by Ann Parker
“Of course.” He shook his head. “However, I probably went about it all wrong, asking as I did with the heat of accusation.”
“You spoke to Dr. Prochazka?”
“Indeed. He initially claimed no knowledge of the man.”
“Initially?”
“He will not talk to me now. I admit I unwisely voiced my skepticism regarding his methods and treatments. After that, we stopped conversing altogether, and he’s given me the cold shoulder ever since.” His expression tightened. “It will be interesting at tonight’s tableaux. I suspect he would call down heaven’s own lightning to strike me dead, if he could.”
Inez played with the tassel on her parasol as she pondered. Bees buzzed sonorously about the garden. One blundered into her gloved hand, and she shook him off. “I shall tell you something as well, in case it proves useful in your endeavors.” She related the small bit of conversation she had overhead in The Narrows between Nurse Crowson and Mr. Travers. “He indicated he wanted to meet the physician she spoke of, and she said she would arrange it,” she finished. “Then, the next day, poof! Mr. Travers is gone from the Mountain Springs House. At the time, I thought that Mr. Travers was demanding to see Dr. Prochazka, but now, I wonder. Perhaps they were speaking of a different physician. Could Nurse Crowson be the link to this mysterious Dr. Galloway? Perhaps she takes the invalids who are doing poorly and arranges to have them transported away and treated by him?”
He cocked his head. “I’d not considered the nurse. She is like Prochazka’s shadow, does his bidding. I could imagine her wishing to keep his good reputation intact. So perhaps her loyalty to him is a key.”
He offered his arm. “Meanwhile, allow me to show you the garden.”
She placed her hand on his jacket sleeve. “I shall be delighted, Mr. Calder. I know little about plants, besides the usual ‘language of flowers’ that I was taught at my mother’s side.”
He nodded, “My love of painting led to an interest in botany that became an obsession. That obsession has served me well here.” He began, “Many plants that have healing powers can also be deadly. I was astounded, upon coming to the Mountain Springs House, to find such a wealth of them here. Someone is a careful gardener for so many of these to not only take root, but to thrive as well. The question is: to what purpose?”
With this introduction completed, he walked, pointed, and explained. “Achillea millefolium or yarrow is esteemed as a vulnerary, used to heal wounds and stop bleeding. Also has a reputation in Orkney for dispelling melancholy.” He smiled at mention of the outpost islands of his homeland. “Over here is Arenaria montana or sandwort. It relieves cough, purifies and cleanses the blood, and reduces fever. Clematis is everywhere around Manitou. Unusual to see it in flower so late. It is used as a diuretic and diaphoretic, and useful locally and internally in—pardon me for being so blunt—syphilitic, cancerous, and other foul ulcers.”
He walked on. “Ah yes. I thought of Mr. Pace, when I contemplated this one: Digitalis Purpurea or foxglove. Foxglove is used for dropsy, to strengthen a weak heart, yet in the improper proportions, can be used to stop one as well. I haven’t mentioned it to the widow. I have my suspicions, that is all.”
Inez stared at the clusters of tubular flowers. They were the most delicate shade of purple-pink, speckled within with darker purple. She could imagine a summer frock of those hues, perhaps in dotted swiss. “Do the flowers provide the poison?”
“The leaves. Tincture or an infusion in strength could have done it. With the other elements tossed into a tonic, who is to say if it would taste or smell much different?”
Inez swallowed hard. “I would imagine it easy enough to poison the entire hotel-full of guests, if one wished to, with none the wiser.”
“Someone would catch on. But one by one, with people carefully chosen, that’s a different story. Particularly when many are invalids to begin with. As you know, there is always a danger that the wrong person may take the dose.”
The wrong person or the wrong horse, she thought.
He stopped and stared at a tall plant, with star-shaped, green-centered flowers in a long cluster. “Death camas,” he said. “Nothing good about it. Every part is poisonous, with the seeds particularly so. Ingest, and you will experience difficulty breathing, coma, and death. Can’t imagine what it’s doing here, in a physician’s domain. But then, this is a strange place, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Stannert?”
People began to drift out the back door, spilling onto the piazza, where the women opened their parasols and the gentlemen settled their straw boaters.
Calder said, “Our private time together is coming to an end, I fear. I must get to the livery and hurry off to collect Miss Carothers. Don’t want to keep her waiting. I’ll just add that I’ve identified all the plants in the garden, and there are others that I wonder at their cultivation. Lily of the Valley, for instance.”
“Is Mr. Calder giving you a lesson on botany, Mrs. Stannert?”
They turned around. Behind them, Nurse Crowson smiled, a questioning tilt to her head. Inez couldn’t imagine how she’d crept up behind them: the nurse was pushing an empty invalid chair, which certainly would have made some noise on the walkway.
“I’m just on my way to gather up a patient for an afternoon airing and couldn’t help but overhear,” said the nurse. “If you have any questions about the garden, I’d be happy to answer them.”
“I have a question,” said Calder, “perhaps you could direct me to where I could find this.” He pulled out a folded handkerchief, and opened it, revealing three dull blue-black berries nestled inside. Mrs. Crowson had abandoned the chair, circling around it to see what Calder held. The berries revealed, she took a hasty step back. “How unusual. I don’t believe I’ve seen the like. Where did you find them?”
Calder’s face tightened. “It’s Herb Paris.”
She looked around the garden, as if lost. “Herb Paris? Well, I have heard of it. But we have none in the garden.”
Mr. Lewis, who had been chatting with a couple further down the path, came hurrying their way. “Is something wrong, Nurse Crowson? Mrs. Stannert?” He ignored Calder.
But Calder wasn’t the type to be ignored. “Yes, quite wrong, Mr. Lewis. Someone tried to poison my horse today.”
“Your horse?” His gaze bounced between Calder and Inez. “I heard of your unfortunate ride today. Runaway buggies and carriages, an all too common occurrence here. That is why we encourage the ladies to hire drivers, or make use of Mr. Morrow, when he’s not busy. It’s very lucky that you escaped harm.”
“But the horse was nae so lucky.” Calder stepped toward Lewis, who shrank back and placed an arm around Mrs. Crowson, as if to protect her from Calder’s ire as well.
“Someone put Herb Paris in my horse’s feed,” said Calder darkly. “It was no accident, but deliberate.”
“Mr. Calder,” Lewis said with dignity. “I cannot imagine why you would make such an accusation. I understand you are still overwrought from your brother’s death. We did everything we could for him, while he was here. As I told you, he would not follow the regimens set forth. He would not listen to the doctor. What more could we do?”
“He withered and worsened, and ye threw him out into the snow.” Calder closed the berries into a fist.
“Mr. Calder, I believe that you would be happier at some other venue,” Lewis said. “We have extended hospitality to you all summer, only to have you conduct the most villainous campaign against us. We have been the best hosts possible, yet you persist in slandering us left and right. Mr. Calder, I suggest that you find other lodgings on the morrow or the day after at the latest.”
Inez caught her breath. But Calder didn’t explode. Instead, he refolded the berries into his handkerchief and pocketed them. “So am I to be approached next by the helpful Dr. Galloway who will provide miracle cures for my bunions?”
Lewis’ stern expression faded into startlement. “Dr. Galloway? I, I’ve not heard of him.”
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br /> Nurse Crowson stood mute by Lewis’ side, hands clasped together, staring at Calder as if he were mad.
“No. Of course not,” said Calder in disgust. He turned to Inez with a quizzical raised eyebrow. “D’ye think Mrs. Galbreaith might take me in, in her pleasant boarding house? Or perhaps I should seek out lodgings at the Colorado Springs Hotel?” He turned back to Lewis and said, “I’ll be out by end of tomorrow, I promise you that. But I’ll not be far, and I’ll not stop searching for the truth behind my brother’s death.”
He turned on his heel and headed to the livery.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Herb Paris?” Dr. Zuckerman pursed his lips and patted them delicately with his napkin.
Inez tried not to look at the small dribblets of crème fraiche from dessert trapped in his beard.
“Well, Mrs. Stannert, it’s not part of my usual pharmacopoeia. Let me think. I can recall this: It’s narcotic. When ingested, it would be most upsetting, perhaps causing delirium and convulsions, depending on the dose. Yes, a poison, most definitely.” He squinched up his eyes. “If I recall correctly, Linnaeus, the naturalist, asserted that the root operates as a gentle emetic, like ipecacuanha. But you’ll not find it growing here in Colorado, nor anywhere in the Americas, I believe.”
“Is it deadly to people? Animals?” Inez persisted. It had taken the full eight courses of the dinner to finally wind the conversation around to this topic. Zuckerman, once again her dinner companion, had waxed enthusiastic about the area’s hunting and fishing, the new dairy concern down the road, and General Palmer’s efforts to promote Colorado Springs back east. Talk about herbs, plants, and their medical uses, had proved difficult to interject into the flow of his monologue.
“I cannot say, given that I cannot precisely recall just how poisonous the various plant constituents are.” The scrape of chairs echoed through the dining room as diners rose. Zuckerman set his napkin down, creaked to his feet, and pulled out Inez’s chair so she could stand. “Perhaps Dr. Prochazka, since he is a native of Europe and trained on the Continent, might have a familiarity about it.”
She stifled a sigh. Asking Dr. Prochazka any medical-related question was something she wanted to avoid, if possible. Besides finding him a tad intimidating, she was afraid that asking questions about poisonous plants and materials would, in return, unleash a crescendo of questions that she would have to sidestep and dance around. All she wanted was information as to whether Herb Paris could, indeed, have been what sent the mare to her doom.
She cast an eye about the room. Neither Harmony nor Aunt Agnes had been present at that seating. They had taken an early dinner to prepare for the tableaux. No Calder, either, and she’d not seen Epperley doing his usual rounds about the tables. Instead, Lewis had been host, and Inez had watched him as he chatted, presented bottles of wine, and directed the waiters. She observed him blundering into several chairs, and once nearly colliding with a waiter carrying a full tray of plated boiled tongue and chili sauce. His smile wavered, and she thought she detected a tremor in his hands.
Nurse Crowson had been there, too, with her usual basket of bottles and her equanimous demeanor.
As Inez took Dr. Zuckerman’s arm and allowed him to escort her from the dining area, she noted a paucity of young women and men and began to wonder just how many of the missing were participating in her aunt’s tableaux.
“I understand your aunt, Mrs. Underwood, has been very busy with her artistically-inspired scenes,” said Dr. Zuckerman. “She even persuaded Dr. Prochazka to participate. That, in itself, is a major feat, for he is not one to socialize, as a rule, preferring as he does to focus on his research into pthisis and his patients.”
She turned down Dr. Zuckerman’s offer of a stroll around the front veranda, pleading for a moment alone before the doors to the music room opened to display Agnes’ flesh-and-blood masterpieces.
Seeking solitude, Inez slipped out the back door and stepped to the edge of the garden. The unseasonably warm evening had pushed the plants into aromatic hysteria. She inhaled. Herbal and floral fragrances assaulted her—sharp, soft, bitter, sweet, cloying—and over all rested the blanket scent of freshly turned earth. Crickets chirred, a temperate breeze rustled leaves, stirred branches, caressed her face. Inez glanced over at the livery: a single flickering light lay a dim path out the partially opened door, probably Morrow or the boy Billy, she guessed, giving the animals their evening feed.
Then, she heard voices, low, intense, a different tenor from the social babble that wafted ever so faintly from the front veranda of the hotel. The voices seemed to come from the far side of the hotel. She walked toward the conversation, curious, keeping her steps light.
As she approached the corner, she heard Lewis saying, “Galloway. Galloway, he asked about a Dr. Galloway.”
Crowson’s soothing voice replied, “A coincidence. A common name.”
“But I’ve not heard of a Dr. Galloway around here, and I know nearly every practitioner from one end of Colorado Springs and Manitou to the other.”
“Perhaps a physician passing through town? You know the area draws them, like honey draws flies. Please, Victor, do not agitate yourself.”
His voice rose in pitch, tinged with panic, “Don’t call me that! Not here. Remember where we are.”
Victor? Inez cocked her head, intrigued. She leaned dangerously close to the corner, wondering if the nurse’s response might shed light on Lewis’ odd exclamation.
After a long pause, Nurse Crowson continued, her words and tone a balm to ease a troubled spirit. “Franklin, look at your hands, they are shaking. Let’s go back inside and I’ll fix you some tea to calm you down. You must be there when the doors open. You need only make one circuit of the tableaux and say something pleasant to Mrs. Underwood. She will be expecting praise, and you should give it to her. Then, no one will mind if you resume your post at the desk.”
There was the click of a latch, an elongated rectangle of light illuminated a bare patch of ground and then narrowed with the closing of the door.
Now why would mention of a Dr. Galloway send Mr. Lewis into such a state? Obviously, the name is familiar to him, and upsetting as well. And why did the nurse call him “Victor” and why did he respond so strongly to it?
Inez waited a moment, then circled around the corner to where Lewis and Nurse Crowson had stood. On this far side, facing away from the livery, the ground fell away in a gentle slope. There was, she now realized, not only a door tucked under the veranda, but several small, unassuming windows as well, shuttered tight. The lower floor extended that length of the hotel. Thinking of the stairs leading up to the hotel entrance proper, she realized that there would certainly be room underneath the main floor for storage and such.
But a door?
An entrance and exit tucked away where most guests would not even notice. She wondered if it was used by all the hotel staff or if it was private. She was tempted to examine it, perhaps turn the knob, but decided that that would probably be unwise. For all I know they are standing on the other side, even now. Retreating back to the garden area, she gauged that the door and whatever lay behind it was under the kitchen and dining area of the hotel.
Noticing the lack of voices outside, she picked up her skirts to hurry up the stairs, and made her way to the reception area.
The foyer and entry hall were crammed with guests and visitors, all jostling, waiting for the doors to open to the music room. Some parents had their older children with them, and she heard one mother instruct her son, “Tableaux vivants are ‘living pictures.’ The people in the scenes are like statues. They are posed and supposed to hold especially still so we may view the scene, just like we would at a museum. Do not talk to any of them, not even your sister, or try to make her laugh or respond in any way.”
“How come they picked her and not me?” he groused.
The mother smoothed down his cowlick. “When you can hold still without wiggling, sneezing, or sticking out your t
ongue for ten minutes at a time, perhaps they will.”
The doors were flung open by a radiant Aunt Agnes, dressed in a startling rose and purple ensemble that frothed with lace and flounces. Inez’s first thought was how it was a dress appropriate for a younger woman. Her second thought was that it didn’t matter what fashion might dictate: the cut and color suited Aunt Agnes perfectly. The audience streamed into the room at last, Inez pulled into the wake. The room had been transformed, emptied of chairs, the grand piano pushed to one side. Different tableau groupings were staged around the walls. Behind each posed scene, someone had tacked muslin over the wallpaper, providing in some cases a plain backdrop, and in others, a painted one.
The next thing Inez noticed was that the displays had a decidedly classical theme. The posed players, for the most part, wore what looked like classical Grecian-style draperies that covered the limbs from ankle to elbow. Inez wondered, briefly, how many Mountain Springs House sheets and tablecloths had died so that Aunt Agnes’ tableaux might live.
Aunt Agnes was happily occupied with greeting various people and accepting the exclamations of amazement and admiration, leaving Inez free to wander as she wished. She circled through the room, taking in each scene and looking for Harmony, Jonathan, Calder, and any others she might recognize. Harmony was posed as Diana, readily identifiable by the quiver of arrows on her back, and a small moon crown holding back her dark hair, which had been powdered white. Her other hand rested on a small stuffed deer with antlers lashed to its head. A woman in front of Inez exclaimed, “Diane de Versailles! The very likeness!” She added in a lower tone to her female companion, “Although thankfully she’s clad in a longer gown than the actual statue.”
Jonathan posed nearby with a painted wooden replica of a lyre and a stuffed snake curled about a wooden stump. Inez thought he made a rather solemn and pale Apollo. If she had been choosing players, Inez supposed she would have chosen Epperley, with his white-blonde hair and Anglo-Saxon good looks. Aunt Agnes probably assigned Jonathan the role to complement Harmony’s role as Diana. An amateur painting of a vibrant yellow sun resting in a chariot splashed the muslin behind him.