Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (2 page)

A final, grateful wire from Dr. Hornsby had provided directions to Healing Sands. It had been a journey of more than one hundred miles and nine hours, to the southwest coast of the state. The train had brought them as far as Hoquiam, and from there they’d taken a steamer across Gray’s Harbor to a trading post called Oyehut, and finally, they’d traveled by horse-drawn wagon up the North Beach. The tide was low and the sun was quickly dropping to the horizon, bathing the beach in a golden glow.

Everyone had wanted to come along. He’d brought his assistant Henry, of course, and his five students, as well as Justin, and Justin’s best friend, Paul, and his housekeeper Mrs. Prouty, and Missouri Fremont, Henry’s twenty-four-year-old niece.

Missouri’s inclusion both pleased and distracted Bradshaw. She’d been visiting Henry when he arrived home with the news that they’d been invited to the ocean, and she’d asked if she could go, too. A slender young woman with unfashionably short mahogany hair and a regal nose, her penetrating amber eyes seemed able to read his very thoughts.

How could he refuse her? What excuse could he give? Certainly not the truth. He couldn’t say, no, you can’t go because you’ll distract me. Or, no, because the thought of you barefoot on the beach is more than I can stand. Or, no because for the past two years, I’ve managed to avoid seeing if the look in your eyes matches the desire in my heart, and at a place as romantic as the ocean I might just make a fool of myself.

Impossible. Not being able to come up with any other plausible excuse, he’d avoided her eyes and said yes. And now here she was, barefoot in the hot glittering sand, as distracting as he’d feared.

All but Bradshaw had stripped off their shoes the minute they’d climbed down from the wagons and were now prancing about in the soft sand, and dashing down to the harder-packed damp stretches where white foam rushed at them, licking their toes.

Bradshaw, his feet shod, hat in hand to keep the brisk wind from taking it away, kept his gaze upon his son, preferring the guilt of fatherhood to the sight of Missouri’s bare feet and slender calves.

“Professor Bradshaw?”

Bradshaw turned his back to the ocean to see a young man approaching. He had a round, clean-shaven face and was dressed in a drab summer suit with the star badge of the Chehalis County Sheriff’s department on his lapel. Why was a lawman here?

The young man extended his hand. “I’m Deputy Mitchell. Thanks for coming.” He had none of the manner of a lawman; his posture was relaxed and his expression open. “Sheriff Graham is up in Taholah, but he’ll return in the morning.”

The muscles of Bradshaw’s spine tightened. “I was told there was an accident of an electrical nature. How serious was it?”

Deputy Mitchell’s boyish features looked apologetic, as if he hated being the one to break bad news. “About as serious as an accident gets, Professor. The handyman is dead.”

Bradshaw glanced quickly over his shoulder at his romping entourage. Mrs. Prouty, his stern and stout housekeeper, was giggling and dancing a jig in the edges of the surf, holding her skirts nearly to her knees. Henry was elbow-deep in a dune with Justin and Paul, lifting handfuls of glittering sand and watching the wind whisk it away. Four of his students were near the water’s edge, poking with sticks at the tiny jets of water squirting up from the wet sand. His fifth student, Colin Ingersoll, a lanky and intelligent young man who was the natural leader of the student group, was now leading Missouri up the beach.

For a second, Bradshaw’s thoughts went blank. He forced himself to look away, shifting his gaze.

He shifted his gaze to the three-story main house of the sanitarium, sitting beyond a driftwood boundary. Its shape was boxy, ordinary, yet fitting, as it appeared to have been built nearly entirely of sun-bleached drift logs. The windows and doors were trimmed in crisp white, matching the white wrap-around porch that reflected the dying rays of the sun. Beside the double front doors, a porch light glowed. An electric porch light.

This was unexpected. He ran his eye over the roof and eves and spied the incoming power line that ran to a barn-like structure at the base of the cliff. A generator? No smoke rose from the structure, so it wasn’t coal or wood-fired. It was difficult to be sure at this distance, but it looked as if a pipe ran up the cliff, at the top of which stood gnarled and stunted Sitka spruce, their branches reaching inland, deformed by the constant attack of salty wind. A penstock supplying flowing water to a waterwheel? Another pipe ran from the barn to the creek their wagon had just waded across.

“Dr. Hornsby is waiting,” the deputy said.

Bradshaw called out to his group. Knut whistled to get the attention of Colin and Missouri, who heeded the sound and turned back without breaking from their conversation. She looked up at the young man and laughed. He looked down at her, entranced.

A development as unforeseen as the electric light. And more disturbing.

They all gathered their shoes and socks and picked their way across the sand and drift logs to the porch of Healing Sands.

Dr. Hornsby was a short, stocky gentleman of fifty plus years, with a white goatee and small mustache. He wore a pale linen suit with a white shirt and tie, his feet in felt house slippers. His dark eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and when they met Bradshaw’s directly, they flashed with a desperate emotion before shuttering. He shook Bradshaw’s hand almost painfully, and greeted them all with a resonant bass voice. Bradshaw resisted the impulse to chastise the doctor for leaving out of his invitation the vital detail of a man’s death.

Mrs. Hornsby added her gentler greeting to the doctor’s. Her smile, like her husband’s, was a welcoming mask that didn’t touch her eyes. She was slightly taller than the doctor, and plump featured but not fat, with straw-colored hair pulled tight into a bun. Her dress and apron were white and simply cut, and she, too, wore felt house slippers.

“Now, I know you are not here as patients but visitors; still, this is a place of healing, and we have certain rules that apply to everyone staying here. You will find signs posted in every room, and we ask you to please read and respect them. I see most of you have already removed your shoes, and we ask that you remove them every time you enter Healing House and the cabins. Place them in a cubby here on the side porch. Choose a pair of new felt house slippers from the chest. The slippers are yours to wear during your stay and to take home with you. Write your name in them if you wish. If you misplace them, simply take another pair.”

As they all began to obey this unusual requirement, Dr. Hornsby went on to explain in powerful tones that somehow lacked conviction, his reasoning for the slippers, his practiced sermon ending with, “This ritual prepares you to approach your visit to Healing Sands with a sense of respect, belonging, and active participation in your own well-being.”

Once slippered, they were ushered inside to the dining room at the back of the house, where they found long tables laid with herbal tea and fresh blackberries, which they served themselves. They were then sorted into various sleeping quarters. Bradshaw’s five students chose to bunk together in Hahnnemann House, one of the large cabins that flanked the main house. Justin and Paul wanted a cabin adventure, too, and Mrs. Prouty was a good sport and agreed to bunk with them in Paracelsus Cottage, once she was assured the cabin was furnished with real beds and she’d have her own room. Henry and Missouri both took rooms on the second floor of Healing House, the main building they were now in, and Bradshaw, on a whim, chose to bunk on his own in Camp Franklin, one of the small cabins.

“It’s named for another inventive Benjamin, Professor,” Dr. Hornsby said, a brief smile lighting his eyes. The fourth and final cabin, Hippocrates Hut, he explained, was occupied.

Fighting yawns, his group dispersed to their beds, saying general good-nights. Only Colin Ingersoll singled out one of them to wish a good night’s rest. Missouri was pleasant in her “you, too” reply, but not effusive, nor did her eye linger for any length of time on Colin’s obviously smitten face, but that gave Bradshaw small comfort. He would have to keep that young man busy.

Annoyance had its advantages, and one was its ability to revitalize strength. Bradshaw was wide awake and ready to begin his investigation as he climbed the stairs. He found Dr. Hornsby in his second floor office, collapsed in the desk chair, and Deputy Mitchell standing at the window, staring out into the night. He closed the office door and sat across from Hornsby.

The muted roar of the ocean was the only sound in the room until Bradshaw asked, “Who was the handyman, and why was I not informed of the seriousness of the accident?”

Hornsby struggled to sit up, his movements sluggish. Bradshaw thought the doctor might be inebriated until he saw the anguish on his face and realized he was struggling from collapsing into tears. “I-I’m sorry, Professor. I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew. I couldn’t risk—I need your help. I can’t—” Hornsby closed his eyes, his face contorted with emotion. “The handyman was David Hollister. My son-in-law. I killed him.”

Chapter Three

For all his grief and desperate need for answers, it was obvious Dr. Hornsby dreaded entering the room where his son-in-law had died. Bradshaw didn’t press him. He offered to send his students and family home, but Hornsby insisted having them at the sanitarium would help restore a normal routine to his family.

“We’ve had to cancel all of our reservations for a fortnight because I can’t practice medicine until this is resolved. It’s been dreadful having the place so empty.”

Bradshaw was no stranger to the echoing melancholy of an empty house or the comfort of routine.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“David Hollister,” the doctor said, struggling to control his emotions, “was a good man. Solid, dependable. He could fix or build nearly anything. We called him the handyman, but he was much more than that. You noticed our electric lights?”

“I did. And a penstock down the cliff? To a water-driven generator?”

“Yes, you’re right. He built a water motor and installed all the lighting in the buildings. The washhouse was his pride and joy. He was always chipper about his work. A good man. My wife and I,” he paused, shaking his head, swallowing hard, “we couldn’t have asked for a better man for our daughter.” He reached out for a framed photograph propped on his desk and handed it to Bradshaw.

A bride in white lace and a groom in black tails smiled at him from the porch of Healing Sands.

“That’s Martha, my eldest daughter, and David.”

Martha resembled her mother, fair and plump featured. David had been tall and dark, with an open face and broad smile. They looked happy, but didn’t most couples look happy in their wedding portraits? Hadn’t he and Rachel?

Bradshaw asked, “Was he ill?”

“Oh, no. He was healthy in all regards but one. He couldn’t father children. Mumps in his youth had left internal scar tissue. That’s what we were attempting to heal with electrotherapy. No one knew about the treatments, not Martha, not my wife. We didn’t want anyone to get their hopes up, you see.”

“I do see.” He returned the photo to the desk. “Doctor, I know this won’t be easy for you, but I need to ask very specific questions about the accident. Would you prefer to wait until morning?”

Hornsby drew a breath. “No, no. I appreciate your consideration. But tomorrow won’t be any easier. What do you need to ask?”

“How was the electrotherapy administered to Mr. Hollister?”

“If you’d be so kind, please refer to him as David. It’s what he preferred, and how we know him.
Mr. Hollister
puts him at an uncomfortable distance. He’s David. Our David.”

“I understand. Please tell me about David’s treatment.”

Hornsby wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “I was using the autocondensation method. That’s the technique utilizing the medical chair pad as one plate of the condensers, and the patient as the other. There are several connection methods using the hand holds or the foot plates, but I prefer a felt pad electrode to maximize heat in the vital organs.” Dr. Hornsby indicated with his hands a region stretching from the lower sternum to the lower abdominals. “Earlier this summer, we’d completed a round of diathermy directly applied through specialized probes to the scarred area, and we believe we achieved a small measure of success in clearing a passage. We had only recently moved on to autocondensation. It’s a more general application and has been shown to increase blood flow and nervous system circulation as well as to speed the elimination of toxins and promote healing. I was, if not hopeful, at least optimistic. The body can accomplish much self-healing if given the right conditions and encouragement. That final session…” Dr. Hornsby dropped his head into his hands.

Bradshaw gave him a moment, then asked, “What is your experience with electrotherapy?”

Hornsby lifted his chin, his forehead creased. “I’m no newcomer. I’ve been studying electrotherapeutics for well over a decade. You’ll find dozens of books in the library on the subject and all the latest medical journals and you’re welcome to read them, but I daresay you know all about it. The field is maturing, the quack devices being separated from those with legitimate medical uses. The machines that allow the physician the greatest flexibility have proved to be the most beneficial.”

“And your equipment?”

“It’s the very latest. State-of-the-art. I wish to heaven I’d never bought it.” He shook his head and blinked rapidly again, unable to prevent a tear from running down his cheek. “It makes no sense!” Hornsby got to his feet. “Come on, I can’t put it off any longer. You must see and tell me what happened.”