“I believe he is genuinely worried, though I’m not sure how seriously I would have taken his claims if not for your previous concern about the sanatorium,” Henry admitted. “But when questions arise from more than one source, it is certainly worth a look.”
The surgeon nodded slowly, clearly pondering the issue. “I keep coming back to one question which makes me think I must be mistaken.”
“What might that be?” Henry was curious. Arthur was an intelligent, logical person, and he valued his opinion.
“Why? What could cause someone at Hollowgate Heights to murder their patients? That would be like shooting themselves in the foot. The less time a patient spends there, the less money they receive. The longer your patient lives, the longer you can charge them. And dead patients can’t provide referrals.”
“True, though I suppose someone could be testing treatments for serious diseases. Or a staff member who enjoys power over another might have decided to take matters into their own hands.” There was a long list of potential scenarios that might result in the deaths of patients.
The surgeon sighed. “I see your point. If something is going on there, whoever is doing it might simply be unhinged.”
“Ifis the important part,” Henry felt obliged to point out. “There is a questionable change in the deceased’s will. Questionable from a timing standpoint at least. However, at this point, we have only a questionable set of circumstances. You know better than anyone that our health is precarious. We can’t arrest doctors for their patients dying.”
Arthur’s lips twisted, though he nodded in agreement. “I confess that I did an overly thorough examination of Mr. Compton without finding anything unusual.”
“Hmm.” Henry tapped a finger on the chair arm as he considered what to do next.
“How is Mrs. Greystone taking the news of a possible investigation into the sanatorium?” Arthur asked curiously. “With her friend there, I mean.”
“I think she would be more worried if not for the fact that we recently ventured there. Though visitors aren’t permitted we exchanged a brief message with her friend, who stated all was well.”
“That is good news.”
“Yes, though seeing her in person would have truly put Amelia’s mind at ease.”
Arthur grimaced. “I didn’t mean to cause her concern by mentioning my own questions about Hollowgate Heights.”
“You couldn’t have known she had a friend there.”
“Tell my wife that.” The surgeon shook his head, though a smile threatened. “She acts as if I did it on purpose and thinks we should call on Mrs. Greystone so I can apologize for my blunder.”
He had to chuckle at that. “While I’m certain she would enjoy a visit, apologizing isn’t necessary.”
“Perhaps Mary will believe you since she didn’t believe me.”
Henry stood. “Please give her my regards—and I will let you know if we proceed with a request for a second postmortem on Mr. Dunn.”
“I do hope nothing comes of all this.” Arthur tidied the papers on his desk as he too rose. “It’s terrible to think a place claiming to heal people is actually killing them.”
Those words stuck with Henry as he departed for the Yard. It would come as a shock to many when, from what Reynolds had told him that morning, even London’s elite sought out the sanatorium for one reason or another. The Director had been at a formal dinner with friends the previous evening when the topic of Hollowgate Heights had been mentioned.
Apparently Dr. Thorne was considered a genius in some circles, and the fact she was a woman was frequently mentioned in a positive light. Perhaps she had nothing to hide, but Henry intended to dig into her background all the same. Someone had to know her outside of her work at the sanatorium.
Fletcher had once again been pulled away to assist on another case, but Henry expected him to return soon. In the meantime,he would continue to press forward with the sanatorium. His next stop was to speak with the late Mr. Dunn’s physician.
Dr. Stanhope’s address on Gloucester Road was far enough away from Scotland Yard that Henry took a hansom cab. The orderly neighborhood in Kensington featured pale stucco townhomes with tall sash windows, and the doctor’s residence boasted a green front door with a brass plaque engraved with his name.
Henry rang the bell and was directed to a small waiting room as the physician was apparently with a patient. Ten minutes later, the sound of voices in the hallway suggested the doctor would soon be available.
An older gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties, with a white beard and a mostly bald head, appeared in the doorway. Narrow spectacles and a slender frame lent him a respectable look. “Inspector Field?”
“Yes.” Henry held out his warrant card, which the man took to read before handing it back.
“Your message said this pertained to Walter Dunn?”
Henry nodded. “I have a few questions for you regarding his condition.” He could only hope the doctor proved more helpful than Mr. Barnes, the solicitor.
Dr. Stanhope led the way down the hall, past a consulting room that overlooked the front garden and into his study, a small but comfortable room with numerous books and a small desk. “I was sorry to hear his stay at the sanatorium didn’t prove successful.” He said that he was sorry, and yet a hint of a condescending smile curled his lips.
