The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (14 page)

Holmes introduced us, and returned the question. “I am Dr. Silas Braithwaite.” I was familiar with the name, of course, for he was a respected Harley Street physician. “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes, and you too, Dr. Watson. I would be happy to hear your opinion of the patient.”

I waved him off. “I am afraid that this is a bit beyond my regular practice. Do you think Mr. Vaughan will survive?”

Dr. Braithwaite shook his head gravely. “I am highly doubtful. I suspect that he ingested a slightly smaller amount of the poison compared to his guests, which explains why he is still alive. But he has had some unusual reaction to the arsenic, and I am afraid that the bleeding is sufficient to land him on death’s door. It would be a miracle if he survived the night.”

Holmes, however, appeared distracted by a rather ordinary framed picture of Queen Victoria which rested on the man’s bedside table. “Fascinating,” was his only response, though the exact object of his attention was not clear to my eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Braithwaite. Please let us know if anything changes with Mr. Vaughan’s condition.”

Returning downstairs, Holmes was pleased to find the maid awaiting us. The constable gave her name as Miss Molly Hopton. She was still quite young, little more than twenty, rather below the middle height, but slim, with blond hair and light blue eyes. Her plain bonnet and ribboned hat were lightly dusted with fresh snow. Her brow and lips were drawn with nervousness and she appeared on the verge of tears.

Holmes drew her into the parlor, where he directed her to sit upon a plush sofa. This action was clearly something she had never before contemplated, so she perched upon the edge like a doe about to bolt into the woods. “Now, then, Molly,” said Holmes reassuringly. “You are new to the house, are you not?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know that, sir?”

Holmes smiled and waved a hand nonchalantly. “The signs are clear. In your next post, I would recommend that you take more notice of the positions of a room’s objects of decorative art, such as that figurine upon the mantle, before you dust them. This will allow you to return them to their original position. How long exactly have you been with Mr. Vaughan?”

“Just three weeks, sir,” said she, nodding anxiously.

“And what happened to the previous maid?”

She licked her lips. “I understand that she retired.”

“And had she been with him long?”

“Yes, many years, I believe.”

“And her name?”

“Mrs. Sumner, Florence Sumner. I think she now lives with her daughter on Southwick Mews. But she told me that Mr. Vaughan was quite generous at the end.”

“Holmes!” Lestrade interjected. “What do we care about his previous maid? She wasn’t even here.” 

“Don’t mind the inspector, Molly. He has a bit of a toothache. And what did you make of your master?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“He was sick, was he not?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Very much so. He often looked as if he were dying.”

“But did he stay to his bed, or did he come downstairs during the day?”

“Most days he tried to spend at least some time in his study, unless he was especially weak.”

“Ah yes, his study. I noted that it is far less tidy than the rest of the house….”

But Holmes was not allowed to finish. “Those were his express instructions, sir!” she interjected. “He forbade me from cleaning in there! I swear that I was tempted to sneak in while he was sleeping, but I feared upsetting him.”

“Yes, yes, Molly. I do not blame you. Tell me, was Mr. Vaughan a bibliophile?”

“A what, sir?”

“A book-lover,” Holmes clarified.

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, sir. As you can see, he had a great many books, and he spent much time reading them.”

“And was he in his study two days ago?”

“Yes, sir. He spent many hours there that day.”

“Did he do anything other than read?”

“Yes, sir. He wrote a letter, and later received one.”

Holmes leaned forward eagerly. “Can you describe them?”

The maid’s brows contracted in thought. “The letter that Mr. Vaughan wrote was on his usual stationary. There should be more of it in his desk.”

“Where did he send it to?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t take note of that. I simply handed it to the boy for delivery.”

“Was it the usual boy? Do you know him?”

She shook her head despondently, plainly aware of Holmes’ interest in this letter. “No, sir. I am so sorry.” She appeared close to tears.

Holmes instantly softened. “It’s no matter, Molly. You are being very helpful. What of the letter that he received?”

“It was a response, sir, for the same boy brought it, and Mr. Vaughan gave me three shillings for him.”

“Now think hard, Molly. What did it look like?”

“The envelope was made from a very unusual paper, sir. That’s why I took note of it, you see.”

“Unusual, how?”

“It’s hard to say, sir. It just felt different. More fragile. And the writing was all slanted and hard to read.”

“How large was it?”

“About seven inches by five, I would reckon.”

“And how thick? Was there more than one sheet?”

“No, it was very thin. There could only have been one sheet of paper inside.”

“Do you know why he burned it?”

She startled. “Are you a magician, sir? How could you know that?”

Holmes smiled. “Because there is no such letter in his office now. But there is a small amount of ash in his waste-bin, which I estimate is about two days old.”

“Yes, sir. You are correct. I smelled the burning paper and came running, but he turned me away. He reassured me that all was well. In fact, after he read that letter, he was the happiest and the strongest that I had seen him in days.”

“That is very interesting, Molly. I have but a few more questions for you. Did Mr. Vaughan always have a picture of Queen Victoria upon his bedside table?”

Before the maid could answer, Lestrade spluttered in amazement. “Holmes, really! Was the man poisoned for being too patriotic?”

Holmes merely smiled. “I have my methods, Lestrade. I shall follow my train of evidence while you follow yours. We shall see who arrives at the station first.” He turned back to the maid with raised eyebrows, awaiting her reply.

She had followed this exchange with wide eyes, but promptly answered. “It’s certainly been there for the last few weeks, sir. But I have a feeling that there was another picture there when I first started. However, there was so many new things to learn, I am afraid I took little notice of it.”

Holmes pursed his lips in disappointment, but nodded his head reassuringly. “That is fine, Miss Hopton, I understand.”

“Now, then, if you will follow me over to the table, I would like for you to confirm a few things for me.” He took her by the hand and led her back into the dining-room towards the table, which was still laid out as it had been during the holiday gathering. Four goblets rested in a rough circle around a silver ewer, on top of a white tablecloth embroidered with evergreens and holly leaves. Holmes circumnavigated the table once, coming to a stop so that the passage to the kitchen was behind him.

“Alright, Molly. Now, let me reconstruct where everyone was sitting. This is where Mrs. Molyneux sat.” He pointed to the place to his right.

“How could you know that, sir?” said she, in an amazed tone.

“There is a spot of facial powder on the serviette that can only have come from Mrs. Molyneux, as I note that you do not wear any.”

Her hand flew to her cheek as a spot of colour rose there. “As if any respectable maid would wear powder while serving!”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Across from me sat Reverend Arden. Upon the tablecloth, I detected a slight scent of lime-cream.
[203]
As Dr. Lowe does not use such a product in his hair, and I saw no such bottle upon the dressing table of Mr. Vaughan, it could only have come from the Reverend.”

“Yes, sir,” Molly replied. “That is correct.”

“Then the doctor sat to my left.”

The maid nodded. “Indeed, sir.”

I examined the table for a clue that would suggest such an arrangement, but found nothing. “How can you tell, Holmes?”

He grinned sardonically. “You did not miss any sign, Watson. The good doctor left no mark of his passing. But it is the only place left, for I am certain that Mr. Vaughan would have sat here,” he tapped the chair in front of him, “closest to the kitchen.”

I frowned in bewilderment. “But why would he have to sit there?”

Holmes shrugged. “Well, perhaps it was a lucky guess. Let us just say that it fits with one possible scenario for what occurred yesterday afternoon.” He turned to the inspector. “Now, then, Lestrade. I think we’ve seen all we can here. Do you mind if I take a sample of the ashes from the office?”

“The ashes?” exclaimed Lestrade. “Don’t you mean the wassail?”

Holmes shrugged. “If you insist, we will take samples of that as well.” He went about collecting samples from all four goblets and the ewer into separate phials. He then carefully placed all of the waste-bin ashes into an envelope, which he sealed and placed into his waistcoat pocket.

“By the way, Lestrade,” said Holmes, off-handedly. “What exactly was Dr. Lowe’s motive?”

“Motive?” replied, Lestrade, puzzled.

“Indeed. All of your evidence points towards the doctor, but why did he do it?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Madness, I suppose. It happens this time of year.”

“Hmmm, yes,” said Holmes. “I suppose it does. Thank you, Lestrade.”

On the hansom ride back to Baker Street, Holmes was silent, a state I allowed to continue, as I knew the machinations of his finely-tuned mind were busy placing the clues together into a harmonious explanation for the horrors that had occurred at Vere Street.  Meanwhile, I attempted to use the time to devise my own solution to the case, but soon found myself hopelessly confused. When we returned to our quarters, Holmes tossed the samples from Vaughan’s house upon his work-table and immediately sank into his archives of past crimes. After flipping through them for a quarter of an hour, he grunted in satisfaction. He quickly rose and disappeared into the bedroom.

While he was occupied, I peered at the file that he had left open, but it was simply a series of clippings from the
Times
from twenty years earlier detailing various crimes that I assumed to be unresolved, as I knew Holmes had been at university during those years. Amongst the varied cases, I noted a brash mugging in Trafalgar Square, missing funds from a crippled children’s charity, a robbery at the Belgravia branch of the City and Suburban Bank, a probable suicide of young woman found in the Thames, and the theft of a J.M.W. Turner oil painting from a gallery on Bond Street. I could make out nothing that would shed any light upon the matter of Dr. Lowe.

Knowing full well by this time his penchant for disguises, I was little surprised to find an amiable Church of England clergyman appear a few minutes later.
[204]
His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of benign curiosity were on par with the great actors who strode the boards at the Lyceum. I recognized the costume and mannerisms from when he had used them to briefly deceive Miss Irene Adler, and I hoped that they would prove more successful in the matter of Dr. Lowe.

“Where are you headed, Holmes?”

“It is Christmas time, Watson, so I am off to church, of course,” he replied, chuckling.

“Marylebone Chapel, I presume?”

“Very good, Watson. Your study of my methods is advancing. I have asked myself what role Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux played in this event.”

“But Dr. Lowe claimed not to know them,” I protested mildly.

“Indeed, and perhaps they were simply innocent bystanders. It does not do to hypothesize in advance of the facts. However, it is equally problematic to conclude in the absence of the facts, and I suspect that Inspector Lestrade is missing quite a few of them.”

While Holmes was off on his expedition, I busied myself with one of Scott’s yellow-backed epic poems.
[205]
I knew that I was supposed to meet Thurston at our club for a bit of jollification, but I did not wish to miss Holmes’ return, so I wired over that I would be detained this night. I waited until ten o-clock and was about to retire to my room, when he finally returned, evidently in an excellent humor.

He sank down into his chair and chuckled happily. “I must say, Watson, that there is certainly something I admire about Christmas time.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“I have just spent the last few hours surrounded by warming lanterns, singing festive carols, and then feasting upon mincemeat pies, and plum pudding, all washed down with spiced mead. The good folks at Marylebone certainly know how to celebrate Christmas, even after the recent demise of their Reverend. It makes one wonder if they much cared for him. And their jolly spirits translated into a liberalization of their tongues in the presence of a stranger such as myself, even if I was a churchman.”