Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries)

by Bernadette Pajer

  Setting combinations? Bradshaw wondered. Did Loomis truly believe David had been killed by someone simply setting the machine’s combinations in a lethal manner, or was he misdirecting?

  “As for motive, I fail to see how David Hollister’s death in anyway benefited me. Yes, I drew up his washhouse designs, but had no intention of profiting by them. It was my goal from the outset to serve as Hollister’s marketing guide.”

  “What about opportunity?”

  “That my dear Professor, is the most confounding. Only Dr. Hornsby had opportunity. Dr. Hornsby administered the treatment. How could anyone else have changed the unit’s settings before Hollister’s treatment without the doctor noticing? Did he simply flip the switch and apply the electrodes without checking the settings? Inconceivable. And yet his son-in-law is dead.”

  “The sheriff has told me flat out that if I don’t find anyone else to blame, you and I, and Dr. Hornsby will face a judge.”

  “That’s preposterous. We must work together to find a solution.”

  “You betrayed my trust, Mr. Loomis.”

  “I’m sorry that’s how you see it, Professor. I truly am. I wish you’d give me a second chance. What can I do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been lied to so much since I arrived, I don’t know whom to believe.”

  “You think Hornsby is lying about what happened?”

  “Would he? You’ve been here a few weeks, long enough to get to know him. What’s your impression?”

  “Why ask me? You don’t trust me.”

  “I trust your ability to assess other men. You pegged me about right.” He lifted his tin cup in salute, and Loomis laughed, then wiped his mouth, as if considering which way to go, truth or embellishment? Bradshaw could see he was weighing which would win Bradshaw’s trust.

  “All right then. I never met a more honest, earnest, fellow. He’s intelligent, careful, considerate. He’s in it for the healing, not the money. And by gum, I’ve tried to convince him to go big and he flat out will not do it. The railroad’s coming, you know. Passengers will be able to ride from Seattle to this beach in a single train ride. Do you know what that means, sir? Six hours! Six hours, maybe a bit more, from Seattle to Healing Sands. Hornsby is sitting on a fortune if he expands. I want him to partner with me to make this a destination, a Mecca for the rich, but he won’t hear of it. Not getting bigger or raising his fees. Says he built what he was capable of personally overseeing, he wants no other doctors, and he won’t cater to the rich. The man is unbribable. He likely made an honest-to-goodness mistake when he administered electrotherapy on his son-in-law and truly didn’t realize it.”

  Loomis sat back, satisfied with his delivery, having neatly explained any schemes Bradshaw may have gotten wind of since his arrival, and having placed the blame of David’s death squarely with Hornsby.

  “David Hollister’s laundry system—does it have something to do with your idea to expand Healing Sands?”

  “Of course, it’s the heart of this place. Have you felt how soft the towels are? Pure luxury. But poor David. A fine young man, such a tragedy about his death. That laundry is a brilliant scheme. Hotels, hospitals, schools. I see them all wanting such a setup.”

  “Tell me about Mrs. Thompson.” He asked just as Loomis was raising his cup. The cup stalled, for just a second, before Loomis took a big swallow.

  “Professor, I’m not sure how to say this.”

  Bradshaw waited.

  Loomis shook his head. “I’ve met my fair share of women, Professor. And, that one? She makes a man feel like a hungry fish.”

  “Am I supposed to understand that?”

  “I don’t know how to put it delicately.”

  “Then put it indelicately.”

  “I don’t like to speak poorly of a female.”

  “You must realize that in such a small place your relationship with Mrs. Thompson isn’t a secret.”

  “My relationship with her is no different than Moss’, or her husband’s, for that matter. She’s tempting bait at the end of a nasty hook, Professor. She shamelessly flirts to get her way, earnestly flirts if you get my meaning, but she has no intention of delivering on her promises. Sometimes she flirts with all three of us at once. Why, one night before you arrived, we were all out here on the beach,” he said, lifting his whiskey toward the ocean, “the water and sand were glowing blue, I kid you not. Some sort of phosphor in the tide….”

  Loomis continued to talk, but Bradshaw’s eyes were locked on the whiskey, and his thoughts were suddenly so loud and demanding he couldn’t hear him. Bradshaw grabbed the bottle and stared at the golden liquid. Snippets of conversations about the glowing sand echoed in his brain, and a series of events he previously considered unrelated lined up like one of Justin’s jigsaw puzzles revealing its picture. He’d been so focused on the electrical aspect of the case, he’d completely missed what else was happening. He jumped to his feet, startling Loomis into a gaping silence.

  Without taking the time to explain, Bradshaw leaped off the porch into the soft sand and ran toward the main house. Heedless of the rules, he hurdled past the slippers and raced inside to the library where he dropped to his knees at the hearth and scooped up a handful of the kindling. Amidst the larger, irregular pieces, tiny, precise bits of wood trickled over his fingers.

  Matchsticks. Dozens of them, the heads broken off. He’d seen them the day after he arrived, even noted their matchstick size, and not realized what he was looking at. Dear God. He raced upstairs, shouting, “Mr. Thompson!” Banging on his door, bringing forth not Freddie Thompson, but the Hornsby’s from next door, and Mrs. Thompson from her room, her hair down.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t he in his room?”

  Bradshaw threw open Freddie’s door, but the man wasn’t inside.

  Mrs. Thompson said, “Maybe he went for a stroll. What’s wrong?”

  “Doctor, come with me.”

  Hornsby didn’t question, he followed Bradshaw down the stairs and outside to the beach without stopping for his shoes. The sun had dipped below the clouds, plunging the world into an early twilight. The low tide extended into the far distance. There, barely visible against the gray clouds and ocean was a figure, Freddie Thompson, bent double.

  Bradshaw broke into a run. Freddie crumpled, dropped, and fell within reach of the bubbling, frothy fingers of surf. When Bradshaw reached Freddie, he turned him over, and held up his head. Hornsby came panting, his stockings soaked, having lost his slippers when he began to run. He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to Freddie’s heart.

  But Bradshaw knew there was no heartbeat to hear. Freddie’s eyes were open, glazed, unblinking. Hornsby slapped lightly at Freddie’s cheeks, his wrists, and repeated his name. “Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson!”

  “Doctor,” Bradshaw said gently. “We couldn’t have saved him. He’s been a walking dead man since the night of the glowing sand.”

  “What?” Hornsby shook his head, not understanding.

  “Phosphorus, doctor. Freddie Thompson was poisoned.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “No, no, you must be mistaken, Professor. I saw no evidence of phosphorus poisoning! It was lead. He works with lead, and his symptoms were that of lead poisoning. Depression, abdominal pain, severe mood changes. I didn’t know it was this severe. He didn’t show signs of being near death.”

  “Because he wasn’t near death until he ingested a fatal dose of phosphorus.”

  “He was violently ill the night before David died, but it couldn’t have been phosphorus, Professor. With phosphorus, there’s a distinct and unmistakable luminescence. Mr. Thompson displayed none, I swear to you!”

  “The luminescence was neutralized. You are missing a tincture from your office?”

  Hornsby stared at him.

  “I’m not a chemist, Doctor, but I’m familiar with common poisons. The luminosity of phosphorus can be temporarily negated with certain alcohols
, and there are other substances that permanently destroy the glow, without affecting the toxicity.”

  Hornsby gasped, slapping his hand over his mouth. When his hand dropped, he uttered, “Dear God. My gentian tincture.” He slumped to the wet sand. “But phosphorus? I keep none in my supplies.”

  “I found an entire box of broken matchsticks in the library hearth.”

  Hornsby’s brow narrowed in deep thought. “Phossy jaw,” he mumbled, likely recalling the many incidents of disfigurement incurred by workers in match factories. Some countries had banned white phosphorus for use in matches because of its toxicity to workers and because of accidental and intentional poisonings, but no such laws had yet been passed in the United States. Safety matches were available, the sort that required the match tip to be struck against the box where a strip of non-poisonous red phosphorus had been applied, but the cheaper “lucifer” matches made of white phosphorus were still common. And commonly used by those attempting suicide. And less frequently, murder.

  “I should have guessed. I should have seen. I’m a sorry excuse for a doctor. I don’t recognize the sound of a fatal current, I don’t recognize the signs of poisoning. I should have dosed him with oil of turpentine the night he was so ill. I might have saved him…I should have saved him.”

  “You are not at fault, doctor. Someone deliberately hid the signs of danger.”

  “I was sure it was lead. It never occurred to me he’d taken poison. It’s never happened before. And he was getting better. After that severe attack, he’d gotten better.”

  “That’s often the case with phosphorus poisoning. Death can come in a half hour, or after many days or weeks, but most commonly, after violent purging, the victim becomes asymptomatic for a day or so before organ failure begins.”

  “I did know that about phosphorus. Of course, I knew that. Yet it never occurred to me. It never…what is happening here, Professor? Has everyone gone mad?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Deputy Mitchell resigned. That Bradshaw hadn’t the authority to accept his resignation didn’t seem to matter to him.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing. Two months, that’s all the experience I had before coming here. It’s not what I expected. Police work…I thought the bad guys would be obvious, that I’d see them coming with guns drawn. But nothing here is what it seems. Now someone’s poisoning us? I feel ill. Really, I’m sick to my stomach. And look, my palms are clammy. I can’t breathe!”

  Bradshaw snatched the deputy’s hat off his head, pushed him down onto a chair, and shoved his face into the hat’s hollow. “Breathe, you’re having a fit of hysterics.”

  Once the deputy had regained his composure, if not his dignity, and downed a full glass of water that Bradshaw filled himself from the kitchen tap, promising him it wasn’t poisoned, he agreed to stand his post and honor his badge until the sheriff returned.

  “I wouldn’t have abandoned the Hornsbys or Martha—Mrs. Hollister. I just don’t want to be the one in charge here. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I’ll take charge until the sheriff arrives in the morning. Your job until then is to simply watch those three and don’t let them talk to each other.” He nodded toward the library where Ingrid Thompson, Zebediah Moss, and Arnold Loomis sat silently, with Doctor Hornsby keeping watch. Two hours had passed since Freddie’s death. In that time, Bradshaw had assisted Hornsby with moving Freddie’s body from the beach to the Manipulation Room and helped with the unpleasant tasks associated with tidying a fresh corpse. Afterward, Hornsby had questioned the need for Mrs. Thompson to be pulled from her room and forced to sit in the library.

  “She just lost her husband,” Hornsby said, the pained expression in his eyes revealing the depth of his empathy. His own daughter had been in this very situation just a few days ago.

  Bradshaw felt the sting of Hornsby’s words, but answered, “It’s necessary to my investigation.”

  Mrs. Hornsby, Martha, Dolley, and Abigail were in the kitchen, brewing tea and baking cookies: for the shock, they said. He wondered if they were using flour and sugar, and if the taste would match the delicious smell. He wondered if he was being insensitive, even morbid, to think of food at such a time. But there was something comforting about the scent of warm cinnamon that softened the harsh reality of death.

  Once he felt confident that Mitchell was capable of maintaining order and silence in the library, he brought Hornsby up to the doctor’s office to conduct an experiment. Hornsby found his jar of dried gentian and medicinal alcohol in order to make a fresh tincture like the one that had gone missing.

  “It’s vodka,” Hornsby said, “The best alcohol for making tinctures.” He crushed the gentian with a mortar and pestle, then blended it with the vodka. “It should sit for two weeks. Ideally, I would make it on the night of a full moon, then filter it with a new moon.”

  “Is that science or folklore, Doctor?”

  “I don’t know if science has yet proved this traditional method, Professor. But you’ve seen the power of the moon with each tide, and my instincts tell me if the moon can move oceans, it surely imparts some stimulating action on smaller liquid bodies.”

  “It’s not necessary for our purposes to wait for the moon. We’ll fill a second jar with plain warm water and compare the results when lucifer tips are added.”

  This was done, and several dozen match tips added to each. Bradshaw flipped off the electric light, plunging the office into darkness. As their eyes adjusted, Bradshaw agitated the jar containing plain water to introduce oxygen, and it began to emit a slight green phosphorescence and a whiff of garlic-like odor. He repeated the agitation with the gentian jar, but produced no glow, no garlic odor, only the bitter, weedy scent of gentian.

  “You may turn on the light,” he said, and Hornsby flipped the switch. “We won’t put it to the test, but my guess is that even the taste of the phosphorus has been negated by the gentian.”

  “Professor, I’ve been dosing Mr. Thompson with gentian since his arrival. Do you suppose he knew it would mask the phosphorus? Working at the assay office, he must know something of chemistry.”

  “Doctor, we don’t know that it was Mr. Thompson who added the match tips to the tincture.”

  Hornsby’s face registered surprise, and then dismay. From below his wash basin, he lifted a clear bottle marked “French Oil of Turpentine” and shook his head. “It’s the French oil that is said to work with cases of phosphorus poisonings. Resinified turpentine works, too, if the French can’t be found. A few drops of this, floating in hot water, and I might have saved him.”

  “It’s not a certain cure. You mustn’t torture yourself. You were given no clues to phosphorus poisoning. You couldn’t have known. No one could have. There’s nothing more we can do this evening. It’s time now for rest. Tomorrow, you’ll need your strength. My associate will be returning with the federal authorities.”

  “The federal…that’s where Mr. Pratt went today? Is this a federal matter?”

  “Tomorrow more information will be revealed. For now, it would be best if you and Mrs. Hornsby tried to sleep.”

  Hornsby looked near collapse. He held out a trembling hand to Bradshaw. “I’m glad you’re here, Professor. I don’t know how I would have managed on my own.”

  “We shall have answers. Get some rest.”

  Hornsby left to find his wife, and after checking on the deputy and his detainees, Bradshaw went to see his son. In a small bedroom in Paracelsus Cottage, Justin and Paul were asleep in their beds, snuggled down beneath woolen blankets. He left them to their dreams after a careful, quiet examination of their peaceful faces. He told Mrs. Prouty about Mr. Thompson’s death and left it to her to tell the others as she thought best. He knew she could do so without alarming them while also verifying that each and every one of them was of sound health. He didn’t believe any of them had been poisoned, but to presume and be wrong didn’t bear contemplating. As he left the cottage, a framed quote by the door ca
ught his eye: “Poison is in everything, and nothing is without poison. The dosage makes it either a poison or a remedy.”

  Before returning to the main house, he entered Moss’ small cabin, Hippocrates Hut, without bothering to ask permission. Moss’ habits were tidy enough for a bachelor, his clothes slung over a chair, his wash basin filled with fresh water. An effort had been made at pulling the bedclothes up, but the rumpled result wouldn’t have passed Mrs. Prouty’s inspection. There was nothing else in the cabin to see, other than framed quotes: “Let food be thy medicine,” and “Opinion breeds ignorance.” Bradshaw had always been fond of Hippocrates.

  Moss possessed no personal items other than a shaving kit. No photographs, no reading materials. A pen and ink, but no writing paper. Bradshaw got down on the floor to look under the bed and found Moss’ leather suitcase, unstrapped.

  He hauled it out and discovered, beneath several new union suits, a child’s school journal with the letters A-B-C on the cardboard cover. Inside, the paper was wide-lined for a young hand. At the top of each page simple words were printed, meant to be copied. And they had been copied. Page after page of careful lettering, well executed but for direction and order. Some letters faced the wrong way, despite the clear example. Some words were scrambled or backwards. Occasionally a few accurately spelled words emerged, but their occurrence was random. Bradshaw had not pegged Zeb Moss for a genius, but this evidence of illiteracy, the struggle with the simple words and shape of the letters, meant the miner was incapable of understanding the complicated electrical materials in the library. Or the inspiring quotes on the walls.

  He slid the suitcase back under the bed, felt under the mattress for any hidden objects, and when he found none, he returned to the main house. By now, the cookies and chamomile tea had made their appearance in the library with the confined guests. Bradshaw stepped in long enough only to snatch a warm cookie and confirm that Deputy Mitchell was competently guarding the trio. Moss never looked up from his slippered feet, and Loomis offered his help. Ingrid Thompson glared at him, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, telling him he was heartless. She wasn’t sobbing or being overdramatic. She appeared genuinely upset. Hers had not been an ideal marriage, but she must have been fond of her husband once, and now he was dead.