Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister (3 page)

I had, it seemed, learnt something that day about servants' gossip. “How did you come to lose your place, Joe,” I enquired, “if you don't mind my asking?”

“Well, sir, where the women are concerned, I'm not such a saint as the good Doctor H'anstruther. There was this little upstairs maid, y'see, named Elsie—”

“Now, Joe,” warned his companion. “You don't want to go tellin' no private dick about all that. 'e'll 'ave you in the clinker, too.”

It appeared that Monday was the only night on which Anstruther routinely left his house. On those occasions, he usually returned quite late. Three days must pass, therefore, before I could take action. That evening, when I returned to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson advised me that she had received a telegram from Holmes, announcing his arrival home on Wednesday.

Over the week-end, I strongly considered abandoning my plan altogether and laying the matter before Holmes when he returned. I knew, of course, that he would be of great assistance, if only to protect me from the errors that I, acting alone, was bound to make. On several previous occasions in our partnership, one of us had lain in hiding while the other extracted a confession from an unsuspecting criminal. If we could turn the trick again, Anstruther could be charged with murder. It would be one more triumph for the team of Holmes and Watson, one more arrest for Scotland Yard. My wife's death, and the apprehension of her killer, would become the final episodes (the
dénouement
, if not the climax) in our destruction of the criminal gang of Moriarty. Then the woman I had loved could pass into the pages of my case book, avenged—like so many others—by the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Somehow, this thought only filled me with depression. Yet, there was another reason why I balked at what should have seemed the only proper course to take. Suppose that Anstruther was brought before the bar, based on a confession that Holmes had overheard. Would he be convicted? In any other case, the testimony of so trustworthy a witness would be unimpeachable; but—as any competent barrister for the defence was bound to argue—Holmes was my closest friend. Suppose that Anstruther, in the dock, denied making any such confession. The defence could plausibly dismiss it as a fantasy of my imagination, the product of some wild delusion or vendetta against a former rival for my wife's affection. And what other evidence had we? The tainted canister of tea (for by now I had surmised that Anstruther had infused its leaves with some poison or infection) had disappeared almost three years ago. Moran, already charged with one murder, would not readily confess to his part in another. In short, there seemed better than an even chance that Richard Anstruther would walk away from Mary's murder a free man.

No. I had been Mary's husband, and it was intolerable.

Having reluctantly come to this conclusion, I left early on that rainy Monday morning, bound for Pinchin Lane, near the river's edge in Lambeth. Here there resided an eccentric old fellow named Sherman, whose dog Toby (“a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of scent,” as Holmes described him) had been of assistance to us in tracking down Jonathan Small, during that memorable case in which Miss Mary Morstan lost one priceless treasure and I gained another as my wife. On other occasions, Mr. Sherman had taken custody of the more exotic creatures we encountered during our investigations. He was a kind and gentle caretaker; but an elephant might easily have vanished among his vast, disorderly menagerie.

I considered disguising myself again for the trip to Lambeth, before recalling that on my initial visit as a stranger, Mr. Sherman had threatened to “drop down a wiper” on my head. On the whole, it seemed better to retain my credentials as Holmes' agent, even though on this occasion I was acting for myself. It was as Dr. Watson, therefore, that I called at No. 3 Pinchin Lane, where old Sherman was as cooperative as I could have wished. I obtained what I needed without question and returned to Kensington, where I had several patients to see that afternoon before another visit in the evening.

It was shortly before half past nine when I arrived at the imposing Brook Street residence. I rang the bell and wondered what I should say if Anstruther (on that of all nights) had varied his usual procedure and remained at home.

“Why, it's Dr. Watson!” cried Merrick, upon opening the door. Anstruther's manservant, now butler, looked even more elderly and frail than I remembered; but his livery was of a quality that he had never worn in Paddington. “How long has it been, sir? It's good to see you.”

“Good evening, Merrick. I had a call this evening in the neighbourhood” (here I brandished my medical bag for his inspection) “and decided to drop in uninvited. As you say, it's been far too long since I visited your master. Is he here?”

“Bless you, sir, you've come on the only night all week that he goes out. This time it's whist at the Bagatelle Club, and he's been gone since seven.”

“What time do you expect him to return?”

“Well, sir, that's difficult to say. If he wins, it's usually early, so he
might
be in at any moment. But these past few months, it's later and later every week. Some nights, he comes home looking black as thunder!” Too late, Merrick realized that he might be transgressing butlerly discretion. “You'll pardon me, I'm sure, sir, seeing as how you and Dr. Anstruther are old friends.”

“Of course, Merrick. So you really can't say when he'll be home?”

“No, sir.” He added, with a slightly anxious look, “Usually, with your permission, the doctor tells me to go up to bed.”

“By all means,” I agreed. “Here's what we'll do. I'll wait for Richard in the library for, let's say, half an hour. You can leave a key with me. If he's not home by then, I'll let myself out and put the key under the doormat. Will that be acceptable?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Dr. Anstruther will have his key. I'll say goodnight, then, if there's nothing more that you'll be wanting. You remember the way to the library, Dr. Watson?” This last was an afterthought, thrown over Merrick's shoulder as he tottered down the hall.

“I think so. It's a large house, you know, Merrick. Much bigger than either of us had in Paddington.” I thought that I heard something then about “bloody lot more house than one man needs!” But he was almost out of earshot, so I may have been mistaken.

In fact, I did recall the library's location, as well as the general layout of the house. There were two wings; and Anstruther's bedroom was in this one, on the first floor immediately above the library. Merrick's bedroom, in the servant's quarters, was on the second floor of the other wing. For all practical purposes, therefore, Richard and I would be alone when he returned.

I found the library easily and waited for the stipulated time, trying to calm myself by reviewing my diagnoses of the patients I had seen that day. When the clock on the mantelpiece struck ten, I returned to the foyer, scribbled a note upon a calling card, and left it in a salver on a table by the door. Then, on impulse, I opened the door and walked outside, eager for a breath of air. It was a moonless night, but wonderfully clear by London standards. For one solitary moment in eternity, I stood there, gazing at the myriad of stars and offering a prayer for absolution. I did not place Merrick's key under the doormat, for I intended to pass that way again.

Reentering the house, I removed my boots and carried them, with my medical bag, down the hallway in my stockings, keeping closely to the left-hand wall. In my present state of nerves, I was thankful that no stair creaked when I mounted to the upper floor, although Merrick could not in any case have heard it. Anstruther's bedroom was indeed where I remembered it; the latch clicked softly as I opened his door and stepped inside. There, the bedside lamp cast a soft glow upon the sheets, which had already been turned back invitingly. Anstruther's dressing gown and slippers lay ready for his use. On that June evening, Merrick had not lit a fire, so the bedroom was a trifle chilly. That suited my purpose very well. Setting down my boots, I put on my former colleague's slippers. He was a smaller man than I was, so they were a little tight. Then I unclasped my doctor's bag, placed it carefully open on its side above the turned-down sheets, and waited. At that hour of the night, every creature seeks out warmth and darkness. Afterward, I took my bag and boots and hid myself next to the fireplace, inside a recessed alcove in the far corner of the room.

It was past two when I heard Anstruther's step out in the hallway. As the door opened and he entered, the pale lamplight shone full upon his face. Although he wore the apparel of a rich, successful man, the months since our last meeting had not been kind to him. He looked tired, faintly querulous, and older than his years, no longer the dashing young physician of poor Mary's dreams. Burdened by this knowledge, I stepped out from my hiding place.

Anstruther turned toward me, and his face went white. “My God—Watson! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Is that the way you greet an old friend, Richard?” Having reminded him that we had once been close enough to use our Christian names, I sat down in the chair beside his bed. “Surely you saw my calling card left in the foyer? I must say, you keep extraordinarily late hours for a man engaged in serious research.”

“What do
you
know of my research?” he sniffed disdainfully, moving to the bed to retrieve his dressing gown. “And what on Earth are you doing in my slippers?”

“I hated to track mud onto your beautiful new carpet. As for your research, I may know more than you suppose. I ought to; you told me enough about the deuced fevers of the Ganges to last me all my life. Allow me to congratulate you on your illuminating article in last month's
Lancet
.”

“Humbug! You probably didn't even understand it. I could barely make you grasp the concept back in Paddington.”

“Well, not at first, perhaps. But I could hardly fail to be impressed by that remarkable demonstration you gave afterward. I would never have believed that so deadly an infection could be transmitted in a cup of tea, but you proved it entirely to my satisfaction.”

“What are you babbling about, Watson? You must be drunk.”

“Oh, come now, Richard. You remember that fine Darjeeling, the special blend from your father's estate in the Himalayan foothills? It was your Christmas present to us. Mary drank a cup the afternoon I took it home, and the next night Mary died. You must have retrieved the canister during your visit the next morning, because I never saw it after that.”

Anstruther's face was blotched with rage. “It wasn't meant for
her
, you fool! Mary despised tea; I'd known that since I met her. In my wildest fancy, I couldn't have dreamed that she would choose that day to break a lifelong habit.”

“She drank that tea because it came from
you
, as you might have known she would. I'm sure that Moran's plan was to kill the two of us, whatever he told you—or whatever you may have tried to tell yourself since then.”

“Moran!” He started with amazement and sat down abruptly on the bed. At its foot, I saw the counterpane shift slightly. “How do you know about Moran?”

“I saw him leaving your consulting room,” I answered coldly, “on the afternoon you presented me with your accursed tea. Of course, I didn't know then whom I was seeing. That surprise came later, when Holmes and I caught the good colonel shooting air guns into our rooms in Baker Street.”

“Listen, Watson, you don't understand.” Rising from the bed, Anstruther paced about the room in agitation. “I had no choice. Moran had been my commanding officer in India, and he knew about my research on the Ganges fevers. I'd lost every farthing I possessed playing whist against that man. I was going to lose my practice, my career!”

“Oh, but your career picked up amazingly after Mary's death. You went from Paddington to Brook Street, and at last you had the money to finance your research.”

“Well, what of it?” Now he turned to face me with an effort at bravado. “Should I have remained a general practitioner in that dismal little hole in Paddington? I'm not a medical nonentity like you, making my living by dogging the footsteps of the great detective. All I had was talent, but by God I did have that! I finally found a way to make the most of it.”

“And all it cost you was the woman you'd once loved.”

“Damn you for all eternity! I loved Mary Morstan until the day she died. Do you think I haven't cursed myself with every breath I've taken since that day? But my work, man! How many lives will it save in the end—hundreds, thousands,
millions
? Cannot all those lives together absolve me for the one I took?”

“Only God can tell you that, Anstruther.” To keep myself from striking him, I glanced down at the bed. “But you must not come to me for absolution, or beg me not to add my curses to your own. For when you murdered Mary, you cursed me as well.”

“I'm sure of it, Watson. And
that
, I can tell you, is my only consolation.”

We were both standing now, glaring at each other with a hatred we no longer bothered to conceal. Then Anstruther turned haughtily away; removed his studs, shirt, and trousers; and put on his dressing gown (ridiculously, it had remained draped across one arm throughout our confrontation), while I relapsed into his bedroom chair. When he turned back to me, there was a smile upon his face.

“Just what do you propose to do about it? Poor Mary's in her grave, and the fatal Darjeeling is somewhere at the bottom of the Thames. I doubt that Moran will accommodate you by admitting his part in the matter. You've no evidence at all. Why, I can have you arrested as a common trespasser, and you can howl your story to the moon!”

“That's right, Richard. I've wasted my time in coming here, except for hearing you confess to murder. So I'll take myself off now, and you can go to bed.”