The Grays of Truth, page 1
Praise for
The Grays of Truth
“Virts’s descriptive prose fuels the unease in this well-researched whodunit.”
—Jane Lorenzini, New York Times bestselling author of The Growing Season and I Really Needed This Today, cowritten with Hoda Kotb
“Jane Gray Wharton is a memorable character. It’s stunning that the book is based on a real story. The twists and surprises kept coming [until] the very end. I feel as if I’ve gone on vacation to the past.”
—Dana Marton, bestselling author of The Secret Life of Sunflowers
“With The Grays of Truth, Sharon Virts has written a gripping historical mystery filled with twists and turns that will keep you guessing until the end. Vividly drawn and carefully researched, the story transports you back in time and holds you willingly captive through the last page. Once I picked up this book, I couldn’t put it down!”
—Amanda Skenandore, author of The Medicine Woman of Galveston
“A vivid and compelling tale that is equal parts murder mystery and well-researched historical fiction. Devotees of true crime featuring heroines who refuse to give up, you’re in for a well-crafted ride!”
—Susan Meissner, USA Today bestselling author of The Nature of Fragile Things
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2024 by Sharon Virts
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Flashpoint™ Books, Seattle
www.flashpointbooks.com
Produced by Girl Friday Productions
Cover design: David Fassett
Project management: Sara Spees Addicott
Production editorial: Katherine Richards
Image credits: cover © Rawpixel/McKinsey; Adobe Stock/RuleByArt; Shutterstock/Suppakorn Somnuk
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-959411-76-5
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-959411-72-7
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-959411-73-4
ISBN (audiobook): 978-1-959411-92-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024907538
First edition
To my mother, Emma Lee
1867
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing . . .
—Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter 1
Monday, April 3, 1867, Washington, DC
“Mrs. Wharton!” A frantic young man pounded on the door of the brick house that fronted K Street. “Mrs. Wharton, please!” he shouted again, his blond hair blowing wildly in the blustering spring wind.
“My gracious, Danny,” said a slight woman with strong features and silvering blonde hair as she opened the door. With a shiver, Jane Gray Wharton folded her arms against the cold, her pale eyes studying the man on her stoop. “What has you so riled up this morning?”
Daniel Ketchum leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he attempted to regain his breath. “It’s Mother. She’s really sick.”
Daniel’s mother, Rebecca Ketchum, was Jane’s oldest friend.
“Has she been seen by a doctor?”
Daniel nodded. “My father insists that you come anyway,” he said, still panting.
A worried expression fell over Jane’s face, and a sinking uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew General Scott Ketchum well enough to understand he would not have called for her if the situation weren’t desperate.
“Walk with me and tell me her symptoms,” she said, and headed down the hall toward the back of the house.
“She’s been throwing up something awful,” Daniel said as he followed behind her. “The doctor said it’s gastritis or something and would get better, but she’s getting worse and not making sense.”
“Not making sense?” Jane asked, her brows knitted. Daniel nodded again. “Wait here and let me grab a kit.” She opened the back door with a jerk.
Having served as a nurse at the Armory Square Hospital during the Rebellion, Jane Gray had seen plenty of sickness and death, and had become adept at closing herself off from the anguish of such suffering. But Rebecca was like a sister to Jane. No amount of Jane’s usual emotional shielding would immunize her should the worst occur.
Jane walked onto the back porch and took a deep breath, trying to cast her worry aside. The wind whipped through the yard as she hurried down the steps to the muddy path that led to her greenhouse and workroom at the rear of the lot. Unfastening the latch, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Rows of plants potted in coarse earthenware crocks sat on makeshift sawhorse tables and on the floor below. Dozens of jars, some filled with tinctures, others with a variety of herbs, roots, crystals, and powders, lined the shelves. Racks of tools and instruments hung from the walls: a spade, tongs, blades, a pair of scissors. A shelf beneath held vials, flasks, and beakers. On the counter under the shelf were a balance scale, mortar, and pestle, along with an assembly of glassware, coiled metal piping, pipettes, stands, clamps, and condensers. A small desk with a microscope was tucked in the corner at the rear of the room, its surface covered with piles of periodicals, books, and hand-drawn sketches.
Jane rushed past the laboratory equipment and rows of plants to the back wall and a rack of brown bottles filled with home-brewed tinctures and chemical compounds. Scanning the rack, she pulled down several of the bottled concoctions and carefully placed them in pockets that were sewn inside a carpetbag. At the desk, she removed a small leather case from the drawer and flipped it open to confirm its contents. Reassured, she snapped it closed and shoved the case into the carpetbag. Hoping she had all that she needed, she hurried down the aisle of plants to the yard and back into the house, where Daniel was waiting impatiently.
“Let’s make haste,” Jane said, ushering him through the hall with the bag in hand. She grabbed her wrap, took an umbrella from the stand, and followed Daniel out the door.
Passing through the small iron gate that separated the yard from the street, they headed east on K Street. To their right, the half-built Washington Monument thrust into the sky like an accusation, its fragmented summit rising upward as if begging the heavens for its completion. Overhead, dark leaden clouds hung low, ready to unleash a torrent at any moment. A biting breeze tossed the branches of elms that lined the street in a chaotic dance against the pewter sky. A distant roll of thunder rumbled as Jane and Daniel reached the corner and turned north toward the Ketchum house. Three-storied Italianate row houses with smooth brick façades, large bay windows, and carved eaves lined both sides of Thirteenth Street. The Ketchum house was about halfway up the block.
“Mrs. General Ketchum is upstairs, ma’am,” the butler said, swinging the door wide as Jane stepped onto the portico. Once she was inside, he took her umbrella and wrap and waved an arm toward the stairway. “The general is expecting you.”
Even from the foyer, Jane could hear Rebecca crying out. With her kit bag looped over her arm, Jane took the stairs to a set of rooms at the back of the house. At the end of the hall, a doorway opened to a small dressing room that fronted the bedchamber. Esther Brice, General Ketchum’s sister, was seated next to the door. A woman with auburn hair was sitting beside Esther on the arm of the chair.
“Thank the heavens you are here,” Esther said and stood, her thin face drawn as tight as the gray bun pinned at the back of her head. The woman sitting on the chair’s arm eyed Jane with a look of skepticism. She was pretty, with a heart-shaped face and arched brows. But there was something in her hazel eyes that unnerved Jane.
“This is Mrs. Eliza Chubb,” Esther said. Jane recognized her name from Rebecca’s many complaints about the woman’s meddling. Eliza inclined her head. “Eliza is General Ketchum’s copyist. She’s been here with the family since all this started yesterday.” Esther turned to Eliza. “Eliza, this is Jane Gray . . . Mrs. Edward Wharton. Jane served as a lady nurse at Armory Square under Dr. Bliss.”
The Armory Square Hospital took its name from the city’s armory on Washington’s Mall, where the hospital was built at the onset of the Rebellion. Near the steamboat landing on the Potomac River and the tracks of the Washington and Alexandria Railroad, Armory Square treated the most severely injured, those who could not be moved any further.
“I’ve heard much about you,” Jane said to Eliza before redirecting her attention to Esther as Rebecca cried out again. “How long has she been like this?”
“About an hour now,” Esther said.
“Danny says a doctor was here earlier. What was his diagnosis?”
“Gastritis. And the diverticulum is inflamed.”
“What did he prescribe?” Jane asked.
“White willow, I think,” Esther said, “and he gave her an antimony pill.”
Antimony? Jane thought. While doctors commonly prescribed the capsule to relieve chronic bowel congestion, in Jane’s opinion, if misused, antimony was dangerous and as deadly as arsenic.
“Who is this doctor?” Jane asked.
“Dr. Chisholm,” Eliza answered. “I called for him at the general’s request.”
Something didn’t soun
d right. “Did he give her anything for the pain?”
Esther shook her head. “I gave her a bit of laudanum from the general’s bottle, but it has had little effect.”
Jane frowned. “All right. Let me see her.”
Rebecca lay on her side facing the far wall, her legs drawn to her chest. Rebecca’s husband, General Scott Ketchum, sat on a chair next to her, his rawboned shoulders hunched over his wife. A dark-haired woman in a fitted red dress stood behind him, her hands resting on the back of his chair. A young woman with a ghostly pale complexion and long black braids was on the opposite side of the bed, holding Rebecca’s hand. Jane recognized her and blanched. Octavia? Octavia Wharton was Jane’s niece, the daughter of her husband’s brother, and lived in Baltimore with her parents. And Octavia always traveled with her mother. Jane glanced again at the woman standing behind the general. She felt her anxiety rising as she realized the woman was her sister-in-law Ellen Wharton.
Like Jane, Ellen, too, had grown up in Philadelphia. With ebony hair and milky skin, Ellen “Nell” Nugent had reminded Jane of the lovely Schneewittchen—Snow White—in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. But in Jane’s opinion, Ellen’s appearance had been the only thing beautiful about the girl. Ellen used her beauty like a weapon and manipulated those enamored of her to get what she wanted. From Jane’s perspective, not much had changed over the years. Ellen’s self-admiration had only intensified since she’d married Hank Wharton. While most were charmed by Ellen’s quick wit and charisma, Jane knew her as mean-spirited, and she often made Jane feel inadequate. Drawing a nervous breath, Jane tried to push her uneasiness aside, training her eyes on her sick friend.
“Rebecca?” Jane said, her tone soft and comforting as she approached the bed. Immediately, she noticed the pallor of Rebecca’s skin. From just a moment’s observation, it was clear to Jane that Rebecca was deathly ill.
“Mrs. Wharton.” General Ketchum stood and extended his hand. Jane took it in hers. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his blue eyes glassy and reddened. General Ketchum was taller than most men, with a muscular frame and angular features. Usually he dressed smartly, his beard neat and his gray-blond hair carefully combed to the side, but not this morning. From his disheveled appearance, Jane assumed that the general had slept in his clothes from the day before, if he had slept at all.
“She’s in a terrible way,” he said with a glance at the pail next to the bed. Jane followed his worried gaze to a bucket that contained bloody vomit.
“I’ll need to examine her,” Jane said, dropping his hand and turning to Rebecca.
“We’ll give you some privacy.” General Ketchum looked at Ellen and nodded in the direction of the door.
Ellen narrowed her dark eyes and threw a scornful look in Jane’s direction as Octavia stood from the bed.
“And it’s Dr. Jane to the rescue,” Ellen said in a low voice that only Jane could hear. Doing her best to ignore the remark, Jane swallowed hard to quell her nerves.
“Esther,” Jane called as Esther started to leave with the other ladies. “I’ll need your assistance. Please stay.” With a nod, Esther moved to the side of the bed where Octavia had been.
“Take all the time you need,” the general said, and closed the door behind them.
Jane placed her hand on Rebecca’s flank. “Can you show me where your pain is?”
“Just leave me to die,” Rebecca said, rolling away from Jane.
“No one’s going to die if I can help it,” Jane said. “Now, tell me, what hurts?”
“My soul,” Rebecca cried, curling into a fetal position. “I deserve to suffer.”
Jane gave Esther a questioning look.
“She’s been morose like this since yesterday,” Esther explained.
“When did her symptoms begin?” Jane asked as Rebecca cried out again, pulling her knees to her chest.
“Last evening,” Esther said. “The vomiting started suddenly, violently. By nightfall, her pain was so intense, she could barely move. My brother asked Mrs. Chubb to call a doctor. Whatever the doctor gave her caused her to sleep, and this morning, she was feeling better for a while. She got out of bed and came downstairs and went into the cellar. I went after her, concerned the dampness would only make her sicker, but she yelled at me to leave her be. She refused to join us for breakfast and went back up to her room. Not long after, the vomiting returned, and this time, she was purging blood. Her breathing became labored, and she’s been babbling all this nonsense about Arkansas.”
“Arkansas?” Jane asked.
“Fort Smith. She and Scott lived there when Scott and Hank Wharton were stationed together during the Indian conflict. All this nonsense about the devil’s work, quoting scripture, and telling Scott not to look at her. She won’t look at Danny either. She hisses at me, Eliza, Ellen, and the maid. The only person she’ll speak to is Octavia. And now you. Like I said, crazy talk.”
“Did you tell the doctor this?” Jane asked.
Esther nodded. “He said it was the fever.”
Jane put her hand on Rebecca’s forehead. “She doesn’t feel feverish to me.”
“We’ve had to change her sheets this morning from her sweating.”
“Before or after the doctor arrived?”
“Before,” Esther answered. “Why does it matter?”
Jane furrowed her brow. Had the doctor treated Rebecca’s fever, the sweating would have occurred after his visit, not before. Which meant something else was causing the sweating. Jane peered again at the bucket of vomit, trying to make sense of Rebecca’s symptoms.
“What is your body trying to purge?” Jane said to herself, ruminating. She lifted her kit bag from the floor and set it on the night table. She took a bottle and a jar from the bag and removed their tops. Using a small spoon, she measured the contents of each into an empty glass by the bed and poured in just a smidge of water from the pitcher on the stand.
“I’m making a cocktail of cerium oxalate with a little belladonna to calm the bowel,” Jane said as she stirred the concoction. Rebecca’s body tensed as another wave of pain roiled her. “But I should give her a bit of morphine first. Then we’ll need to flush her system.” Jane set the glass on the table before reaching into the bag again and pulling out the leather case.
“Jane,” Rebecca whispered, the pain flooding her face. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Jane said. She removed a silver syringe and a small bottle of cloudy liquid from the case.
Rebecca turned in bed and brought her tear-filled eyes to Jane’s, then grabbed her arm.
“I have sinned,” she sobbed and tightened her grip.
Jane took Rebecca’s arm and held her wrist. Holding the syringe between her index finger and thumb, Jane used her middle and ring finger to tap the area at the crook of Rebecca’s elbow. When the vein rose, Jane pressed the needle through Rebecca’s skin and into the blood vessel. “There, there, my dear friend,” Jane said as she pushed the plunger. “Who among us hasn’t sinned against God?” She offered a sympathetic smile as she removed the needle from Rebecca’s arm and bent her elbow to prevent bleeding. “This should help for now.” Brushing the hair from Rebecca’s forehead, Jane watched as her friend’s expression relaxed.
“The palm of Christ,” Rebecca murmured.
Jane cocked her head. “What did you say?”
“I have taken the seed,” Rebecca said, slurring her words, “so that I might be redeemed.”
Jane’s eyes widened and her mouth went dry. She looked at Esther. “I need to change the tincture.”
“I don’t understand,” Esther said.
Jane pulled another bottle from the bag and handed it to Esther. “Give her a half teaspoon of this and make her drink as much water as she’ll take. I need to speak to Daniel right away.”
With an astonished look on her face, Esther took the bottle, and Jane left the room. Daniel was standing beside his father, who was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.
“Danny,” Jane said, “I need you to go as fast as you can to Dr. Barnes’s office at Ford’s Theatre.” After President Lincoln’s assassination, Ford’s Theatre had been conscripted by the federal government and converted into office space for the surgeon general and his staff. Dr. Joseph Barnes was the army’s top doctor and had been a student of Jane’s father at the medical college of the University of Pennsylvania. Jane had met Dr. Barnes during her service at Armory Square, and once they’d realized their mutual connection, the two had become friends.
