miles on a single charge, and with two motors could reach up to six horse power. Fortunately, he’d been able to access the motors from above, which would make it all the more simple to inspect and clean them in the future, and even the accumulators slid out easily from the rear.
Like so many mechanical things, when one understood how gears and axles and wheels all needed to fit together, it was quite simple to find the best way to piece them together to make them do something new.
It reminded him of when he’d turned his mind from pocket watches to tower clocks, and he’d quickly realized he’d be working with the same tools he always had but on a much larger scale.
The clock he was designing now for the Great Northern Depot would have faces nine feet in diameter with iron dial frames weighing a total of more than 2,400 pounds. The minute hands would be half the length of the diameter, and the hour hands would be two feet six inches long. The Roman numerals marking the hours would be eighteen inches long, with minute dots five inches long.
He had hopes they’d be able to place electric lights behind each dial, so as to illuminate the clock at night. They’d told him that since the depot itself would be the most brightly lit building in Spokane, this shouldn’t be a problem. Nearly a hundred arc lights were to light the first floor and grounds alone.
The size of the faces wasn’t all, of course. Inside the tall tower would be housed the clock movement, enclosed in a glass case with iron casing provided with a Dennison double three-leg gravity escapement. The eight-foot-six-inch long zinc and steel pendulum with a 450-pound counterweight would hang from a hundred-foot cable, and a hand crank more than two feet across would require ninety-nine turns to wind the clock. It would only have to be wound every eight days, rather than the standard six to seven days. When it was finished, it would be the largest clock in the Pacific Northwest.
And he had designed it. He, Archibald Prescot, a little nobody clockmaker from Connecticut would have designed and installed Spokane’s unforgettable clock tower.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you,” came Matsumoto’s low voice.
“One moment,” Archie said, thrusting a thoroughly blackened finger toward the upside-down man.
He wiggled and cajoled his stiff body out from underneath the car, wishing the towel would be more helpful. Perhaps he’d have to invent something like a board with wheels under it to assist mechanics working under cars.
When he was finally able to roll over and slowly stand up on his own two feet, he took the clean towel Matsumoto was proffering in silent, blind regard.
“How’d you know?” Archie asked him, grabbing the towel gratefully and wiping his hands on it.
“Working under an automobile cannot possibly be clean work,” Matsumoto said with simple logic.
“Certainly true,” Archie said, gazing in disbelief at the black-smeared towel. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to run into town for me to check some measurements on Mrs. Carew’s wheelchair. It occurred to me that although she may be able to roll up into the car, we do not want her to roll back out once the car is in motion.”
“I see what you mean.” Archie turned to the car. “Even with doors, her chair would most likely roll back and forth with the motion of the vehicle. I take it you have an idea?”
Matsumoto nodded. “I wondered if clamps might be the answer. If we could solder some to the floor in either position, then once she has rolled into place, she could simply close them about her wheels so as to avoid further movement.”
“Brilliant. I’ll head down as soon as I can.” Archie grimaced as he discovered his reflection in the glass of the automobile’s window. “But I’m thinking a bath might be in order first.”
***
MARIAN WHIRLED INTO the front parlor, her face flushed red, pulling Roslyn from her reading of Scientific American.
“Roslyn, you must see this photograph,” she said in a rush, thrusting the square into her hand.
Roslyn held it carefully by the corners.
“Who is this?”
“Dr. MacLean, he’s the superintendent. He was pointing out some of the features of the hospital so I snapped a photograph. But look behind him. I didn’t even notice she was there. I hadn’t met her yet.”
“Who is she?”
“Anna Lionelle, matron of the Violent Female Ward. At least, she was until today. She’d just given her notice and her last day of work was yesterday.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?” Roslyn raised her brow. “I take it you spoke with her?”
“Yes, alone. Thomas wasn’t allowed in the ward as a man, but I was, so another attendant helped me gain access so I could interview her.”
“This look on her face. It’s very...” Roslyn couldn’t think of the right word.
“Murderous?” Marian supplied.
“Unfortunately, Bernard left for the station while you were still developing,” Roslyn said. “But Thomas—”
“Is looking as handsome as ever?” Thomas asked, entering the room.
Roslyn ignored his joke and handed him the photograph. “You’re going to want to look at this.”
“I took this yesterday at the asylum,” Marian explained. “Look in the background.”
Thomas’s brow immediately furrowed.
“She’s glaring daggers at Dr. MacLean.” Thomas tilted the photograph. “Or is it at you?”
“She’d have no reason to look at me that way. I think it was aimed at the superintendent. She couldn’t have had any idea that the camera would pick her up. In fact, she might not even have seen me taking the picture. I have to hold the box at chest level, and at that angle it might have been blocked by the superintendent himself.”
“I think it’s one of those looks we make subconsciously behind someone’s back,” Roslyn said, “not realizing how our face is emoting our inner thoughts.”
Marian nodded. “I agree.”
“Do you have any ideas as to why she would feel this way toward the superintendent?” Roslyn asked. “Did he fire her?”
“No,” Thomas answered.
“She said she’d given her notice because she was certain something untoward was going on,” Marian added. “She did intimate that an attendant who’d died might have done so because he knew something untoward about one of the doctors...”
“Maybe she suspected Dr. MacLean was behind it?” Thomas proposed.
“Did she act suspiciously when you spoke with her?” Roslyn asked.
Marian frowned. “Yes, come to think of it. She was very nervous and antsy, kept looking at her fob watch. She’d swing from uncertain to aggressive in an instant. At first I thought she was just in a hurry, but now that I think of it, it was her last day, so what would she have to feel hurried about? Maybe she didn’t like my questions and was anxious about someone discovering she was speaking to me. She might have been worried what happened to the other attendant might happen to her.”
“Why would she think the attendants were next to be killed when so far it’s only been patients?” Roslyn asked.
Marian shook her head. “I don’t know. It wasn't a very long interview. She seemed eager to say what she had to say and then leave.”
Thomas was clearly considering. “Based on this photograph, I’m not sure we should believe anything she told you. This was an unguarded moment, so I would assume this is a picture of her true thoughts, contrary to whatever she told you in the interview.”
Marian took the photograph back. “I’m inclined to agree with you. But where does that put us? Do you think she’s the murderer?”
“It’s possible that’s why she quit her job.” Thomas nodded.
“Did she put in her notice before or after you and Thomas showed up and started asking questions?” Roslyn asked.
“She’d already done so by the time we got there,” Marian said.
“Hm,” Roslyn murmured. “Still, I’d definitely say you and Thomas were right to go to the asylum. Looks like there was certainly something sinister afoot. Perhaps it will stop now that this matron has left?”
“I was headed to Medical Lake anyway,” Thomas said, “but now I’ve got the perfect lead to follow up on.”
“Will you be stealing my companion this time, as well?” Roslyn glanced at Marian, who answered for Thomas.
“I thought I’d stay here today and continue developing the pictures I took at the asylum, see if anything else pops.”
Thomas nodded and went to grab his new fedora off the stand in the hall. He returned to say, “Thanks for the help, Marian. You’re a real peach.” He tipped his hat at a jaunty angle and gave them both a winning smile. “I’m off, then. I’ll be home by supper. You can always count me in for that.”
“Do tell Signora Magro before you head out, please,” said Roslyn. “You can also inform her that Marian will be here all day.”
“Of course.” He bowed to his sister-in-law, winked at Marian, and left.
***
THOMAS DISEMBARKED from the Northern Pacific at the Medical Lake train station and stretched his back.
All this riding on trains. It truly was remarkable. He remembered when the only way to get to Medical Lake was by horse and cab, and now it was just a simple jaunt by rail. Next thing you knew, everyone would be making day trips here by automobile.
Thomas recalled his brief encounter with Miss Mitchell’s sleek black car. He wondered if he asked nicely if Matsumoto would let him give it a twirl...
He looked left and right, then pulled out the address Matron Pumi had given him for Matron Lionelle the day before. When he’d spoken to her, he’d asked where he might reach her and Miss Lionelle, in particular, if he had any more questions, given the fact that she was leaving the hospital the next day.
At first, Matron Pumi had been reluctant to give him this information. When he’d persisted, she’d tapped her heel and crossed and uncrossed her arms a couple times before admitting, “Fine, I’ll tell you where Matron Lionelle will be for the next week or so.”
Again, she’d leaned in close to write the address in his notepad, offering directions along with it, but he hadn’t really been paying attention given all he could think about was the smell of gingerbread emanating from her.
On the train ride out, he’d flipped through his notes, trying to decide his next best course of action. He felt certain he wouldn’t be getting anything else out of the doctors at the hospital until Bernard was at his side. Bernard was much better at the “you’re going to tell me everything you know now or else I’ll pummel you into jelly” look. It was a look he’d perfected as a kid when they’d confronted bullies in the school yard. Even at that age it had been clear he was made to be a policeman like their father.
Thomas had more or less fallen into the job. If he had his druthers, he’d probably have ended up owning a bakery, working as a chef of some sort. But his father never would have allowed that. After all, both he and their grandfather had joined the force as soon as they could. Why should his sons choose anything different?
So now here Thomas was doing his best. When he’d come across the address for Miss Lionelle, it had occurred to him that maybe he should have a talk with her, away from the prying eyes and ears at the hospital.
Perhaps she’d be more willing to share. He wanted to know why she’d felt it necessary to make such an abrupt departure. And he wanted to ask her about the attendant she’d mentioned to Marian, who’d died of pneumonia earlier that year.
He turned and began to make his way south toward Lake Street, taking a right on Walker until he came to a small white house with a red roof. Pumi had told him Lionelle was staying at this boarding house until she could make up her mind about whether to stay in Medical Lake or try her luck somewhere else.
Unfortunately, it looked like her luck had just run out.
A sheriff’s deputy with thick brown whiskers was standing at the front steps. He stopped Thomas as he approached.
“What’s your business here, sir?”
“I was coming to see Miss Lionelle.”
The deputy shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.”
Thomas’s stomach sank. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid the lady was found dead this morning.” The deputy sniffed. “Appears she took her own life.”
***
MARIAN COULDN’T STOP worrying. Every question made her jump.
Jackson knew the truth, or at least half of it. He still didn’t know she was a thief—that is, had been a thief. She hadn’t fretted a bit when Archie had figured it out. She knew him, trusted him, knew he’d do anything to keep her secret for her.
But Jackson? She knew absolutely nothing about the man except that he couldn’t be trusted.
She needed to talk to Thomas. She needed to spill everything, tell him all about the Red Rogue and her trip out to Medical Lake last night.
She yawned. Her late night excursions hadn’t used to bother her the next day. She was definitely out of shape.
“Did you not sleep well again last night?” Roslyn asked from her wheelchair beside her.
Marian nodded. “As Nain would say, ‘Success and rest don’t sleep together.’ I was up all night thinking about Eleanor again. She was supposed to find healing in that hospital and instead...”
Roslyn shook her head. “You and I both know she’s not behind these deaths. Someone else is pinning the blame on her.”
Marian smiled. “I’m so thankful you and I are always on the same page.”
“As your Nain probably used to say, ‘Great minds think alike.’” Roslyn smiled in return.
Marian laughed. “Precisely!” She took a deep breath and let out all her stress and anxiety.
“Let’s talk about something else,” suggested Roslyn. “What are you reading currently? Have you finished Les Misérables?”
Marian walked over to the bookshelf to pick up the book. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time.”
“How far are you?”
“I’m almost finished, but I’ve read it before, though it’s been ages.” After all, it had been Jean Valjean and his candlesticks that had led to her own life of crime, a sort of ironic tribute.
“Les Misérables—did I already tell you I read that book in its original French?”
Marian shook her head.
“Such an intriguing story. Now there’s another good context by which we can discuss the idea of multiple personalities, as the term can have so very many applications,” Roslyn said. “It could refer to Eleanor’s disease, to the masks we wear, or to someone like Jean Valjean, who has chosen to take on a new, better identity in order to start a new, better life for himself, no longer inhibited by the bad choices of his past.”
Marian glanced at Roslyn. Did she realize how closely she'd come to hitting the mark in describing Marian’s own struggle between her multiple identities. At least she had a choice, unlike Eleanor. At one time she’d thought maybe Eleanor still had a chance of finding the key to unlock her illness. But now...
“I have to admit, I’m intrigued more so by the moral dilemma,” said Marian.
“Indeed?”
The best part of any discussion with Roslyn was her ability to encourage that discussion, never shutting it down with opinions disguised as fact.
“Valjean vs. Javert,” Marian said. “Valjean spends the entirety of the novel trying to escape the consequences of his actions. He broke the law, and therefore, he should be in jail—shouldn’t he?” What Marian wanted to say was: if Eleanor and Jackson had suffered consequences to their actions, shouldn’t she? “And yet, Valjean is shown grace repeatedly, a mercy that the priest says comes from God. But Javert also claims to be working for God, but his is a God of justice. Which character is right?”
“‘Mercy rejoiceth against judgment,’” Roslyn quoted.
“My Nain used to say that.”
Roslyn folded her hands together. “I think the very question you ask is the entire point of the novel. The beauty of Les Misérables is its story of second chances, of how God can use all to his purpose. In the end, does not Valjean extend the same grace he’s been shown by God to Javert? If he believed Javert was right, should he not have killed him?”
“But then Javert kills himself because Valjean did not give him the justice he deserved.”
Roslyn pointed at Marian. “Precisely. His image of God could not possibly line up with Valjean’s image of God, so in the end, one of them had to fall.”
Marian considered this. Somewhere along the line, she felt their topic had changed. But books were like that. Once discussion began, there was no telling where one might end up.
A knock at the front door interrupted them. When Marian went to answer it and found Archie standing there, his hat in his hands, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good morning, Marian,” he greeted with a slight, respectful bow and a huge smile.
“Good morning, Archie. What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.”
***
ONCE MORE, THOMAS WAS too late. How many people were going to die in this case before they caught the killer? He wondered if Matron Lionelle’s death would be enough to grab Captain Coverly’s interest in the asylum.
He shook his head sadly at the thought, however, knowing full well that if the county sheriff’s office were calling it a suicide, there was no reason for the captain to think otherwise.
Thomas flashed his badge and gave his name and the deputy waved him through. He didn’t even ask why Thomas was interested.
Her body lay on the floor now, but standing over her was Sheriff Doust. He held a thick rope tied into a noose shape, and around her neck were the tell-tale marks of a hanging. Thomas couldn’t help but think it fitting, given that until this year the sheriff had served as the local hangman. Another deputy knelt beside a chair lying on its side, now parallel to the dead woman.
The midday sun shining through the one small window caught her blonde hair messily coming loose from her pompadour, making a glowing halo around her face. She was still wearing her white uniform and someone had closed her eyes out of respect. If she’d been painted holding a baby, she would have made a beautiful Gilded Age representation of a “Madonna with Child.”
It was too bad the coroner wouldn’t be happy to find the body moved, the eyes closed, and the rope—
“Who closed her eyes?” a thin, reedy voice queried from behind him.
Thomas turned to find the very man he’d just been thinking about entering the room, black bag in hand.
Coroner Baker followed up with, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you Detective Carew’s brother?”
Thomas nodded and offered his hand. “Officer Carew, at your service. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. My brother has told me how helpful you’ve been in his cases.”
The county coroner shook his hand. “Is Detective Carew about?” He looked around the room.
“Not yet,” said Thomas, avoiding a full explanation.
Thankfully, the coroner didn’t question him on it, but instead placed his pince-nez on his nose as he said, “Well then, let’s see what we’ve got this time.”
Coroner Baker knelt beside the body. “Did you find her like this?”
Thomas shook his head. “I only got here a minute before you. The sheriff and his deputies, I assume, are the ones who discovered her.” He waved a hand toward the other two men.
The sheriff stepped forward, the rope still hanging from one hand. He was tall with blond hair and a matching thick mustache. Even though his term had only just begun that January, his eyes bespoke months of seeing the worst the county had to offer, and Thomas wondered if he might not be perfectly glad to hand the case over to Thomas and Bernard.
“The landlady, a Mrs. Rowe, notified us this morning of the death. She said when Miss Lionelle didn’t come down for breakfast, she went up to check. When she knocked, the door opened and she found Miss Lionelle hanging from the beam.” He pointed above the chair to one of the thick oak beams crisscrossing the ceiling.
“The door just swung open on its own?” Thomas asked. “It wasn’t locked?”
Sheriff Doust shrugged. “Guess not. Wasn’t locked when we got here, of course. Found her just like Mrs. Rowe described.”
“So you thought it best to lower her to the floor and close her eyes?” Coroner Baker asked, looking up over his pince-nez at the sheriff. His face clearly shared his thoughts on the matter.
“I thought it best to prepare her for your examination. I didn’t think it necessary for you to see her as we found her. It was quite obvious she’d taken her own life. I was trying to offer the poor girl what little respect she could yet obtain.”
The coroner stood with a sigh and removed his spectacles. “Next time, please leave the body exactly as you found it. Your respect may have changed what I can tell from the body. By moving her from a hanging position to the floor, you have affected the lividity: the blood will now have settled toward her back, instead of toward her feet.”
The deputy standing behind the sheriff scratched his clean-shaven chin. “But what difference does that make?”
Coroner Baker licked his lips and considered his words. He was clearly making every effort to educate the sheriff and his men kindly. “It means I cannot tell if she actually did hang herself or if someone helped her into the noose after she’d been killed elsewhere.”
“I’d think the rope marks would make that pretty obvious,” the sheriff interrupted, pointing to the poor woman’s neck with the rope in his hand, “if you didn’t also have my word.”
“A murderer could have come upon her and strangled her with the rope, then hung her, making it appear like she’d hung herself,” Coroner Baker explained.
“Where did you find the rope exactly?” Thomas asked. “I mean, where was she hanging?”
The sheriff pointed toward the rafters again. “It was thrown over that beam and tied there.” He pointed to the end of the four-poster bed.
“And the chair? Did you move that, too?” Coroner Baker asked.
Sheriff Doust and his deputy exchanged a glance, clearly picking up on the fact that they’d made a couple mistakes their first time out, though the chair had been one of the few things they hadn’t moved.
“Well, thank God for small miracles,” muttered the coroner, replacing his pince-nez and kneeling again.
While the coroner examined, Thomas pulled out his notepad and took notes. He may not have been assigned to the case, but a small voice in his head told him this was no coincidence.
The fact that Matron Lionelle was still dressed in her white uniform meant she’d either hung herself or been murdered directly after coming home from her last day at the asylum. It made him question everything they thought they’d known about her.
Was this why she’d really quit? So she could come home and end her life? If her plan had been to commit suicide, though, why go to the trouble of quitting her job first?
Was it because she’d been living in-house? Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to hang herself in the asylum, and so had quit so she could move out to a private room, where no one would bother her.
He needed to speak with someone who’d known Anna Lionelle on a more personal level. Someone who could tell him whether she was the suicidal type. Someone who had lived with her at the asylum, and worked with her everyday.
He tried not to smile openly while standing over a dead woman.
It was time to speak with Matron Pumi.
***
“I JUST STOPPED BY TO let you know things are progressing well with our little idea for a conveyance for you,” Archie said as he stood across from Mrs. Carew.
“I’m very pleased to hear it!” Mrs. Carew smiled broadly at him. “I just knew you were the right gentlemen for the job.”
Archie blushed. “Thank you for entrusting us with it. I admit, we’ve had great fun working on the idea. Mr. Matsumoto just sent me down to check some measurements on your wheelchair.” He waved toward her feet. “If I may?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Carew said, pulling her skirts back so he could kneel beside her with a tape measurer.
“Marian, would you mind holding this for me?” Archie asked.
Marian joined him on the other side of Mrs. Carew’s wheelchair and took the other end of the measuring tape.
“Just there, please,” he said.
She knelt down on his level, smiling at him as she did so. For a moment he forgot what he was doing.
He was taken back to a conversation they’d once shared in Montrose Park. She’d been holding her camera, snapping a photograph of ducks on Mirror Lake when she’d turned to him.
“I was just thinking,” she’d said, “how lovely it would be to take photographs of your work with Mr. Matsumoto. It would be a wonderful way to document your experiments, don’t you think?”
Since then she’d joined them once or twice at the House and done just that. He cherished those days. When he daydreamed about a future with Marian, those were the sorts of things that came to mind. Those few times he’d thought about what he hoped for in a wife, he imagined someone who’d work alongside him, encouraging him, perhaps even offering her own expertise. In his wildest dreams, he and his wife would be the first to win the Nobel Prize as a married couple.
Archie wrote down the measurements from Mrs. Carew’s wheelchair and stood to his feet.
“Did you get what you needed?” Mrs. Carew asked.
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “You know, working on this contraption for you has made me think about that book The Time Machine quite a bit. Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to add a few more tweaks and turn your wheelchair into a machine capable of propelling you into the future?”
Mrs. Carew laughed. “A vehicle to get me around town is quite enough...for now.” She gave a happy sigh. “Wouldn’t it be fun to see the future?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Marian, once more in her chair beside her employer. “Though, I wouldn’t want to see that particular version of the future. I never liked the idea of Morlocks waiting for me in the dark.” She gave a small shiver.
Archie smiled. “I highly doubt that part was based on anything but Wells’s own nightmares. I imagine the future will look quite different. With the latest advancements in technology, it’s possible to dream of all sorts of things. Imagine a world where everyone has a telephone in their home, causing the telegraph industry to disappear altogether. Where railroads can be built with metal ties instead of wooden ones, which are more durable and longer-lasting. Where battles can be fought from extraordinarily longer distances apart, instead of hand-to-hand. Where people can fly anywhere they want in aeroplanes.”
“‘Aeroplanes’?” Marian asked, repeating the funny-sounding word.
“Yes, it’s a vehicle large enough for two people, with wings like a bird’s, only they don’t flap.”
“Then how do they fly?”
“I’m not sure.” Archie scratched his chin. “I read about them in The Scientific American. I’m sure you could find the article around here somewhere.”
“That all sounds rather amazing,” said Marian, her eyes alight.
***
“ABSOLUTELY NOT. SHE would never kill herself.” Matron Pumi wiped the tears from her eyes with Thomas’s handkerchief.
It was the second time in as many days she’d cried in front of him, though he would have marked her for the type of woman who rarely displayed such emotion in front of people. This time, as Thomas watched her shoulders shaking, he felt an overwhelming urge to hold her close, to comfort her. They were alone in one of the empty rooms in the asylum, so he could have, but he respected Ethel Pumi too much to put her in an imprudent situation.
“She never would have done that of her own volition.” Pumi shook her head, the electric lights of the room reflecting off her shiny black hair. She was short enough, he could see where she’d parted and pulled it back into a tight bun, unlike the loose pompadour of Matron Lionelle.
“It’s this hospital,” Pumi went on, rubbing her temple. “I swear it’s eating us alive.”
“You’ve always sounded like you enjoyed your job, like you were in your element here.”
She smiled. “I used to think that. But now...” Her brow furrowed. “She just wouldn’t have done that. Not Anna.”
“The only other option is that someone killed her. Can you think of anyone who’d want her dead?”
Pumi shook her head.
“Wasn’t there another attendant who died strangely, too? Of pneumonia?”
Pumi wiped her small nose. “John Beattle. Who told you about that?”
“Miss Lionelle told Miss Kenyon.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped back to the notes she’d shared from her interview.
“Did Anna imply that John was murdered? I can’t think how someone could fake pneumonia.”
“It would just have to be the symptoms,” Thomas said. “I’m sure there’s a drug somewhere that would cause a similar reaction.”
Pumi considered. “Yes, I guess so, though I can’t think of any right now.”
“Though, it does seem odd that our killer would be a poisoner five times, maybe six if we include Beattle, and then switch to strangulation for Miss Lionelle.”
“But I know she didn’t do it herself,” Pumi repeated stubbornly. “Someone must have put her up to it. Perhaps forced her hand. Maybe even at gunpoint.”
“You think the killer came into her room with a rope and a gun and said, ‘Hang yourself or I’ll shoot?’”
“Well, when you put it that way...,” she admitted.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying it sounds unlikely. Unlikely doesn’t necessarily mean impossible, though.” He was starting to sound like Bernard, which made him think of Sherlock. “Come to think of it, the very first Sherlock Holmes novel has something similar happen in it.”
Pumi raised a brow. “You think someone presented her with two pills, one poisonous and one not, and suggested they each take one?”
“You’ve read A Study in Scarlet?”
“Who hasn’t? I love reading. It’s how I fall asleep at night. It’s the only way I can get my brain to stop thinking about my patients.”
Thomas raised his brows in surprise. “I’m the same way! Reading helps my mind slow down and focus on a problem that’s not personal.”
They smiled at one another. The moment stretched too long and Matron Pumi looked away, dabbing at her eyes again with his handkerchief.
Thomas glanced at his notes again. “Did John Beattle have any family?”
“Just his mother.” Pumi brightened somewhat. “I know where she lives. Do you want to go speak with her? I can’t leave the hospital right now, of course, but I can give you directions. Medical Lake is a small town.”
“That would be perfect.” He smiled, but then let it fall. “I’m sorry about Miss Lionelle. I take it you two were close?”
Pumi nodded. “She was like a sister to me. We’d been roommates for the past two years. She took me under her wing when I transferred to this ward. She’d just become matron and I was an attendant, but they bunked us together. I learned so much from her. Enough to become matron myself. I was promoted ten days ago.”
Thomas had forgotten Jackson telling them that. “Your confidence had me believing you’d been matron a good long while.”
Pumi smiled. “A confident woman can make a man believe anything she wants,” she said, her mouth turned up slightly at the corner.
Thomas grinned. “Ain’t that the truth.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’ve arrested confidence tricksters in the past, but they’ve all been men. I should think a woman would be even better at the job.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m a con-woman?”
Thomas flustered, “No, not at all. I mean, you seem very competent at your job.”
Biscuits, was this what Prescot felt like all the time?
Thomas pulled at his collar.
“I know you didn’t mean it that way,” she said, waving his handkerchief at him. “I was just trying to lighten the mood. It seems like every time we meet it’s over something terrible. I’d love to have a chance to talk with you sometime about something other than crazy people and dead people.”
“Me, too,” he said.
***
“DID YOU KNOW THAT H.G. Wells has written more than fiction, like articles for the Scientific American?” asked Roslyn, trying to remind her companion and Mr. Prescot that there was someone else in the room with them.
More than once now she’d caught Marian looking at Mr. Prescot in a rather distinctive way.
It was a soft look, one that she knew all too well.
If she didn’t know better, she’d have guessed that Marian was in love with the clockmaker.
She glanced away before Marian caught her noticing, her heart beating a bit faster at the idea.
“Mr. Wells is well-known for his scientific and political works in many journals.”
“Well, knock me over with a fetter,” Mr. Prescot said in surprise, “no, I did not.”
“In fact, I believe there was one by him in this week’s edition...” She went searching through the pile by her chair and then came up victorious. “Ah, here it is.”
She passed the magazine to Mr. Prescot.
“May I read over your shoulder?” Marian asked, coming to sit beside him on the Chesterfield.
Roslyn quirked her lip, but didn’t say anything. They weren’t being indecent, just...close. Close friends? Or something more?
Mr. Prescot gulped. “Of course.”
The article was about what Mr. Wells thought the future of cities would look like. In the end, he proposed that, “Indeed, it is not too much to say that the London citizen of the year 2000 AD may have a choice of nearly all England and Wales south of Nottingham and east of Exeter as his suburb, and that vast stretch of country from Washington to Albany will be all of it 'available' to the active citizen of New York and Philadelphia before that date.”
Marian sighed. “I absolutely love the idea of a world where such extensive distances could be visited as simply as we traveled those sixteen miles to Medical Lake. How far have we come from the pioneers who traveled in covered wagons on the Oregon Trail for the better part of a year, to now hopping aboard a train to travel that same distance in a matter of days?”
“I, myself, traveled from coast to coast just a few days to get here,” Mr. Prescot reminded her.
“That’s right!” Marian smiled.
Mr. Prescot took a deep breath. “Perhaps someday you might come visit me in Connecticut,” he suggested.
Roslyn cleared her throat slightly.
“Oh, you, too, Mrs. Carew, and Bernard and Thomas, as well, of course,” Mr. Prescot stammered out.
It was clear he hadn’t started out on the invitation with all of them in mind, but he was polite, she’d give him that.
“Oh, I’d love that,” said Marian, “though I’m very thankful you’re here awhile longer before we must even think about that.” She gave his arm a friendly squeeze.
Roslyn had been pleased when Marian and Thomas had started courting, fully supportive of Marian perhaps becoming more than a companion to her. But if Marian’s heart was not in the relationship...
Was Thomas’s?
***
JOHN BEATTLE’S MOTHER was soft around the edges, but no doubt hard as a rock inside. Like a fruit cake, Thomas thought. She was even wearing a calico print dress decorated with cherries and assorted berries. Maybe that was what had put the idea into his mind in the first place.
It might have also been the fact that Thomas was starving. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning before catching the early train to Medical Lake.
He’d pulled out his Elgin pocket watch to check the time before knocking on the door. It was well after lunch and getting on toward tea time.
“You look about ready to waste away. Does nobody feed you?” Mrs. Beattle asked. “Oh, where are my manners. I’m sorry. Would you like some tea?”
Would he ever, though all he said was, “Yes, please. That would be delightful.”
“Give me just a moment. Make yourself at home.” She waved her hand toward the simple living room.
There was a Chesterfield and one armchair and not much else. The sign in the window said she was looking for boarders. He’d entered on that pretense, feeling that flashing a badge in this case might have the opposite effect from what he wanted.
He could hear her bustling about in the kitchen as he wandered the room. Sure enough, he found framed photographs of a young man he assumed was John sprinkled about the room, from boyhood to a young man in his early twenties. There were no pictures of a Mr. Beattle, and since Mrs. Beattle was alone, Thomas assumed her son had been the money-maker for the family.
As he looked about, Thomas realized there was little else for decoration outside the photographs, and it occurred to him that the room had the feel of someone who’d sold all she could to make ends meet, and only after all other avenues had been tried had she put up the sign for boarders.
“I’m afraid all I had were a few pickles, some jam and toast, fresh-picked cherries, a few slices of beef pie from last night, and some watercress I threw into a couple sandwiches,” Mrs. Beattle said as she reappeared. A large teapot emitting steam and a couple cups accompanied the plates of food on the tray she held.
Thomas whistled in delight. “Mrs. Beattle, you really shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s just me here anymore. It’s a delight to have a chance to eat with someone else.”
She sat on the Chesterfield as she set down the tea things, waving toward the armchair once her hands were free. “Please, sit, sit.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Beattle. You are too kind.” He took the proffered plate and tried not to gulp down everything in one bite. “As I said before, I see you’re looking for boarders. Is it just you, then? I take it your son lives elsewhere?”
Mrs. Beattle’s face grew ashen, and Thomas knew in an instant he wasn’t going to enjoy this interview.
She didn’t answer, but instead leaned forward and busied herself preparing the tea.
“I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I merely noticed the photographs—”
“He’s dead,” she cut him off. Her hand shook as she passed him a teacup and saucer.
He took it, but set it down with his plate, reaching forward to take the older woman’s hand. “I’m truly sorry. May I ask what happened?”
She didn’t pull her hand away until it stopped trembling. Then she reached for her own cup and took several sips before answering.
“Pneumonia.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
She nodded. “He was too young. I know every mother says that, but he was only twenty-four.”
“Was he married?”
She shook her head. “It was just the two of us. I was beginning to think it always would be. Then...he was gone.”
Thomas reached for his plate, hoping his doing so wouldn’t discourage her from continuing. She took another sip of tea, which seemed to help her go on.
“He was an attendant, you know. At the asylum, here in Medical Lake. It was a good job. He received room and board. But he’d always come home for supper. Every night, soon as his shift was over, he’d come walking through that door.”
Her wet eyes drifted toward the front door, seeming to see him entering as she spoke.
“He was a good boy. A young man. He might have been a doctor one day, if he’d put his mind to it.” She frowned. “The day before he died, he said something about that. About a doctor...”
Thomas finished his tea before asking, “A doctor? Was he speaking with one of them about continuing his studies?”
She shook her head. “No, it was nothing like that. It was—well, he said there was something going on at the hospital, and he wasn’t certain he could keep quiet any longer. Told me he’d decided to do something about it.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it in relation to his death until now. Odd that he would say something like that, and then die the next day.” She shook her head at herself. “But maybe I’m making mountains out of molehills. I’m sure it was nothing.”
“Did you ever visit him at work?”
“No, but the way he talked about it, I know he was doing well there, though, of course, I didn’t realize how well until his death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t like to talk about it,” Mrs. Beattle said, then finished her tea and continued, “but he left me a lot more than I ever expected after he died.”
“You inherited?”
“As his next-of-kin. He was too young to have written a will or anything like that. And all we had was each other. But I never suspected—we had a shared bank account, but he kept track of the money. So when he died and I found out how much was in there...well, I was shocked.”
Thomas’s brow furrowed. “Why are you taking on boarders then? If I may ask. Sounds like you may not need the income.”
Mrs. Beattle glanced around, as if noticing the emptiness of the living room herself for the first time. “It hasn’t felt right to touch the money. It was John’s. He was saving it for something. Perhaps a wife.”
“Did he mention anyone in particular? Maybe at the hospital?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Beattle said slowly. “Yes, there was a matron he mentioned quite a bit.”
Thomas’s heart fluttered. “Matron Pumi, perhaps?”
“No...”
Thomas tried not to sigh in relief. “Matron Lionelle?”
“Yes, that was it. Lionelle. He never said anything outright, never brought her home for dinner or anything, but when he shared stories about the hospital, she was someone who often played a role in those stories.”
Thomas swallowed a bit of cold meat pie. And now both of them were dead.
***
“ELEANOR IS SO LUCKY to be surrounded by such caring friends,” Roslyn said, listening to Marian and Mr. Prescot share more about their visit to the asylum.
Their conversation had taken an interesting turn after opening The Scientific American to find H.G. Wells’s article. One topic had led to another, and they’d found themselves naturally turning back to the very real problem they were embroiled in once again.
“It seemed to me that most of the patients in the hospital could not look forward to the level of interest we’ve held for Eleanor,” Marian said. “What outcry has there been to these deaths other than our own? It feels like we’re the only ones who care.”
“The true irony is in the fact that we care because we know at least one of the women in that hospital really is insane,” Archie said with a shake of his head. “But we were hoping she’d find assistance within its walls, rather than more trouble piled on.”
“It’s like the doctors don’t even know where to begin when diagnosing their patients,” Roslyn said with a shake of her head.
“Obviously they didn’t look at all the papers you sent them,” Marian said.
Roslyn sighed. She was used to being overlooked, but to hear from Marian that even the research she’d compiled from noted individuals—male individuals—was being dismissed was very disheartening. What was the point of scientific research if doctors were just going to disregard it and stick with their personal beliefs?
“In the end, I’m afraid we just know so little when it comes to the human brain,” said Roslyn.
Mr. Prescot nodded across from her.
“When I visited the asylum yesterday,” Marian said, “before I met any of the patients, I took a glance through some of the letters being sent out.”
“They just left letters from patients lying around?” Mr. Prescot asked in surprise.
“More or less,” Marian said quickly. “The fact was, many of the letter-writers appeared quite normal based on their writing: well-spelled, grammatically correct, even printing. And what they wrote: ‘I wish I could come home,’ ‘how long must I stay,’ ‘how is the family,’ that sort of thing. I wouldn’t expect an insane person to be capable of writing sentences that maintained order and sense.”
“I’m afraid the writing of letters does not in itself prove sanity,” Roslyn murmured, not wanting to discourage Marian outright, but recalling her research. “In the cases I read, some of the alternate personalities were not only capable of writing fluently, but doing so in a language the other personality did not know,” she said. “But please, do go on. What else did you find?”
Marian continued, “Two of the women I met claimed to be quite sane, and seemed so when I spoke to them, except for a few minor notions.”
“Like what?” Archie asked.
“Well,” Marian considered, “Mrs. White—the one who then died—she claimed the only reason her husband had locked her up was in order to be free to spend more time with his mistress. She also seemed to think she wasn’t the only patient in the ward who was there for that reason.”
“You mean, all the women in the Violent Female Ward were just women whose husbands had a little something on the side?” Roslyn asked.
Mr. Prescot cleared his throat and avoided making eye contact with Marian. “Not all of them. We know for certain there is at least one violent female in there.”
Marian nodded. “Yes, but the rest? It’s possible, isn’t it?”
Roslyn frowned. “I don't know that I’d go so far as all that. A hospital like the Medical Lake asylum is held accountable by the State Board of Audit and Control. They ensure the doctors aren’t merely taking in patients to receive more money for those patients’ accommodations and things like that. Unless the doctors have an extraordinarily well-planned scheme up their sleeves, there’s no way they’d get away with it.”
***
“WOULD YOU BE SURPRISED to learn that after John Beattle died, his mother discovered he’d saved quite a lot of cash in their bank account?” Thomas asked.
He’d returned to the hospital and was finding the grounds outside the hospital were actually quite well-maintained and beautiful, if you weren’t part of the long chain of patients making their rounds.
Matron Pumi’s eyebrows raised. “Yes, considering I know for a fact they pay us peanuts here.”
“Too bad you’re not an elephant, then,” Thomas quipped. And then grimaced at his own joke. “I’m sorry, that was terrible.”
Pumi laughed. It was more of a chortle than a laugh, which to Thomas sounded all the more adorable coming out of the young woman. “It’s all right. Sounds like something my father would say.”
“He’d say it in Salish, though, right?”
“Right.” Pumi smiled as she walked, keeping her eyes forward. “Though I don’t think we have a word for ‘elephant.’”
Thomas grinned at the thought. “My father’s favorite joke was to respond to my whine of ‘I’m hungry’ with ‘Hello, hungry, I’m your father.’”
“Ha, yes, mine, too. My father would ask: ‘How many apples grow on a tree?’ Answer: ‘All of them.’”
“Hey, now, that’s not fair. You’ve got to give me a chance at answering, at least,” Thomas argued. “Have you ever noticed how sometimes when geese fly in a V-shape, one side is longer than the other?”
Pumi tilted her head. “Ye-es,” she said slowly.
“That’s because there’s more birds on one side.”
Pumi laughed. “Informative and witty.”
“How about this: ‘The rotation of the Earth really makes my day.’”
“Ha, ha, stop, please, save it for your children.”
“Ah, I’m worried I’m getting too old for that.”
“Nonsense. Men can have children well into their seventies.”
“Is that the nurse talking?”
She paused in her strides that were far too long for how short she was, and straightened. “Yes. That is, unless you don’t want to have children?”
“Of course I do. Lots of them. My brother and his wife—they haven’t been so lucky. My sister, on the other hand, has a whole passel of her own. Personally, I’d like something in between none and seven.”
Matron Pumi snorted. “Something between none and seven, huh? I pity your wife.”
“Someone’s got to entertain the children!”
She shook her head. “What is it about fathers and their jokes?”
Thomas shrugged. “Who knows. Just how God made them, I guess. But my mother is worse: she made me read as a child, and I’ve never quite outgrown it.”
Pumi smiled. “Speaking of mothers, shall we get back on topic?”
“Only if you answer one question for me first.”
Pumi crossed her arms but said, “All right.”
“How many children do you want?”
Her eyebrows rose so high this time they joined her hairline. “That’s a bit impertinent, don’t you think?”
“Why? I told you how many I want. What about it?”
Pumi smiled. “All right: two.”
“Two?”
“Yes, one for me, and one for you.” Her brown cheeks blushed scarlet. “I mean—” Pumi shook her head at herself and looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not usually so forward.”
“Nonsense. I’d much rather hear your thoughts laid out before me than try to uncover them between your words.”
“Are you always so poetic?” she asked with a smile.
Thomas felt his throat tighten. Only around you, he thought.
Pumi took a deep breath and began walking again, Thomas keeping pace with her. “I take it your interview with John’s mother was interesting.”
“Definitely. If you know of anyone looking for a place to live, she’s taking lodgers, and I can tell you from experience that her beef pie is excellent, even the next day.”
“Lodgers? I thought you just said John left her with more than enough money to live on?”
Thomas nodded. “She said she didn’t feel right touching it. She was certain he’d been saving it for something—or someone. Did you notice anything going on between him and Matron Lionelle?”
Pumi’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. They were courting. Remember how I said she was only here to snag a doctor? Well, instead, she snagged an attendant. Didn’t seem to mind much, though. They were in love, but they couldn’t tell anyone since the superintendent has a very strict no relationship policy within the hospital. For good reason, too, as there have been serious problems with socializing between the doctors and members of the female staff.”
“Have you had any problems with that?” Thomas asked delicately.
“Not anymore,” she said firmly.
“What does that mean? Did you punch one in the nose when he tried to compliment your hair?”
Matron Pumi lips twitched. “Something like that,” was all she said with a smirk. “It’s this hospital. It does things to you. I feel like I’m going as crazy as the patients some days, but then I go home and feel better.”
“By home you mean down to the end of the wing, first corridor on your right?”
“Well, yes, I live in-house, but it does seem to get better as soon as I leave this ward. I’ve always had headaches after a long day, but that’s simply the life of a nurse. Walking on your feet all day will do that to anyone. The construction doesn’t help, and the stress of the job. Not to mention all these deaths...” She paused and gave Thomas a side-long glance. “Wait a minute, was that your way of finding out where I live?”
“You were close with Miss Lionelle, who was being courted by Mr. Beattle, both of whom implied there was something going on in this hospital at the doctor level that wasn’t above-board, and now they’re both dead. Are you sure you don’t want me to set a watch outside your room? What if the killer thinks it wise to take you out next?”
Pumi balled her hands into fists at her side. “I can defend myself.”
“Two of your friends are dead now. Is there anyone else in the hospital you care about that I should keep an eye on?”
She ground her teeth together. “Are you implying that I—”
“Woah, woah, no.” Thomas waved his hands defensively. “Please, don’t punch me. We were getting along so well.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but then you said—”
“You misunderstood. What I meant was: if you won’t let me protect you, who else could use my services? Who else should I be watching over?”
Matron Pumi relaxed her hands and rubbed her temple. “I’m sorry. I thought you thought I—” She took a deep breath. “Other than my patients, I have no one else to lose here. But I want to be clear: I’d do anything for those I care about.” She looked straight up at him. “Anything.”
He worried she meant it.
***
“YOU HEAD TO MEDICAL Lake for one day and uncover two more murders?” Bernard asked incredulously.
Thomas had all the luck. While his brother had spent the day in Medical Lake chasing down leads, Bernard had been riding his bicycle, pedaling up and down Spokane on errands for the other detectives, feeling less and less like a detective, and more and more like he was back on the beat.
Thomas flipped closed his notebook and leaned back on the Chesterfield in the front parlor. “The better question is: now have we fulfilled your quota for taking this to the captain?”
Bernard grunted and scratched his mustache. “All right, I’ll admit, I did manage to find a couple things for you.”
His brother brightened.
“Don’t get too excited just yet, but I found this little mention in the paper from a couple years ago.”
Bernard pulled out a folded edition of The Spokesman-Review from June 28, 1899, and pointed to a front page blurb that continued on the second page.
The front headlines alone had grabbed his attention: “Lockhart Out of the Asylum—Dr. MacLean to Assume the Control at Medical Lake—Ridpath is Out—No Longer a Member of the State Board of Audit and Control—He Threw Up the Job—Charged that a change is being made without reason and without cause—Spicy Meeting at Tacoma.”
Further into the article, a letter from Colonel Ridpath had been reprinted word-for-word: “It is an outrage upon decency to attempt to force a man out of a position of this kind under the circumstances. I never could submit it and I therefore tender my resignation as I withdraw from the meeting. You can take such action as you see fit. This outrage is being perpetrated on Dr. Lockhart for the purpose of putting Dr. MacLean in his place. Dr. MacLean is a man unfit for the position both by education and nature. He has been a traitor to Dr. Lockhart. Instead of placing a scientific man in charge of the unfortunate inmates of Medical Lake asylum you will be putting them under the care of a real estate agent. If you will go to Spokane and look on the south end of the Blalock block, you will see Dr. MacLean's name displayed there as a real estate agent. He is a man without influence and without following, and has had no more sense than to practice his hypnotism upon unfortunate patients now in the asylum.”
Thomas whistled as he finished. “Bernard, I think you uncovered more than I did, even with my two possible murders.”
Bernard tried not to feel happy at the idea. “There’s more. I also found this one from a couple months ago.”
He handed Thomas a clipping from The Chronicle from April 1st: “She May Go Back: Word has been received by the sheriff from Special Deputy DeVoe of Deer Park that Mrs. Smith of that place has been placed under arrest and will be brought to the county jail this afternoon to be examined for her sanity. Mrs. Smith has been in the asylum at Medical Lake before this, and after her release, about a year ago, made things rather hot for the management, claiming that she had been mistreated while confined in the asylum.”
Thomas looked up from the clipping. “The first woman to die was a Mrs. Smith.” He flipped through his notepad and showed it to Bernard.
“Remind me who received the list of women’s names?” he asked.
“Miss Kenyon.”
Bernard couldn’t help but wonder at the young woman’s involvement. The asylum didn’t feel like the right place for a lady, especially given she ended up witnessing the death of a woman she’d just been talking to. A thing like that could shake a man to the tips of his mustache, much less a woman.
“I still can’t believe she was there for Mrs. White’s death.” Bernard was shaking his head.
“I didn’t mean to let her see that,” Thomas said glumly. It was clear he hadn’t liked the fact of the matter, either. “We decided to split up. I couldn’t enter the Violent Female Ward without raising suspicion, and you said not to let on that the police were involved.”
“Yet it sounds like you were flashing your badge at every matron in the place.”
“You make it sound so dirty.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yes, I decided it would be better to get straight answers out of those lower down in the hospital hierarchy. From the moment I got in the place it was clear the doctors were hiding something. And now another woman is dead, and the attendant she was closest to died mysteriously earlier this year, but not before making a lot of money somehow. How many more have to die before you’ll listen to me?”
“I am listening to you,” Bernard nearly shouted. “I found that clipping for you, didn’t I?”
“You’ve got to come back me up, Bernard. They’ll listen to a detective.”
Bernard couldn’t let on that he was worried about this. It was clear Thomas was relying on him to come in and save the show, but he still wasn’t sure they had just cause. Even five deaths at a hospital and two outside didn’t sound like enough of a reason.
But he was starting to agree with Thomas’s mention of a quota. Was there really a minimum death requirement before someone started asking questions? Had anyone followed up on Mrs. Smith’s suggestions a year ago?
He knew very well the answer to that question: no. He knew because he’d looked into it.
After he’d found the clipping, the first thing he’d done was ask around the police station if anyone remembered speaking with Mrs. Smith.
Desk Sergeant Hollway claimed to recall Mrs. Smith being brought in back in April, but that was all.
“A year ago’s a long time in this business, as you well know,” he’d said from behind his thick walrus mustache.
“Why would they listen to me?” Bernard said now to Thomas. “Didn’t you say they were under the impression you were a detective yourself?”
“Yes, but, well...” Thomas ran a hand over his face again. “I can’t explain it. I just know if we both went in, we’d have more success.”
Bernard looked at his brother and sighed. “All right. I think it’s time. First thing tomorrow morning we take this to the captain.”
***
FOR THE BAKER, THE best part of baking was the mess.
There was nothing quite like getting good and messy in a kitchen.
Her favorite thing to bake was bread. There was so much energy to it.
She’d roll up her sleeves, reach into the flour container and throw down the flour with a whomp onto the table, watching as the dust rose and settled back down on anything within reach. Then she’d toss the dough into the middle of it all, letting it grasp the surrounding white powder with eagerness, the cloud of flour flying free again in puffs like steam.
Punch. The dough never saw it coming. Punch, fold, punch, fold. Suddenly she’d become a boxer, letting loose all of her frustrations and anger into a bit of dough as it rolled and rocked across the flour, blowing up wafts of it until the very air was misting with the stuff.
That night she’d find bits of flour behind her ears, stuck to her hair.
She wasn’t allowed to bake anymore, though. The mess was too great.
For some reason the messiness that came with baking was too much.
Some people didn’t like letting the flour blow about on the currents of air that wafted through an open window. The same air that would feed Fire, keep him happy, help him get nice and hot.
Perhaps that was why the two of them got along so well. Fire liked to leave behind a mess of ash. A beautiful, blowable pile of gray and black that was part wood, part burnt pastry, part burnt flesh, all parts of something that had once been whole.
But no longer. The pieces could never be brought back together.
Consistent with nursery rhyme lore, there was no way to piece eggs back together once they were cracked.