The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (12 page)

“We do not trumpet our faith, Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly.

“I am not so vain as to believe that I am the only man in London who could read the signs if he so wished. What one man can discover, so can another.”

She nodded at this wisdom. “If Benjamin has such an enemy, we had no inklings of it.”

“Perhaps, though we will have to question Dr. Lowe directly to be certain. He may have not spoken of it, not wanting to worry you. The thing to do now, Mrs. Lowe, is to return to your home. Watson and I will visit your husband straightaway,” said he, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to assist her.

“But you don’t even know where they have taken him,” she objected.

Holmes merely smiled. “Of course I do. You live close to Covent Garden. They will have taken him to the Bow Street Police Court.”

By the time Holmes had escorted Mrs. Lowe back to her brougham, I had repaired to my bedroom in order to change for the day. We were soon on our way downstairs and out onto Baker Street. The prior evening had brought with it a moderate snowfall, but the day had dawned clear and fine. There was still a briskness to the air that induced us to button up our Inverness coats and wrap mufflers about our throats. With Holmes in his cap, and I in my top hat, we stepped forth from our warm quarters. Outside, the sun was shining coldly, and the streets were relatively devoid of passers-by, which meant that the streets still retained their white covering, like the wool of the finest West Country lambs. Our footsteps crunched softly in the powdery snow and our breath blew out into smoke even as Holmes clapped his unlit pipe to his lips.

When we turned the corner onto Oxford Street, the crowds grew larger, as the good people of London hurried to-and-fro on last minute holiday errands, wrapped packages tucked under their arms. Although we walked briskly, Holmes intent upon his destination, I still managed to nod and tip my hat to a few acquaintances, wishing them the compliments of the season. Even the browning of the snow, thrown upon the sidewalks by the passing frost-covered hansoms could not dampen my spirit.

“It’s a Halcyon day for certain!” cried I, happily.

Holmes turned to me with a question in his eyes. I recollected that his knowledge of literature, while not ‘nil’ as I once thought, was surely limited when it came to Greek mythology.
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“I refer of course, to the legend of the kingfishers, for who the gods granted seven days on either side of the winter solstice when storms would not disturb their caring for their winter-hatched clutch.” I explained.

Holmes nodded. “I am aware of the legend, Watson. I once spent a fine winter holiday during my college years working on a monograph about the common threads of the various celebratory practices of the solstices. Although never printed, my professor remarked that it was the last word upon the subject.
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What you are forgetting is that the gods turned Alcyone into a bird as punishment for his hubris of referring to himself as Zeus. The gods can be cruel, as can the creatures of Prometheus. Evil does not pause for the holidays.”

I shook my head in exasperation until I recalled the mission upon which we had set out. Soon enough our steps led us from Oxford Street into the medieval tangle near Soho Square. Holmes’ unerring knowledge of the London byways, however, quickly steered us clear of this labyrinth, from which we emerged to find ourselves on Endell Street. Once it crossed Long Acre, this transformed into Bow Street proper, where the New Bow Street Police Court had been constructed over a decade earlier.
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The building’s bulk, punctuated by four stories of windows, seemed to loom out into the street, while its distinctive white outside lights were dimmed for the day. When I had first visited this establishment to visit the erstwhile beggar Hugh Boone, my companion was already well known to the Force, and similarly, the two constables at the door simply saluted him and waved him past. Inside, we were greeted by a tall, stout official dressed in a standard issue frogged jacket and peaked cap, however he had also whimsically added a sprig of holly to the top button of his jacket.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! What can I do for you, gentleman, on this fine morn?” said he, cheerily. 

“Ah, Bradstreet,
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excellent,” said Holmes. “I am glad to find that you are on duty. May we have a word?”

“Certainly. Mr. Holmes. My office?”

Holmes nodded and we followed him down the stone-flagged passage to a large room, with a huge ledger upon the table, a telephone projecting from the wall, and a large black board covered in chalk diagrams regarding the connections between various individuals, presumably regarding a case Bradstreet was investigating.
[190]

The inspector sat down behind his desk, while I sank into one of the chairs to rest my leg after our ramble of several miles across London.
[191]
Holmes, however, had gravitated to the chalkboard where he briefly studied the diagrams. After a moment, he turned away and perched on the other chair, the chalk drawings apparently forgotten.

Before Holmes could begin, the inspector hazarded a guess regarding our errand. “I reckon, Mr. Holmes, that you are here about the good doctor that we have locked in our cells.”

Holmes arched his eyebrows. “Indeed. You are spot on, Bradstreet. I should like to see Dr. Lowe.”

“Would you now?” the inspector smiled genially at Holmes. “I thank you for that request, Mr. Holmes. I hope you are willing to confirm it if asked?”

Holmes leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at the inspector. “Ah, I see. Exactly how much did you bet Lestrade that I would come calling? A sovereign?”

“Two,” chuckled the inspector. “But how could you tell?”

“When you led us into your office, I noticed a small scrap of paper sticking out of your jacket pocket with Lestrade’s distinctive handwriting upon it. That item coupled with your unusual request could only mean that the two of you were engaged in a small wager on the side.”

Bradstreet grinned. “Lestrade will be furious, but I knew that this was exactly the kind of case that would draw your attention. It’s not every Christmas that a supposedly-respectable physician decides to poison three people at a holiday party.”

“By George!” I cried. “There are three men deceased?”

“Not quite, Dr. Watson,” replied the inspector. “Lowe tried to poison two men, Mr. Clement Vaughan and Reverend Gideon Arden of Marylebone Chapel,
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and one woman, Mrs. Berenice Molyneux. However, for now, he has only succeeded in killing the Reverend and Mrs. Molyneux, while Mr. Vaughan still fights for his life.”

Holmes nodded, as if this information was previously known to him. “And the poison utilized?”

“Arsenic,” said the inspector, confidently.

“You seem certain, Bradstreet. It is a difficult substance to detect, or is the Marsh Test already positive?”
[193]

“No,” he grinned, “but we don’t need it. The bottle of arsenic in Dr. Lowe’s medical bag was empty, and he could not explain where the poison had gone.”

“Fascinating,” said Holmes. “It appears that you have a cut-and-dried case on your hands, Inspector.” He rose from his seat. “Still, I would very much like to have a word with the doctor.”

The inspector shrugged. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. Though I can’t see what good it will do you, or him. But come this way, if you please.” We followed him out of his office, and down a passage to a locked door. After opening it, we descended a winding stair to a white-washed corridor lined with doors on each side. Bradstreet stopped at the second door on the left and moved to shoot back the panel in the upper part.

However, Holmes reached out and stopped him. “Can you please open the door, Bradstreet? It will be easier to question him directly rather than through that little slit.”

“Well, I don’t know…” said the inspector.

“Come now, Bradstreet. You did say that Dr. Lowe poisoned his victims, did you not? I take it he didn’t pummel them into submission? Are you concerned that he could possibly overcome three strong men such as ourselves and make his escape?”

The inspector snorted in amused derision at such an absurd possibility. “Very well, Mr. Holmes, have it your way.” He slipped his key into the lock and swung open the door to reveal a thin man, who although he was seated upon a thin bed, I estimated to be of a middling height. He had a slightly olivine, cleanly-shaved face and coal black hair. Upon studying his features, I divined that he was man of deep character, a man with an alert and sensitive mind. His fine dressing gown and bedroom slippers only served to accentuate the incongruous appearance of this respected physician confined in a lowly Bow Street cell. Upon hearing the tumblers turn, he swung black eyes dull with despair toward us, but otherwise remained mute.

Holmes opened the interrogation. “Dr. Benjamin Lowe, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Your wife has retained me to prove your innocence in regards to the murder of Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux, and the attempted murder of Mr. Vaughan.”

A faint smile graced the man’s bloodless lips. “I should have known that Rebecca would move heaven and earth to find me.”

“Dr. Lowe, you should know that the charges against you are severe, and the evidence damning.”

The man nodded slowly. “Yes, so they tell me. I wish I understood where all of my arsenic went to, but I have no explanation for its disappearance.”

“In what form do you carry arsenic?” I asked.

He peered at me. “You must be Dr. Watson. I heard you were a Bart’s man. I am glad to see that you are also on the case. My arsenic was carried as Fowler’s solution,
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of course.”

“And when was the last time you utilized it?” I continued.

Lowe appeared to hesitate at this question. “I cannot say,” he eventually replied.

“Come now, Dr. Lowe, if you will not be honest with us, we cannot help you,” snapped Holmes.

The man drew himself up from his slouched position. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes. To disclose such a thing would be to violate patient-physician confidentiality.”

I thought I understood his reticence. “Holmes, Fowler’s solution is most commonly used to treat syphilis.”

“I know that, Watson,” said he, irritably. “I am not asking you for a name, doctor. Simply a date and time.”

The man shook his head stubbornly, and then nodded at Bradstreet. “The inspector there has confiscated my date book. To divulge such information would be akin to publicizing my client’s malady on the front page of the
Times
.”

“You will not tell me, even if such information would help free you?” Holmes said gravely.

“No, I will not.”

Suddenly, Holmes smiled. “Excellent. Well then, how about you tell me how much Fowler’s solution you did carry into Mr. Vaughan’s house that night?”

Lowe pursed his lips and considered this. “I would estimate that seven ounces remained in my bottle.”

“That sounds like enough to do in all three individuals,” interjected the inspector.

“Indeed,” said Holmes, dryly. “And for how long have you been treating Mr. Vaughan?”

Lowe shook his head. “Only a few weeks. I barely knew the man, why would I want to kill him?”

“And the others? Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux? Did you know them?”

“Not at all. I met them for the first time yesterday.”

Inspector Bradstreet suddenly blew out a burst of air. “Now that’s what I call cold-blooded. Maybe you had a serious grievance with Vaughan, but to poison his guests too, who you didn’t even know.” He shook his head forlornly. “It will be the rope for you, doctor, that is for certain.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes tersely. “Perhaps if you would give us a few moments alone with the doctor?”

Bradstreet shrugged. “As you will. I will leave the key in the door. Please return it to me on your way out.”

Once the man had departed Holmes turned his attention back to Dr. Lowe. “Now, then, Doctor, why don’t we start at the beginning? Please describe your relationship with Mr. Vaughan. You may leave out anything that is absolutely confidential, but remember that your life may hang in the balance.”

Lowe studied Holmes for a moment before nodding his head. “I will relate everything that my oath allows. As you may know, I have been a physician for many years and my practice is quite established. I only take on new patients from time to time, but recently I have begun to develop a particular specialty
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in diseases of the blood. You may infer from that information what you will. For the last several weeks, I have been caring for a new patient to my practice, Mr. Clement Vaughan. He had recently dismissed his doctor of many years, Sir Jasper Meek.
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I knew little about the man, other than the fact that he was a jeweler and that he was reputed to be quite wealthy. In any case, my examinations of his body and his blood samples soon confirmed that he was a very ill man. In these matters, it is often difficult to be precise, but I estimated that his life was measured in months, if not weeks. I was frank with him regarding his prognosis, and he took the news well. Whether he had already been prepared by Sir Jasper, or whether he was intrinsically prepared for that final journey to the undiscovered country, I cannot say, but he exhibited little of the terror that typically overcomes people when faced with such grim information. He only appeared concerned about one matter. He was particularly fixated in ensuring that he would live until Christmas day. I, of course, could not promise such a thing, but I advised him that his survival to that date was highly likely. He seemed comforted by that knowledge and my daily calls to his house were generally pleasant. I have seen his like a few times in my career. He was a man at peace.”