“It’s long enough for him to do the kind of planning the killer did,” I added.
“A determined addict can usually find someone willing to sell him what he wants,” said Dr. Ashe. “I am afraid that some of my colleagues are less scrupulous than they should be in prescribing opiates.”
Mr. Clemens picked up one of the dossiers. “Richard Boulton—what do you remember about him?”
The doctor wrinkled his brow a moment, then said, “Mr. Boulton had a cancer of the bowels. I examined him and was of the opinion that he had only a few months to live no matter what we did. His wife wanted to attempt a pilgrimage to Lourdes. I myself recommended palliative measures—anything to make his last days comfortable, but Dr. Parkhurst overruled me and persuaded them that an operation might save him. Boulton died in the recovery room—in his weakened condition, the operation was more than his system could bear. Perhaps, in the long run, that spared him a great deal of suffering. But I think Mrs. Boulton saw things otherwise. I myself felt he could have lived at least six months longer, possibly a year or more. Only at the very end would he necessarily have been an invalid.”
Mr. Clemens flipped over another dossier and I saw his eyebrows rise. “Emily Marie DeCoursey. Is she who I think she is?”
“She was the daughter of Sir Denis DeCoursey and Lady Alice, if that is what you mean,” said Dr. Ashe. “She was visiting her mother’s sister in town, and complained of violent stomach pain. This was, if I remember correctly, seven years ago. The family doctor prescribed a laxative, but to no effect. When Dr. Parkhurst saw her, he diagnosed her condition as acute appendicitis, and urged an immediate operation. She died of a secondary infection several days later. Perhaps my partner did something to cause the infection, or perhaps the family doctor’s misdiagnosis gave the septic agents time to spread through her system before the operation. I cannot say for certain—all this happened when I myself was ill with a fever, and in no condition to see patients. I do know that Sir Denis was in the office a few days later, asking several very sharp questions.”
“I’m beginning to see a pattern,” said Mr. Clemens. “Everybody at the séance seems to have had a grudge against the doctor. Not to forget his wife—his sister-in-law makes it clear that he was no model husband.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Donning,” said the doctor. “Normally I would advise taking her remarks with a grain of salt—she is a very bitter woman, quick to find fault and to impute blame, whether or not there is cause for it. In this instance, however . . .”
“So I gather,” said Mr. Clemens. “She gave us a fairly long bill of particulars on damn near everybody in the case, including herself. Is it true the doctor was seeing another woman?”
“Until quite recently, yes,” said Dr. Ashe. “He cut the relationship short just over a month ago. But I don’t believe she can be considered a suspect. I know for a fact that she was out of town when Dr. Parkhurst died.”
“What, do you know her?” Mr. Clemens’s eyebrows were raised again.
“Oh, yes. May I depend on you to be discreet?” Mr. Clemens and I nodded, and Dr. Ashe continued. “You already saw her in the outer office. It was our secretary, Miss Ellsworth.”
Now Mr. Clemens thought he scented the quarry. “She continued to work here after he broke off the relationship?”
“No, in fact she gave notice the very day he broke up with her,” said Dr. Ashe. “It was the worst thing that could have happened, as far as the office was concerned. We had some young creature in here trying to do Miss Ellsworth’s work, and the poor girl was hopeless. Or course, it was unthinkable to bring Miss Ellsworth back as long as Dr. Parkhurst was here. But after his death, I made efforts to locate her. From the family friend who had originally recommended her to us, I found she had gone back to Bath—she was from there, originally. Luckily, I persuaded her to return. This is her first full day back at work.”
Dr. Ashe picked up a pencil from the desk and twiddled it in his fingers a moment, then looked out the window as he spoke. “What Dr. Parkhurst did to that poor woman is far from the least of his sins,” he said. “She was an innocent girl from the West Country, completely new to London, when she first came to us. She fell under the spell of his power and position—he could be quite charming when he wished to, Mr. Clemens. When he moved to take advantage of her admiration, she was powerless to resist.”
He shook his head, and let the pencil drop upon the desk, then looked at us with pleading eyes. “She should have been meeting people of her own age, eligible young men. She should be married, with a family of her own, by now. But she wouldn’t look at another man; she believed Oliver when he told her that his wife was deathly ill, that he would soon be free to marry her. Of course that was a lie. In the end, he abandoned her in her turn, leaving her ruined and too old to find a husband. And it was I who inadvertently exposed her to his snares, hiring her upon the recommendation of one of my best friends. I feel a debt to her, Mr. Clemens. It is the least I can do to give her a new chance.”
My employer and I exchanged glances. “Very good of you to take her back into your employment,” said Mr. Clemens quietly. I silently agreed. I felt sorry for the poor woman, but she must have known what she was doing. Naturally, I could understand Dr. Ashe’s desire to keep word of this from his patients—it
