Chapter 11

He led them out of the small anteroom and through the decorative wrought iron gates to the passage Cecilia had seen the patients who came from outside go through. He opened the doors to a room on the left. Cecilia couldn’t help but smile when she looked about her. It was a room lined with whitewashed bookshelves. A library. There were two large windows at the far end of the room and with the whitewashed shelves and trim the room had a lighter, brighter feel. Around the room were various tables and chairs where patients played games, read together, or just sat and talked quietly. Armchairs and couches grouped near the fireplace were covered in a floral jacquard fabric. A grass-green carpet covered the floor. The room felt warm and intimate despite its large size.

Mr. Turnbull-Minchin led them to one of the seating arrangements near the fireplace. “Dr. Worcham, pardon the interruption,” he said with great deference at odds with his manner to James and Cecilia in his office, “Sir James and Lady Branstoke to see you.”

The doctor rose from his chair, excusing himself to those he had been speaking to when they approached. Though gray threaded his curly brown hair, Cecilia judged him to be some years younger than the woman she’d met that morning at the linen drapers. And she was surprised to hear a Scottish burr in his voice. When he turned to them, he spread out his arms then drew them together in almost a prayer position. “Welcome to Camden House Sanatorium. Come, let’s find a quieter spot where we might get to know one another,” he said. “I don’t believe the small parlor is booked right now. We can go there,” he said, leading to a door in the middle of a wall of bookshelves. “This building is a warren of rooms,” he said as they entered a straw, brown-and-pale-rose-colored room.

The room was at once both more austere and formal than the library, the furniture severely angular without pillows or other softening elements.

“Now, tell me about yourself, Lady Branstoke,” he said as he settled her on a sofa and took a chair at right angles to her. He sat on the edge of his chair, clasping her hands in his.

“Even through yer gloves, I can feel the cold in yer fingers. Are ye frightened to be here? There is no need I assure ye. I know from Sir James’s letter that ye have been ill. Can ye tell me more?”

“Yes. We have been staying down in Kent, at our main estate this season, as I am expecting our first child.”

“I thought ye might be, looking at ye. Pregnant women have a certain look about them,” he said encouragingly. “But surely ye are not here because ye are enceinte?”

“No, no,” she said. “Over three weeks ago I came down with the influenza that has visited so many others in our region. It was particularly severe all around.”

“We lost a tenant farmer’s wife and a couple of village people to this illness,” James somberly explained.

Cecilia looked up at James where he stood behind the sofa and nodded at his words. She looked back at Dr. Worcham. “I immediately took to my bed and didn’t rise again for ten long days—I still cough and wheeze a little bit,” she admitted.

“A lot,” corrected James, looking down at her.

Cecilia shrugged in wry agreement. “To my mind, worse than the cough and breathy voice is my fatigue. I can’t seem to shake this awful fatigue. It’s like a weight upon my chest. It is all I can do to get dressed in the morning.”

“My wife is someone who always wants to be doing things. As she is now, doing anything fatigues her. It was suggested to me I take her to a sanatorium for complete rest. So long as she is in our home, she wants to be up and doing, and that just makes it worse,” he said, looking down at her severely.

Cecilia smiled weakly. “I can be stubborn.”

“That does not even go far enough to describe your persistence to be up and doing.”

Dr. Worcham laughed. “I understand. So why are you here, at Camden House? You are far away from where you live and there are sanatoriums being opened all over England and Scotland.”

“Your Camden House Sanatorium was recommended to us by Mr. Stackpoole. He said his mother is happy here.”

Dr. Worcham leaned back. “Ah, you know young Mr. Stackpoole?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “He is an excellent son to his mother, very caring and concerned. It is a pity that she feels so strongly that it is not safe for her in her own home. I know the baron and do not get the impression he would do any harm to his wife; but, what goes on between husband and wife is often unknown. I’ve seen severely beaten women whose husbands were scions of society and appeared to be the mildest mannered of gentlemen.”

“We have not met the baron,” Sir James said. “I understand the baron is not in favor of Mr. Stackpoole’s chosen bride. Since we are friends of the fiancée’s family, that colors our impression of the baron.”

“While my wife is here for her health, I am here for another reason as well,” James told him, “which brings me to the second reason I am here. Mr. Stackpoole’s fiancée’s mother requested me to come here.”

Dr. Worcham looked at him curiously. “His fiancée’s mother?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lilias Montgomery,” James said.

“Montgomery?” questioned Dr. Worcham.

“She said her husband was a resident patient here and had died. She asked me to come here to discover more.”

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Worcham said. “You said fiancée’s mother and that implies children.”

James nodded.

“I was aware Mr. Montgomery had been married, though he requested that knowledge be kept secret here, but nothing was ever said to me about children by Mr. Montgomery or his cousin,” Dr. Worcham said.

“Boyd Ratcliffe?”

“Yes.”

Cecilia kept her eyes down. She and James had agreed she was not to appear to know much. Hiding her surprise at Dr. Worcham’s lack of knowledge was difficult.

“Might we not get my wife settled into a room before we continue this conversation? She needs to rest,” James said.

“Yes, of course. We have a room available just down the hall from Lady Stackpoole. It is not as large as you might prefer Ladies who have stayed there in the past have found it quite comfortable. I’ll send for Matron,” Dr. Worcham said, pulling on the bell rope.

Cecilia nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You will not be able to accompany your wife upstairs, Sir James,” Dr. Worcham told him. “Guests are not allowed in the patients’ living areas to preserve respect for others staying on the same floor.”

A woman in a starched white cap and a starched white full apron worn over an ash gray dress entered the room. “You rang for me, Dr. Worcham?”

“Yes, Mildred. This is Lady Branstoke come to stay with us for a bit. Please make her comfortable in Room 5, if you will. She is recovering from an illness, and she is expecting her first child. She is quite worn out.”

“Of course, Doctor. If you will accompany me, my lady,” the austere woman said.

James brushed a kiss against her head as he helped her to rise. She would be on her own now. He knew that the cough and fatigue were real. Being sick could mean a clouded thought process. And the actual murderer could even yet be staying in Camden House. If she asked the wrong question of the wrong person, she could jeopardize her life. He did not like this plan but didn’t know another way to investigate inside the sanatorium.

“Sir James,” Dr. Worcham said, recalling his attention.

James turned back to face the doctor. “I beg your pardon. I do not like being apart from my wife, even if I know it is for her health.”

“You are to be commended. I can’t tell you how many husbands I’ve seen remark that it will be a respite for them for their wives be here for a time.”

James frowned. “Are most of your patients quarreling spouses?”

The doctor laughed. “It’s cyclical. Right now, only the Stackpooles, but when the baron gets to waxing eloquently to his club, we might get a spate again.” He shrugged. “They pay enough that I can then afford to take some charity cases.”

James looked intently at Dr. Worcham. “Understand Dr. Worcham, my wife has been extremely ill, and though she wishes to deny it, she needs care to recover her strength for herself and our unborn child.”

Dr. Worcham sobered. “I understand, and we will do all we can to provide for her the environment she requires.”

“Thank you for your care of my wife. Now I must be off. Mr. Stackpoole took ill at The New Bell Inn. I need to check up on him and see if he needs anything. He did tell us about his mother and your sanatorium. That is not a story.” He rose to his feet.

Dr, Worcham rose as well and walked him to the door that led back to the main hall. James was surprised to find this connection. Dr. Worcham laughed a bit as James looked around, noting their new location. “As I said, this is a warren.”

James nodded. “I will return tomorrow to check on my wife.”

“We shall be happy to receive you,” Dr. Worcham said.

James left the doctor, and the majordomo handed him his hat and gloves, then opened the door to let him out of the building.

“When I saw the door to the parlor open, I sent a runner to tell your coachman to bring your carriage around. You are welcome to wait in here until he comes around,” the man offered.

James looked up at the sky. It was a solid gray; however, it did not look as if it would rain. “I’ll wait out here, thank you.”

“As you wish sir,” the man said, bowing James out the door.

James stepped out onto the wide stone front porch and walked slowly down the steps. He took the time to study the landscape. Walking paths of crushed gray stone wound through neatly tended grass and around bushes and trees within thirty to forty feet of the building, the winding path dotted with benches for patients to rest and enjoy the outdoors. Beyond, where the ground began to slope down toward the canal, natural grasses, rushes, and nettles were allowed to grow tall, no doubt to discourage patients from walking too near the canal. Across the canal, the fens stretched flat, a green and brown expanse heavy with the scent of wet earth and more rain to come. Lonely looking. James wondered why monks would have built a monastery in this desolate landscape four hundred years ago. It was only if one looked to the south did one get a sense of the village in the distance where trees massed, and spirals of white smoke rose above them. The village was less than one hundred years old, coming into being with the building of the canals that drained much of the ground around, making it available for farming. Yet it didn’t appear as if the land to the west of Camden House was farmed. He wondered why.