“Guest?” Mr. Compton grunted, as if reading Henry’s mind. “Can you believe they refer to their patients as such?” He shook his head. “Ridiculous, when people pay an arm and a leg to stay there and subject themselves to what I would argue are barbaric practices.”
“Expensive place, eh?” Henry asked.
“Quite. Not that I would’ve begrudged my father spending his own money if it truly helped him.”
“But you saw little improvement?” Henry pressed, hoping for more.
“That’s impossible to say since we weren’t allowed to visit. My father died a week before his stay was set to end.” Irritationsharpened the man’s tone. “What I resent more than anything is not being able to spend more time with him before he died.”
“Understandable,” Henry murmured.
“To have no contact with him, nothing, not even a note, then be informed by letter that he’d died with a request to know where his body should be sent.” Mr. Compton briefly closed his eyes, clearly distressed.
That truly was poor communication on the part of the sanatorium, as far as Henry was concerned. No doubt it felt cold-hearted to any family.
The man shook his head. “Of course, the doctor made no promises when we met, what doctor does? But it just seems—well, as if we should’ve been given a chance to say goodbye when they realized my father was leaving this world.”
Henry would feel the same way if in that position. He couldn’t imagine not being able to say goodbye to his own father or mother, though that happened all the time to the families of victims whose cases graced his desk.
Death was rarely easy for those left behind. He need only think of what Amelia had suffered to know that.
Henry gave the man a moment to collect himself. “Have you had conversations with the doctor or anyone at the sanatorium since his death?”
“No. I’m not sure what purpose it would serve,” Mr. Compton said dully. “Father was old, and seriously ill. Perhaps I hope the sanatorium made his last days more pleasant. I suppose I’ll never know.”
That was a common concern for loved ones.
What had happened in those final moments?
He’d had the same question about the murder of his family friend, Miss Eleanor Tisdale, just a few weeks ago. Had she been terrified when she’d seen the knife her killer held? Had she suffered? The worry plagued him.
Amelia had spent far too many hours wondering the same about her late husband, who’d been shot. They had eventually found answers as to why and who, but Henry doubted those fully satisfied her.
Finding justice and providing resolutions were part of Henry’s work as a detective, but there were times when he fell short. All detectives did. He couldn’t bring back loved ones, couldn’t reverse time…but some information was better than none.
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.” The words were inadequate, but were all Henry could offer.
Mr. Compton held Henry’s gaze with an intensity that made him wonder at his unspoken thoughts. “Do you think something questionable is going on at Hollowgate Heights, sir?”
Henry considered his answer carefully. “We’re making preliminary inquiries. That is all I can say at the moment.”
After a brief pause, his host nodded. “I truly wish I knew what happened in the month he was there. His health had improved slightly before his admission, and he felt certain that was a sign he should try something different.”
“Understandable, if he’d exhausted other avenues.”
Mr. Compton’s smile was pained. “His physician advised him against it, but Father wouldn’t listen. I expressed my doubts as well without changing his mind. He could be stubborn once he set his mind to something, an impossible man. Even more so as he grew older.”
It was often beneficial to listen to what seemed like inconsequential thoughts of those he spoke with. Sometimes they mentioned a detail that led to a clue; at other times, it proved therapeutic for them to share memories with an objective person who simply listened.
The challenge lay in sifting through the conversation for vital information.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with his physician?” Henry asked lightly. “Again, at the moment we have no reason to believe there are any specific problems with Hollowgate Heights, but we want to make sure of that.” Amelia would be delighted by his use of ‘we’ since in this case, it referred to the two of them rather than the Metropolitan.
“I’m sure that would be acceptable.”
Henry pulled out his notebook and took down the family doctor’s name and address. “Thank you for your time.” He handed the man his card. “If you happen to think of anything else that might be helpful, please let me know.”
“Of course.” Mr. Compton sighed as he studied the card. “In turn, might I ask to be advised if anything comes from your questions?”
