Miss Thorne Blossoms

by Jordan Bollinger

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Frank went and sat in the front room, while Kit did as the doctor had asked. She returned from the kitchen with a tray bearing mugs, spoons, sugar, and cream. After several more minutes, Kit brought out a coffee pot, set it on the table, and left carrying a number of apples. Only then, did Victoria come out and join the sheriff.

  She sat down, demurely poured out their coffee, and after fixing hers, asked, "Are there any bawdy houses here in town, Sheriff Dunkirk?"

  Victoria watched as his jaw dropped, and he sputtered several times. Then, in a soft, but decidedly firm voice, she repeated, "Are there any bawdy houses in town?"

  "Miss...I mean, Dr. Thorne...I..."

  "Sheriff, I'm not accusing you of owning them. I'm not even accusing you of visiting them. Please, just answer the question."

  "No," he said, flatly. "I won't say there aren't a few girls who are only as good as they may be. But Manchester has never had a brothel or bawdy house. Why would you ask such a question?"

  "That poor girl was bone thin. And tonight's beating wasn't her first, or even the second she'd endured. And, she..." Victoria swallowed before she continued, firmly, "she was not a virgin."

  "But, girl's aren't always, now are they?" he countered, flushing. "As much as we'd like to believe you women are stronger than us men, you all are only flesh and blood, as well, in the end."

  "You don't understand, sheriff. She hasn't had a lover. She's been used and abused. She's been passed between men. And, I don't believe she's even fourteen."

  "Fourteen," he repeated.

  "It's hard to say because she was so very thin. But certainly no more than fifteen."

  "I've never seen her before," Frank insisted. "But, surely, someone will come looking for her."

  "I doubt it. The person who knew her is the same person who beat her—regularly—and probably sold her. However, I don't know if they fed her the morphine, or if she just discovered that it dulled the pain and helped her cope with her life."

  "Morphine?"

  She held her hand out, revealing a tiny bottle labeled Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup.

  Chapter Five

  Frank Dunkirk slumped down in his chair. When the doctor looked to him, he just shook his head in denial. After a moment, he began, "I won't lie to you, my wife used that stuff when our girls were little. But, one of the first things Dr. Cooper did when he arrived in town, was start speaking out against patent medicines with opium in them. But, especially against," he said, pointing to the tiny vial, "that one.

  "If he went to tend to someone with young children—even if it wasn't a child he'd been called out to treat—he'd ask if they ever used 'Mrs. Winslow's.' And if they did, he'd lecture them about how bad it was—for anyone—especially little ones.

  "But, after he realized that most folks used it, even occasionally, he asked to speak at a town meeting. It seems his father...his father—"

  "It's all right, sheriff. I've known Mark Cooper all my life. We were raised as cousins, our grandmothers were such close friends. I know all about his father's...condition."

  "I see. Then you know pretty much what he said. Most of the folks hadn't realized what was in 'Mrs. Winslow's,' so it wasn't particularly difficult for him to convince the people here in town that sold it to at least put it away. You know, out of sight, and sell it only if it was specifically asked for. And, then they make sure they always warned the purchasers of its potential danger."

  "Yes, Mark told me what he'd done. But, we have a more important problem—the identity of the poor girl. Kit says she'd only seen her twice before tonight. And, from the way you're reacting, I don't believe you know her."

  "No, I don't. And, I pretty much know everyone in town—at least by sight. But, I swear, I've never seen her before."

  "Do you want to examine her body?" Victoria asked.

  He looked uncomfortable and answered, "No, not really, ma'am. Unless, you think I need to—that you need to show me something."

  "I suppose I can just tell you what I've found. She's no stranger to hard work. Her hands are chapped and rough—as if they’d been in hot water and strong soap often. Perhaps, she worked in a laundry or restaurant kitchen. She's no more than fifteen, and she's been beaten on a regular basis. I can identify at least four sets of bruises on her."

  She looked at the confusion in the man's eyes, and continued, "What I mean is, I can see at least four sets of bruises in varying degrees of fading. Some are barely visible, others have lightened to a yellow, while some look several days—perhaps a week—old.

  "But, tonight's beating was the worst. One of her arms was broken. It appears as if it had been twisted. It also looks like she'd been kicked in the abdomen, so she probably died of internal bleeding. Unless she was in so much pain, she drained the entire bottle of soothing syrup. Her eyes were pin-pricks, so she had a lot of the drug in her."

  "I suppose," Frank began, "that she might be a runaway. Had enough of being beaten and left home. Might even have managed to sneak on the train and gotten out here in town."

  "It's a possibility," Victoria conceded, "except that Kit saw her twice within the last couple of weeks, and she was beaten today. Probably late this afternoon or early evening.

  "Which means they either found her and dragged her off back home, only to have her run away again, or they're here in town."

  Shaking his head, Frank insisted, "No one with children has moved here lately. So, I don't know who she might belong to. And, what's worse is I don't see how we can find out. If they beat her regular like, and find out she's dead, they aren't going to step forward."

  "Yes, you're probably right," Victoria sighed. "I suppose we should call in the undertaker. I'll pay for everything. She suffered enough during her short life. At least, in death she can be treated with a little tenderness and respect. I only wish we had a name for her."

  "Well, I'd like to get John Wright over here first. He's our local photographer. He can take pictures of her. Is...is her face...very..."

  "No, she isn't disfigured. Which is another reason I think whoever she belonged to was selling her. They didn't want her looks spoiled. But having some photographs of her taken is an excellent idea. There are several strange marks on her—as if she'd been hit with something."

  "I can't believe this has happened," Frank groaned, "here in Manchester."

  "There's one more thing, sheriff," the doctor said, "perhaps it would be better if you announced she'd been found dead in the street. That way, if they were feeding the morphine to her, they'll believe no one knows." She hesitated, before she added, "However, I'm also asking for my own benefit. It won't do my reputation any good if the people of Manchester find out my first actual patient died as soon as I looked at her."

  Frank nodded. "Yes, I can understand that. And, in truth, you hadn't treated her."

  The sheriff was leaving when Meg arrived. "I came as soon as Kit came over. She's very upset, so I told Eva to make a pot of tea and put her to bed. And, I'll send word to you if she isn't better in the morning."

  "Thank you, Meg," Victoria said. "The sheriff is going to get a photographer, and then I suppose we'll need to get the undertaker. And, I'd rather Kit didn't see any of it."

  "Well, this is the first time I've seen Kit distressed about medical things—even death. Who is the girl?"

  "We've no idea. The sheriff doesn't recognize her. Kit told us she'd seen her twice before, hiding in the livery stable both times. The poor child," Victoria said, before, to her shame, she felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Margaret led the doctor back over to the table and poured her another cup of coffee. "Sit down, Victoria. I'll be right back." Victoria added sugar and cream to her coffee, and stirred it, absentmindedly staring into space.

  Meg returned with a clean cup, sat down, and poured herself her own coffee, before Victoria spoke, "She was so young, Meg. She had her whole life ahead of her."

  "It's all right, Victoria. You can feel sorrow becau
se you weren't able to save the girl."

  "It's very unprofessional. Doctors aren't supposed to show emotion. But that's especially true for female doctors. We aren't allowed to just be equal to the men. We have to be stronger. We can never show any emotion. But, sometimes, the truth is, I find the charade a difficult one to maintain."

  "I can understand that," Meg told her, "but you don't have to hide your feelings from friends. And I hope you consider me a friend."

  "Oh, I do. I've never had a friend. Not really. But, I've been thinking that I don't believe I could make this new start without you and Miranda, and Eva and Kit."

  "Well, we are your friends, and you can lean on us—open up to us."

  "The thing is," Victoria added, "there are others out there. I'd bet my life on it. And they are being overworked, beaten, and sold to men, as well."

  Victoria watched, as Meg recoiled in horror. After several moments of silence, Margaret asked, "Are you saying...she was...was a—"

  The doctor broke in and said, "The genteel euphemism I think you're searching for is 'soiled dove.' She wasn't much more than a child, but yes—that's what I meant."

  "Oh, dear," was all Meg managed.

  "I have always had everything I needed—even wanted," Victoria began. "My parents and grandparents were kind, loving, and wealthy. But this girl and the others I believe are close by, have never known anything but neglect at best, and more probably, cruelty and perversion.

  "We don't know her name. She can't even be buried properly. However, I will find something decent for her to be buried in, even if I have to buy it at the mercantile. I won't allow her be laid to rest in rags."

  Now Meg looked as if she were about to break down into tears. Victoria reached across the little table and patted her friend's hand. "It's not your fault," she insisted.

  "Perhaps not," Meg said, "except I've never truly appreciated how lucky I was. While we weren't well-off, I always had clothes to wear, and food to eat, and a bed to sleep in. I knew that there were people worse off than we were, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined people would be treated so. And, it makes me ashamed that I didn't. I should have."

  *****

  The next morning was Sunday. Near the end of the church service, Frank Dunkirk stood up and spoke to the congregation.

  "I don't know how many of you have heard about what happened, but last night, a young girl, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, was found in the street. She'd been beaten to death.

  "I don't recognize her—none of us who saw her did. We have taken a photograph of her, and there will be a viewing before she's buried. Her face isn't disfigured, so please, either go to the funeral parlor, or come to my office to look at the picture.

  "Nothing like this has ever happened in our town before. Someone must know this girl, or at least have seen her. Please. We don't even know the poor child's name."

  Once he sat down, Reverend Cleary echoed Dunkirk's request, "Please, I've seen the picture, and she merely looks asleep. So, don't worry about allowing your children to look, as well. Surely, we must come together as a community and do anything we can to identify this poor waif."

  Chapter Six

  Gus sat around the dining table with Ma Swenson, Meg, Dr. Thorne, and Frank Dunkirk in the living quarters behind the workroom.

  "I do believe everyone who could walk was at the funeral," the sheriff said, "and we still have no idea who the child was, or where she came from."

  "It's heart-breaking," Ma said. "It makes me keep hugging my Eva and tell her how much I love her."

  "I really believed someone would identify her," Gus said, more into his coffee cup, than to anyone in particular.

  "Someone must know something," Meg insisted.

  "Both the sheriff and I told you no one would come forward," Dr. Thorne said. She looked over at Frank and added, "Thank you for keeping the morphine addiction a secret. I can't help thinking that in the end, somehow, that is what will help us solve this mystery."

  Everyone turned to face first Victoria and then Frank, who finally told the doctor, "Go ahead. Tell them everything. They're all trustworthy."

  "The girl wasn't quite dead when I reached her. I could tell from her pupils that she'd taken morphine. And, after she was gone, I found a bottle of 'Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup.'"

  Ma and Gus both sighed, but Meg just stared at Victoria, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "I've heard of that...syrup. Some of the members of my father's congregation used it when their babies were teething or fussy."

  "Yes, that's what it's advertised for. The difficulty is that it's basically a mixture of morphine and alcohol. It soothes teething pain and colic. It isn't even especially dangerous—as long as it's used sparingly, and in small amounts.

  "The problem is," Victoria continued, "that as children grow up and are still restless or sickly some parents continue to use it. They sometimes resort to it too often. And, those children grow up knowing that a sip of 'Mrs. Winslow's' will help them sleep, or focus, or just relax. So, they become dependent on it—unable to function without it. They have become addicts and are no different than people who smoke opium."

  "But," Meg protested, "it's sold to give to children...to babies."

  "Yes. However, many of the so-called 'harmless patent medicines' contain some sort of opiate or alcohol, or both," Victoria told her.

  *****

  No matter where any of them went, all they heard were theories about who the unidentified waif could have been. Throughout all the speculation, she didn’t believe she'd heard one reasonable assumption.

  The most difficult thing they had found in dealing with the girl's presence and death was not knowing her identity. The poor child had been robbed of a life—she deserved a name. In the end, they'd erected a simple cross with the single name 'Laura' on it.

  Eventually, after a long discussion, Victoria, Meg, Ma, Gus, and Frank had agreed to share the small amount of information they did have with Miranda, Eva, and Kit. However, they were all sworn to absolute secrecy.

  Gus came to agree with Victoria and the sheriff, no one would come forward to admit anything if all the facts were known. Ma and Eva found daily reasons to pop into the mercantile or pharmacy, but they didn't overhear anyone asking about procuring some 'Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup'. The group had decided it would be safer to not ask the people who sold it.

  After all, when they found some bits of information, Frank could go and interrogate the sellers. But, until then, nothing was to be said about the vile brew.

  Kit had begun searching through the empty stalls in the livery stable every evening when she took treats to Molly. So far, she hadn't found so much as a lost button.

  Eva listened to the other girls chattering as they worked. There was plenty of speculation, but no one actually knew anything.

  Victoria, however, did hold herself accountable. Perhaps not for the child's death, but she should at least give the girl a name. As well as, making sure her abuser was prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

  The good news was the populace did not think badly of Dr. Thorne's failure to perform miracles for the girl. But they still avoided to come in as patients.

  In time, their stiffness began to crumble and a few patients presented themselves to the surgery. Granted, it was only a trickle of people with insignificant ailments. But Victoria felt that it was a start.

  Besides, Davy told everyone who would listen how the doctor had taken such good care of him and how gentle she was. And, he always finished up with how she smelled nice, too.

  *****

  One afternoon, about a week after the girl's burial, a gentleman of about thirty walked into the surgery, followed by an enormous dog. He had wavy brown hair, brilliant blue-green eyes, and an angelic smile. His clothes were both well-fitted and obviously expensive. He wore a gold signet ring and an extremely fancy watch fob. The mastiff was as big as a pony, with a short brindle coat and a large quantity of teeth, which he showed
clearly.

  "Dr. Thorne, I presume," he said, as he thrust out his hand. When she reluctantly responded, he covered her hand with his other hand, and shook it heartily. "I'm Brent Harding, and this," he said, pointing the beast beside him, "is Bear. Don't be afraid, he's very friendly—as long as I'm not being threatened. But, as long as you aren't being aggressive to me, he won't hurt you. He's very well-trained. I'm new in town. I've come to open up a newspaper."

  "How do you do, Mr. Harding."

  "Right as rain, ma'am. Right as rain," he answered. "And, one of the first stories I'm anxious to pursue is about this poor girl found dead in the streets. I'd like to hear your version of the story."

  "I don't have a 'version,'" Victoria answered, brusquely. "The poor child was found beaten in the street and brought here. When I examined her, she was dead."

  "And that's all you know? I heard her name was Laura."

  "Well, we aren't even sure about that. Kit, the girl that helps me, had come across the girl a couple times in the livery stable. And, she believes the girl told her that her name was Laura...or Laurie. However, she spoke in such a low voice, Kit wasn't quite sure."

  "I see. And there's still no idea about where she came from?"

  "No," the doctor told him, "and I think that most of the town's people feel as I do—that this poor child not only deserves a name, but justice."

  "I like your spirit," Brent said, grinning. "Sometime, perhaps, we could talk about what drove you to become a doctor?"

  "Perhaps," Victoria punted.

  "Are you always so quiet?" the journalist asked.

  "Although I've never actually given much thought about it, I suppose I am." Then she tried to turn the tables on the man, and asked, "What made you come here to open your newspaper?"

  "Nothing," he answered. Then he smiled and continued, "Well, nothing, except the fact that I liked the look of the town. It's not too big, but it's not so very small it will be insular and resent a stranger. I've also seen the town paper. It is stodgy and old-fashioned. We're on the brink of a new century. It's time for newspapers and periodicals to begin representing these new times."