Emotion pinched her features—so briefly, he couldn’t read it. “Unlikely.”
“But not impossible?”
Irritation narrowed her eyes. “No,” she reluctantly admitted. “I am just one woman, Inspector. I cannot be with every guest ever hour of the day.”
Interesting. An admission, albeit a small one. “As I mentioned before, a needle puncture was visible in his arm. How did that happen?”
Her gaze shifted away, causing him to wonder if she was trying to think of a plausible answer. “On rare occasions we inject water beneath the skin to aid in flushing. Some diseases are more stubborn than others.”
“Such as cancer,” Henry suggested.
Her stare did not waver. “Perhaps.”
“It sounds quite dangerous to inject anything. What happens if a vein is hit?” Surely that would kill a patient, though that was something he needed to confirm with Arthur. He didn’t trust Dr. Thorne to give a true answer.
“Our staff is carefully trained in all the techniques we use.”
Just as he suspected—she didn’t give a true answer.
He sat forward in the chair and held her gaze. “Regardless, Walter Dunn died while under your care. How many other patients have done the same?”
The doctor stared back at him, resentment in her eyes. “We treat guests who are seriously ill. Ones other physicians and facilities have given up on. Everyone dies eventually, Inspector. It only makes sense that some pass on while at my sanatorium.”
“And how many of those suddenly decided to change their will to give their estates to you?” Henry deliberately reached out to touch the statue on her desk, allowing his gaze to note the other expensive items scattered about her library.
The woman did not flinch. “If in their gratitude, they chose to donate to our research, that is their decision.”
“And what is the nature of your relationship with Tobias Barnes?”
Dr. Thorne stilled but otherwise showed no reaction to the name. “Who?”
“He’s a solicitor you’re acquainted with,” Henry supplied, though he didn’t think she needed the reminder.
Another sip of whiskey. Was that nerves? “I believe he was the solicitor for a few of our guests.”
“Was?”
She shrugged. “Is. Was. Those terms refer to whether they’re still at the sanatorium. Not whether they’re alive or dead.”
Henry doubted that, but he doubted he could get much more from her this evening. He put away his notebook and stood. “The truth will soon be determined.” He reached tospin the cloisonne globe on her desk, then met her gaze. “Good evening, Dr. Thorne.”
He couldn’t help but smile when she remained silent.
Henry took a cab to Amelia’s home, sorting through his thoughts about the interview. He couldn’t say he cared for the woman; then again, it was rare for a police officer to see the best side of a potential suspect, as they were immediate adversaries. Pointed questions put people on the defensive.
But he couldn’t rely on his personal opinion. His gut instincts could not always be trusted. He needed to focus on the facts.
By the time he arrived at Amelia’s, he still hadn’t come to any specific conclusions. Soon he was settled in her drawing room with a whiskey of his own at his elbow, the cat at his feet, and Amelia by his side. The tension he’d been unable to release previously was now nothing but a distant memory.
“She must be using the supposed donations she’s received for her own comforts.” Amelia’s outrage upon hearing his description of Dr. Thorne’s home matched his own concerns.
“It does make one wonder, though she might have acquired those items legitimately.” He shrugged. “Perhaps she inherited them. Perhaps she pays herself a large enough salary from the honestly earned patients to purchase such things.”
“I don’t believe that,” Amelia mused before taking a sip of her sherry. “I don’t think you do either.”
Henry smiled, appreciating that she knew him so well. “What precisely is a head bath?”
“I can’t say that I know. I suppose it involves sticking one’s head into water, but how deep? Do you hold your breath and submerge your mouth? And for what purpose?”
