Page 2 of Beecham’s Infirmary for the Affluent Afflicted (My Darling Malady #1)

“Unfortunately,” Lewis is quick to add, “I haven’t yet had a chance to inform Monsieur Valmont of the finer details. He arrived at the office early this morning and was so eager to start.”

“Perfect. A foreigner who doesn’t even know what he’s investigating.”

“If I may,” I interject. Lewis is not about to pin this on me. “I apologize if there’s been a misunderstanding. You see, I’m the private investigator in charge of your case from this point on. Any details may be shared with me in confidence.”

At this, Charles’s mustache stops quivering, and he’s a little less red. “A private investigator?”

“Yes. Now, keep in mind, I don’t make any arrests or prosecutions.

” I stride slowly to them, so as not to spook his glaring wife.

“Instead, I am tasked with acquiring crucial information as quickly as possible, by any means necessary. With my findings and your cooperation, a decision is made on how to proceed. Sergeant Lewis here was only showing me the way, since I am new to your town.” Lewis has only complicated these matters, as far as I’m concerned.

I give the couple a consoling smile and eye the busy streets, which start to clear with the workday resuming.

“He was about to be on his way. Isn’t that right? ”

The three of them eye me in suspicion, as if Lewis didn’t expect someone who knew how to do their job when his commissioner contacted my office.

“Precisely,” Lewis finally agrees. Despite his skepticism, the relief is plain on his face. “Monsieur Valmont. Mr and Mrs Wharncliffe. Good day, and best of luck.”

With a nod toward me and the couple, he tips his hat and disappears down the steps and into the crowd like a mongrel with its tail between his legs.

“Back to your daughter,” I say, refocusing the discussion on what has become a belatedly urgent matter. “In a missing person’s case, we have a narrow window of time if we are to find her?—”

“We will be doing no such thing, because she is dead as nails.” Charles’s murky eyes bore into mine and I fight the urge to look down.

“I see.” This changes things entirely. If I’d had time to find my cap in my luggage this morning, I would’ve removed it. How horrible. “Elaborate, if you will.”

“Six days ago, our Alma showed the early signs of Consumption. Cold, even sitting at the hearth. Nose and cheeks scarlet. She let out a cough five days ago that was tinged red. We’ve both seen enough of this plague to know it doesn’t take long for things to turn for the worst. So, by early next morning, we’d brought her here. That was the last time we saw her.”

Four days ago, they’d seen her. “Pardon. Here?”

“Yes.” Charles motions toward the doorframe his wife has slumped against like a stray cat begging to be let in. “Beecham’s Infirmary.”

I step back, and, for the first time since we arrived, take a good look at the doorstep. Unlike the other shops, it’s nondescript, and looks nothing like a sanatorium. The two levels stacked above the peeling door are thin, barely enough room for anything more than an office, much less a chemist.

“Infirmary?” I’m dubious, unable to conceal my taut grimace. “In there?”

“It’s exclusive, you buffoon!” Blanche glares up at me. “This infirmary offers cures most cannot afford.” She pauses to hiccup between sobs, blowing her nose on her sleeve. “And we can most certainly afford them. Our Alma didn’t deserve this. It just isn’t fair.”

“I hate to ask you to relive this, I know it must be painful. But could you please tell me,” I say gently, “if you haven’t seen her, what events have transpired to make you believe she’s dead?”

Charles reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a crumpled piece of paper, holding it out to me in his gloved hand.

I accept it without question and unfurl a faded photo of a cherub-faced girl of about ten, along with four small objects that roll over my palm like dice. Two of them glint in the sunlight.

They aren’t dice at all.

“Where did you—” I stagger for the banister, my lip curling as I press the bundle back into Charles’s expectant palm.

He fishes around and holds a single tooth up, the roots still stained red. “The courier delivered this that same evening.”

“You’re sure they’re hers?”

“Yes. Those are her amalgam fillings.”

Charles then pockets his grim findings and brandishes a piece of folded parchment at me, which I accept as a welcome distraction.

Mr. and Mrs. Wharncliffe,

We sincerely regret to inform you of your dearest Alma’s passing. Her demise was unforeseen, as her condition worsened rapidly the day of her death. Here are her available remains, the rest of which have been donated to the noble cause of scientific research.

Our condolences and prayers are with you.

Your humble servant,

A. BEECHAM

I can barely reread the letter before Charles snatches it back, cradling it to his chest as if it is the last tangible memory of her, save the teeth. I take a moment to recompose myself as they both stare expectantly at me.

Detective work is a curious venture. It requires striking the perfect balance between indifference and concern. Compassion and clinical poise. In this instance, my unadulterated empathy pushes me to dig deeper. “And you don’t believe this is what happened to her?”

They exchange glances.

“We don’t know what to believe,” replies Blanche.

“You showed this to the police, and they didn’t believe you?”

“They grew unconcerned after reading the letter.”

Bastards. They didn’t have a missing girl to find alive. “Have you engaged with the infirmary since?”

Another roll of thunder grinds through the darkening clouds. “We’ve tried,” says Charles. “Apparently, they don’t let anyone who’s not of poor health past the intake.”

“What time was it delivered? Your letter, the day she was pronounced dead.”

“A little past six,” Blanche answers brusquely.

“And which one of you received it?”

“I did, but we didn’t know of its contents until Charles opened it.”

“Do you usually retrieve the evening mail, Mrs Wharncliffe?” It is customary, especially in the evenings, for the husband to answer the door. Couriers, after all, come and go at all hours—though I’m under the impression the residents of Piccadilly are afforded prime mail hours, if not the earliest.

“Not usually,” Blanche replies, face flushing. “But Charles was out. ”

“Does he normally stay out past…” I trail off, glancing between them both.

The shadows beneath their eyes are suddenly more noticeable. Charles steps forward to place himself between me and his wife, and Blanche is now completely removed from our exchange. Trembling, she cups her hand against the breeze to light the pipe she’s procured from God knows where.

I run my hand over my face. They aren’t suspects. Just a pair of exhausted parents in dire need of sleep and some answers. Two individuals thrust into the sudden misfortune of loss, just as I’ve been.

“My humblest apologies.” As if on cue, a raindrop grazes my knuckle. “I’ve forgotten my place.”

“You dare question us. You should be in there!” Charles jabs a finger toward the infirmary door before his hands go to his hair. He turns to Blanche, no longer addressing me. “After all of the funds my parents poured into this city, this is what we get in return. A juvenile detective.”

Frustration surges through me at his words, at my overestimating my own ability and thinking I could do this a month after my father’s demise.

Not when I’d received no answers myself. Not when I’d escaped by the hair of my teeth.

Charles is an angry father, he has every right to be, but barging outright into Beecham’s Infirmary would prove useless. Just what was I supposed to ask?

Show me the Wharncliffe girl’s corpse! And why the fuck are her teeth missing?

I could try, but it was likely they’d require the kind of warrant that only the department could give me, and not without pushback. This investigation required stealth—not the usual bedlam of the Yard’s constables.

The tinny ring of a bell breaks the silence; behind Charles, a carriage has parked. A tissue-clutching older woman and her coach driver have made their way into the shop next door.

Right, then. We’ll start with the neighbor.

“Monsieur Wharncliffe.” I tip my proverbial hat and begin retreating. “Madame Wharncliffe. I’ll be commencing my investigation immediately.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Charles snarls as I step back onto the sidewalk, barely dodging a man and his bumbling beagle. “The infirmary is in there!”

I wave my hands and cup my ears, pretend I can’t hear him, then shrug. What can I say? English is not my first language. “I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours, you can be sure of it. Expect to hear from myself or Lewis!”