The Formula for Murder (12 page)

The spa has the appearance of a Greek or Roman temple with Doric columns. The entire structure, or at least the façade, for sure, is marble, a building material that always translates as very expensive.

As I am nearing the building, an enclosed black town coach, fit for a queen, with a driver and footman, drawn by two black stallions, pulls up and stops. Deep, velvet burgundy window curtains hide whoever is inside, which obviously piques my always nosey interest.

The footman leaps down from his perch at the rear of the coach and opens the carriage door as the spa doorman comes forward with a parasol to shade the woman from the not very bright sun. The carriage door bears a coat of arms but even at a distance I can see that it has been discreetly covered over.

The woman who emerges from the carriage is dressed all in black—elegant black silk dress, black hat and veil, black gloves, and a small, black beaded chatelaine purse.

I wonder what she has in the purse attached to a waist belt. Chatelaines were originally a chain with necessary household items attached. Women hooked them on their belts and put keys, scissors, or other handy items on them.

According to
The Queen’s
magazine, chatelaine purses have become a ladies’ fashion item in which women carry not just a handkerchief, lipstick, or a card case, but secret things—like love letters they don’t want out of their possession.

The doorman, whom I’m glad to see is dressed in a uniform rather than a Roman toga, escorts her inside.

From what Oscar told me about the spa, the woman could be visiting for medicinal reasons or rejuvenation. Whatever they are, she definitely doesn’t want anyone to know who she is. Everything about her spells immense wealth and nobility, perhaps even royalty. And drama. To really be successful at maintaining a low profile, riding in a luxurious coach with its coat of arms would not be the best way. Oscar’s comment about hiding in plain sight probably would protect the woman more from the eyes of the curious than a funeral getup.

The carriage has drawn away as I approach and the doorman gives me a once-over. He is obviously not used to women arriving on foot. I resist the temptation to tell him that my only mode of transportation is by shank’s mare and merely give him a small smile.

He ushers me in and I quickly glance around to see if the mystery lady is about. Nope. She probably was immediately whisked off to some very private room.

My first impression of the Aqua Vitae spa is grace and serenity.

The entryway opens into a large, glass domed area. The walls are covered with murals. Scattered against the walls between the wall paintings are large-leaf green plants—tropical palms and ferns. Intermeshed in the greenery are exotically colored flowering plants in elegant Chinese ceramic pots. The atmosphere evokes a feeling of beauty mixed with earthiness.

All the murals have the same theme: young, healthy men and women, naked but portrayed with some modesty, in a Garden of Eden setting. Appropriate, since that is where it all began … or so the Bible says.

A string quartet dressed in white are on an elevated dais at the far end of the room, filling the place with a soft, dreamy melody.

In the center of the room is a marble fountain with Aphrodite and Michelangelo’s
David
getting wet from water gurgling out of jugs held by stone cupids. The water is not crystal clear, but appropriately has the look and warm, salty smell of mineral spring water, no doubt from the spring the spa sits upon. The message the room gives is clear enough: The spa’s waters make people look beautiful and stay young.

A vibrant blond woman in a glowing white uniform, with her hair pulled tightly back into a bun, approaches me. The impression is that of an elegant but energetic nurse.

“Good afternoon. I am Miss Carter, a therapeutic consultant. Have you treated with our doctors before?”

“No, this is my first visit. Your facility was recommended by a friend in London.”

“Excellent. May we have the friend’s name so we can thank her?”

She wants the friend’s name to rate my finances, of course. “It’s a he, actually. Oscar Wilde.”

“Mr. Wilde hasn’t treated with us, but many of the people in his social circles are our patients. You’re American. Miss…”

“Elizabeth Cochran.”

“Welcome, Miss Cochran. Many Americans come for our treatments.” She rattles off family names that read like a list of who’s who in big bank accounts—Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Gould, all of whom she says have come to Aqua Vitae to “take the water cure.”

I’ve heard people many times refer to visiting mineral springs to “take the water cure” but when you ask what they were “curing,” the only responses I ever found credible were arthritic complaints.

Knowing from the lack of a wedding ring on my finger that I am not married, she inquires about the “health” of my parents in a clever way to find out what my father does for a living. Heaven forbid I actually make enough money working to pay for this myself. Once I’m done with solving Hailey’s murder, I’m going to do an article about independent women who can stand on their own two feet without the assistance of their father’s wealth or the need of a husband. I know we are far and few between, but things will change, mark my words.

To appease her, I casually refer to “mining and railroads” since those are the basis for most of the great wealth in America.

“Are you suffering from a particular ailment for which you seek treatment?” she asks.

Too young to claim I need to shed years, I resort to the truth. “I’m rather worn out, fatigued. My mother describes my condition as tired blood.”

“Your mother is quite correct. Tired blood is a serious epidemic among young women as they try to please both their parents and the man in their life. And very important, it affects your ability to keep a youthful appearance. Let me introduce you to our medical facility that is administered by doctors.”

Doctors, medical facility, therapeutic, ailment, treatment, epidemic … she has been dropping loaded references to the legitimate medical profession since the moment I entered. I guess she really wants to get across that they are not just selling any kind of snake oil, but curatives with real medical science behind them. Uh huh.

I give them credit for one thing: The place is so antiseptic, Dr. Pasteur, the great microbe hunter, would have a hard time finding germs here.

“This is our reception area in which you may relax until you are called for a treatment.” She shows me an area with dark blue couches. A maid is serving fruit drinks and offering hors d’oeuvres to women. “We alternate times for women and men for the sake of modesty, though there are spas in Europe which permit bathing by both sexes at the same time.”

“As I was arriving, I saw a woman enter dressed all in black. I wondered if she was a woman I met recently in London.”

“I can’t tell you. It’s our policy to respect the privacy of our guests.”

I’m tempted to remind her that she had no problem tossing out the names of prominent people from America, but I keep my mouth shut.

We enter a sterile white padded room that has a wicker chaise longue in the center and one metal chair to its far right. Across from them, in a corner, is a table with some medical looking items on it and on the floor is a large water hose.

“This room is exclusive, just for women. It’s called our fainting room.”

“Fainting room?”

“Yes. For centuries women have been suffering from a very common ailment called Female Hysteria. Our spa is the first to offer a full line of treatment for this painful medical condition.”
¹²

“What are the symptoms?”

“They vary, but the most common are nervous anxiety, a tendency to feel faint, irritation, a feeling of loneliness and rejection, and a tendency to be argumentative.” She pauses and gives me a dark look. “There is often also incidences of self-abuse.”

I nod my head. “Ah.” Self-abuse is masturbation, a habit that many in the medical profession believe can lead to insanity or other dire consequences.

There didn’t seem to be much medical apparatus in the room, the two most distinguishable items being a long tube about as round as a fire hose and the wicker chaise longue.

“How do you treat the condition?”

“Our most common treatment is having a woman recline on the chaise longue while the doctor or a midwife hand massages her pelvic area until she experiences hysterical paroxysm, which is usually a sudden outburst that can be very loud and sometimes violent. That’s why we have the walls padded. We strive for privacy.”

“Privacy … yes, that would be important.” Holy mackerel. Hysterical paroxysm is what naughty girls in school used to whisper is a female orgasm.

“We also have the hydrotherapy treatment for women who prefer that method. A woman sits naked in that chair and her pelvic area is sprayed with that hose.”

“
What!
”

The woman’s eyebrows fly up. “It’s quite safe. We use only our warm mineral water. For many it is very effective in bringing about the paroxysm.”

“I bet it is.”

She points to a large machine against the wall. “We also have the newest medical apparatus for treating the condition. This is an electric vibrator which shortens the treatment from hours to minutes. And that,” she indicates a narrow metal rod with a rounded head, “is a speculum that is inserted into a woman’s vagina to stimulate the paroxysm.”

She smiles, rather dreamily. “Our goal is to give the patients different choices to aid them in finding a release of their symptom by experiencing hysterical paroxysm.”

I just nod my head.

For once in my life, I honestly have nothing to say. I don’t know whether I should break out laughing or cry because so many women get so little of the passionate affection God created them to receive that they have to enlist huge vibrating machines, or a fire hose, or manual manipulation for relief.

INSIDE THE ROMAN BATH

21

We leave the feminine chamber of horrors.

“Now I’m going to take you into a room called, the Garden of Eden, because that is where it all began—life, love, eternal youth. However, I must insist on no talking. You’ll see why.”

We enter a room that has a round, stone fountain in the center of it. It’s medieval looking with crudely carved stone images of the Garden of Eden—a naked man and woman wearing fig leaves and a snake hanging from an apple tree. In the center of the pool of water is one spout with milky water coming out of it.

Scattered around the fountain are lounge chairs, like the one in the “fainting room,” only they are made of wrought iron and the people appear to be sleeping—no hanky-panky is going on in here. Beside each chair is a small round, stone pedestal table. On each one is a golden goblet. Filled, I’m sure, with water from the fountain. The floor is made of stones and on the walls are trestles filled with vines that have mingled with purple bell-like flowers.

Two barefooted women dressed in white silk tunics walk around holding a stone pitcher. They check the goblets and fill the ones that need the milky water.

The whole ambience is to make you feel like you have walked into a serene atmosphere where you can completely relax. And I’d have to say they did a very good job.

We quietly exit another door that is across the room from the one we entered.

“What you just saw is our fountain that dispenses the elixir of life, the waters of eternal life and rejuvenation. Ponce de Leon looked for the Fountain of Youth and didn’t realize it could be created. Our doctors have developed a very unique drink that is pure yet filled with ingredients that have rejuvenating powers.”

“So, you’ve found the philosopher’s stone … the legendary drink that grants eternal life.”

“No, our drink won’t permit you to live forever, but it will certainly help you live longer and better. And it does aid in getting back youthful vigor. With that renewed energy, our patients rediscover some of the blush of youth they once had.”

Splitting hairs, is what my mother would call it. Not to mention that with vague generalities about “vigor” they are really not committing to anything. I decide to try and pin her down.

“Basically, your doctors are chemists who claim to have developed a potion for helping to achieve youth.”

“They are not chemists, they are medical doctors, and they are
not claiming.
” She almost spits her words at me. “Miss Cochran, you have a
very
closed mind. Have you considered that you might be suffering from female hysteria instead of tired blood?”

“
What?
”

“I noticed the symptoms as soon as I saw you. You are tense and holding back your emotions. That, of course, inevitably leads to outbursts of hysteria that are relieved by paroxysm.”

I button my lips because I am about to have a paroxysm that will land her on the floor and me out the door. But keeping a volcanic outburst from exploding leaves me trembling with rage in my shoes. “What a bitch,” my friend Sarah Bernhardt would have said about this woman or probably to her face.