Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “With phosphorus, you said?” Hans stepped closer to Ingrid’s body, peering at her charred hand. “How did she get burned?”

  “She soaked match tips in solution to make her poison. My guess is that some of the solution spilled onto her handkerchief. And then she put the handkerchief into her pocket where it had dried, becoming, in essence, a giant match.”

  It had been a foolish mistake for someone so familiar with phosphorus. Had she been distracted? Agitated? So obsessed with the details of escape she’d been careless? The white handkerchief had reflected light, but it hadn’t glowed a telltale green. He thought of her rose-scented youth lotion, which she used so liberally and which may well have been on her handkerchief. Was there some essential oil in her lotion that extinguished the glow? Masked the scent? Prevented her from feeling the sting of the phosphorus when she wrapped her hand with the cloth? Or had she attributed the sensation to the painful cut?

  Had her obsession for youth and wealth blinded her to the instrument of her death?

  “She looks to have bled an awful lot.” Hans moved the lantern over Ingrid, revealing splashes of blood on her clothing and down her arm.

  “She cut herself,” Bradshaw explained, withholding the fact that jars of gold dust might be very nearby. Besides needing their help to get back to town, he didn’t want to tempt them into a federal crime. The gold belonged to the assay office. “And she wrapped her hand in the poisoned cloth. It takes very little heat to ignite white phosphorus, that’s why lucifer matches are made of it. The friction of pulling the kerchief from her pocket could have set it off, or the friction of pulling the bandage snug into a knot.”

  He didn’t think they needed to know it wasn’t either of those two actions that ignited the cloth, but his own hand as he fought with her.

  “My cousin once burnt down a barn with a couple lucifers stuck in a cowpat,” one of the young men began, and Bradshaw knew he’d said enough to mitigate the shock of what they’d seen.

  “Took a couple weeks,” the young man continued as they draped Mrs. Thompson’s body over the donkey. “When that cowpat dried out and heated up, the lucifers caught fire, and down came the barn.”

  The walk back to the tracks passed for Bradshaw in a vague dark blur. With respectful care that revealed the humanity of his rescuers, Ingrid’s body was secured to the remaining handcar. One of the men volunteered to ride the donkey to the logging camp, and they’d barely begun when the darkness echoed with heehaws, and the other donkey came charging out of the forest. The beast greeted its friend noisily, then happily followed behind.

  “Ready?” called Hans, taking charge once more. Bradshaw climbed into the small space reserved for him on the handcar, sitting with his legs dangling. His head swam, and he was overwhelmed with gratitude for this group of strong and helpful men, thankful that Hans, a natural leader, had stepped forward to speed the rescue. “Let’s roll!”

  Bradshaw tended to be a leader himself, he knew, in some circumstances. Colin Ingersoll was a leader. Colin Ingersoll was leading Missouri away. The thought came as Bradshaw’s brain clouded, and the young men began to run and push the handcar into motion. He braced himself, and a fresh wave of pain shot through his head, down his arm and back, blocking out all thought save hanging on and staying awake. Then the men leaped aboard to pump. They didn’t let up until the car came to the end of the line in Hoquiam.

  ***

  Bradshaw recuperated in the Hoquiam hospital for one day, diagnosed with a moderate concussion, a cracked rib, and a bruised but thankfully not broken shoulder. Moss, apparently, had not put his all into swinging the cast iron pan or Bradshaw’s skull would have been crushed.

  Dr. Hornsby came to see him and insisted he return to Healing Sands. Once tucked snugly in bed in Camp Franklin Cabin, he was dosed with homeopathic remedies, anti-inflammatory herbs, and a diet of fermented foods for which he had inexplicably acquired a taste. He slept much, but even his waking hours were restful. For the first time in his life he was content to do nothing. He felt as peaceful as Old Cedar—who also stopped by to pay his respects and wish him well. He didn’t read, or write, or sketch circuits. He listened to the waves crashing and the birds crying.

  All the Hornsbys waited on him at intervals, and when news arrived they brought it to him. Zebediah Moss had been sent to a hospital in Tacoma and was expected to live, although he’d been told he should never again touch alcohol as his damaged liver could no longer tolerate it.

  The coroner had plucked tiny shards of glass from Ingrid Thompson’s cut palm and found phosphorus in the burned tissue and in her lungs and blood. She’d breathed the deadly vapors, and the flames had hastened the absorption through her flesh. Traumatic shock due to severe burn and blood loss, combined with poisoning, were determined to be the cause of her swift death.

  Digging on the beaches ceased and was replaced with a forest hunt for gold. The donkey that had followed its friend to the logging camp was found to be carrying thirty pounds of gold dust in soft cloth packets. The Secret Service retraced Bradshaw’s steps and discovered a cedar stump and several dozen broken mason jars, all of them empty.

  The rest of the gold, about a hundred and seventy pounds of it, was still missing, and Bradshaw wondered if it would become the stuff of legend like pirates’ treasure.

  ***

  After a week of rest and Dr. Hornsby’s ministrations, Bradshaw’s strength returned, and it was time to go home. But first, he removed the electrotherapy machine from Healing House for Doctor Hornsby and dismantled it. Together they burned the wooden case, smashed the glass components, and packed up the other pieces for Bradshaw to take away.

  Chapter Forty-two

  When he stepped from the Capitol Hill streetcar onto 15th Avenue, Bradshaw sighed. Clear weather had returned to Seattle, and the late afternoon air was pleasantly warm, laced with the best and worst scents of city life—tinges of smoke, cooking, cut lumber, tar. These smells meant home to Bradshaw, having lived with new construction and a changing landscape from the moment he arrived in Seattle with his infant son a decade ago.

  It was a short walk to 1204 Gallagher, the address of Bradshaw’s modest home. Two stories of white clapboard, leaded windows, a wide front porch, and a small patch of lawn shaded by a maple tree. It was there he found Justin and Paul, high up in the branches.

  “Ahoy, father!” Justin called down.

  “Ahoy, son! Ahoy, Paul!” Bradshaw returned. “Spot any enemy ships?”

  “Aye, but we blasted her with our cannons.”

  “Well done. Is it safe to enter the castle?”

  “If you’ve got armor. Mrs. Prouty’s cooking again.”

  “And Missouri?”

  Justin’s voice returned to normal. “She’s up at the university. She said she’ll be back for dinner.”

  Bradshaw went around the house to enter through the kitchen and found Mrs. Prouty, as he’d been warned, cooking up a storm, but the smells were promising. Something savory simmered on the stove, and the smell of warm yeast told him bread was in the oven. Mrs. Prouty stood at the kitchen table, stirring a mixture of onions and celery in her electric skillet, the cord dangling from the fluted wall light.

  Last year he’d turned his attention to small electrical kitchen appliances, tinkering with tea kettles, frying pans, hot plates, and toasters. Mrs. Prouty had at first resisted being his tester, being a woman rooted in her ways, but the convenience of electric power slowly won her over. During an unusually long stretch of hot weather, she’d not lit the cook stove for four solid days, preparing everything from the morning coffee to apple pie using the electric devices.

  “Welcome home, Professor. Your luggage arrived a few minutes ago. I put it in your room, except for your electrical bits. I left that crate in the hall for you.”

  “Thank you. Has all been well?”

  She met his eye and gave him a sincere nod. “Justin’s been in heaven, what with Missouri staying overnight since we got back from the o
cean. She’s out now, but she’ll be back. I reckon she’ll be going to her own place tonight?”

  The question threw him back to when Missouri first arrived in Seattle and stayed with them for several months. Henry had been in Alaska then, and Mrs. Prouty had been vocal about the impropriety of an unmarried woman staying in the home of a widowed man without a proper chaperone. That wasn’t an issue now, Henry was here.

  “I’ll leave that to her. Where’s she been sleeping? My room?”

  “Most certainly not! I put Henry in your room and she took his.”

  “You know it’s not improper for her to sleep in my bed if I’m not in it.”

  Mrs. Prouty held up her spoon. “You’ve had a rough time of it, Professor, so I’ll forgive your cheekiness. I must say, you don’t look as bad as I expected for a man who took a blow to the head, was thrown down a flight of stairs, and stuffed into a cellar. You’ll be the death of me yet, with these investigations.”

  “Doctor Hornsby restored my health. Do I have time to run up to the university before dinner?”

  “If you don’t stay long. Missouri’s there now.”

  “I know.”

  He felt her eyes watching him as he left the kitchen. He went upstairs to quickly change into a fresh suit and a few minutes later was pedaling toward the university. His muscles and injuries gave him small protests, but otherwise he found the ride invigorating.

  Once on campus, he glided by the new red brick Science Building that had opened last year. He would be teaching one class there in the fall quarter, but since the engineering labs were still housed in the basement of the Administration Building, most of his classes and his office were still there, which pleased him. He’d grown fond of the place and always enjoyed his first glimpse of its castle-like edifice each day. Now, as he parked his bicycle beside the wide stone steps, he was hailed by President Kane and Joseph Taylor, a former professor of mathematics and astronomy, who had built the magnificent observatory. Both men had followed the newspaper accounts of Bradshaw’s discovery of the Vogler farm and the search for the gold.

  While he filled them in on details not included in the paper, he noticed a box kite hovering above the young trees between Lewis and Clark Halls. He ignored the kite as long as he could but finally excused himself to continue on his intended mission.

  The kite led him to the sweeping new lawn between the dorms. Colin Ingersoll manned the string, and Missouri stood beside him, head tilted back, nodding at what he said. Bradshaw couldn’t hear Colin’s words, only the deepness of his voice. What was he saying to her? Explaining the physics that kept the kite in the air? Impressing her with his ideas for the future of flight? Charming her?

  He stood watching them. They looked good together. Perfect, really. They matched the way salt and pepper shakers match, different but belonging together. A set. The same age, same youthful hope shining in their faces. He had a flash of vision of them together, getting married, having children, Colin becoming famous for daring feats of flight and Missouri curing the masses with her remedies. He could see clearly their disordered, chaotic, happy life.

  No.

  He would put a stop to that. If there was one thing he had over young Colin Ingersoll, it was his ability to plod over the potential for happiness wherever it existed.

  With a smile, he headed down the path. Missouri looked toward him. A grin spread over her features, lighting her eyes, warming his heart. She moved away from Colin and stepped toward Bradshaw’s outstretched arms.

  Author’s Note

  and Acknowledgements

  I find great pleasure in weaving Professor Bradshaw’s fictional whodunits with the factual details of life in the Pacific Northwest in the early days of the twentieth century. For this book, I especially enjoyed my time in the North Beach area of Washington State where my fictional Healing Sands is located. From the bustling town of Ocean Shores to the cozy town of Pacific Beach, the idyllic community of Seabrook (with a great little bookstore, Blind Dog Books), and historic Moclips with its Museum of the North Beach, I found inspiration in the people and places.

  I discovered two sanitariums once existed on the North Beach, and there may have been more. Sanitariums and health resorts were all the rage back then. At Iron Springs, where there is now a lovely resort with echoes of history, a doctor named Chase ran a modest sanitarium and even dabbled with electrotherapeutic devices. And a bit later further north, the Moclips Sanitarium once set up shop, but other than a fabulous old photograph of a small weathered shack, I found no details on that establishment. The first Moclips Hotel, which opened in 1905 when the railroad at last arrived, boasted that the location was ideal for restoring health and beckoned tourists to come rest and play. Thousands came. The hotel burned down that same year, was rebuilt on an even grander scale, and thousands more came. Sadly, this second hotel was destroyed in 1911 by a massive storm, and all that remains today is a small plaque honoring its proud past.

  The Moclips Depot of the Northern Pacific Railway opened July 1, 1905. For several decades the train served the area, but with the rise in popularity of the automobile roads were built, and eventually train service was discontinued and the rail lines removed. Hopes and fears for development weren’t fulfilled. More than a hundred years after Professor Bradshaw’s visit, the area is quiet, minimally populated, and still provides a wonderful escape. I owe a huge thank you to Kelly Calhoun of The Museum of the North Beach for a fascinating couple of days, digging into the rich resources of the museum. They are working to build a replica of the Northern Pacific train depot, and when complete, it will be the museum’s new home.

  Electrotherapy has a long and interesting history. From the first harnessing of static electricity to present day physiotherapy, electricity has been explored as a method of healing and observing medical conditions. In those early years when there were few regulations regarding treatments, legitimate men of medicine experimented with therapies we today know to be either ineffective or harmful, but their pioneering work led to important discoveries. Of course, quack electrotherapy medicine has always thrived. Open just about any popular magazine or newspaper from the mid-1850’s until today, and you will likely find within the pages an advertisement for some revolutionary electric or magnetic device guaranteed to melt away pounds, eliminate pain, or restore virility. Then, as now, the legitimate electrotherapeutic devices are more likely to be found in medical facilities or used by trained alternative healers.

  For the historical details of electrotherapy in this book, I am especially grateful to Jeff Behary and his Turn of the Century Electrotherapy Museum. I spent many hours exploring and mining his website and scheming with him on the phone, and he provided the photograph of the 1915 Mcintosh autocondensation chair featured on the cover of this book. Bill Beaty, friend and electrical engineer at the University of Washington, was once again a valuable resource as the plot developed, and he applied his keen eye to the electrical and electrotherapeutic portions of the manuscript, giving great advice. Throughout the writing year, John Jenkins and all the folks at the SPARK Museum of Electrical Invention in Bellingham, Washington, continue to be a constant source of information and inspiration.

  I named my sheriff after the real Sheriff Graham, who arrived in Gray’s Harbor in 1884. A respected and beloved pioneer, over the years he did it all, from logging the rich forests to building a volunteer fire brigade, and serving as town marshal, sheriff, prison guard, and finally serving with the Aberdeen police force. He died at age eighty in 1942. I don’t know if the real Sheriff Graham would have worn his boots in the main house of Doctor Hornsby’s Sanitarium, but I intended no disrespect by having my fictional one do so. My thanks to Dann Sears and Byron Eager of the Aberdeen Museum of History for their help researching this remarkable man.

  Captain Bell, too, has a real-life counterpart who headed up the Northwest division of the Secret Service. In the days before the founding of the F.B.I., the Secret Service was in charge of investigating federal crim
es. In 1906, Bell quit the service to start his own private investigation company, but sadly, a brain hemorrhage took his life just two years later. His obituary in the November 16, 1908, edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer said he “gained the reputation among his associates of being a fearless man, and for unusual bravery and success in bringing to justice a number of important federal criminals.”

  Several threads of the plot of Capacity for Murder are based on real events that occurred during this era, but if I elaborated here I would give away too much. If you would like to know more send me an email (contact@bernadettepajer.com) with the words “CAPACITY scoop,” and I’ll be happy to fill you in.

  For the scenes in this book referring to phosphorus and gentian, I gave my characters the information that would have been available to them in their time and relied upon several historical scientific publications including the Pharmaceutical Journal by the Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain (1878), the Manual of Qualitative Chemical Analysis by C. Remigius Fresenius (1897), and A Manual of Legal Medicine by Justin Herold (1898). Turpentine is no longer a recommended antidote.

  Every writer should be so lucky to be treated with such respect and guided so expertly as I am by my editors, Annette Rogers and Barbara Peters. I’m equally grateful for my publisher, Jessica Tribble, everyone at Poisoned Pen Press, and my friend and agent, Jill Grosjean. And to my early readers Barbara Ankrum, Jesikah Sundin, Torie Stratton, Jeannie Dunlap, Wendy Wartes, Mari Bonomi, and Aurika Hays—I am so very grateful for your taking the time to test-drive this novel and find the bumps in the road. A huge thank you to my heroes, Kelly and Larry (Mom and Pop) for spreading bookmarks across the greater Puget Sound area, selling books where no books have sold before. For emotional support, I am blessed with great writing friends and groups, and I’m especially grateful, honored, and humbled to belong to the Seattle7Writers.org. You all inspire me! And Larry at Barnes & Noble in Woodinville, Washington—so pleased to count you as a fan of Professor Bradshaw. Thanks for your support!