The Formula for Murder (27 page)

“Ah, yes, like Jenner and the smallpox researchers.” Dr. Doyle taps tobacco down in his pipe and lights it before he continues. “As you both may recall, during the closing years of the past century Jenner was a small-town doctor in Gloucestershire. He was an inquisitive sort, enjoyed experimenting with medical remedies. Smallpox epidemics were frequent in those days, killing tens of millions around the world and leaving many more millions scarred and blind. But he had observed that one group of workers never seemed to come down with the disease—milkmaids who had gotten cowpox, a disease similar to but much less lethal and damaging than smallpox.

“Jenner ultimately came up with a procedure that he called vaccination, from the Latin word for cow,
vacca
, where he injects people with a small amount of cowpox. As you know, it does protect most people from coming down with smallpox, so the benefit to mankind is enormous.

“However, during that era when Jenner and other physicians were trying to discover the cure, it was not an uncommon practice to conduct dangerous experiments on people, especially prisoners and small children. Some of those experimented upon naturally died or otherwise suffered the horrible consequences of smallpox or other foul diseases before the ultimate cure was reached. Medical science was crude, cruel, and ignorant at the time and some of these ghastly experiments really fell more under the auspices of alchemy than true scientific research.”

“I can see why they would use prisoners,” I interject. “Prisoners have less to lose and can be rewarded with money and their freedom, but what was the attraction of the experimenters to use children?”

“Availability and lack of resistance to whatever is done to them. I should have qualified that statement to say
poor
children. The children were obtainable for a price, as was the prostitute’s daughter.”

“If you dug up the researchers from their graves,” Wells says, “and ask them if buying poor children for their experiments was cruel, no doubt they would point out that most of the children would never have lived to reach adulthood anyway.”

“Regretfully, that was true then and still is,” I point out.

Doyle leans back with his pipe, blowing smoke up. “As I was saying, there were experiments conducted with children, and that included infecting them with pus from smallpox sores. The end result of this era’s experiments was a vaccine for smallpox and a great benefit for mankind, but that provided small comfort for the many children who suffered horrible deaths to pave the way. And from what you have told me about Dr. Lacroix, his experiments are for the benefit of mankind at any cost. And it seems he also has a bit of the alchemist in him. No doubt his aims are for the better good of all, but his vision is twisted. I shall write a letter to the Royal Coroner in Bath pointing out that a review should be made of the child’s death.”

Another puff of smoke and Dr. Doyle invites me to continue my tale.

I stall with a sip of tea to get my thoughts in order. We are now on dangerous ground and I need to use various shades of white lies to avoid telling Doyle about the murder of the artist. Wells and I had argued over this point on the walk from the train station because he wants to relate the entire matter to Dr. Doyle, insisting that the man would hold us in utter contempt later when the inevitable happens and he discovers we lied to him. While I would enjoy the respect of Dr. Doyle, if lying is the best way to handle the situation, then I shall not falter in doing so.

“We witnessed a murder yesterday.”

That came from Wells.

So much for being clever.

The startled expression on Arthur Conan Doyle’s features makes me wonder if we are about to wear out our welcome at Old Bridge House.

I give a little sigh, set down my teacup, fold my hands in my lap, and give Wells a small, gentle smile despite my inclination to poke out one of his eyes for having uttered the naked truth.

45

I take center stage from Wells in the hope of salvaging some of the cooperation I was anticipating the writer-doctor would give us.

“We were innocent bystanders, of course,” I offer Dr. Doyle.

“That goes without saying. But,” he smiles, “after meeting the two of you, I have to wonder which of the two of you, or the three of us for that matter, is the most innocent in the ways of the world.”

Wells and Doyle enjoy a male chuckle at my expense and Wells raises his hand as if he had been asked a question in school.

“I confess, Dr. Doyle, our world traveler is much more versed on the world than I, who has stayed warm before the hearth, with my feet in slippers and my head in a book.”

“If you gentlemen are finished poking fun at me, I shall go on.”

“Please do,” Dr. Doyle says, “and don’t take our little slings and arrows too seriously. I am certain that Wells and I have the same opinion of you as has much of the world—you are a woman of great determination and talent.”

“Thank you.” Glowing, I go on. “We need to start a bit before the events of last night. What drew us to Dartmoor was a painting I saw when I visited Lady Chilcott, a wealthy middle-aged matron in Bath who takes the cure at the spa and who is a supporter and admirer of Dr. Lacroix. My impression is that her admiration may also be of a romantic nature.”

“Not a surprising reaction,” Dr. Doyle says, “to a doctor you describe as both attractive to women and who offers them eternal youth and beauty.”

I relate how I saw the painting of the bog that is the source of the peat moss used at the spa and how I was told by Lady Chilcott that the painting had been commissioned by Dr. Lacroix and presented to her as a gift for assisting in financing his research.

“Research into what you call magic mud,” Dr. Doyle says.

I shrug and shake my head. “I know peat moss preserves bodies but so does ice and formaldehyde. Perhaps they should have people at the spa also bathe in chilled embalming fluid.”

“But you see, Nellie, to Lacroix a tiny glimmer of hope that a substance in peat moss can be isolated to rejuvenate skin bursts like an exploding star in his head. He sees a benefit to mankind and scientific immortality for himself as its discoverer.”

I explain how we tracked the artist to Linleigh-on-the-moors, a village Doyle says he’d seen on maps but had not traveled to. After I told him about the ice pick and the cowboy boots on the Bath spa thug, Dr. Doyle also immediately made a connection with the Whitechapel gang in London. After I tell him about the death of Weekes and the “avoidance” of the police by Wells and myself in Exeter, he is red faced and I know we are in trouble.

“You must go to the police immediately! This spa and its villains must be put behind bars before they hurt others.”

Even Wells realizes it is time to backpedal or we will shortly be in the hands of the police—literally. He resorts to the truth again, telling Dr. Doyle that going to the police would mean an abrupt stop in our investigation and a return to New York for me without finding out what had happened to Hailey.

“We’re not withholding any evidence vital to a police pursuit of the Linleigh murderer,” he tells Doyle. “We saw nothing of the killer while others at the pub did, including the barmaid who served him. As for the connection between the spa in Bath and the killing in the village, it’s a real reach to connect a man with cowboy boots at the spa with an ice pick killer in Linleigh via a notorious gang in London—”

“You’re right,” Dr. Doyle cuts in. “The connection is obvious to us because you have experienced the incidents firsthand and three of us are people of imagination, but there isn’t a policeman in Dartmoor or probably London for that matter who wouldn’t find the connection far-fetched. That doesn’t excuse you from evading the police, but,” he rubs his jaw, “if you can’t identify the killer, there’s no harm done, is there? You can just proclaim your ignorance of police matters.”

We could if Wells doesn’t get an irresistible impulse to confess our charade at the Exeter train station. But I am much relieved by the doctor’s analysis and the fact he doesn’t appear ready to turn us over to the nearest constable.

“Another problem,” I add, “of convincing the police of the connection between the crimes is that cowboy boots are not just worn by the Whitechapel gang. Oscar says they are a fashion item in London.”

“Now that you mention it,” Wells says, “I recall reading in the papers that Oscar and the crowd he hangs out with have taken to wearing them with evening wear. Seems Oscar still has a pair from the tour he made of the American west.”

Doyle relights his pipe and blows out smoke. “Going a step further, if the chief inspector in Bath says that the prostitute’s death was a suicide, that will be the finding of the coroner and that matter will close tight. Trying to connect the death of the unfortunate artist in the moors because he had once painted a landscape for the doctor, a pair of cowboy boots on a spa employee and a gang in London … as you say, quite a reach in imagination for a police officer whose duty is to view the evidence objectively and not make imaginative connections.

“With due respect to you, Nellie, and the battles in life you have fought and won, the average police officer hearing the tale you’ve told me would assume that your suspicions are a result of female hysterics.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that conclusion was drawn.”

“Oscar’s telegram also said you wanted to speak to me about the black houndlike beast that is sometimes claimed to have been spotted in the moors. The story and claims of seeing the beast and victims of the creature go back centuries. It piqued my interest because that type of creature has been spotted in other parts of England and I am, in fact, researching the legend for possible use in a future book.
²⁰
How does the story fit into this matter?”

“We’re not certain that it does,” Wells says. “However, it’s an issue we feel necessary to pursue because Dr. Lacroix had an interest in the black beast. At a pub over some pints, he confided in me that he would someday scientifically investigate the black beast legend. His theory is that the beast was a primordial animal, perhaps a creature left over from the age of dinosaurs—”

“And that creature was preserved over the ages in a peat moss bog,” Dr. Doyle says, “and miraculously came alive one day. He is also a man of imagination.”

“What we would like to know is whether there is a particular bog on the moors that the story of the beast has been identified with,” I ask.

“No, there isn’t. And I owe you an apology for rudely usurping the rest of the tale. But by now I have a little insight into what I perceive as Lacroix’s thought processes and saw the conclusion. It smacks of great logic and scientific nonsense. But more particularly as to your question about the beast, there are two stories about the hound that Lacroix could have been referring to.

“One arises from a squire about three hundred years ago here in Buckfastleigh, one Richard Cabell. He was the most important landowner in the area and not one who found favor in the eyes of those who worked for him or had to deal with him. It’s claimed he sold his soul to the devil for eternal life, but the devil tricked him, making him a houndlike creature after he died. He has been sighted many times in the area and there have been many claims of deaths or near misses.

“The second tale of beastly hounds is that of the Yeth hound, a giant, coal black beast with flaming eyes that terrorizes people at night in a manner similar to the Buckfastleigh animal. However, other than the fact that both creatures appear in tales of the moors and there are bogs in the moors, I know of no connection between the stories and any particular bog.”

My disappointment shows on my face and I give Dr. Doyle a smile in return for his raised eyebrows. “Yes, I’m disappointed. I really hoped that Lacroix’s comment about the black beast is a clue to locating his bog of magic mud. I am convinced that if we find the bog, we will find him somewhere in the area.”

“And what do you plan to do if you find him? Ask him as a gentleman and medical professional to kindly accompany you to the nearest policeman and turn himself in? After he confesses, of course.” He winces. “I don’t mean to be facetious, my dear, I just don’t want the two of you going into harm’s way against a man you believe has commissioned murder without a clear plan for your safety.”

Wells chuckles. “Let me assure you, I’m neither as brave nor daring as Nellie. When I am certain that I know Lacroix’s whereabouts, the matter shall be handed over to the nearest police officer.”

I let out a sigh and apologize to the gentlemen. “Sorry. Now that we have hit a dead end, I feel deflated.”

“Don’t be, my dear, you are simply tired from all the hurdles you two have been vaulting. I suggest you take a day or two of rest before you bounce off in whatever direction your bloodhound instincts take you.”

He gets up and we start walking toward the front door.

“We beg your forgiveness for having intruded upon you,” Wells says, “but we hoped the black hound tale would point us in the right direction.”

“No bother at all, in fact, a welcome break from the hard task of writing. Feel free to wire me if you have any more questions. And let me know if you come up with more tales of moor hounds. As I’ve said, I may use one in a book someday.”

“There is the other hound, the Lady Howard one, that Weekes, the artist, claims he saw when he was painting the bog picture.”

“Lady Howard’s coach dog.” Doyle isn’t asking, but stating. He stops and unconsciously taps his pipe in his hand. “Are you saying that the artist claims to have seen Lady Howard when he was painting the bog portrait?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he smiles as if he found something he’d been missing, “if that’s the case, Isaac Weekes shot an arrow in that conversation that pointed toward your magic mud. You had better sit down.”

We hurry back into the parlor, my heart in my throat because Conan Doyle is not a man to exaggerate.

“The Lady Howard legend is about a death coach. Like the Buckfastleigh hound, it’s based upon a real person that lived several hundred years ago and has grown with its telling. It’s also somewhat reminiscent of the Goddess of Death who travels through the night collecting human souls. As with the local squire here, Lady Howard was an unpleasant woman, quite as mean and miserly as one can accomplish while being very wealthy.”