Lethal Remedies

by M. Louisa Locke

  Ella came back into the office with the tea tray and saw that Annie was frowning over a letter in her hand. She said, “Would you like sugar or cream in your tea? Cook sent up some apple tarts that she made for the patients’ mid-afternoon tea.”

  Annie put the letter down and said, “Oh, tarts! What a treat, Dr. Blair. And yes, both cream and sugar. I seem to be perpetually starved. Dr. Brown assured me that the fact that I seem to be eating as much as I did during my pregnancy is perfectly normal and will continue as long as I nurse Abigail.”

  Ella handed Annie the cup and said, “That’s what I understand to be true. I must say, you certainly don’t look like you recently had a baby. Some of the mothers I have seen at the dispensary still look like they are pregnant, even as long as a year after they delivered.”

  “I worry that will happen to me. Since Abigail has started eating more solid food and nursing less, I’m afraid that if I don’t change my eating habits, I will puff up like a balloon. Doesn’t help that my own cook is excellent and always seems to be on a crusade to fatten all of us up. My husband, in fact, has started trying to walk home from work as often as he can to compensate for the fact that after a decade of living in a boardinghouse with an inferior cook, he now eats like a king. A running joke between us is that he only asked me to marry him so he could eat Mrs. O’Rourke’s cooking all the time.”

  Ella thought about what it would mean to have a husband who you could joke with in that fashion. Her hardworking parents never smiled, much less showed any signs of affection with each other…at least in public. Personally, her major experience with humor was her brothers or male classmates teasing her, and that had always felt like an attack.

  Ella knew she was often accused of being too serious. Even the dispensary nurse, Janie, expressed exasperation with her unwillingness to come out with her to dinner or the theatre. She, herself, didn’t understand why she was so hesitant to say yes to these invitations. What am I afraid of? Why couldn’t she be like Mrs. Dawson, a woman who could be lighthearted yet still be taken seriously by her friends and family?

  Food for thought.

  Ella took up a long sip of her tea, welcoming the sweet warmth, and said, “Did you find the answers you were hoping to get about which bills have been paid and which have not?”

  “Yes,” Annie said, putting her cup down. “Thank goodness, it appears that, despite her disorganization, Mrs. Branting did keep on top of most of the monthly bills. She just didn’t keep good records. For example, I did hear back from the plumber, and he’d been paid last fall.”

  “Oh, good, and we got word back from the pharmacist, Mr. Sears. He said that, except for the prescriptions that have been filled for February, we are up-to-date with him. He said he would give us that bill on Monday.”

  Annie nodded. Pulling out a notebook, she made a couple of check marks. She said, “It is my understanding that I need to report on the state of the dispensary finances through the end of February.”

  Ella said, “Usually Mrs. Branting comes in on the first of the month, goes through the cash box, sees what additional fees we have collected since she last deposited the money in the bank, and writes checks.”

  Annie frowned. “Unfortunately, between what is in the cash box and the last bank balance she received, there doesn’t appear to be enough to pay the March rent, much less the pharmacy bill. Not unless we get the money from the Truscotts in the next five days or I can get a couple of people who support the dispensary to pay their yearly dues immediately. Do you have any idea how that process is done? Does the treasurer send out letters?”

  Ella felt the beginning flutter of panic. She said, “I don’t have any idea. It was my impression that at the beginning of the month there was always enough reserve in the bank to cover any bills for that month. Dr. Brown didn’t leave you with any instructions about collecting those membership dues?”

  “No, she didn’t. I looked, and the by-laws state that the yearly membership subscription starts on the first of March. It could be that Mrs. Branting has sent out reminders; I just don’t see any record of that sort of letter. I did find an account book that gives a list of members, their contributions, and so forth. And, as with everything else, it is very organized and thorough, until about June, which appears to be when the former treasurer left town. Since then, there have been a couple of new entries, in what I’ve come to recognize as Mrs. Branting’s hand. What I don’t know is if this means there have been no additional contributions besides these few or if she simply hasn’t recorded them.”

  “I have no idea the answer to that,” Ella said. “However, this seems like another reason for us to telegraph Dr. Brown.”

  “I’ve given that a good deal of thought since I got your letter this morning. I don’t know that it would do any good, except to worry her and Dr. Wanzer. There isn’t anything they can do. Even if they cut their trip short and got tickets for an earlier express train, they wouldn’t be here until next Tuesday or Wednesday. A little late to do anything about the pharmacy bill or paying the rent. No, we need to figure out how to handle this ourselves.”

  Ella wished she could wave a magic wand and come up with the money. “It seems so unfair. If the Truscotts would just pay their bill, we wouldn’t have any financial problems. Did your husband get to talk to Mr. Truscott?”

  “Yes, he did, and his meeting confirmed that this Dr. Skerry that Dr. Granger mentioned seems to be behind Mr. Truscott’s negative views about the dispensary. I think that there is also a very good chance she is behind the piece in the Chronicle.”

  “Why ever would she be doing this?” Ella said, her voice rising in anger. “Beside the threat to the dispensary, think of poor Mrs. Truscott! I can’t believe she is getting the best care from a doctor who would behave so despicably.”

  “I agree. But in some ways, if we can prove that Skerry is behind the newspaper article, that might make it easier to explain to the dispensary board of directors why there is a financial short-fall. You see, from what I’ve learned of Skerry, she has a reputation as a trouble-maker, and I believe…”

  The dispensary front door bell pealed, followed by frenzied knocking.

  Ella ran out of the office, through the reception room, to the hallway, sure that someone with a medical emergency was outside. Mrs. McClellan had beat her to the door and was pulling it open as Ella came up behind her.

  On the porch stood Joan Carpenter, Mrs. Truscott’s maid. She looked behind her as if she was afraid someone was following her. Then she darted into the hallway, pushing the front door closed behind her, leaning against it, her chest visibly heaving.

  Ella reached out to her, saying, “Joan, what is it? Has your mistress taken a turn for the worse? Do I need to get my medical bag and come with you?”

  The maid, eyes wide, gasped out, “I wish you could, but they wouldn’t let you in the house! Even though my mistress asked that they send for you. But you have to do something. Someone is poisoning her, and I have the proof right here in my purse.”

  Chapter 22

  Thursday evening, March 2, 1882

  O’Farrell Street Boardinghouse

  * * *

  “Do you seriously think there is any chance at all that this maid could be telling the truth?” Nate asked.

  Annie threw up her hands. “I don’t know! But if there is only the slightest chance, we must do something or poor Phoebe Truscott might die.”

  She walked quickly across to the bedroom fireplace where she poked at the fire, hoping that would warm up the room. She’d been cold all evening. Probably because she’d been soaked by a sudden downpour as she looked for a cab to take her home from the dispensary. She’d had to go a couple of blocks up Van Ness before one stopped for her.

  As a result, Kathleen had gone all mother hen over the state Annie was in when she came in the back door to the kitchen, insisting that Annie take a quick hip bath and change into dry clothes. Nevertheless, nothing had seemed to warm her since then, except havin
g Abigail on her lap. But her daughter was now asleep next door in the nursery.

  Annie looked at the clock on the mantel and saw that it was already eight-thirty. Once again her husband had missed dinner, but she was so irritated with him for being late that she hadn’t rung the kitchen, which would have been the signal to bring him something to eat.

  She’d wanted Nate home with her for hours, wanted his advice, his support. She even contemplated asking Kathleen to go out to send a telegram, but he’d promised so faithfully to be home by six. As a result, she hadn’t done so, not wanting to send the poor young woman out in the rain if he was already heading home.

  Nate came and stood next to her in front of the fireplace, warming his hands. He looked a bit damp around the edges himself, although the rain had stopped a few hours ago. His hands looked red from the cold. Probably because he’d forgotten to take his leather gloves with him this morning when he left at the unholy hour of six.

  If she were a better wife, she would have stood at the front door this morning and reminded him about the gloves as she kissed him goodbye. Instead, she had watched him dress while she snuggled under the covers, waiting for Kathleen to bring Abigail to her.

  She’d wanted him home—and here he was, so she should stop grumbling to herself. Annie sighed and turned to pull the cord to ring the kitchen, saying, “Get changed. Tilly will be up with your dinner in a moment.”

  As Nate removed his cravat, shrugged out of his coat, and put on his dressing gown, she told him about the letter that Ella Blair sent this morning, which was the reason she’d gone to the dispensary a day earlier than planned.

  He paused in removing his boots. “A man loitering around the dispensary? What did he look like?”

  “I don’t think it could be Richard Truscott, according to the newsboy’s description. Or at least, Jocko reported that his friend said the man didn’t look like a gent. From what you described, I have trouble seeing Truscott wearing a red cravat and a derby. Or skulking around at night in an empty lot.”

  “Well, I don’t see him poisoning his wife, either,” Nate replied.

  “This maid, her name is Joan Carpenter, didn’t say she knew who was poisoning her mistress, although the husband would certainly be a suspect. Just consider, he’s a young man, living off a wealthy but sickly wife. Seems a plot right out of one of those mysteries in the magazines. Ella Blair says Joan has been Mrs. Truscott’s maid since the woman was born and is very protective of her. She also said the maid, who stayed with her mistress at the dispensary after the operation, didn’t strike anyone at the dispensary as the hysterical type.”

  “So what is this proof she says she has?” Nate put on his slippers and came back to stand beside her in front of the fire.

  “She said that her suspicions started with the first ‘spell’ her mistress had, a month after coming home from the dispensary. Joan said the cramping and the vomiting, which came in the middle of the night, looked like regular food poisoning to her. As a result, she closely questioned the cook and the maid who had served the dinner. They swore that Phoebe’s husband and his aunt Ruby ate everything Phoebe did, and neither of them had any signs of a stomach ailment.”

  “Well, couldn’t this simply mean it wasn’t food poisoning?” Nate said.

  “Of course, but Joan said the hot cocoa her mistress has every night before bed was the one thing she had ingested that the other two hadn’t. And that night she commented that the drink tasted bitter.”

  “And from this, the maid decides her mistress has been poisoned? Could be the milk that went into making the hot cocoa had turned. Sounds pretty ‘hysterical’ to me.”

  “Yes, except that Joan said the same thing, that she initially thought it was probably the milk at fault—until Phoebe’s husband and his aunt made such a fuss about this spell being a sign that the operation hadn’t worked. Not only did this upset her mistress, but it seemed an odd conclusion to draw, given that the gastric symptoms her mistress suffered before the operation were quite different. In addition, those symptoms only had appeared after there was a pronounced swelling of Mrs. Truscott’s abdomen. That’s what made her suspicious.”

  At a soft knock at the door, Nate went over and let Tilly in. Annie brought the canister of loose tea that she liked to have before she went to bed over to the small table. Nate took the plates and cups from the tray Tilly carried, asking the young maid about her day.

  He does have such nice manners with the staff.

  Annie scooped the tea leaves into the pot of hot water that Tilly had brought and pulled the tea cozy over the pot to let the tea brew. As she did so, she wondered exactly who made the hot cocoa for Phoebe every night and who had access to it.

  As Nate began to cut into the small pot-pie that Beatrice must have cooked specially for him, Annie told him about how Ella Blair had confirmed that the symptoms Joan described of this first and subsequent spells did not fit with a return of the cysts or any sort of abdominal infection that might have been a result of the surgery. The young doctor, however, did say that this didn’t preclude the possibility that the symptoms were from some sort of gastric disease rather than deliberate poisoning.

  Nate said, “Well, there you go.”

  Annie poured a cup of tea for herself and Nate and put in the dollop of cream she knew he liked. “But, Nate, there is more. There have been some new symptoms. Mrs. Truscott’s had vision problems and odd feelings in her extremities. Both these symptoms have made it difficult for her to get out of bed. However, Dr. Blair says these symptoms aren’t compatible with a stomach ailment—or a return of the cysts, for that matter.”

  “I still don’t see your point. So there is something else wrong with Mrs. Truscott. But why do you think her problems are from being deliberately poisoned?”

  “What if someone is systematically poisoning her in order to solidify a case against the dispensary?”

  Nate looked shocked. “You are saying that the husband, or aunt, or this Dr. Skerry could be deliberately making Phoebe sick in order to…what? Get out of paying a bill? Ruin the reputation of the Pacific Dispensary? I mean from what you discovered about Dr. Skerry, she is certainly not above slandering someone…but deliberately poisoning them? That’s pretty far-fetched.”

  Annie shrugged and put down her tea cup. “Maybe so, but even if Joan is wrong, and no one is deliberately trying to make Phoebe Truscott sick, if they aren’t giving her the proper medical care, then her health and well-being are still being threatened. What if Joan is correct? She says that the only reason her mistress hasn’t succumbed to this poison is that she has been carefully monitoring everything her mistress has been eating and drinking.”

  Nate took a bite of his pot pie, then he said, “I’m sorry. I understand why this has you upset. But no prosecutor would consider even calling a grand jury on this sort of speculation, especially by a maid.”

  “I know, but that’s why she brought two bottles of the medicine she believes is being used to poison her mistress with her to Dr. Blair. She’s hoping the doctor can test the substances in the bottles. Then, if they prove to be toxic and consistent with the symptoms that Phoebe is experiencing, wouldn’t there be something concrete to take to the police?”

  “Oh, my dear heavens, Annie; are you saying this Joan stole some of the medicine being given to Phoebe Truscott? I’m sorry, but even if the medicine turned out to be toxic, a defense attorney would simply say that the doctors at the dispensary were the people who put the stuff in the bottle, in collusion with this maid.”

  Annie sighed. She had been afraid Nate would react in this fashion. She said, “That’s why I brought the bottles home with me, to get someone who wasn’t an employee of the dispensary to test them. I also warned Joan that even if we discovered the bottles contained poison, they might not be admissible as evidence. The police might have to find the same stuff themselves.”

  “You brought the bottles home? What did you think you were going to do with them?”


  Annie felt her irritation return. “Well, one thing I hoped to do was ask for your advice. But when you didn’t come home at six, as you promised, I asked Laura to send a telegram to Caro Sutton, asking her to come here tomorrow. That’s where Laura is right now. I thought that Miss Sutton might have some idea about how she could use the university medical school facilities to test what was in the bottles. Since there isn’t any official connection between the University of California’s medical school and its professors and the dispensary, it occurred to me that the police might be more willing to get a warrant to search the Truscotts’ house if Caro was the one who discovered the bottles held poison.”

  Before Nate had time to respond, there was a loud knock at the bedroom door. Laura Dawson immediately swept into the room, bringing the cold of night air and the smell of coal smoke in with her. Taking off her cloak with a flourish, she said, “Well Nate, you finally made it home. Can you believe it? Our Annie has found another crime to investigate. I’m so excited, aren’t you?”

  Chapter 23

  Laura couldn’t have found a better way to upset her brother if she’d tried. Of course he wasn’t excited by the idea of Annie getting tangled up in solving another crime. He never was. Although Annie thought that was a trifle unfair of him, given that a number of the investigations she’d done over the years were the result of legal cases he’d been working on, cases where he’d asked for her help.

  That was Laura for you.

  She wasn’t going to worry about whether or not someone agreed with her. And it was one of the reasons Annie loved her. Nevertheless, Annie didn’t want the conversation to degenerate into one of Laura and Nate’s usual brother-sister wrangles. So, she said, “Thank you so much for going out on this cold night, Laura. Why don’t you run to your room and get a mug so I can pour you some of this tea? I will make sure your brother doesn’t eat all of the cookies.”