I'll be in my blanket fort....

In the early 20th century, premature infants were often dismissed as medically hopeless. Hospitals lacked neonatal units, and incubators were still experimental devices rarely trusted by physicians. Martin Couney, who was not a doctor but a showman with a passion for infant care, stepped into this void. He built advanced incubators modeled on French designs and showcased them at amusement parks and world fairs.

Visitors paid admission to see the babies, and that money funded round‑the‑clock nursing care, sterile environments, and the best technology available at the time, all free for the parents.

Couney’s “child hatcheries” were controversial, but they worked. His incubators maintained stable heat, filtered air, and strict hygiene standards that hospitals wouldn’t adopt for decades. He hired trained nurses, enforced sanitation rules, and refused to exploit the infants beyond the admission fee model.

here's what you actually want in a thrift store:

in a rich town

run by a church

staffed exclusively by little old ladies

Agatha Christie’s Poirot 8x01 Evil Under the Sun

Primarily based on these images

But also because I want Holmes and Morticia to speak French, and for him to fence with Gomez, and teach the kids about poisons and criminals

Holmes folded down the top of the newspaper he was reading so he could see me. “A letter from whom?”

“Not sure.” I turned it over to study it as best I could. The envelope was thick and expensive, postmarked from America. The ink was rich and black, and it smelled unexpectedly floral, with an odd sulphuric note underneath. “Looks to be a woman’s writing, I’d say.”

“If you would.” He held out a pale hand. I passed him the envelope and he neatly sliced it open with his pocket knife. A single page slipped out onto his breakfast plate. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, then smiled. “Ah! Morticia.”

“Morticia?”

“Addams. She is my second cousin.”

I was immediately intrigued, for Holmes so rarely talked about his relatives. It had taken several years after our meeting for him to bring up the subject of his elder brother, who lived and worked barely an hour’s walk away. I wasn’t surprised that a second cousin in America had gone unnoted until now.

“Unusual names run in the family, I see.”

Holmes smirked. “Her grandmother was my great-aunt Séraphine, who met and married a quite singular gentleman named Algernon Frump while travelling. They settled over in the States many years ago, and dear Morticia now resides there with her husband.”

“Why does she write you?”

“She is arranging a sort of family reunion on All Hallow’s Eve. Apparently it has been far too long since we have all seen each other.”

“How long is that?”

“Several years at least. It was certainly before you and I met.” 

“And will you oblige her?”

“I suppose I will.” He folded the letter and placed it neatly back in its envelope, tucking it into his inside pocket. “You’ve been angling for a holiday, my boy. Would this satisfy you?”

“Wouldn’t it be terribly rude?” I asked, startled. “She has invited you, not me.”

He tutted. “Nonsense, Watson! Morticia knows we live together, of course.”

“How?”

“She will have read your book.”

“Oh! Well that is kind of her. But a family reunion, Holmes, I am not—”