Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2)

by N. S. Wikarski

  While Freddie stood at the curb paying the driver, he noticed a well-dressed woman who descended from a private coach and preempted him up the stairs. He followed directly behind her and waited while she rang the doorbell. She was about forty and looked well maintained. Freddie recalled that Doyle treated an inordinate number of wealthy, middle-aged women whose only malady consisted of something nebulously referred to as a nervous disorder. The woman who now stood before him acknowledged the young man’s presence by a brief nod. Freddie tipped his hat to her but decided not to dip a toe into conversational waters.

  After a few moments, the door was opened by Doctor Doyle’s assistant, the same young man with the pencil-thin moustache and the patent leather hair whom Freddie had encountered on his previous visit. The attendant turned his attention to the lady first. “Why, Mrs. Fitzhugh, we weren’t expecting you today.”

  The lady brushed past Freddie and the startled attendant. She seated herself without ceremony in the waiting room. “I was out on a round of calls and decided to drop in for some more of that special tonic Doctor Doyle concocts. It seems to have done wonders. I’ll take another bottle.”

  “But... but... madame,” the attendant stammered. “I’m sure the doctor will want to examine you to make sure there are no ill effects from the tonic. No rapid heartbeat, no increase in your blood pressure—”

  The lady cut in impatiently. “Is all that really necessary?”

  “I’m afraid so, madame. Doctor Doyle’s tonics are strong medicine and nothing to be trifled with.”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh sighed in resignation. “Very well, I’ll wait.”

  “I’m afraid it will be a few minutes, madame.” The attendant was unctuously apologetic. “Doctor Doyle has an appointment with this gentleman.” He indicated Freddie, who was still standing in the doorway, not sure whether to walk in or not.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh crossly looked Freddie up and down. “Well, I’m sure he doesn’t need the tonic as much as I do.”

  Freddie was about to make an impolite observation about the need for a tonic to cure rudeness, but bit back the retort. He reminded himself of his errand.

  The attendant glanced at him in mute appeal not to make the situation more unpleasant than it already was. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Simpson, the doctor is expecting you.” He ushered Freddie into Doyle’s laboratory at the back of the building.

  Freddie noted with satisfaction that the attendant was somewhat more polite on this occasion than on his first visit. Then again, this time the young reporter wasn’t soaked to the skin and looking like a street arab when he arrived.

  Doyle greeted him jovially. “Mr. Simpson, good to see you!”

  The attendant whispered, “Mrs. Fitzhugh is here again, doctor.”

  “Is she indeed?” Doyle frowned briefly. “Well, have her wait. I’ll see her presently.”

  “Yes, sir.” The attendant bowed his way out of the room and went back to deal with the ill-humored Mrs. Fitzhugh.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Simpson, I’m just finishing up an experiment here.” The doctor, who had been impeccably dressed during their last encounter, was without his frock coat and was in the process of rolling down his shirt sleeve. As Freddie sat down, his eyes wandered to the hypodermic needle lying on Doyle’s desk.

  Noticing the direction of his gaze, Doyle explained. “Just testing one of my new concoctions.”

  Freddie was surprised. “Wouldn’t you ordinarily use mice for something like that?”

  Doyle slipped on his coat and adjusted his tie before taking his own chair. “There are some formulas too good to be wasted on mice, Mr. Simpson.” The physician smiled archly. “This happens to be one of them.”

  “Oh, I see.” Freddie decided that there were many things about Doctor Doyle that were a mystery and probably better allowed to remain so. He changed the topic. “You said you had some information for me?”

  “Yes, I was able to review the results of Mrs. Allworthy’s autopsy as well as the analysis of the poisons found in the sherry glass and the powder packet.”

  “You were able to get all that information so quickly?” Freddie was amazed. “You ought to have been a reporter.”

  Doyle chuckled. “I think I’ve found my true calling in life dabbling with my little experiments, Mr. Simpson, but I thank you for the compliment just the same. And as for the speed with which I acquired certain documents, let’s just say I called in a few favors.”

  “All the way from Shore Cliff?”

  “The brotherhood of physicians in the Chicago area is a tight-knit community. One hand washes the other, so to speak.”

  “I’ll say.” Freddie took out his notebook. “What did you find out?”

  Doyle sat back in his chair. “Mrs. Allworthy’s body was examined for the presence of cyanide. The sherry glass from which she drank was tested for cyanide as was the packet of powder found in your friend’s room.”

  “And?” Freddie waited breathlessly.

  “Cyanide was found in all three instances.”

  “Oh!” The young man put down his pencil in disappointment.

  Doyle studied the young man’s reaction in amused silence.

  “So that means the evidence against Serafina still looks fairly bad. That she’s still the most likely suspect.” Freddie’s tone was dispirited.

  “Not necessarily.” Doyle’s eyes held a twinkle of mischief.

  Freddie sat up straighter. “What do you mean, Doctor? How’s that possible?”

  Doyle studied the ceiling contemplatively before speaking. “Mr. Simpson, I am very fond of driving up Michigan Boulevard in my carriage on a fine Sunday afternoon. It’s drawn by a well-matched pair of bays.” The physician paused.

  Freddie looked at him blankly.

  “A horse, Mr. Simpson, might be described in scientific terms as belonging to the family equidae, genus equus, species caballus. Now let’s suppose I took a fancy to change one of my coach horses for a zebra.”

  “A zebra, sir?” Freddie was sure his ears were playing tricks on him.

  “Yes, that’s right, a zebra. After all, it is a four-hoofed herbivore bearing a striking resemblance to a horse, is it not? I’m sure it could be trained to pull a carriage just as well. It even shares a common ancestor with the horse. It comes from the family equidae, genus equus, species burchelli. Yes, a zebra might do very well as a coach horse, although it might get a few odd looks from pedestrians as I drove it down the street.”

  Freddie was giving the doctor an odd look of his own. He wondered if whatever Doyle had injected into his system with the syringe was affecting his brain. He didn’t wish to appear rude but he was beginning to question the point of the conversation.

  The doctor’s amusement seemed to grow with the young man’s puzzlement. “You look confused, Mr. Simpson.”

  “Frankly, sir, I am. What has the zebra pulling your carriage got to do with cyanide?”

  “Cyanide is like my zebra, Mr. Simpson.” The doctor waited a full minute for that sentence to sink in.

  Freddie finally decided to display his ignorance. “All right, doctor, I give up. In what way?”

  “Because, even though I own two creatures that are remarkably alike in some ways, they are different in others. One is a bay horse of the species caballus while the other is a striped zebra of the species burchelli. Cyanide is like that. Did you know that there’s more than one form of the poison? They’re all equally nasty in their effect but they have different chemical structures.”

  “In plain English, what are you saying, sir?” Freddie had picked up his pencil and started to write. He sensed that what he was about to hear would prove to be crucially important.

  “I’m saying that while the sherry glass and the poison packet both contained cyanide, they were not the same form of the poison.”

  “What?” Freddie practically leaped out of his chair with excitement.

  Doyle laughed outright at the reaction he had caused. “The sherry glass from which Mrs. A
llworthy drank contained potassium cyanide. We may safely assume this is the substance which killed her. The poison packet contained sodium cyanide. So you see, we’re dealing with horses of different colors. Of a different stripe, as it were.”

  “But... but...” Freddie was still grappling to contain his excitement. “But why hasn’t the sheriff released Serafina if he knows the poisons are different?”

  “Because he doesn’t know,” Doyle replied evenly. “The laboratory reports weren’t specific as to the form of cyanide. They just said ‘cyanide.’ The sheriff in Shore Cliff, no matter how skillful in the apprehension of criminals, isn’t a chemist, Mr. Simpson. He would never have known enough to ask the question. What compounded the problem was that the same individual didn’t perform the tests on both the sherry glass and the poison packet. No one bothered to compare the test results for consistency.”

  “But you did.” Freddie was clearly impressed.

  Doyle shrugged matter-of-factly. “I merely asked the right questions of the right people, that’s all.”

  “You shouldn’t make light of it, Doctor. You may have just saved a young woman’s life.”

  The doctor smiled. “I’m in the business of saving lives, Mr. Simpson, though generally not as easily or as pleasantly as this.” He handed Freddie an unmarked envelope. “Here. I’ve taken the liberty of jotting down my findings in the event that your local constabulary requires a written document of my conclusions.”

  Freddie took the envelope with a smile of relief. “You thought of everything, Doctor Doyle.” Then his smile faded as a puzzling thought struck him. “But how did he get hold of it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The doctor seemed perplexed.

  Freddie realized his progression of thought had been less than obvious. “How did Allworthy get hold of even one form of cyanide, not to mention two?”

  “Oh, that.” The doctor pondered the question, rubbing his chin reflectively. “It’s been my experience that a person wishing to poison somebody else will generally make use of what’s ready to hand.”

  Freddie looked at the doctor blankly.

  “Tell me about this Allworthy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tell me about his personal habits.”

  “He doesn’t have any habits. He owns a factory.”

  “A factory, you say?” Doyle’s face took on a look of keen interest. “What type of factory.”

  “Well, it’s called the Hyperion Electroplate Company. They make—”

  Doyle cut in. “There you have it!”

  “What do you mean?” Freddie was mystified.

  “Cyanide has many industrial uses in our modern age. If I’m not mistaken, it’s used extensively in the electroplating process.”

  “That’s right,” Freddie murmured to himself. “Now I remember. Orlando said something about that.” He flipped rapidly through the pages of his notebook, searching for the notes he’d made of his interviews on the day Nora Johnson’s body was discovered. “He said the factory used poison and acids to make brass carriage fittings.”

  Doyle laughed ruefully. “Your friend Allworthy probably has a large enough supply of cyanide to poison half the city if he’d a mind to. I think you ought to check the factory storeroom, Mr. Simpson. You’re bound to find what you’re looking for there, but I would caution you to be careful in handling the substance. Cyanide is toxic if it is inhaled or if it comes into contact with the skin. Not the sort of thing you can afford to be careless with.”

  “But which form is used in electroplating—potassium cyanide or sodium cyanide?”

  “It is my understanding that both forms are used.”

  Freddie wrote furiously. When he had finished transcribing the conversation, he unceremoniously leaped out of his chair and stuffed Doyle’s envelope into his pocket. “I have to go! This can’t wait. I have to tell Engie about this right away!”

  The doctor chuckled at the young man’s haste. “Give my regards to Miss LeClair. I urge you both to bring these little puzzles to my attention as they arise. I find solving them to be quite diverting.”

  Freddie shook the doctor’s hand energetically. “We both owe you a debt of gratitude for this. Thank you again, Doctor Doyle. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye Mr. Simpson.” For a few moments after Freddie’s rapid departure the doctor sat grinning to himself at the stir he had created. Then, coming back to the matter at hand, he sighed stoically and rang for his assistant. “You may tell Mrs. Fitzhugh that I’ll see her now.”

  Chapter 28—The Antidote

  Freddie lost no time in racing from Doctor Doyle’s office to his friend’s townhouse to tell her the good news. Once having heard it, Evangeline lost no time in dragging Freddie to the commuter railroad station to catch the next train for Shore Cliff. It was mid-afternoon when they disembarked and made straight for the sheriff’s office.

  Opening the door precipitously, Evangeline rushed in and went directly to the jail cell where Serafina sat reading. A curtain was half-drawn across the bars to allow some measure of privacy to the inmate. “Great news, my dear! Wonderful news!”

  Serafina stood up and came to the bars. “Yes? You have come to set me free. Is it not so?”

  The sheriff looked up from his desk in mild surprise at the invasion. He stared at Freddie and Evangeline blankly.

  The young man took it upon himself to explain. “We have evidence, sheriff. Evidence that will clear Miss Serafina.”

  Weston continued to stare at Freddie. He had seen the tall young man in the village on any number of occasions, but had never been introduced to him. “Are you with Miss Evangeline here?”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Simpson’s the name. Freddie Simpson. You may know my mother and sisters. They live in town.”

  Recognition dawned. “Oh, is your mother the Mrs. Simpson over on Genessee Avenue? She called me in one time when she thought she heard a noise.”

  “She’s always hearing noises.” Freddie’s tone was cynical.

  “She was willing to swear it was an intruder come to rob her.”

  Freddie sighed. “Sheriff, you’re still new to Shore Cliff, but you’ll discover from sad experience, as I have, that my mother makes a hobby of collecting unexplained noises. That’s the principal reason I moved to Chicago. I simply couldn’t stand the legion of imaginary sounds in the basement and the attic she demanded that I investigate on a daily basis.”

  “Well, one time she just might be right.”

  Muttering darkly, Freddie retorted, “You’ll see.”

  At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by Evangeline jangling the key ring to Serafina’s cell. It had been hung on a hook outside the grate. “We have to get you out of there.” The lady lifted the keys and began to unlock the cage.

  “Hold on there, Miss Evangeline, or I’ll have to arrest you for committing a jail break right under the nose of an officer of the law.”

  “Oh, sheriff, don’t be silly.” Evangeline turned around to regard Weston in surprise. “I’ve merely deputized myself to perform this task while you were engaged in other matters.”

  “Deputized, is it?” The sheriff grinned. “Now what makes you so sure I’d agree that it’s time to let a dangerous criminal like Miss Serafina loose on the honest citizens of Shore Cliff?”

  Evangeline stood watching the sheriff’s grin widen. “Well, now you really are being silly. The idea of Serafina—” She stopped abruptly. “Freddie, show him the evidence.”

  The young man readily produced Doyle’s statement regarding the poison packet as well as Cousin Bessie’s letter from Euphemia.

  The sheriff sat down and took his reading glasses out of his desk. “I’d be obliged, Miss Evangeline, if you’d step away from the bars and put the keys down until I review this here new evidence. We have to do things proper and in order.”

  “Very well, sheriff, if you insist.” Evangeline seated herself before Weston’s desk and dutifully placed the keys in front of him.

 
“That’s better.” The sheriff adjusted his spectacles. “Now let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  Freddie and Evangeline waited silently, albeit restlessly, while Weston reviewed their documentation.

  Still looking at the pages before him, he addressed the couple. “I received notice from the Chicago Police Department that a Mr. Martin Allworthy is wanted for questioning in connection with the death of a Mr. Desmond Bayne. Have you all heard that news, too?”

  “Yes, sheriff.” The two detectives spoke in unison and then both of them began to talk at once, explaining the circumstances of Bayne’s death and how it was related to Euphemia’s.

  “Whoa! The pair of you!” The sheriff put up a cautionary hand. “I think I’ve heard enough. Especially after that last telegram Miss Evangeline sent me on Saturday explaining how things stood.” He looked from one to the other and chuckled. “Miss Evangeline, I hereby deputize you to take that set of keys and release the prisoner.”

  Evangeline sprang out of her chair, snatched up the keys and freed Serafina in the time it took Sheriff Weston to blink twice.

  The medium hugged her rescuer. “You see, it is as I told you before. You would find a way out.”

  Evangeline laughed. “There were moments when I wasn’t sure this story was going to have a happy ending. Believe me!”

  The two ladies walked back toward the sheriff’s desk.

  “I’m so relieved we didn’t have to go to Waukegan to fetch her back from the county jail.”

  Weston’s eyes held a twinkle of mischief. “Well, ma’am, only suspects who’ve been officially charged go to county jail for an arraignment hearing.”

  “But... what...” Evangeline stammered in shock. “Sheriff, you mean to tell me you held her here for a week without charging her with anything?”

  Weston looked innocently at the ceiling. “I had to wait for the official lab report on that poison packet, ma’am. You know a judge would want to see that evidence.”

  “But... but... Doctor Doyle was able to tell Freddie what the results were. The report must have been finished sometime last week. How is it that you didn’t know?”