Corridors stretched to the right and left. Secretarial desks stood in front of doors that had nameplates on them, one of which said DR. WAINWRIGHT. Paintings depicted landscapes that included various water features: a well, a stream, a fountain, a pond, and a moonlit lake.
Footsteps approached. A white-coated man with a silvery mustache came along the corridor on the right. He moved toward one of the offices but then noticed Ryan and Becker.
“Yes?”
“We’re looking for Dr. Wainwright.”
“I am he.” The doctor seemed annoyed that two men wearing common clothes had used the front entrance. He focused on Ryan’s red hair and the scar on Becker’s chin. “And you are?”
“Detective Inspector Ryan from Scotland Yard. This is Detective Sergeant Becker.”
They showed their badges.
The doctor subdued his surprise. “Is this more about the murder on Thursday night?”
“Among other things,” Ryan answered. “A constable visited you on Friday. He asked if you’d expected someone on Thursday night who hadn’t arrived.”
“That’s correct. I told him that, for the entire week, none of my guests had failed to get here on schedule.”
“The next day, the constable returned and asked if you knew Daniel Harcourt,” Ryan continued.
“And I told him that I wasn’t familiar with the name. I don’t wish to seem rude, but some of my guests are in the middle of treatments that need to be supervised. Would you kindly wait here in the lobby until they’re finished? Then I can devote all the time necessary to answer your questions.”
“How many guests do you have?” Becker asked, ignoring his request.
Dr. Wainwright didn’t need to think about it. “Three hundred and five.”
“That many?” Becker looked at Ryan and told him, “This is going to take a long time.”
Dr. Wainwright frowned. “A long time for what?”
“To speak to all of your guests,” Ryan answered.
“Speak to all of my…But that’s impossible.”
“It’s our understanding that on Friday and Saturday, the constable didn’t question any of them.”
“Of course not. My guests come here to escape the pressures that destroyed their health. They’re not allowed to read newspapers or receive visitors or letters or hear anything about the tension in the outside world. Many are at a stage in their treatment where answering questions from the police would cause a ruinous relapse.”
Ryan didn’t bother responding to his objection. “We’ll need a list of all their names.”
“But those names are confidential!”
“Dr. Wainwright, you can deal with us or you can deal with the home secretary, the prime minister, and possibly Her Majesty. I guarantee that you’ll be much happier dealing with us.”
Stella gently opened a door, peered inside, then motioned for Carolyn, Emily, and De Quincey to follow her. A servant pushed Stella’s husband in his wheelchair.
The room was a nursery. A female servant sat next to a brightly decorated infant’s cot, the sides of which were protected by metal bars. The curtains were partially drawn, creating a soft light.
“I worried that Jeremy was sleeping too long,” Stella told the servant.
“Just the right amount of time, my lady. No reason to fret. He woke a little while ago.”
“Before his nap, did he accept the wet nurse?” Stella asked.
“He suckled normally, my lady. Everything is as it should be.”
“Stella, you need to stop worrying about him,” Carolyn said. She stroked a finger along the baby’s cheek. “Look at how much he’s grown!”
She turned to De Quincey and Emily. “I tell my daughter that she’s the reason I come here every Sunday, but in truth, it’s little Jeremy I want to see. Each week, the change in him is amazing.”
“What a darling,” Emily said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a finer-looking baby.”
“Truly?” Stella asked. “You don’t think he looks ill? Three nights ago, he had a cough.”
“I don’t hear anything wrong with his breathing,” Emily said. “May I pick him up? Dr. Snow gives me medical instruction. Perhaps I can set your mind at ease.”
“Dr. Snow?” Carolyn asked. “The queen’s physician?”
“Yes, we shared some adventures,” Emily replied. “I’m considering becoming a nurse in a hospital, but I haven’t decided yet.”
“A nurse?” Stella asked. “But how is that possible? Only men are allowed to be nurses in hospitals.”
“Miss Nightingale’s work with our wounded soldiers in the Crimea is changing all that.”
The baby squirmed as Emily picked him up. She took off his cap and touched his forehead. She listened to his chest. She pulled off his stockings and moved an index finger along the bottom of each foot, watching the toes flex. The baby squirmed again, as if reacting to being tickled.
“Well, the only thing I can find wrong with him is he’s too fat,” Emily decided.
“What?” Stella said in shock.
“A bad joke. I couldn’t resist. Forgive me.”
Carolyn laughed, appreciating the humor even if Stella didn’t.
“He’s perfectly healthy,” Emily said. “I’m certain that Dr. Snow would agree with me.”
“Perhaps I worry too much,” Stella admitted. “It’s just that ever since our baby girl…People told me that even though Jennifer had a cough, there was nothing to be alarmed about, but then the cough became worse and she died of fever and…dear, sweet Jennifer.”
“I’m sorry.” Emily touched Stella’s arm. “After that and after your husband’s accident, I imagine you feel that doom hangs over you.”
Stella drew a breath, making an effort to brighten her mood. “Robert, did you hear what Emily said? She’s never seen a baby who’s more adorable and healthy.” Stella pressed the baby’s cheek next to her husband’s. “Feel how smooth his skin is.” She put the baby’s hand in his. “Feel how tiny his fingers are. Please get better so that you and your son can know each other.”
Harold appeared in the doorway again. “I’m his son also.”
“Of course,” Stella told him impatiently. “Why do you feel the need to emphasize it? Harold, I’ve tried to be as friendly toward you as possible. Why won’t you try to do the same? Why won’t you let us all be a family?”
“With you as my stepmother?”
“I never asked you to call me that.”
“And with the half brother you’ve given me?” Harold added. He scowled at the infant and walked away.
“So far, I don’t see any Russian names,” Ryan said.
He and Becker sat in Dr. Wainwright’s office studying the several pages of the clinic’s guest list.
“To the best of my knowledge, no Russians are staying here,” Dr. Wainwright told him. “With the war going on, who would be foolish enough to identify himself as a Russian? Are you implying that a Russian killed the man on the train?”
“It’s one of many possibilities we’re investigating. The name Daniel Harcourt still doesn’t spark a memory?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“So many guests.” Becker looked up from a page. “Are you always this busy?”
“Always,” the doctor replied sadly. “People are determined to destroy themselves with overwork or overindulgence in their appetites. When it’s nearly too late, they beg me to repair them. The modern age has much to be blamed for.”
“Indeed,” Ryan said. “Forgive my ignorance, but I don’t understand what you do here.”
“Most of it involves common sense. If a man comes to me stout, he’ll benefit from a diet that’s low in fatty meat. If he comes to me wheezing from too much tobacco and addled from too much alcohol, he’ll benefit if tobacco and alcohol are taken from him. He’ll also benefit from physical exercise—climbing the hill behind us, for example, to reach a fountain near the top. Mostly he’ll benefit from copious amounts of the purest water in England. It c
lears the mind while flushing poisons from the body. Those are the simple cases. But there are other guests with complex physical and emotional ailments who require sophisticated water treatments such as douches and wet sheeting.”
“Douches?” Becker asked.
“That treatment is more easily demonstrated than explained.”
“Then by all means, show us,” Ryan said.
A woman wailed.
Ryan hurried down the rest of the stairs. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Dr. Wainwright told them as they reached a basement corridor. “It’s normal.”
The woman screamed again.
“Normal?” Becker asked in confusion.
The corridor was made from granite blocks and felt damp, suggesting that it had been built over one of the area’s springs. A series of doors stretched in both directions. The persistent shrieks came from behind the first door on the left.
The door had a window. Ryan stepped in front of it and saw a chamber. Its ceiling, walls, and floor were covered with white tiles that reflected light from lamps recessed in the ceiling.
In the middle of the chamber, above a drain, a woman wore a full-length bathing costume and leaned forward, bracing herself against a metal railing. The reason she cried out was that an attendant wearing a rubber coat aimed a hose and sprayed water forcefully onto her back.
“Truly, I don’t understand,” Ryan said.
“This woman is receiving a shoulder and back douche.”
“It’s too cold! Too cold!” she wailed.
“Good,” Dr. Wainwright said. He turned to Ryan and Becker. “When this woman’s husband brought her to me for treatment, he was alarmed by her listless demeanor, a general torpor that had settled over her for the past year. She has children, but she’d lost interest in them and indeed in just about everything, especially her social obligations as the wife of a peer.”
“But how does this help?” Becker asked.
“The force of the cold water stimulates her skin, her blood circulation, and her muscular system, creating the vitality that she lacked when she came here. It also distracts her from whatever morbid thoughts created her torpor.”
Dr. Wainwright opened the door and raised his voice above the sound of the spray. “Rick, that will be sufficient.”
The attendant moved a lever on the hose, turning off the water.
A humid, perfumed scent drifted from the chamber.
“Do you feel energized, my lady?” Dr. Wainwright asked.
The dripping woman appeared to be in her midthirties. Her wet hair stuck to her head and shoulders. Her neck-to-ankle bathing costume clung to her. She hugged herself against the cold. “My blood is circulating fiercely, Doctor.”
“Excellent. We’re almost finished for the day. After the back douche, all that remains is the ascending douche. Afterward, I’m certain that you’ll feel even more invigorated. Rick, continue to the next phase.”
The doctor closed the door. Through the window, Ryan and Becker watched the woman proceed toward a shiny metal box. It was wide enough for her to sit on. It had numerous small holes.
The attendant turned a faucet on the wall. Water welled up through the holes in the box. The water was barely noticeable at first, but gradually it increased in volume.
“The water for the ascending douche is warm,” Dr. Wainwright explained, “providing a contrast that creates another stimulation.”
At first, the woman continued to hug herself, but as the spray of water beneath her increased to a gentle force, it also seemed to become warmer, prompting the woman to gradually lower her arms. She gripped the sides of the metal box and lowered her head.
Watching, Becker said, “She appears to be falling back into…what did you call it?…a torpor.”
Responding to the water swelling beneath her, she gripped the sides of the box tighter. At the same time, she looked so drowsy that she seemed about to fall asleep.
Abruptly she trembled. She raised her head, opening her mouth, shuddering. The shudders became stronger. Slowly they subsided.
She drew a breath and leaned back against a wall.
Dr. Wainwright opened the door, instructing the attendant, “You may turn off the spray. My lady, I believe that’s enough circulatory treatment for today. Do you feel invigorated?”
“Very much.”
“We have a consultation scheduled for tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss your progress.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Doctor.”
“Your improving health gives me great satisfaction. Rick, please escort our guest back to her room.”
Dr. Wainwright closed the door. Through the window, Ryan watched the attendant offer his arm to the woman and then lead her to a metal stairway in the background.
“Each malady requires a different treatment,” Dr. Wainwright explained. “Plunge baths. Steam baths. Oxygen baths. We even have a compressed-air chamber for asthmatic and bronchial maladies.”
“How much do your patients—I mean your guests—pay for this?” Becker asked.
“Six pounds a week.”
“Six pounds?” Ryan tried not to show his surprise. He and Becker earned slightly more than a pound per week. Six times three hundred and five guests was—Ryan made a quick calculation—about eighteen hundred pounds a week. If that sum was multiplied by fifty-two…The mathematics became too complex for him to calculate without a piece of paper and a pencil, but he estimated that the clinic’s yearly income was over eighty thousand pounds, a phenomenal amount.
“That includes treatments, consultations, lodging, and meals, of course,” Dr. Wainwright said.
“Yes, of course. Do your guests eat their meals together?” Ryan asked.
“In the dining room. We have two seatings, the first one at four o’clock.”
“Then that would be the best place for us to interview everyone.”
The dining area was lavish, with immaculate white tablecloths covering twenty tables, each designed for eight people. Four chandeliers—unlit for the moment—hung over the tables, and numerous oil lamps lined the walls. Large windows provided ample illumination. Even with the gloomy clouds, the daylight caused the parquet floors to shine. Huge geraniums occupied the room’s corners, their scarlet-flowered stalks climbing trellises.
Women in white dresses put plates and silverware onto the tables.
“You might as well speak to the staff also,” Dr. Wainwright told Ryan and Becker. He gestured for the servants to gather round, which they did. “These men are police detectives.”
The women took a step backward.
“There’s no reason to be nervous. Just answer their questions truthfully, and everything will be fine.” He turned to Ryan and Becker. “I have other guests whose treatments I need to supervise. When you finish here, you may speak to the personnel in the kitchen. I want you to feel that you have total access to my facility.”
His heart pounding, Dr. Wainwright left the dining room, walked along a corridor, and stopped at a watercolor of a bubbling brook. He pulled a notepad and a pencil from his pocket, leaned over a side table, and hastily printed a message. Abruptly, he descended the carpeted stairs toward the sound of splashing.
A swinging door opened onto a vast area that contained a rectangular pool with steps on every side. Fifty men wearing what amounted to loincloths and nothing else sat partially submerged on the steps, sometimes jumping into the middle of the pool to immerse themselves fully. The heated water caused beads of moisture to accumulate on the tiled walls.
Fragments of conversations echoed.
“While I’m here, my nephew is probably running my business into the ground,” an ample-waisted man said.
“Don’t think about it. Worrying about business is what got us here,” his companion reminded him.
Wainwright scanned the pool area and saw that Rick, the attendant he’d spoken to earlier, had returned from escorting the woman to her room. He’d replaced his rubber coat with
a white jacket and trousers and was offering glasses of water to men sitting at the edge of the pool.
More conversations echoed.
“I came here with kidney stones. Now I’ve swallowed so much water that I think my kidneys are floating. I’d give anything for a brandy and soda.”
“…a railway extension from Brighton next year…”
“…perfect for a parcel of cottage retreats.”
Humidity weighed down Dr. Wainwright’s clothing as he walked to Rick and drew him aside. The boom of voices reverberated off the tiles, preventing anyone from eavesdropping.
“Did you hear what they said about a railway extension from Brighton?” Rick asked.
“Never mind that. Two Scotland Yard detectives are here.”
“What?”
“They intend to speak to everyone.” Wainwright handed him the note. “The next train to London arrives in half an hour. Board it and deliver this message. They threatened me with the wrath of the prime minister. We’ll see how they enjoy their threat coming back at them.”
De Quincey climbed onto a dining-room chair. His legs were so short that his boots didn’t reach the floor. Blazing logs in a fireplace did nothing to dispel the cold.
“Thomas, I hope the menu pleases you,” Carolyn said as a servant placed bowls of steaming food onto the table. “In one of your books, I read that, despite your stomach problems, you enjoy a boiled potato along with boiled beef in thin slices.”
“Cut diagonally rather than longitudinally, exactly so.”
“Diagonally?” Harold asked.
“Against the grain,” Emily told him.
“Why didn’t he just say that?” Despite how much Harold disapproved of De Quincey’s opium habit, he had no reservations about his own prodigious consumption of wine at dinner. He took a long swallow and looked around. “What else are we having? A plate of cheese? Is that all? What kind of dinner is this?”
“One that our guests, especially Thomas, will enjoy,” Stella said.
“They’re your guests, not mine.”
“Harold, if you’re not happy eating with us, perhaps you’d enjoy dining in your room.”