Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (20 page)

“You are far too generous, Professor.”

“A bad habit, I know. For instance, I trusted you when you asked me to design that outfit in Doctor Hornsby’s office. I even included my coil in the design. My patented coil.”

“A beautiful piece of craftsmanship, truly. And one I have not reproduced in any way. In fact, if you’d cease in your accusations for a moment, I’ll share with you some very good news.”

“Let me guess. Over the past four years, you’ve collected hundreds of deposits from unsuspecting physicians who’ve now given up on ever receiving their orders.”

“You wound me, Professor. I regret time has slipped away from me more swiftly than anticipated, but it has proved to be in our favor. The other outfits that beat us to the market are far inferior, while your creation has stood the test of time. Why, the trail of cures I have paved from demonstrations of our unit is as long as the Columbia River. We’d have no trouble lining up a manufacturer now, and the money will be rolling in.”

Bradshaw pretended to mull this over, his gaze toward the ocean. After a silent moment, he poured more whiskey into Loomis’ cup, not meeting his eye. But he saw the corner of Loomis’ mouth twitch up.

“Why, thank you, Professor. Hornsby’s cupboards are decidedly dry.”

“No trouble with the outfit in all this time?”

“Not a lick.”

“And the Leyden jars? You removed them before transporting?”

“Each and every time. I only had one break, and that was at the hands of an overzealous porter. I ordered a new one from Fischer, and it matched perfectly. Tell me, Professor, truthfully. What do you think of the name? The Loomis Long Life Luminator? Rather fun to say, easy to remember?”

“Bit too snake-oil for me. It’s a legitimate medical outfit, not a quack device. The original name, the Bradshaw Complete Portable Electrotherapy Outfit, is more dignified and more informative to physicians.”

“Well, we could change it back, if you feel it would boost confidence in the product.”

Bradshaw sipped the whiskey, letting it warm his tongue before it slid down his throat.

“You’re a clever man, Mr. Loomis, so I know you’re aware of your predicament. You are in possession of what men like me call the holy trinity. Means, motive, and opportunity.”

“I protest all three! I can talk all day about the glories of the Luminator, and satisfactorily educate a physician on its uses, but I don’t truly understand how the damn thing works and I surely wouldn’t know what setting combinations would make it lethal.”

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.