“We’re with the Paranormal Society. We were hoping to speak to Dr. Miller.”
“Miriam! Who’s at the door?” a loud, gruff voice called from out of sight.
Flinching, Miriam motioned for them to follow her inside. She deposited them in the foyer and disappeared down the austere hall with Oliver’s proffered card. The house was strangely empty. No, not empty but devoid of life. There were no knickknacks to speak of on the end tables or photographs around the cold fireplace or plants near the windows in the front parlor. The furniture was several decades old but looked pristine. It was plain but serviceable and of high enough quality for a man of a doctor’s stature, though it hardly looked used. Staring at the oilcloth rugs and the off-white wallpaper, Oliver wondered if they had merely faded with time or if the man had chosen the most drab pieces imaginable. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to Louisa and Agatha’s artful chaos or Gwen’s dresses, but the lack of personality grated on him.
“Leave your hat and gloves on the table, and come this way, please,” Miriam said when she reappeared at the end of the hall.
As they followed her, Gwen pulled her notebook and pencil from her reticule and flashed Oliver a fortifying grin. His anxiety about taking the lead must have shown on his face, but he stuffed it down. They were both doctors. There was no reason for Oliver to feelnervous about speaking to Dr. Miller. When they entered the dining room, Oliver’s hopes withered. The room was just as austere as the other rooms with nary a plate on the rail or a painting on the wall. Oliver hadn’t seen a crumb cloth used in years, yet one sat under the sturdy dining table. Sitting at the head of the nearly empty table eating porridge was a squat, wizened man who looked remarkably like a peach colored toad. Oliver blinked, hoping another person might appear to claim they were the town doctor. If Miriam had been a little less skittish, he might have hoped it was her, but no, it had to be the old man, who was eighty if he was a day. It was all but confirmed to Oliver when the old man drew himself up as they entered the room.
“I heard there were strangers in town. Miriam says you’re with the Paranormal Society and that you want to speak to me. What about? I’m very busy and need to see to my patients soon,” Dr. Miller said as he donned a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes to look even more toad-like.
Oliver tried not to let his feelings show as he replied with measured slowness, “We only have a few questions, sir. I’m Dr. Barlow, and this is my associate, Miss Jones. We’re investigating the rash of reanimations that have occurred recently. We wanted to speak to you since you were the one who signed their cause of death in the registry or who administered treatments to them before they died.”
“Ah. I’m still eating my breakfast, so if you don’t mind talking while I eat, you can take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gwen replied with a smile as Oliver pulled out a chair for her.
“Miriam, get them something to eat.”
Miriam’s face whitened, and she silently opened her mouth in protest, but Gwen spoke first. “Thank you, but we already ate at the inn. We don’t want to take up too much of your time or impose.”
“Nonsense.”
“Just tea, please,” Gwen replied more forcefully but with a placating smile. “We aren’t allowed to eat while on the clock.”
Nodding, Miriam fled before the doctor could contradict Gwen.Oliver shot her a look of thanks. He couldn’t stomach the texture of porridge on a good day, and he wasn’t about to gag in front of the man he needed to interrogate.
“You said you’re a doctor, boy, or was I mistaken?”
Oliver glanced around him before realizing the doctor meant him. “Yes, sir.”
“Specialty?”
“Surgery, though I am the medical examiner for the New York Paranormal Society.”
The man let out a disapproving harrumph, which Oliver ignored. “What do you need to know?”
“Can you tell us about Sarah Lindstrom’s death? From what we understand, she was young, and it was unexpected. Did she present with any medical problems in the months or weeks before she died?”
“No,” the doctor replied between mouthfuls of porridge, “she was healthy as a horse as far as I know.”
“And when she died, did you examine her body to determine her cause of death?”
The man raised a bald brow. “There was no cause to determine. She had a fit and died. I can no more see that than ghosts.”
“How did you determine she had a fit?”
“Her husband found her facedown on the floor. She either fainted due to a syncope or had a fit. That happens to women of childbearing years, especially when they overuse their magic. It can’t be helped.”
Oliver and Gwen exchanged a look. That didn’t line up with the injury to the back of her head, the lividity on her corpse, or make any sense medically, but Dr. Miller didn’t seem to care or notice. Oliver suspected the man probably still believed that riding on a train could eject the womb from a woman’s body.
“Did you see Mrs. Lindstrom’s body after she came back and went after her husband?”
“Only to confirm it was her, and I advised Mayor Stills to cut out her heart and then stake it or burn it to keep her from coming back again. I was overruled.”
“I see. And Mr. Ekland, he had heart problems?”
“Yes, he suffered from rheumatism and angina. I gave him Hoffmann’s anodyne, stimulants to take during an attack, laudanum, the usual. His wife also placed mustard plasters on his chest at least once a week and made sure he took warm footbaths on my orders. Ekland’s death wasn’t a surprise.”
