Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (16 page)

“And her husband. She splashed them all and they took it, laughing. Well, Mr. Moss didn’t laugh, but he looked more pleased than I’ve ever seen him. None of them attempted to splash her, of course. Can you imagine what her reaction would have been? Oh, she has them trained. And who had to launder their soaked clothing?”

“Did anyone collect any of the glowing sand?”

They shrugged, and Dolley said, “I can’t say as I recall. People collect all sorts of things to take home. Sand, shells, driftwood. Goodness knows what they do with it. Make little displays, I suppose, to show their city friends. I wish I’d thought to keep some glowing sand to remember David by.”

Bradshaw said, “It stops glowing after a day or so.”

“Does it? Oh, well, then it’s no matter. What else would you like to know, Professor? Are we being of any help?”

“Yes, you are. Can you tell me more about Mr. Moss?”

“He’s forever lurking about. Never doing anything mind you, it’s just he’s suddenly there, with his sad eyes. He’s not been so bad since our tragedy. At least, he doesn’t come to the house as much.”

“And Mr. Loomis?”

Dolley’s expression hardened. “He’s too polite. I don’t like him.”

Abigail blushed. “Oh, I do. He always calls me by name, and he remembers to thank me for even little things.”

“Abbie, you watch out for him. A man his age isn’t likely to be so considerate of a girl unless he wants something from her.”

This was one time Bradshaw gladly added information that would alter the attitudes of those involved. “I agree with Dolley. Mr. Loomis is not a man to be trusted.”

Chapter Sixteen

Before tackling the next three interviews, Bradshaw felt a conference with Doctor Hornsby was in order. He found him in his office, holding a clipboard and scratching his head over his array of colorful bottles.

“Good morning, Professor, or—” he glanced at the wall clock, “—yes, still morning. I have no concept of time these days. And no memory for detail either.” He scowled again at his bottles.

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, no. I just keep misplacing things. Stress-induced memory loss. I can diagnose it, but I can’t seem to cure it. Now my tincture of gentian is missing. It’ll turn up in the most unlikely of places. I found my hairbrush in my sock drawer earlier. What can I do for you, Professor?”

They both sat, and Bradshaw gave him full details of his past association with Arnold Loomis.

“It came as quite a shock to hear you say you’d built the Luminator.”

Bradshaw cringed at the name. “I apologize for surprising you in the library.”

Hornsby nodded. “Loomis. I wish to God I’d never heard the name. He’s staying here gratis, did I tell you that? I’m not really sure how that happened. I can’t recall offering. He’s been trying to get me to build more cabins, hire more help, says he envisions Healing Sands being as famous as Kellogg’s place in Battle Creek, Michigan. But I don’t want fame. I don’t even want fortune. I want to help people heal in my small sanitarium in this beautiful place. He wants to turn it into a zoo. Martha said she told you about how he drew up plans for David’s washhouse? He can’t sell the plans, can he?”

Hornsby was sounding both weary and frantic. Bradshaw found a drinking glass, filled it from the tap in the electrotherapy room, and gave it to the doctor, who took a sip. Bradshaw prodded him as if he were a child until he’d emptied the glass.

“Doctor, what did Loomis charge you for the outfit?”

Hornsby rubbed his mouth then sighed. “Too much. I’d trade my bank account for what that machine cost me.”

Bradshaw strode to the window and for a moment watched the waves wash in. Then his eye fell nearer to the house and the lounge chair under the umbrella. Mrs. Thompson was there again, reclining. “Doctor, did you say that Ingrid Thompson is in her late twenties?”

“I did. I take it by your question you doubt that age? So do I. But she stuck to it when I probed. She came here to find peace and healing, and while it’s my personal belief that living a lie isn’t conducive to either, it’s her secret to keep. Between you and me? I treated her medically as I would any woman between the ages of thirty and forty.”

“Does her husband suspect she lies about her age?”

“I think he believes whatever she tells him. He’s that sort, led through the nose. Well, he’s happy, so I suppose it harms no one.”

“But he isn’t happy, he’s severely agitated, maybe even suicidal.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t go so far as that. His gastric upset is due to the release of toxins. It doesn’t originate from his relationship with his wife, hard as it is to believe. He’s devoted to her.”

“Can you tell me if you’ve seen any evidence of physical abuse?”

“Oh, my, no. She doesn’t hit him.”

He pondered that a moment. It was interesting that Hornsby’s first thought had been of Ingrid abusing Freddie. “I meant does he hit her?”

“No, no, gentle as a mouse is Mr. Thompson. Poor man. He suffers from a toxic condition all too common these days that manifests in a digestive disorder, decreased weight, and what is commonly referred to as the fidgets. He has every sign of lead poisoning. You know he works at the Federal Assay Office? Lead oxide is a major component of the flux used in the melting process to separate the gold from the ore. Since coming here, I’ve been slowly flushing his system. It’s dangerous to flush too quickly. Even so, occasionally, the body will release large doses into the bloodstream, and that’s what happened the other night. He was taken violently ill, and I considered transporting him to the hospital. But the symptoms abated, and he seems to have turned a corner. It’s that way, sometimes. The body reaches a crisis point, and becomes stronger for the experience.”

Bradshaw turned back to the window. Zebediah Moss now sat perched where yesterday Arnold Loomis had, at Ingrid Thompson’s feet.

“Could you show me the books and magazines you mentioned? The ones on electrotherapy?”

“Certainly.” Hornsby rose slowly and led Bradshaw downstairs to the library. The materials on electrotherapy were shelved together, the magazines neatly stacked beside the textbooks.

“Did the Thompsons, Moss, or Loomis read these?”

“I can’t say I ever saw Mr. Moss reading in the library, but Mr. Thompson, yes, he was curious about the treatment I was administering, and I encourage my patients to educate themselves.”

“What about Mrs. Thompson?”

“Oh, I doubt if she’s read them. You could ask her of course, but I’ve never seen her with anything so substantial. When she found nothing in the library to her liking, she mailed for some fashion magazines.”

“What about Mr. Loomis?”

“Loomis? He has no need to examine my materials, does he? He seems so knowledgeable.” Hornsby stared at Bradshaw. “Professor, I am well versed in electrotherapeutic devices and I can tell you, he has a thorough knowledge of the subject.”

“I’m sure he is quite believable, but four years ago he was merely a salesman hoping to find fortune bringing a new outfit to market. He knew nothing of the science himself. He’s had plenty of time to learn, of course, but it’s possible he has merely learned the language of the field, not the actual science.”

Hornsby picked up a magazine and leafed through it absently. “He did like to peruse the new journals when they arrived. He said he could have written many of the articles himself.”

“Where was he the day before and the morning of David’s death?”

“Oh. It’s hard to say. His habits here are the same as everyone else’s. At any given time, he could have been in his room, eating, on the beach. I didn’t
interrogate
everyone before you arrived, Professor, but I did talk to them to see if anyone could shed some light on the tragedy. Of course, I believed it to be just that, a tragic accident. I’m still holding out hope you find out it was an accident after all.” Hornsby’s expression was so pleading, Bradshaw felt it best not to encourage false hope. He shook his head, and the doctor’s face fell.

“I’ll study these for awhile, Doctor. Thank you for your help.”

Hornsby nodded and wandered off, leaving Bradshaw alone to concentrate. He examined the materials systematically, reading the tables of content, flipping each page for relevant images or diagrams.

In a well-thumbed
Fischer Magazine
, he found a diagram of the internal components of a typical cabinet style diathermy outfit, consisting of a coil and Leyden jar capacitors. The text explained the danger of the primary and secondary coils shorting because of inefficient insulating distance between them. It also explained the function of the Leyden jars in the circuit, saying,
“without them, the full force of the supply current would be delivered to the patient with damaging or fatal results.”
The journal was written as a warning for would-be coil makers, amateur engineers, or physicians attempting a do-it-yourself: “
Why risk injury to you or your patients with a home-built? Buy Fischer!”
Had Loomis read this? Had he grasped it well enough to know that the Leyden jars could be bypassed by creating a short with a conductive material across the carbon tops? Could anyone else here make that deduction?

Chapter Seventeen

“Professor, we know you can’t discuss your investigation, but could you talk in general terms about electrotherapy?”

Bradshaw’s students had pressed two tables together in the dining room so he could sit with them at lunch to discuss their morning’s work. They’d argued over the energy source to harness. Oren and Colin advocated wind, Miles championed chemicals to build batteries, and Daniel felt the tide’s constant movement should be tapped. Knut wanted to use them all, which was too complicated for today’s assignment but did address industry needs for backup systems. They discussed the pros and cons of each over slices of a meatless-loaf made of grains, sour pickled cucumbers, and bowls of Greek yoghurt, a sour creamy food, topped with fresh blueberries. Bradshaw had eaten until his mouth refused to open, but it was enough to stave off pangs. His students had nearly licked their plates. He admired their fortitude. Now they looked at him, awaiting an answer to Daniel’s question.

Oren said, “It doesn’t really work, does it, Professor? Isn’t electrotherapy quack medicine?”

“Some of it is, certainly, but ever since the discovery of natural magnets, men have been applying electrical fields to the body in hopes of generating healing. With each advance by men like Galvani, Volta, Franklin, and Faraday, and now Nikola Tesla, new techniques and apparatuses have been tried. The medical experts at some of the country’s most prestigious hospitals have been impressed with the results of some techniques. And there’s no doubt that Roentgen’s x-rays have proved valuable.”

Oren crossed his arms over his stocky chest. “I thought all those advertisements for electric belts and whatnot were quackery, a good way for a fool to lose his money. That’s what my granddad says.”

“I agree with your granddad, but there’s a world of difference between the devices sold to the public through advertisements and those used by medical professionals.”

“Professor,” asked Miles, “why doesn’t the university have any electrical medical devices in the lab, or classes on their uses?”

“Because we have no school of medicine and no faculty experts in the field of electrotherapeutics. I can teach you how to avoid injury when working with electricity but not how to apply electricity to the body for medical purposes.”

“Shouldn’t there be? A medical college I mean? Seattle’s one of the biggest cities on the whole West Coast.”

“It’s been proposed, but it’s costly to properly set up and maintain a first-rate medical school, and we’re state funded.”

He told them what he knew of the field of electrotherapeutics and the various devices, from static generators to Kinraide coils. As he lectured, the dining room emptied, and he was fully aware of Missouri’s departure. She’d eaten with Justin and Paul, and he’d tried not to be distracted by her laughter mingling with theirs.

Daniel said, “You sure know a lot about the devices.”

“Oh, only surface knowledge of their medical uses. The sort that gets many men in trouble because they assume it’s enough to go on.”

“But you designed the outfit that’s here.” This was said by Colin, quite seriously. They all waited silently for Bradshaw’s explanation.

“I did. I built it in accordance with published medical papers about the various techniques and devices used by physicians. I improved on a few safety issues of earlier models, and made the operation of it as simple and mistake-proof as possible. I built an outfit that could provide the voltage and frequency output required, but I am not a man of medicine and I have no opinion as to the efficacy of electrotherapy.”

Oren nudged Miles, who said, “Uh, Professor. Can you tell us—do you know yet if something went wrong? With your machine, we mean?”

Again, they watched him anxiously.

“Is the machine’s design to blame? No. The design was not a factor, and that’s all I can tell you regarding the investigation.”

They all appeared relieved at his reply.

“Will we get a chance to see it?”