The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (26 page)

It was in February 1888 that Holmes had reposed in such a fashion for three whole days, following upon a period when he had busied himself with his various files, scribbling on a notepad and occasionally muttering to himself. He had not eaten throughout this time, his only form of sustenance lying in that strong-smelling shag tobacco, a cloud of pipesmoke enshrouding him with the opaqueness of a November fog.

“Poison, Watson,” his sudden emergence from that apparent somnial state caused me to start involuntarily, “is the device of more murderers who have escaped the gallows than any other weapon used. Poison is, in many cases, undetectable, only the symptoms of some being a guide to their identification. Often death occurs after the villain has returned to his normal routine and the victim is diagnosed as having died from natural causes. Doubtless you, yourself, have, on more than one occasion, been deceived by the guile of some insidious murderer who has later reaped the rewards of his vile deed.”

“I would hate to think so, Holmes.” I confess his words brought with them a pang of guilt, a momentary feeling that I had, in some instances, neglected my duty as a doctor.

“It is not a comforting thought but, undoubtedly, it has occurred.” He regarded me with an unwavering stare. “Likewise, I, on rare occasions, have overlooked some vital clue that would have led to a conviction. None of us are infallible although, I hope, that over the past few days I have achieved something which will make those errors, where poison is concerned, something of a rarity.”

“That is good news, indeed.” I knew full well that he was about to confide in me the purpose of his recent writings and contemplations. I leaned forward expectantly.

“You will doubtless recall my original thesis on poisons,” he became a silhouette behind a cloud of exhaled tobacco smoke, “in which I examined the varieties in some detail.”

“Yes, yes,” I had read it at his invitation some time ago. Some aspects of the paper did, indeed, throw new light on the subject.

“Well, I have revised and updated it, Watson. I would hope that from now on the prospective poisoner will think twice before administering some lethal dose to an unsuspecting victim.”

“That is good news, Holmes.” I have never doubted my friend’s variable knowledge of botany, surpassed only by a profound understanding of chemistry.

“Cyanide, for example, works slowly if administered in small doses, produces symptoms of failing health which often deceives a well-meaning doctor right up to, and beyond, the point of death. Unless, of course, he perceives a faint smell of almonds on the doomed person’s breath. Now, in total contrast …”

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knocking on the door which bespoke an urgency that transcended the routine delivery of a letter or telegram. My colleague was instantly alert for it was for such moments that he lived: the unexpected visitor, in a state of distress, ushered in by the long-suffering Mrs Hudson.

“A lady to see you, Mr Holmes,” the landlady withdrew, closed the door behind her for she was accustomed to strange callers, day or night, and resolutely showed no surprise.

“Mr Holmes, please forgive this intrusion.” Our visitor was an exceedingly attractive lady in her early twenties, long auburn hair falling about her shoulders, her expression one of acute anxiety.

“Pray, be seated, Miss …” Holmes, like myself, had already noticed that our caller wore no wedding ring.

“I am Gloria Morgan.” She seated herself on the edge of the vacant chair, wrung her hands together in obvious anguish. “Mr Holmes … my father has murdered my mother, a vile deed which will go both undetected and unpunished unless …”

“Have you not informed the police, Miss Morgan?” Holmes stretched out his long legs. “Surely, that is the obvious course if you are so convinced that such a dastardly act has taken place?”

“It would be useless, Mr Holmes, for Doctor Lambeth is insistent that my mother died of lockjaw. But he is ageing, he retires shortly, and I do not think that he wishes to put himself in the embarrassing position of accusing a prominent member of the community of such a crime on slender evidence.”

“Please start at the very beginning, Miss Morgan.” Holmes reached the old slipper off the floor by his side and proceeded to stuff the blackened bowl of his pipe with fine cut dark tobacco. “I trust you have no objection to the smell of strong tobacco, Miss Morgan?”

“Not at all.” She coughed slightly for the room was already thick with pipesmoke. “My father is Squire Royston Morgan of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire.”

“Ah, I recall the locality.” Holmes leaned back, his fingertips pressed together, seemingly drowsy to anybody who was not familiar with his posture, but I knew that he listened intently. “Is that not in the proximity of Longparish, home of the legendary late Colonel Peter Hawker, undoubtedly one of the finest marksman which this country has ever produced, a veteran of the Crimean War who, upon being invalided out of the army, devoted the remainder of his life to the pursuit of fur and feather?”

“Indeed, it is,” Gloria Morgan smiled wryly. “I curse him, too, even though he has been dead for half a century, for it is upon him that my father has modelled himself, although I would hope that Colonel Hawker’s only shortcoming was his devotion to fishing and shooting.”

“Hawker was surely the finest game shot of all time,” Sherlock Holmes answered dreamily. “Not content with killing twenty-four snipe consecutively on one day, without missing a shot, he used to practise on bats around Longparish Hall at dusk, and, according to his books, with equal success.”

“As my father does, especially when we have guests staying.” There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.

“I digress,” Holmes said. “Please continue.”

“As I have already said, my father has endeavoured to build his own reputation upon that of Colonel Hawker’s. A fine shot, an excellent fly fisherman and a dashing horseman, understandably he has attracted the attention of other women. I would add, at this stage, that my parent’s marriage has not been a happy one. One woman in particular, is a wealthy widow by the name of Eva Dann, who currently owns Longparish, the property most coveted by my father. There have, for some years, been whispered rumours of their relationship, and my mother has had to suffer the ignominy of it. For my sake, she clung to her marital status and rights, doubtless much to my father’s chagrin.

“So, faced with the prospect of her remaining indefinitely at Winchcombe, and thereby depriving him of the opportunity to marry his mistress and acquire Longparish, he murdered her.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Alas, no, but I have not a single doubt in my mind that he killed her.”

“Then tell me everything you know, setting out your story as it happened, trying not to overlook the smallest detail, however irrelevant it may seem to you.”

“My mother had resigned herself to living beneath the same room as my father, no matter how unpleasant that may have been. One of her interests was horticulture, and on fine days she would spend her time in the gardens. Her other love was literature. There is a small library in the Hall and, after dinner each evening, she would go there to read until she retired about ten o’clock. Lately, she took to locking herself in the library because, on those occasions when my father had been drinking heavily, he would go and vent his vile temper on her. Thus, by locking the door, she ensured herself of the tranquillity she required to immerse herself in her reading.”

“And it was in the library where she met her untimely death?” There was a gentleness in Sherlock Holmes’s voice as he asked the question.

“Yes”, Gloria Morgan stifled a sob. “The night before last. Dinner was an uneasy meal for my father was in an uncertain temper on account of having shot badly that day. Afterwards, my mother retired to the library as was her usual routine. I am not sure of my father’s movements, possibly he went down to the gamekeeper’s cottage to discuss with Randall the task of destroying a colony of moles which are currently rendering the lawns and borders an unsightly mess.”

“And the gamekeeper?”

“Randall is a hateful man. He reminds me of the stoats and weasels which hang rotting and stinking on his vermin gibbet. He is the most hated man for miles around. Several cats and dogs, belonging to the villagers, have died in his traps and snares, or eaten the poison which he lays for foxes in the game preserves. The safety of his pheasants is paramount, the greater the slaughter on shooting days, the more prestigious his role becomes amongst the guests who shoot at Winchcombe.”

“A decidedly unpleasant character, by all accounts,” Holmes mused.

“Second only to my father. On the night in question I was somewhat later retiring than usual. As I passed the library about eleven o’clock, I noticed that a light still burned beneath the door. Fearing lest my mother might have fallen asleep in her chair, or perhaps become ill, I knocked on the door. After several knockings, and receiving no response, I hastened to summon Jenkins, the butler. Jenkins forced the door open and there … oh, Mr Holmes!”

I reached across and patted her hand. Bravely, Gloria Morgan pulled herself together, and continued her narrative. “It was clear at first glance that my mother was dead. That, in itself, was awful enough but nothing by comparison with the expression on her features and the way in which her body was twisted into an unnatural posture. Mr Holmes, there is no doubt that my mother died in indescribable agony, unable even to call for help.”

“You then sent for the doctor?”

“Yes. Jenkins rode at once to the village to fetch Doctor Lambeth who arrived soon after.”

“And your father?”

“My father did not return until after the doctor’s arrival. His show of distress was so shallow that the most amateurish of stage actors could have improved considerably upon his pathetic performance. Doctor Lambeth examined my mother and diagnosed that she had died of lockjaw which seemed to satisfy my father.”

“There would most certainly have been signs of the malady before death took place,” I interposed. “A tetanus sufferer would have experienced pain long before the final convulsions.”

“Precisely!” Holmes added. “Miss Morgan, did your mother appear unwell in any way during dinner?”

“No,” Gloria Morgan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, “but of late she has suffered a loss of appetite due, I presume, to her unhappy state of mind. She ate very little on the night in question, just picked at her food.”

“And the remains of her meal?” There was a sharpness about my friend now which had been absent of late. It appeared that Miss Morgan’s story had aroused his interest above the level of a routine investigation.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Mister Holmes,” our visitor gave a hollow laugh. “The same thought crossed my mind, that some form of poison had been introduced into my mother’s food. In my grief and anger I suggested that to both Doctor Lambeth and my father.”

“And?”

“My father laughed cruelly. ‘Very well’, he said, leading us through to the dining room, ‘just to prove to you how unfounded your stupid fears are, we will feed the remnants of your mother’s meal to the dogs.’ We followed him outside to the kennels where the dogs voraciously devoured those leftovers. The animals were still in excellent health when I left to catch the train to London this morning.”

“I see.” It was impossible even to guess what Sherlock Holmes was thinking as he lapsed into silence. I knew better than to enquire of him for he would reveal them when he was ready and not until.

Miss Morgan and I glanced at each other and there was no mistaking the anguish in her eyes. She had come here with a desperate plea for help and Sherlock Holmes was her only hope.

“Watson and I will travel down to Hampshire by the first available train in the morning.” Holmes had made his decision and he knew, without asking, that I would accompany him. “It is important that I examine the scene of this untimely death without your father’s knowledge, Miss Morgan. Can that be arranged?”

“Most certainly,” There was sheer relief in her reply. “In spite of my mother’s sudden death, my father has not seen fit to cancel a day’s pheasant shooting tomorrow. He will be out in the fields and coverts with his guests from around ten in the morning until mid-afternoon.”

“Admirable!” Holmes snapped his long thin fingers. “I would prefer you to return to Winchcombe this afternoon, Miss Morgan. I presume that your father has no idea that you have visited me.”

“None, whatsoever. In fact, should he find out.” I glimpsed a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes. “I dread to think what he might do. As well as being one of the best shots in England, my father has a violent streak in him. This was evident only last winter when he and Randall caught a poacher in the Home Covert, an otherwise harmless villager who only sought a pheasant for his dinner. The man was in hospital for some weeks afterwards with broken bones. Had it not been for my father’s position, as well as squire he is chief magistrate, then I fear that the local constabulary would have brought a charge of assault against him.”

“Then we shall hope to conduct our investigations undetected.” Sherlock Holmes smiled as he rose to his feet. “One final question, Miss Morgan, hurtful as it may be, your mother’s body …”

“It lies in an ante room. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow.”

“Excellent, Watson!” Holmes said when Gloria Morgan’s receding footsteps had faded. “I shall be obliged for your professional opinion on the deceased in due course. Also, it might be advisable if you slipped your service revolver into your pocket. The man we are up against, as well as being of a violent temperament, is one of the best shots in England. We cannot afford to take any chances.”

A shimmering of snow sparkled across the countryside as Holmes and I travelled down to Andover on the early morning train. My companion spoke little throughout the long journey and I knew that he was turning over in his mind everything that Miss Morgan had told us yesterday. Her story had a ring of truth to it, incredible though it seemed on reflection. Had her mother really been murdered or was it fanciful thinking by a distraught young lady? If it was murder, then how had Violet Morgan been killed within a locked room, and the act so disguised that her death had been diagnosed as from natural causes by an experienced GP? Was Doctor Lambeth in league with Royston Morgan? Was Randall, the gamekeeper, with his store of poisons with which to kill vermin and roaming domestic pets, involved? I had enough confidence in my companion to know that if there was foul play then he would unravel the truth. The weight of my service revolver in my overcoat pocket brought mixed feelings of comfort and unease. All too often when Holmes had instructed me to bring a pistol along we had had need of it. The man’s intuition was astounding.