A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

Faith sat back down, staring into her hands as she worried over her apron. “Elma met Charles Thorton at Ocean Beach. We often went to the shore as friends. Mr. Thorton said he was a banker, all charm and dapper. He wined and dined her, and as soon as he got her with child, he disappeared.” Faith met her eyes, gauging her reaction, but Isobel was unfazed. “I helped Elma look for him. We visited every bank in the city, but none claimed him as an employee. Everyone at Cooper knew Elma was courting the man. It would tarnish her reputation if she left one man for another so quickly, and she didn’t have time to wait. So Elma quit here, and went to work at the county hospital; she married the first man who looked twice at her.”

  “Is this Thorton?” Isobel showed her the photograph that was found in Henry’s medical journal.

  “No,” Faith shook her head. “That’s Virgil Cunningham.”

  Isobel nearly shouted in triumph, but she caught herself. “And who is Virgil Cunningham?”

  Faith took the photograph, studying it. “He grew up with Henry and Elma. They were close friends. The three enrolled in medical school together.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Last I heard, he’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know the details. But I heard he cracked from the pressure at school and was sent to the Napa Insane Asylum.”

  “I see. Was Elma distressed?”

  “She never spoke much about Virgil after he left. Seemed to be some ill feelings.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t know. It was a sore subject.”

  “Did you know Elizabeth Foster?”

  “Oh, yes.” It was said with little enthusiasm. “Miss Foster had her eye on Virgil, and Henry, and every other man who turned her eye, but mostly Virgil. I don’t know what became of her. She left shortly after Virgil went to the asylum. And Henry—he was more concerned with school than marrying, but he fell into some financial problems. He couldn’t afford another year’s tuition.”

  “Did Elma ever mention Elizabeth visiting her?”

  “Not to me,” Faith said. “But after Elma moved to County and married her new man, I didn’t see much of her. I don’t think she wanted to remember anything or anyone from before her marriage. The business with Thorton nearly drove her mad. I suppose it did in the end.”

  23

  A Never Failing Cure

  MARKET WAS A MESS. Isobel ordered Grimm to drop her on a side street and wait while she walked the last block. The tracks rattled and the cable car bells were shrill with warning. Isobel darted in front of a hack, stopped for a cable car, felt a wooden wheel brush her skirt, and ran through a break in traffic. She brandished her umbrella at a bicyclist, who swerved narrowly missing a hay wagon, and hopped on to the curb.

  632 Market Street. Right across from the Palace Hotel. The office’s location amused her to no end. Isobel slowed as she passed a ready made clothing store, and then she stopped altogether, gazing into the window. Something caught her eye. She entered, marching right past the doorman.

  A familiar grey dress sat on a rack. Little violets trimmed its hem and collar. She rubbed the material.

  “Would you like to try it on, ma’am?” a woman’s voice interrupted.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “That it is. Only eleven-fifty.”

  “I have a friend who bought this very same dress. She said that the woman who helped her was splendid. Was it you, perhaps?”

  The shopgirl blushed. “I can’t say. Did your friend have a name?”

  “Violet Clowes.”

  “The woman who drowned herself?”

  “I’m afraid so. She was wearing this dress.” Isobel wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “I wanted to thank the woman who helped her.”

  “It’s a popular dress. We sell quite a few, but I can check the books.”

  “Could you?”

  “Of course.”

  Isobel followed the shopgirl to the counter, where the woman flipped through the pages to the current day and began working her way backwards through the long list of purchases.

  A bell rang, and the woman looked up, torn between duties.

  “I’ll look. Go help your customer.”

  Isobel slid the abandoned ledger closer, and flipped through the pages at a rapid rate, until V. Clowes leapt out at her. Violet bought the dress a week before her death. Isobel ran her finger down the list, searching for other occurrences of the grey dress. The shopgirl was right, the dress was popular; unfortunately none of the names were familiar. With a sigh, she closed the book, drummed her fingers on the counter in thought, and headed out the door.

  The doorman to the office building nodded as she walked inside. She climbed the stairs and stopped in front of a door. The golden sign read Sanden’s Electric Company.

  Isobel fought down a threatening grin, put on a serious face, and plunged inside a room of leather and wood. It smelt like a barber shop that was filled with smoke. Six gentlemen sat in the chairs, all hiding behind newspapers.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said pleasantly. The papers stiffened, and one gentleman, hat held over his face, went so far as to bolt for the door.

  She took a seat.

  After ten minutes of ruffling papers and masculine throat clearing, the door opened. One man emerged, followed by the doctor. The physician froze. His face turned a shade of red that was somewhere between mortification and anger.

  Doctor Pratt was a portly man with laugh lines who was not currently laughing. He herded her inside his office like an energetic sheep dog.

  “Madame, this is a gentleman’s doctor—”

  “It’s my husband,” she interrupted.

  “Oh—I see. He erm, has an ailment?”

  “His manhood has lost its vigor,” she said bluntly, and sat down.

  “I can certainly arrange to examine your husband.”

  “He’s far too embarrassed.”

  “Most gentlemen are,” he glanced at the closed door. “That’s why we take mail orders. All the instructions are there, including a three hundred page booklet explaining everything a man might need to know.”

  “He ordered one, but the belt doesn’t work. It’s broken.”

  “Broken?” he sounded surprised. “Perhaps he misused it?”

  “Impossible, my husband is a stickler for details. It’s a faulty belt.”

  “Did you bring the belt?”

  “Of course not,” she gasped. “My husband didn’t want me to know, but a wife is—quite aware of those things.” She cleared her throat daintily.

  “Quite,” the doctor agreed.

  “I couldn’t risk taking it out of the house; he’d know, but I did record the number on the belt.” She pushed a slip of paper forward.

  “Ah, the serial number.”

  “Will that work?” she asked with hope.

  Doctor Pratt turned to a line of shelves, and selected a ledger. “Without examining the belt, I can’t fix it, but perhaps we can see if there are any other complaints with that lot.” He consulted her number and then his ledger, a stubby finger tracing the names. “Mr. Leeland at number eight Sapphire House?”

  Isobel swallowed her surprise. “Why, yes, that’s it.”

  How did Henry end up with the absent Mr. Leeland’s belt? Was Violet courting both men? And Mr. Leeland discovered Henry, lured him to the house, and—strapped an electric belt onto him? Absurd.

  She leaned forward, noting the purchase date. Two weeks ago.

  “There’s been no trouble with the other belts. They are quite reliable. If you can’t bring the belt in, you are certainly welcome to purchase another, exchange it when your husband is not present, and return the faulty one. I can offer you a full refund.”

  Isobel fished around in her handbag, looking lost and forlorn. “I seem to have misplaced my checkbook.” She consulted her watch. “And my husband is in a meeting with our banker. I can hardly show up there.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, then. I can meet
you outside,” he stressed.

  “Oh, no, I must have a belt today. I’m very eager for my husband to make a full recovery. I’ll just wait in your sitting room until the meeting is over.”

  Doctor Pratt paled, protested the inconvenience on her time, and thrust a box into her arms. “No charge. All of our products are guaranteed.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She tucked the box under her arm. And with relief, the doctor escorted her towards the door, eager to be rid of her. “One more thing,” she said, stopping.

  “Yes, madame?”

  “My husband is fond of baths. Is this safe to wear while bathing?”

  “I do not recommend it.”

  “Is it unsafe, then?”

  “The water will prematurely wear out the contact pads. It’s perfectly safe.”

  “But it’s electricity.”

  “Of a gentle sort,” he assured, but quickly amended, “Although it’s best to be safe—to use only as directed.”

  “So it could harm him in the bath?”

  “It’s no more harmful in the bath than on the waist.”

  “I see.” Whether this was the assurances of a quack who wanted people to purchase his product, or reality, she did not know. Of course, if a doctor could market and sell ‘harmless’ arsenic wafers, then anything was possible.

  ✥

  Henry Erving lay on the slab. His body was bare and it made him appear frozen in the harsh electrical light. A large Y-shaped incision dropped from collarbone to groin. The laceration had been stitched up with precision.

  There were marks around his pelvis, red blotches marring the skin, and round burn marks.

  “Low voltage injuries,” August explained. Color rose in his cheeks, and he quickly covered the naked man. “Cause of death is heart failure.”

  “Why are his ears red?” She squinted inside.

  “Part of the electrocution process. It ruptured his eardrums.”

  “Not a quiet way to go.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I tested the arsenic wafers. They’re not what you would normally find in the box. The two remaining tablets were of a concentrated variety. One dose would not kill a healthy person, but it would certainly make her ill.”

  “Someone must have switched the tablets,” she mused.

  “I believe so. Violet came up positive for arsenic. Trace amounts.”

  “After her grandmother died, she returned to the Y.M.C.A. The landlady said she became ill, and Violet had her summon a doctor. I think Henry was the one who visited her. Can we exhume the grandmother and test her?”

  The doctor grimaced. “I can submit the request to a judge.” He looked exhausted. Performing a postmortem was taxing work.

  “It’s not urgent,” she relented. “Speaking of court orders, can you request the student records of Henry and Elma Erving, and Elizabeth Foster from Cooper Medical? And a Virgil Cunningham.”

  “Who?” he asked, surprised.

  “Virgil Cunningham. I think he might be connected to all of this somehow.”

  “I see.” August removed his gruesome apron, and walked to the sink, turning on the taps. “If you think it matters, I’ll certainly request the records.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t realize you were associated with Ravenwood Agency,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’m not exactly,” she said carefully. “We’re collaborating on this case. Mr. Riot and I have crossed paths before.”

  “If you had mentioned his name from the first, I wouldn’t have been so skeptical.”

  “I prefer to bully my way into male domains,” she quipped. “Have you worked with the agency before?”

  “I only know him by reputation. Zephaniah Ravenwood lectured at the medical college once.”

  “Cooper?”

  “Yes, many years ago.”

  “I didn’t realize you attended Cooper.”

  “All the gifted doctors do.” It was not a boast, but fact. “Regardless, every doctor on the west coast came to hear the man speak. Ravenwood never lectured, but on this occasion, he wanted to prove a colleague wrong. The man’s cold logic was brutal. It might have been entertaining if every student in the amphitheater had not been cringing with sympathy for his opponent.”

  “I wish I could have met him,” Isobel said, truthfully. She always appreciated an orderly mind. “I didn’t realize he was so well respected.”

  “Really?” August half turned, looking at her incredulously.

  “I’ve only recently returned to San Francisco,” she explained.

  “Ravenwood was the Lacassagne of the West,” August explained.

  “But he didn’t publish anything, did he?”

  “Oh, no,” August chuckled. “Ravenwood was a private man. Guarded his secrets like the Mint. From what I gathered, he considered teaching simpletons a waste of his energy.”

  “I can’t fault that reasoning.”

  August turned off the taps and dried his hands and forearms. “The police department both hated and valued him.”

  “How was he murdered?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Should I?”

  “It was all over the newspapers. But you were away, I suppose.” August gripped the table and wheeled Henry into the refrigerated storage. He emerged with Elma Erving Dunham. Burns covered her lips and jaw, hands and arms, spreading all over her face in testament to a death of horrible agony.

  “Somehow Ravenwood ended up with a bounty on his head. The Tongs assassinated him in 1897.”

  “The Tongs?”

  August nodded. “I read the report.” His voice dropped to an unnecessary whisper. “Ravenwood was decapitated, and his head was found on a platter in his own home, on his own dining room table. I hear Mr. Riot was nearly killed in the mess.”

  “I see,” she said softly. The implications slammed into her with the force of a wave. She gripped the side of a counter to steady herself.

  “Are you all right, Miss Bonnie?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. She shook loose emotion, and tucked it neatly away, straightening. “Can you determine the age of the fetus?”

  “I can.”

  “Good. I suspect it is much older than what her husband believes. Leave your findings with Ravenwood Agency.”

  “Of course.”

  She gathered her things. Fresh air beckoned, and the light of day, anything to erase the image of Riot discovering his partner’s head on a platter.

  “One more thing,” she said. “I think I’ll need to take a trip to Napa. Can you request Virgil’s records from the Asylum?”

  August picked up a pen and bent over the counter, his back to her. “I can certainly try.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem, Miss Bonnie.”

  24

  The Swindler

  SNORES FILLED RAVENWOOD OFFICES. The rumbling noise came from a rough fellow who had his dirty boots on the desk. Montgomery Johnson. Isobel had met the bruiser a month ago. The detective had not much cared for Mr. Morgan. The feeling, however, was mutual.

  She did not wake the man, but made for the telephone. “Napa Asylum,” she requested, sitting on the edge of a desk. At the sound of her voice, Johnson jerked awake, and pulled a gun. He’d be useful in a fight.

  The bruiser’s gaze settled on her. He holstered his gun, and she introduced herself.

  “Mr. Riot is consulting with me.”

  “Consulting with you?” Johnson repeated. His eyes narrowed, then he looked her up and down. There wasn’t much to look at. He stomped to the consultation room, cracked the door open, and asked if it was true.

  A deep, low voice answered, but Isobel missed the words.

  The line crackled. “Napa Asylum.”

  “Nurse Jones from Cooper Medical,” she said. “I’m updating our records and I see that we’re missing information on a Virgil Cunningham. Could you fill in some blanks? An official request. I see. Not even the date of discharge?”

  She wa
s told to hold a moment, and sat, rearranging the items on the desk, until they were perfectly orderly.

  Noise signaled the nurse’s return, and Isobel pressed the ear piece to her ear. Virgil Cunningham had died on October 30th 1898. Heart failure. “And what was he there for?” she asked. The response was not helpful. That required a formal request. The ploy had been worth an attempt.

  Isobel rang off and stared absently at the neat desk. Virgil died, and three days later Violet checked into the Y.M.C.A., then attempted suicide two days later. Suggestive.

  She ignored Johnson’s gaze, picked up her things, and made for the consultation room.

  “Riot’s busy.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she asked, and then poked the snake. “Except you. Is Mr. Tim present?”

  Johnson lifted a small spittoon from his desk, and spit, making a slurping noise as he did so. Charming, she thought.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Careful not to disturb the air, she opened the door and slipped inside the room.

  Riot was hunched over the big table. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled to his elbows, and had a magnifying glass and tweezers in hand. Her eyes lingered on the back of his neck where black hair met a pristine collar; his hair was in need of a trim, curling ever so slightly over tanned skin. Given his coloring, Isobel wondered if there was some Mediterranean in his blood.

  “I refuse to thank you for the use of your hack,” she said to his back.

  “And I refuse to say you are welcome,” he murmured without interrupting his work.

  “Good, that’s settled. How goes the puzzle?” The table was strewn with glass plates and the brittle remains of sacrificial paper.

  “Slow but steady.”

  She surveyed the pieced together fragments. “It’s the same dreadful letter from the spirit world, over and over again. In the same hand.”

  “With slight variations,” he agreed. “But not all.” Riot stood, and straightened, arching his back with a slight grimace. It cracked.

  Isobel nearly rubbed his shoulders; instead she thrust a box into his hands. “I brought you a present. It might help your back. There’s instructions and all.”