The Mysterious Gentlemen from London

Episode Four
by Jeri Massi
The Doctor and the town's surgeon were in close conference in the back room of the surgery when the Brigadier burst into the front room.

"Doctor!" he shouted. "I need you!"

The time lord thrust his head from the back doorway. "All right, all right! We know what's happened---Holmes," he added.

The Brigadier strode towards him. "Florence has been arrested!"

"We know. We've taken the body of Mr. Charles," Dr. Martin said quickly, coming to the doorway as well. He made his voice soothing. "The sooner we can figure out what killed him, the sooner we can figure out what really happened."

"What did Algol tell the sheriff?" The Brigadier's anger was ready to boil over again. "How could you let him convince the sheriff that she poisoned her own father?"

"He didn't convince the sheriff, not that we saw, Mr. Holmes," Martin said. "Just as we came in to take the body, he was saying it looked like arsenic poisoning. The sheriff did a little bit of thinking, and then made his decision to arrest her."

The time lord gave a brief nod of assent. "Dr. Algol actually tried to protest as well. Perhaps not as vehemently as we did, but he did say in a straightforward way that Florence Charles did not poison anybody. That she couldn't have done."

"But Sheriff says Mary Graylock spied Miss Florence coming into the surgery late last night. Mrs. Graylock says she saw Eben come out at about eleven, and just after he left, Miss Charles came in." Doc Martin thrust his thumb back over his shoulder to the room where Jefferson's body lay. "Eben did come get me about eleven to take a look at the young man before I went to bed. But we didn't see Florence when we came in here. Didn't see anybody."

The Brigadier folded his arms. "What was Mrs. Graylock doing out on the street at eleven?"

Martin smiled. "Seeing to the people in the livery stable. And on her way home. She lives down at the end of the second street back. Does seamstress work. She's not a real cheerful woman, but she is honest. It's hard to doubt her word."

"She can be honest in saying that she saw somebody, but she may be mistaken," the Doctor said. "Isn't that right, Holmes?"

"She's certainly mistaken!" the Brigadier retorted. He sighed and scrubbed back his hair. "But that means somebody came in here. A woman about the same size as Florence. Did Jefferson have any---understandings with any woman in the town?" He shot a glance at Martin.

The town surgeon shrugged. "Took carriage rides now and again with young ladies from the church. But---" He shook his head. "Jeff's father wanted him to go back east to get educated formally. So Jeff didn't want to put down roots until he knew his own future. He wasn't a suitor to anybody. No girl so close she'd come alone late at night to see him."

The Brigadier hesitated, and then he asked, much more guardedly, "Did he have any---other types of relationships with women in town?"

But Martin anticipated the question and was already shaking his head. "I don't know that he didn't kick up his heels when he took trips out to Chicago as an agent for his father. But he was as sober and chaste as a deacon here in town."

The Doctor changed the subject. "Algol did object to allowing us to take the body of Mr. Charles for autopsy. But the Sheriff wanted a second opinion---"

"And I am the coroner," Martin added. "Algol's probably got more pathology skill than I have, but he turned up his nose at the job last year, so I took it."

"A choice he may now regret," the Doctor said.

The Brigadier's curiosity was caught. "What makes you say he's a better pathologist?"

"Well--" Martin lifted his eyebrows. "He's a good hand on natural biology. Most of my work is setting bones, delivering babies, a little bit of surgery if I have to. Dr. Algol is more of a---a theorist I guess you'd say. He understands the chemistry better of the human systems." He threw a nod to the Doctor. "Like you, Watson."

The Doctor and the Brigadier traded quick glances, and the Brigadier changed the subject. "So you've viewed both bodies." He looked from one man to the other. "What have you found?"

The Doctor's voice was certain. "It was not arsenic in either case."

But Martin was more hesitant. "I don't know. It did cause a lot of gastric pain and bleeding. And arsenic is pretty available. I know there was no smell, and that reek of garlic is common in arsenic poisoning. But I still can't say it's not. Not for sure."

The time lord let out a sigh. Martin appeared regretful of disagreeing with him, but nevertheless the town surgeon pushed his point. "What we have to do is identify what was given to him. Name the poison. Reproduce the symptoms if we have to--catch a few rats and see what it does to them. Or show it in the Materia Medica. Then we'll have a sure answer." He glanced at the Brigadier. "That ought to be enough for you to go to work, Mr. Holmes. You could find the source of the poison. Don't you have any ideas?"

"I know that one of the men supposedly killed in the train wreck was actually dead before the accident happened," the Brigadier said. Both of his listeners were surprised. The Brigadier decided to use the astounding bit of news as leverage to keep Martin on his side. "If you chaps can get a look at the body, we'll know the cause. I wouldn't rule out poisoning. And perhaps the derailment accident was then arranged to make it look as though he'd died with the others."

"Did you get a name on this poor fellow?" the Doctor asked.

"I did. Faulkner Browne. Tierney supplied what information he could as I rode over here to find you two. I'm off to the railroad office. They have a procedure for tracing passengers, and they have a telegraph, I believe. There are some messages I want to send out. But first I must see Miss Charles."

* * * *

The Brigadier strode from the surgeon's office. Tierney was waiting for him out on the dusty street.

"You'd better come and have a drink," Tierney said.

"What for?"

"Our friend's in there, and he's hosting a party."

The Brigadier followed him into the saloon.

They entered just in time to see Dr. Algol, seated at a splintery table with three other men, pass an impressive sheaf of bank notes to one of them. His three guests wore down at heel boots, worn and shiny jeans, and torn vests.

The three men, ranch hands by the look of their calloused hands and dusty faces, started at sight of the railroad man and the visitor from London. They quickly stood up and hurried out, not glancing at the Brigadier as they went out.

Algol turned and glared at the two intruders. He had a half empty bottle before him at the table.

"And what brings a dandy like you into this place in the middle of the day?" Tierney demanded. "S'barely noon!"

Dr. Algol took up a shot glass of rye, examined it for a moment, and then tossed it back. "I have as much right as any man to partake of the ambience of this place," he said. "Even to drink its waters, so to speak."

"And pay off your hired hands?" the Brigadier asked. He threw a glance to the door. "Or are you in the habit of fraternizing with cowboys?"

"I'm afraid that I lost to them rather badly at cards. They collected quite a sum from me."

"Ain't poker a sight too common for a man like you?" Tierney asked.

"Not at all. I am accustomed to all kinds of interactions." He picked up his hat and stood. "With railroad men, ranchers, farmers, bankers, even Indians."

The Brigadier frowned. "Indians? What Indians?"

"Where I cut my teeth as a medical doctor," Algol said coolly. "Doctoring the Seminole Indians. I lived among them several years."

"Seminole Indians? In Florida? The swamps?" The Brigadier found this unlikely.

"Quite. Zachary Taylor was not at all successful in driving them out, and they were very ready to accept a white man skilled in medicine---especially the medicine required to cure them of the white man's diseases. I was extremely successful with them." He made his voice offhand. "Smallpox and typhus would have done for the US army what the US army could not do for itself, but her generals were too shortsighted to fight with such unorthodox weapons."

"And a good thing, too," the Brigadier said. "You are in no danger of being overly fond of the Indian people then?"

"Not at all. I found them refreshingly honest, and amazingly skillful compared to most white men. That is not to say that I did not see how to defeat them. But I am merely commenting."

"Why were you paying those men?" the Brigadier asked.

"I have no intention of answering to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, or whoever you really are," the smaller man said. "I am entitled to drink where I please. And I am entitled to gamble where I please. Good day." And he strode out.

Tierney looked after him. "That cash wad wasn't for poker. Not folded up like that. Like he just got it from the bank."

The Brigadier went to the bar. "And they didn't stop to divide it up before they rushed out. Look, tell me about the train trip out. That dead man, Faulkner Browne--you said you played cards with him to pass the time. What did he say? Why was he coming to this town?"

Tierney joined him at the bar and nodded for drinks.

The Brigadier turned to him. "I mean, this is the end of the line, here. What was that young man's business? I'll try the beer," the Brigadier said to the bartender.

"Me too," Tierney added. He was shorter than the Brigadier, and broader. He looked up at the taller man. "I believe he was already on the train at the switch yards when I come on as foreman for the west coast run."

"So that means it was quite a long distance journey for him."

"I can check the records and telegraph back to New York, but as I recall he said he was coming from either New York or Philadelphia. One of them Eastern cities. Said his business was private. My mind was on cards, so I didn't pay much attention."

"Think we can take a look at his luggage?"

"Not a bad idea. I'll sort through the bags that are left. Find his and bring it to you. Nothing but bills and change in his pockets, and a pencil drawn map of this town. Map's got the hotel marked. And an address jotted down: Office of the Federal Marshals in Grand Forks. Here it is." And Tierney passed the hand drawn map to him.

"He was traveling alone?"

Their drinks appeared before them. Tierney took his glass up in his massive hand and said, "Well, he was alone when he played cards with us for a few hours. Later, I saw him in the company of a elderly gent. Old man with a beard and glasses, very stooped. Oh, and he kept blowing his nose."

"Which of them? Browne or the old man?"

"Browne. The old man gave him a clean handkerchief, all wrapped up in tissue. Said it was mentholated. Browne had a bad case of the hay fever. Them mentholated handkerchiefs are supposed to help. Folks use them on the train a lot. Cause of the dust, hay fever, all of that."

"I'm sure it would help."

Tierney shrugged. "Browne got so unwell from sneezing that he went off alone. Went back to his seat. I didn't notice him again until I picked up his body after the wreck."

"I don't recall an old man among the passengers."

"Oh, the old feller likely got off. He came on at Springfield, and he probably got off at Middling, just an hour up the line on this spur. A lot of folks do a day trip now and again to see relatives and such. Next up the line after Middling comes Watertown, and then here, this town: Assembly. This is the end of the line. The train turns around and goes back down the line through Watertown and Middling, all the way to Springfield."

"How often?"

"Once a week." Tierney threw his gaze towards the west wall of the saloon. "There are homesteads and mining camps further on. A couple little towns, smaller than this. The railroad'll likely add to the track next year. But for right now, folks come into Assembly and then go by wagon or hired stage out yonder." He took an appreciative drink of the sour beer and set it down. "The livery stable does a good business."

"But Browne's map showed he wanted to stop here," the Brigadier said. "His luggage may hold the answer. Some clue as to his mission way out here."

"Ah yes!" Tierney squinted in satisfaction. "Clues, sir!" He suddenly let out a groan as his eye caught somebody entering from the street. "Crimenity!"

"What is it?"

"That bejabbered idiot, Jim Negus. The railroad agent. He's coming this way."

"I cannot waste time with him. I must see Miss Charles. She's been arrested."

"So I heard. But Negus will get you in to see her. The sheriff won't stand in his way."

Lethbridge Stewart was startled. "Why not?"

It was Tierney's turn to be surprised. "Stand up to a rail road agent? Investigating a derailment? I've never heard of it. The railroads own the West, Mr. Holmes. Keep the agent on your side, and you'll get pretty much whatever you want."

"All right, I shall!" The Brigadier turned and forced a smile at the agent as he waved the man over. "Mr. Negus! I was hoping to meet you. I have quite a lot to report."

* * * *

Every oil lamp from the surgery was hung in the cellar of the church, crowded in a cluster over the head of the dead young man. Frustrated because they still did not shed an articulate light, the town surgeon took one lantern from the nail where it was hung and tried to bring its light closer so that the time lord could peer down the throat of the dead man.

"Maybe we should have taken him to the surgery," the Doctor said. "But I really do not want to alert outsiders to this line of the investigation." He glanced at Martin. "Don't be amazed, Dr. Martin. I have a useful invention with me that will assist in this preliminary inspection."

He withdrew a thin penlight form his pocket and shone the narrow, powerful beam into the dead man's mouth.

Martin was impressed by this small tool. "What is that?"

"An invention from London. Quite useful." The Doctor peered into the throat of the dead man, his eyes guided by the thin beam of light. "Take a look."

Martin took a turn and squinted into the open mouth. "Penny-sized plaques were formed in the throat passage. Like nettle rash on horses. Some strong irritant." He looked up at the time lord. "Yet nobody else on the train was similarly affected."

"Contact dermatitis," the Doctor added. He glanced down at the young man's collar and opened it. Then he probed with strong fingers against the outer neck and throat, especially around the windpipe. "It's like a mass right there. We'll have to get a look at the lungs back at the surgery. But my guess is that he suffocated. His throat swelled closed."

Martin peered into the throat again and then gingerly inserted two fingers into the mouth, trying to probe directly into the throat.

"Look, that's not very wise--" the Doctor began.

"I know. But wait. I think you're right. Incredible edema of the uvula. Worse than strept." He withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. Then he fished his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. "We've got to take him to the surgery." He glanced at the time lord. "But it seems more like an acute infection or a very acute reaction to some agent that he breathed." He shook his head. "Not the same mechanism that killed the elder and younger Charles. They et or drank something."

"But perhaps a poison just the same," the Doctor said.

* * * *

As Tierney had predicted, the railroad agent was impressed by the assessment of the dead Faulkner Browne. When the Brigadier requested an interview with the detained Miss Charles, Agent Negus escorted him personally to the sheriff's office and the local lock up.

The cells were in a back hallway from the front office: Two cells, one on either side of a short hallway that led to a heavily bolted door in back.

Dr. Algol was hurrying away from the small jail just as the Brigadier and Negus entered. Mary Graylock stood in the doorway that led back to the cells. She opened her mouth in surprise at sight of two more visitors. The young sheriff jumped up from behind his desk.

Before he could speak in protest, Negus said, "The railroad has reason to believe that your prisoner has knowledge of the derailment, sheriff. We have commissioned Mr. Holmes, here, to question her."

The young man flushed slightly, and his jaw set. The Brigadier had a whispered consultation with the agent. Before they could speak further, the sheriff said, "All right, but Mrs. Graylock is looking after the prisoner. She must be present with the young lady at all times."

"Legally, Miss Charles has the right to speak to any crimes of which she is accused without intervention from a non-involved party," the Brigadier said. "It amounts to testifying against herself to allow a witness present to which she does not agree."

"Yes, that's right," Negus said soberly. "She's allowed by law to speak to us alone."

Neither he nor the sheriff had any idea about what the Brigadier was talking about, but the sheriff reluctantly agreed that this must be so. The Brigadier turned to Negus with a detaining hand. "Let me try first," he whispered. "I think she looks to me for sympathy. She may be more forthright."

Negus nodded. The Brigadier turned to the sheriff. They walked past the frowning Mrs. Graylock and the young sheriff let him into Florence Charles' cell. He walked out and slammed the connecting door closed, leaving them in privacy.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes! I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. The cell was entirely bare without so much as a cot. She had been sitting on a three legged stool that had been brought in for her. She ran to him and then stopped. "You do know I have done nothing of what they say---"

"Of course, my dear. Watson and I are doing our best to secure your freedom." He took her by the shoulders and looked carefully at her. "Don't cry, Florence. We'll help you."

"But it will never be set right." She had a handkerchief, and---heedless of it---she let tears flow from her eyes as she told him her troubles. "Even if you free me, and all else is set right, I shall never have Jeff or my father back again!" And she wept in earnest from her sorrow over them. "And Jeff was in such pain!"

He was slightly reluctant to forge a bond with her. He knew that he would have to leave her behind one way or the other. But he was not able to think of her loss and her fear without sympathy. She was very young.

Carefully, almost gingerly, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in. But she was made of stronger stuff than he had imagined. After one or two hard sobs, she rallied herself. She straightened up and made every effort to speak calmly.

"You must investigate every possibility, Mr. Holmes! It's not enough that I go free. I must know who has done such terrible things to my family!"

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Why was your brother on that train?"

"The thing is--" And she stopped to wipe her eyes again with the handkerchief. "The thing is, Jeff only went to Watertown on a whim, Mr. Holmes." She caught back more tears as she considered the horrible irony of his suffering and death. "Watertown is the next town down the line from us. My father is---was---very partial to a brand of cigar that he has delivered out here. From Cuba, all the way up to New York and then to his offices in Chicago, and then out here." She sniffed and at last met his eyes with hers. "Well, we got a telegram from one of the officers of the company, and he'd noted that the cigars had been sent along with quarterly reports--"

"Your father was still reviewing quarterly reports before his death?" the Brigadier asked.

She was startled. "Oh yes. There was nothing wrong with his mind, and he had very good---mental energy---"

"Mental energy?" He was puzzled.

"You know: He wanted to think and be mentally busy, even if he was troubled by the recurring gastritis. Anyway," and she dabbed at her eyes. "When Eben brought the telegram, Father was somewhat annoyed because the reports had arrived by mail on the weekly train, but not the cigars. Jeff was certain they'd been left in Watertown. It's only ten miles, and Mr. Yost at the livery was driving down to do some trading. Jeff rode with him and took the train back here. He only wanted to please Father." She couldn't repress a sob. "If he'd not taken it into his head to go yesterday morning. Or if the cigars had only arrived as they should have done---"

"You'll drive yourself mad if you think of all the things that might have prevented this, Miss Charles," he said gravely. "In point of fact, it does appear that your father was poisoned, and so the poisoner would have struck sooner or later, when any advantage presented itself."

"But the sheriff is right," she told him. "Only Jeff and I would have reason to poison my father, Mr. Holmes. If we were greedy and wanted his money. But we loved him and were on the best of terms with him. He would have given us anything we had asked. We didn't do it. And nobody else would have a reason to do it." A shudder passed through her as she seemed to suddenly recall something, but she didn't speak.

"Why was Dr. Algol here?" he asked suddenly. "Did he visit you?"

"He thought he might clear me," she said. "He is working on it very hard." But she wrung her hands, and her eyes suddenly became preoccupied, as though some new worry had struck her.

"If he has any theory or evidence that will clear you, then he must speak now!" Lethbridge Stewart exclaimed. "We must get you out of these cells!"

She hesitated. "Well, they are not so bad. I mean, Mrs. Graylock seems stern. But she does look after my comfort." She looked around the bare room. "Are there---are there rats, do you suppose? At night?"

"We have to get you out of here. I will speak to the sheriff. I shall urge Algol to speak on your behalf---"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, and she caught his arm. "No, Mr. Holmes. Please. Do not speak to Dr. Algol."

He was puzzled. "Are you so afraid of being freed, Florence?"

She looked down. He realized that she was afraid. Afraid of the cells. Afraid of rats. Afraid of the dreadful fate of a public hanging if she could not be cleared. And she was so very young. A new idea struck him.

"Has Dr. Algol suggested something improper to you?" he asked gravely.

"Only---only to spare me. But I cannot assent to the idea."

"Will you tell me? You can trust me. I will not betray him, I promise."

She looked down. "He said that he is certain that I was with him last night. All night. A--a secret tryst in which our passions got the better of us." She blushed and stopped. And then she added, "My---my reasons for not speaking of our rendezvous are my modesty, and my regard for my reputation." She couldn't look at him.

"But that entire story is not true," he said.

"Dr. Algol says I shall certainly save myself from hanging by it, if I only agree to say it. He will confirm it."

"And put yourself into debt to a man who could forever after undo you," the Brigadier said. "And obligate yourself to marry him or else have your reputation permanently ruined."

"He would not hold it over my head, surely," she said.

"You must not give him that much control over you. You must not free yourself by a lie. Not if the truth will serve. Give us time. Watson and I have unearthed many new facts."

She looked up at him. "Do you know who came into Dr. Martin's office last night?" she asked. "That is the most damning evidence against me. And Mrs. Graylock is certain that it was I. But I never left the house."

"Certainly, we did not hear anybody leave last night," he agreed. "Nor any sound of horses."

They were interrupted as the connecting door was swung open. The sheriff and Dr. Algol stood in the doorway.

"The sheriff has agreed to release you into my custody, Florence," Algol said.

The Brigadier was astonished. "Into your custody?" Algol was an unmarried man attended by an unmarried house servant. In an age where young women were constantly chaperoned, the idea of him having custody of her was impossible.

Algol fixed a cold eye upon him. "I shall, of course, stay at the Charles house where Faith shall see to Miss Charles' needs. Surely that is acceptable to you. The sheriff insists that she must be confined to her own home, and I am certain that she will agree to those reasonable terms."

"Yes," she said faintly.

"As there will be no room for you and your partner, Mr. Holmes, I am certain that you will be happy to move to the hotel." His dark eyes flashed a triumphant glance at the Brigadier.

"We shall do as Miss Charles asks, whatever that may be," the Brigadier said.

"I've sent my man, Solomon, to bring Faith into town," Dr. Algol said. "She will see to her mistress and accompany us on the journey to the Charles house."

* * * *

At the surgery, Dr. Martin willingly agreed to take a break and allow the men he called Holmes and Watson to compare notes. He went upstairs to boil coffee on the small, wood burning stove that was kept up there. His two guests conferred in the front room, away from the bodies in back.

"The lymph tissue in the throat of Browne shows a disruption of normal function," the Doctor told Lethbridge Stewart. "We had to bring him here for further evaluation. Almost a cytoblastic attack of the lymph cells. In point of fact, Browne died of suffocation because his throat closed and his respiratory system became inadequate to draw in enough breath so that he could not even effectively call for help. But if that had not killed him, a complete breakdown in his respiratory system would have followed. His lungs were bleeding."

"What type of toxin does that?" the Brigadier asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "We have no microscopes, no solvents, no testing measures."

"But it was poison?"

"Probably. You could always find some virus or bacterial infection that would do that, but it killed him too quickly for me to think it was a naturally occurring microbial infection."

"Big Tierney tells me that Faulkner Browne suffered hay fever very severely."

But the Doctor shook his head. "Different mechanism from hay fever. And it wasn't anaphylactic shock, if that's what you're thinking. There is evidence of a contact dermatitis on the lining of the throat and esophagus. As though he had breathed in some strong irritant. And yet there were no other symptoms of burns or chemical irritation."

"But whatever it was, it wasn't the same thing that killed Mr. Charles and Jefferson Charles?"

"I can't say that, either," the Doctor told him. "The two Charles men ingested poison as far as we know. Browne, almost certainly, inhaled a toxin."

"So because of the different methods of ingestion, the same poison may show different symptoms?" Lethbridge Stewart cocked an eyebrow.

"What it really seems to indicate---is something on a cellular level," the Doctor told him. "I mean, consider arsenic. It poisons chemically. It causes inappropriate chemical reactions to occur in the body. It can be cured---at times---by volume replacement, chelation, and blood transfusion. Essentially, the rescue mission is to simply precipitate out the arsenic or else try to inactivate it."

"I thought that was true of all poisons."

"Some poisons cannot be precipitated out, Brigadier---"

"Holmes, Doctor. Holmes!"

The time lord inclined his head. "Holmes, then." He continued: "Some toxins actually alter the function of the organism. It's not a chemical alteration like potassium to sodium balance or levels of natural magnesium. It's an alteration in design at a cellular level. Once those poisons are in the system, you either have to hope that the cells repair themselves, or you'd need methods of rescue that won't be invented for another 300 years."

"That type of poison sounds awfully sophisticated for this time."

The Doctor glanced at him. "And if we open that door, then we have thousands of toxins to consider: none of which should be available here in Kansas in 1890."

"North Dakota, 1893!" But the Brigadier was too preoccupied to be angry about their missed destination any more. "Algol has got some new tricks up his sleeve." And he quickly related all that he had learned at the jail.

Just then Martin entered, bearing a coffee pot, cups, and a flask of whiskey. "Hope you like bourbon," he said.

The Brigadier arched his eyebrows. "Real bourbon? Kentucky bourbon?"

"Yup. Gift from a grateful former patient. He sends it out to me. One case a year at Christmas. Usually arrives by March."

The Doctor took the pot and the Brigadier set the cups down. "We find ourselves sharing rooms with the charming Dr. Algol," Lethbridge Stewart said. "He has been given custody of Miss Charles."

"That Dr. Algol is a strange one. Hard nut to crack." Martin deposited liberal shots into each thick cup.

Lethbridge Stewart glanced at him. "He boasted to me that he lived among the Seminole Indians for several years."

The town surgeon nodded. "Yeah, I've heard that. They're a pretty crafty people. Had the gift of making the landscape and terrain appear just like the white men supposed it should be, even when it wasn't. They'd load those swamps up with men, booby traps, ambushes, and the government soldiers would sort of blunder into them."

"Yes, so I've read," the Doctor added. "You hear about the major uprisings, but the Seminoles actually won their best victories in multiple small skirmishes. And as you said, by blending perfectly into a landscape where their enemies saw what they expected to see." He saw the Brigadier lost in thought and staring into his cup. "Are you all right, Holmes?"

"It comes down to motive," the Brigadier said suddenly. "Somebody had a motive to kill off both the Charles men. We have to find that motive."

"And where will you find that?" Martin asked.

"I cannot say for sure, but I intend to start at Dr. Algol's house. Tonight. When he is safely tucked up at the Charles house."

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