“We don’t have a need for hypodermic needles.”
“Oh?” He glanced at her and back at his notebook. “The postmortem on Walter Dunn revealed a puncture in his arm consistent with that of a hypodermic needle.”
Dr. Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “No, it didn’t. I read the report myself. I would have to consult our records for absolute accuracy, but from what I remember, he died of cancer.”
Henry was going to enjoy delivering this bit of news. “The initial postmortem mentioned that, but a second was performed.”
“Oh?” She shook her head, her expression carefully blank. “I can’t imagine why. What else was discovered?”
“I couldn’t say.” Henry offered a polite smile. “Patient confidentiality.”
Dr. Thorne looked less than pleased by the answer.
Twenty-Six
Aftertheirunsatisfactoryconversationwith the head of the sanatorium, next came interviews with a few staff members, something Dr. Thorne only grudgingly agreed to.
Henry had to think the sole reason she permitted them, as they didn’t have legal authorization to make such demands, was because he’d mentioned the needle evidence. She’d been unsettled since then, a tiny fracture in her confident demeanor.
“We’d also like to see the patient rooms,” Henry said casually as she escorted them toward the staff offices. Was it possible to find Amelia’s friend to see how she fared?
Dr. Thorne glared in response, animosity no longer hidden. “That’s simply not possible, I refuse for our guests to be upset in order to answer a few ridiculous questions.”
“Hardly ridiculous when patients have died while under your care,” Fletcher countered.
That earned them both another hostile look before she led the way down the hall. Henry was pleased when she took her leave after providing introductions and specific instructions to her staff about who they were supposed to speak with next.
A Mr. Andrew Collins was one of the managers at the sanatorium, and his office was where they were to conduct their interviews. He had a polished and confident air that, paired with the white coat, surely made patients willing to trust him, though apparent nerves had him shifting in his seat frequently.
“Guest care is our one and only concern,” the young man assured them with an attempt at a friendly, relaxed smile. “Without successful outcomes, we wouldn’t be here.”
Yet every question Henry asked was met with a general answer that didn’t really tell them anything. “How long have you known Dr. Thorne?”
“Long enough to admire her dedication to our guests.”
“Where were you trained?”
“At Dr. Thorne’s side.”
And so it went, on and on, round and round. They managed to gather a few details from him, but none that seemed to be promising clues.
Next was a young woman with a bright smile and a sunny disposition who joined them when Mr. Collins stepped out. “We love our guests, and they love us.”
“Even while you’re starving them?” Fletcher asked nonchalantly.
A cloud darkened the sun but only briefly.
Two more staff members followed, but Dr. Thorne interrupted the last interview.
“I’m afraid we can’t spare anymore time for your inquiries.” Her earlier amusement had firmed into displeasure. “We have guests to care for.”
“If you’d prefer us to return with a search warrant, that’s your choice,” Henry advised, wanting to make clear this was far from over.
“We shall see.” She lifted her chin. “I would think the police had more important matters to occupy their time than an institution focused on healing the sick.”
Henry merely smiled. The subtle dig didn’t upset him in the least. If that was all the doctor and her staff were trying to do, he might have respect for them. But he couldn’t move past his certainty that something was amiss; the clues were small but undeniable. He just needed more of them.
“She’s not exactly the warm and comforting type,” Fletcher said as their hansom cab made its way back to the train station to return to London. “I think she’s guilty. There’s something wrong about the whole place.”
