Sherlock Holmes (33 page)

Rising from her chair, Aunt
Rachel disappeared into her pantry and returned clutching a jar of
jam. “This was one of hers. Although she was in great pain, she
made a batch and gave a jar to me.” A tear rolled down my aunt's
cheek and, sniffing slightly, she continued, “I haven't had the
heart to eat any of it... would you like it, Sherlock?”

Taking the jar, Holmes smiled.
“Indeed I would, thank you.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, I
noticed that he took my aunt's hand and gave it a gentle
squeeze.

I have to say I was somewhat
taken aback. How could Holmes so readily accept the jam made by a
dear friend of my Aunt's who had so recently passed away?

“Do you think that we should
take this, Holmes?” I asked. Showing him that I slightly
disapproved of his actions.

Holmes turned and gave me a
stern look. It was clear from the expression on his face that he
had not made this decision purely from politeness. “Yes, I think it
a very kind gesture by your aunt.”

Holmes then looked out of the
cottage door towards the beehives. “Would it be possible to look at
your bees, Aunt?” asked Holmes.

Aunt Rachel beamed, “Of course.”
Donning her beekeeper's uniform, she led the way back to the
hives.

The hives were just as I
remembered them. They stood on a raised wooden bench at the end of
the garden, sheltered from the wind and the rain. They were hand
made from straw, crafted into a single, round bundle which was then
coiled to make an object that looked like a squat, upturned bucket.
British Black bees could be seen around the base of each of the
circular hives, constantly coming and going in the warm, scented
air.

Aunt Rachel gently raised one of
the straw hives and turned it over. “This is a very old design of
hand crafted hive dating back to the Middle Ages. It is one which
is still made in the village today.”

Holmes and I peered at the
inside of the hive. Immediately we were fascinated by the swarm of
bees crawling over the broad bands of sweet smelling, yellow,
honeycomb. Picking up a feather, my aunt gently swept the bees
aside before breaking off a piece of honeycomb. I could see that
Holmes was intrigued. “Tell me, Aunt. Why do you use a feather
rather than a brush?” asked Holmes.

My aunt smiled, “Ah, there is a
good reason. If I were to use a brush, the hairs on the bee's legs
would become entangled in the bristles. Using a feather means that
I can carefully sweep them to one side with the blade of the
feather, without harming them.” Holmes nodded as he continued to
study them intently.

Carefully replacing the hive on
the bench, we returned to the cottage where my aunt carefully cut
the honeycomb into slices. This allowed us to suck the honey
directly from the section of hexagonal, wax matrix. It was divinely
sweet, slightly warm and intoxicatingly pungent! Holmes’ face
showed his pure enjoyment of this activity. Seldom had I seen him
so captivated by anything as mundane as food.

Sadly, the time had come for us
to go. Holmes slipped the jar of jam into his pocket and we both
said goodbye, promising to return before too long. Holmes looked
wistful as we drove back. “You know, Watson. I have a mind to take
up beekeeping in retirement. The bee's social structure and the
relationship with their Queen is quite fascinating.” Holmes sat
back contentedly in the trap, deep in thought and quite oblivious
to his surroundings.

On arriving back at the inn, the
landlord sought us out saying that we had a visitor who was waiting
for us in the lounge. He led the way and, as we entered, a tall,
slender young man of 30 years rose from a chair and approached to
greet us.

Holding out his hand, he asked,
“Mr Holmes? I am Dr John Parry. I have had an express letter by
hand from Dr Carter in Portsmouth. He has asked me to meet you and
to pass on its contents.”

Holmes shook Dr Parry's hand
and, after introducing me, sat down to read the letter. After a few
moments Holmes sat bolt upright. “Ha! Listen to this Watson. ‘After
your compelling information, I have analysed several samples of
beer from the casks of Wheatley & Ford and found them to
contain a dangerous level of arsenic. The wooden casks themselves
were tested and showed no contamination. Further investigation
showed that the batch of beer currently being produced in the brew
house was also toxic. As a result of my investigation, all
production has been stopped and all supplies of beer from the
brewery are to be seized forthwith.’ Holmes paused for a moment.
"Excellent news... however, it doesn't indicate the source of the
arsenic.”

Holmes reached into the pocket
of his coat and placed on the table the envelope of sulphur powder
and the small pile of green hops from the oast house. Turning to Dr
Parry, Holmes asked, “I took the liberty of acquiring these samples
from the supplier of hops to the Wheatley & Ford brewery. How
long will it take you to analyse them for the presence of
arsenic?”

Dr Parry thought for a moment
before replying. “I can put them on the train this afternoon, Mr
Holmes. We should get the results from the Public Health laboratory
in Portsmouth by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Splendid!” Holmes paused for a
second before asking, “I would be obliged for an analysis of this
too?” Holmes reached into his coat pocket and produced the jar of
jam that my aunt had given him. Dr Parry looked incredulously at
the jar. Holmes inclined his head slightly towards Dr Parry and, in
a most serious voice, asked, “If you please, Dr Parry, it is most
important… and as quickly as you can?”

I looked on aghast as Holmes
handed over the precious jar! I could barely contain my
displeasure, crying. “Surely not! I don't understand, Holmes!”

Holmes had a grim look on his
face as he patted my arm, saying, “I think your aunt has her bees
to thank for her life, Watson.”

Dr Parry stuffed the items into
his coat pockets. We briefly shook hands before he hurried off to
his office to ready the samples for their train journey to
Portsmouth.

Sitting down again, I must
confess that I was confused. “Holmes, why do you have need to
analyse the jar of jam from Mrs Harvey?”

Holmes sat and started to fill
his pipe. “Let us consider the facts as we know them, Watson. From
the inquest reports we know that arsenic is causing illness and
death in the local population… but from a source unknown. We now
know that a source of the poison is the beer from the local
brewery. But how is the beer contaminated? It cannot be from the
casks nor from the water supply else everyone would be affected...
and yet, deaths have occurred where people did not drink beer. The
sulphur and the hops may be contaminated...but I think we must look
elsewhere for the source.”

I shook my head, still not
grasping the significance of the jam. “But why the jam,
Holmes?”

Holmes sat back with his fingers
steepled against his lips. “I fear that the sugar used in the jam
may be the common factor in all of this. Sugar is used as the
preservative in jam making but it is also used in the production of
beer. It is the 'food', if you will, of the yeast and therefore
necessary for the fermentation process.”

“But how has it become
contaminated? Surely you do not suspect deliberate mass
poisoning?”

Holmes frowned. “Unlikely,
Watson, but it is a possibility. I think we must wait for
confirmation of our theory from Dr Parry before we can proceed. I
need to think more on this.”

Nothing more could be done that
day and on the following morning Holmes could be seen in the lounge
pacing like a caged tiger, desperate for the results of the
analysis. “Steady Holmes.” said I, conscious of the frustration
that was rapidly consuming him.

Holmes stopped pacing, his eyes
ablaze. I knew that I must offer some form of distraction.
“Lymington has some fine, open air, baths, I have a fancy to take a
little exercise and see them. Would you care to join me?”

Holmes nodded, realising that he
needed to retreat from his growing obsession with the results of
the analysis.

Within a few minutes we were
off. As we walked, I could see a subtle change in Holmes as he
welcomed the distraction of physical activity.

I had read that Lymington, in
days gone by, had been a centre for salt production. Seawater was
collected, filtered and then evaporated in large, coal fired pans
to produce high quality table salt. However, due to heavy taxation
and the exploitation of a cheaper source of salt from the mines of
Cheshire, the business had ceased some decades earlier.

Before long we were striding
along Bath Road and approaching the plainly modern, bath house. “It
doesn't look particularly Romanesque, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes and
he began to chuckle. As both his friend and physician, I was
relieved to see that the inner tension had been released.

The open air salt water baths
were indeed extensive in size and I thought that even Holmes could
not fail to be impressed. As we walked, we enjoying the dappled
shade from several pine trees and observed that the baths were part
open to the elements and part covered for the less hardy
bathers.

We stopped briefly to admire the
expanse of over an acre of water that formed the swimming pool. As
we stood, I noticed a plaque on the wall of the baths. This gave
some details of the pool and, also, the town's history in producing
salt.

The scent of pine and the
mention of salt baths brought a memory flooding back to me. My mind
reeled back to my acutely embarrassing experience in Old Burlington
Street. There I had had to endure an assisted bath in the case of
The Bishop's Tie Pin.

Holmes was standing in the part
shade with his eyes closed, face inclined, enjoying the sun's
warmth. “It says here, Holmes, that not only was the town noted for
its table salt production, but also for the production of Epsom
salts.”

“Hmm” said Holmes, continuing to
bask in the warmth.

“Yes. It says that some of the
salt was dissolved in spring water and then sulphuric acid was
added to...”

Holmes’ eyes flicked open. “Of
course! Quickly, Watson! There is no time to lose!”

Holmes urgently tugged at my arm
and we hastened to a nearby cab stand. Clambering aboard, Holmes
shouted up to the driver. “Lymington Town Hall please driver, as
quick as you like!” With that, we were off at a fearsome pace.

As we hurtled along, I pressed
Holmes to explain. “What is it Holmes? Tell me, for pity’s
sake!”

“The acid, Watson! The acid!
Sugar cane is crushed and then treated with sulphuric acid to strip
the sugar from it. The acid is obtained from pure sulphur but I
suspect that, in this case, it has been made from iron sulphide,
pyrites. Arsenic occurs naturally in the iron pyrites and has been
transferred to the sugar!” I sat back in shock for this was
something that I would never have considered.

Within a few minutes we were
outside the town hall. Leaping from the cab, Holmes ran into the
building leaving me to pay the cabbie. Following the arrow showing
the Public Health department to be on the first floor, I raced up
the stairs and stood panting whilst Holmes hammered on the window
marked 'Enquiries'.

So intense was Holmes’ attack on
the window that I feared the glass might shatter. Thankfully, a few
moments later a somewhat frightened young girl opened the frosted
window asking, in a trembling voice, “Yes, sir?”

“I need to speak to Dr Parry,
immediately! It is a matter of life and death!” The girl blinked
but did not move. Holmes’ fist crashed down upon the wooden counter
and the girl scurried away in full flight.

Within moments, John Parry
appeared and Holmes quickly appraised him of his suspicions. To his
credit, Parry immediately sent a messenger to Redmond's instructing
them to cease sugar production and also a telegram to his superior
in Portsmouth.

On shaking hands, we left the
town hall for there was little more that could be done. Dr Parry
had informed us that he would call at The Ship Inn as soon as he
had any news.

True to his word, John Parry
appeared shortly after luncheon. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. I and the
people of Hampshire are plainly in your debt. The results of the
analysis from Portsmouth showed that whilst the sulphur sample and
the hops were free of contamination, the jam contained a
potentially lethal level of arsenic.”

On hearing this I gasped and
struggled to keep my balance. Holmes, however, simply nodded. “Yes,
the high sugar content of the jam would make it particularly toxic.
What of the sulphuric acid used at the sugar refinery?”

Dr Parry looked particularly
pleased. “Upon your departure, I visited Redmond's and, as you
suspected, they had indeed used iron pyrites to produce the
sulphuric acid. This was purely a commercial decision on their part
because of a large increase in the cost of sulphur. I fear,
however, that they will have to answer to the courts for such a
decision.” We again shook hands and John Parry left us to our
thoughts.

Sitting back contentedly in the
lounge of The Ship Inn, we smoked an afternoon pipe of tobacco.
Turning over in my mind the events of the last few days, I leaned
over towards Holmes. “I see now the value of my aunt's bees to her
continued health.”

Holmes looked wistful and blew
out a long, steady stream of blue smoke. “Yes, your aunt was most
fortunate. Bees are the most curious creatures. I see their
devotion to their Queen and how they work towards a common purpose
to be most admirable. It has stirred in me something that I have
seldom felt before whilst studying any other population.”

I nodded at my friend's wisdom
but suppressed a chuckle as he continued, “I look forward, with
some pleasure, to Mrs Hudson's use of the fruits of their
labour.”