Sherlock Holmes (31 page)

The landlord looked most hurt!
“Indeed they were, sir. I bought them fresh from the quayside
yesterday afternoon, they had just come off the boat and been
cooked there and then. Me and the wife both had them last night and
we are as right as rain!” I nodded and thanked him, although I
could see that he was a still a little rattled by my question.

“Forgive me, landlord. I am a
doctor and I have a duty to make these enquiries in order to seek
the best treatment for my patient.” The landlord was somewhat
placated by this and nodded in understanding.

After breakfast I returned to
Holmes’ room and saw that he was sound asleep, the Laudanum was
still at work. Returning downstairs, I decided that the best course
of action for me was to let Holmes rest. Rather than waste the
morning watching a sleeping man, I would seek out my aunt who lived
but a mile or so outside Lymington.

Gathering my hat, I gave
instructions that a small hand bell be placed at Holmes’ bedside
and that the maid should look in on him at least every hour.
Feeling that I had done all that I could, I left the inn in search
of my aunt.

I found a pony and trap for hire
close by and, on consulting my notebook, I found my aunt's address.
Giving this to the driver we were soon off at a fair pace towards
the outlying village.

August in England is a magical
time and I marvelled at the colours and scents of the blossoms of
the countryside, something I sorely missed as a city dweller. Soon
the driver was pulling up outside a small cottage with a lawned
front garden and beds filled with flowers. Climbing down from the
trap I tossed the driver a shilling and asked him to return in two
hours.

As I approached the cottage gate
I waved to my aunt as she looked up from her weeding.

“John! How wonderful to see
you!” Aunt Rachel dropped her hoe and hurried to the front gate to
give me an embracing hug. “My, you look well. Come in, come in.”
Aunt Rachel held my hand as she had done when I was a small child
and led me to her cottage.

The cottage, whilst small, was
beautifully kept and furnished in a simple, rustic style in keeping
with its setting. I had been so carried along by Aunt Rachel's
enthusiasm that I had not yet said a word!

“You are looking well aunt, the
cottage is a picture!” As we reached the front door, I looked
around, drinking in the sights and smells of a fine English summer.
As a boy, I had always enjoyed going to Aunt Rachel's as she was
renowned within the family for providing fine, country fare.
Whether it be game pie, scones or her unforgettable, honey cake. I
had always found her cooking delicious!

Aunt Rachel took me through to
the kitchen. This was dominated by a large, cast iron cooking range
which was immaculately clean and displayed a fine patina of black
lead. Upon it, a large copper kettle was gently producing a small
cloud of steam and aunt pushed it a little more towards the centre
of the stove to encourage it to boil a little faster.

We sat on a bench at the large,
wooden kitchen table. Sitting there, I felt I had to ask a rather
more serious question. “Tell me, Aunt. How are you coping after the
death of Uncle Jim?” This was a question that needed to be asked
but one that I didn't relish.

Aunt Rachel's face clouded. She
had been married to my uncle for well over 40 years and they had
been devoted to each other. “It is hard, John. There is a lot of
work involved in keeping the garden tended and then there are the
repairs to the house. Jim left me a small amount of money and I'll
supplement that with the money I will hopefully make from selling
fruit and vegetables from the garden. I will, perhaps, be able to
sell a few jars of honey from the hives too.”

For a moment I had forgotten
that my aunt and uncle kept bees. As a child, I had lost my fear of
bees after helping my aunt and uncle with their hives. I thoroughly
enjoyed collecting and processing the honeycomb to produce superb,
golden, country honey. The kettle had now boiled and steam surged
from the teapot as the scalding water from the kettle fell into the
pot.

“Would you care for a slice of
honey cake, John?” asked my aunt. It took me barely a moment to say
yes. Aunt Rachel went to the larder at the side of the kitchen and
brought forth a large round biscuit tin. Opening it, she withdrew a
golden brown, almost burnished, cake. Taking up a knife, she cut me
a sizeable slice.

I was in heaven and instantly
transported back to my childhood days. The smell was intoxicating.
It was a sweet, cloying odour that coated the nostrils with
pleasure. I took a bite....it was, as always, delicious!

Between bites, I endeavoured to
say, “Aunt, you must give me the recipe for this cake so that I
might give it to Mrs Hudson.”

Aunt Rachel gave me a strange
look. I wondered if I had transgressed by asking her for the
recipe.

“Even if I give it to you, John,
she will be unable to make the cake.”

I was taken aback. “Is it a
secret recipe, Aunt?” I asked.

“No, but I fear that she will
still be unable to make it... without this.” Getting up from the
table, she went back to her pantry and returned with a gleaming jar
of her honey. We both laughed heartily. Of course, I remembered
that Aunt Rachel always substituted honey for the sugar that would
be found in a traditional cake recipe.

Over tea and cake I told her of
my life in the City with Holmes and recounted some of our
adventures. In return, Aunt Rachel talked about village life and it
was then she said something that I found shocking and it greatly
concerned me.

“You know, John. I and many of
my friends are members of our newly formed 'Women's Institute'. We
call it the 'W.I.' and meet at the Parish Hall each Tuesday. We
have talks from visiting speakers, we exchange recipes... and
village gossip.” She smiled and then continued, but her voice took
on a more serious tone. “I am very concerned that we have lost so
many members of late. Our village is but a small one, barely some
150 persons and many of us are becoming elderly… but it's not
right!”

I held out my hand and took
hers, trying to both comfort my aunt and to encourage her to say
more. “John, in the last month alone we have lost 3 members and, of
those remaining, some have lost husbands. It's terrible.”

I was shocked by this. Whilst I
well understand that as we age we become more frail and likely to
fall victim to disease, these figures for such a small population
were truly worrying. “Do you know what happened to these people,
Aunt?” I enquired.

“Well, from my conversations, it
appears that most of them started with sickness and stomach pains.
They quite quickly became more ill and finally bed bound, unable to
move their arms and legs. I visited a few of them. Mrs Harvey was
barely 50 and a prolific knitter. She would knit for everybody in
the village but her hands became almost paralysed and she died in
great pain.”

Aunt Rachel began to sob and she
covered her face with her pinafore. “We... we were all so happy, we
knitted, sang and made cakes and jams together. We had a village
fete for May Day, that was our last happy time together and
then...then it began. Over the months since then, the villagers
have just become ill and died.”

My aunt sobbed again and I
stood, putting my arm around her to comfort her. “Drink some more
of your tea Aunt. This is something upon which I need to consult my
friend Holmes.”

I stayed for perhaps an hour and
was then packed off back to Lymington with a large wedge of honey
cake, the recipe and my precious jar of honey.

Arriving back at the inn I
immediately enquired about the wellbeing of my friend. I was
delighted to hear that he had requested a breakfast tray of tea and
toast and I bounded up the stairs, collected my bag and entered his
room. Holmes, I found, was sitting up, propped by two or three
large pillows. His colour had started to return and I was pleased
to see that he was becoming impatient to get up.

Delving into my Gladstone, I
grasped my stethoscope. “I'm sorry, Holmes, I cannot allow it until
I have examined you.”

“Nonsense, Watson. I am on the
mend!” Holmes was a most unreasonable patient and tried to rise but
I applied a firm hand to his chest which was enough to ensure his
compliance.

For two or three minutes he
quietly seethed as I examined him. I paid particular attention to
his extremities and was reprimanded as I pricked his hands and feet
to test their sensitivity. Finally he could take no more. “Great
heavens, Watson! Let me be!” Pushing me to one side, Holmes swung
his legs to the floor and attempted to stand. I was obliged to
swiftly grasp my friend's arm to prevent him from falling. He was
plainly suffering from vertigo, another symptom of arsenical
poisoning.

“Sit for a moment, Holmes. You
must not be so eager, it takes time to recover. From my
examination, your peripheral nervous system has been unaffected but
you are still weak.”

Following my advice, Holmes sat.
I told him of my diagnosis regarding his illness and also of my
questioning of the landlord.

“Yes, Watson. I believe you are
correct. Your diagnosis matches my own thoughts on the matter but
the problem remains. How can I have ingested the arsenic? If no one
else was affected after eating the prawns then...” His voice
trailed off as though his thoughts had taken a different track.

Angry with his own bodily
weakness, Holmes still wanted to use his prodigious brain. “Tell me
of your visit to your aunt, Watson.”

I recounted my visit and, in
particular, I stressed the symptoms and the number of deaths of her
friends at the Women's Institute. Holmes’ face clearly showed his
concern.

“From what you have told me,
Watson, I think we are facing an outbreak of arsenical poisoning...
but from where? I am not aware of any particular sources of metal
workings in this area which might use arsenic or have it as a
by-product.” Holmes moved further back onto the bed and remained
propped by the pillows, deep in thought. “I think I must visit your
aunt before we can move forward in this matter. In the meantime, I
would like you to visit the local coroner's office and obtain any
details you can from inquests held on the known victims.” I nodded,
making a mental note for the morning.

The next day when I appeared in
the breakfast room, I discovered Holmes dressed and reading a
newspaper. I drew up a chair and, as I did so, Holmes lowered his
paper and tapped the front page with his index finger. “It is
imperative, Watson, that I have sight of the coroner's reports,
they may hold a vital clue to this case.”

“Yes, Holmes. I intend to visit
the coroner's office immediately after breakfast.” I have to say
that whilst I understood that the information was important, I did
think I was being somewhat driven by the indisposed Holmes!

As soon as I had finished
breakfast, I nodded to Holmes and, after a short walk, made my way
to Lymington High Street.

The Town Hall was easily found,
a very fine building with a peaked, classical facade having a
relief of Greek, or perhaps, Roman figures. The body of the
building was built using alternating stripes of light and dark
coloured brickwork with sash windows either side of a central
arched window below the peak.

On enquiring inside, I soon
found the coroner's office. Here, I was provided with copies of the
coroner's reports that had been released for publication in the
local newspaper. I did not look at the reports but returned
immediately to Holmes so that we could read them together and
confer.

On returning from the coroner's
office I found that Holmes was pleased to see me and eager to
proceed. “Ah, Watson. Let us glean what we can.”

Holmes was seemingly almost back
to full health and, to prove a point, had already lit his pipe!

I cleared the table and,
dividing the twenty or so reports between us, we painstakingly read
through them, mentally noting the details. I put to one side those
that specifically mentioned arsenic and by the end, I was shocked
to find that more than half of the reports had been identified. I
had been concentrating hard on the task in hand and had not noticed
that Holmes had employed the same strategy. Combining our results,
of the twenty reports, twelve referred specifically to the presence
of arsenic.

I was mortified. “This is
horrendous, Holmes! What can we do?”

“Yes, what indeed?” Holmes put
his index finger to his lip for a moment whilst he thought. “We
must examine them again and look for some instance of commonality.
Be a good fellow and read some of the reports aloud to me.”

I knew this to be an analytical
method that Holmes often employed. He would close his eyes and
concentrate his considerable powers of deduction on the substance
of what he was hearing. Holmes sat back, closed his eyes and drew
slowly upon his pipe.

I picked up the first report and
began to read. “On the 14th of May, 1900 an inquest took place at
the Spotted Cow Hotel, Lymington into the death of Irene Small. Mrs
Small was 51 years of age and lived at 31, Parson's Drive,
Lymington. She had been employed as a cleaner for some years at the
Yew Tree Inn but had suffered poor health for the previous two
months which prevented her from working. Witnesses say she had
enjoyed good health up until May of this year and was sometimes
seen in the Yew Tree Inn, of an evening, enjoying a glass of beer.
Her death certificate showed the cause of death as peripheral
neuritis and the Inquest was adjourned 'sine die'.”

Holmes blew out a long slow
stream of smoke. “Be so good as to read another, Watson.”