The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (37 page)

“What of the others?” Watson asked. “The sister and Wadsworth’s maid?”

“I am sorry to say that the maid has died, doctor.”

“The poor thing!” Lilly exclaimed.

“Eunice Wadsworth remains in stable but an unresponsive condition. She is in the women’s ward down the hall.”

“Would you have an objection to Dr Watson’s examination of the patients?” I asked.

“Certainly not!” Hemmings beamed, obviously glad for some sort of assistance, having had none from his colleagues.

Watson approached Ernest Wadsworth who, in spite of some sedative, was moaning incoherently upon the bed. Watson checked the pulse, listened to the heart and lungs and with help from the porter, pried young Wadsworth’s lids open to examine the eyes.

“Strange how the eyes seem to bulge,” Watson commented. We peered over his shoulder to look more closely. “The pulse is irregular and quite rapid, even after morphia has been administered.”

“We noticed a similar appearance to the sister’s eyes,” Hemmings added.

“I should like to see the young lady as well,” Watson said.

We left Miss Brevant to sit with her poor, afflicted fiancé while Hemmings escorted us to a nearby ward populated by female patients in various stages of what seemed to be a mental collapse. The room was filled with terrible noises and smells. It seemed all the nurses on duty could do was to try to maintain order. We found Eunice occupying a bed in the far corner of the ward. She lay on the bed, rocking slowly back and forth, eyes staring yet not seeing.

“Miss Wadsworth,” Hemmings said as he gently shook the girl, attempting to rouse her. Eunice only stared. Hemmings gestured to Watson with a defeated look.

Watson made an examination of the girl. He again checked her pulse and eyes and listened to the heart by means of the stethoscope. “Still can’t get used to the bloody contraption,” he commented.
2

“What do these patients have in common?” I asked the two doctors.

“Rapid, irregular pulse and altered mental state,” Hemmings said. “One with catatonia, yet the other with mania.”

“Both have a protrusion of the eyes,” Watson said, stroking his moustache.

“Some family characteristic?” I ventured.

“No, Holmes. If I didn’t know better, I would say the ocular findings are the result of Grave’s disease.”

“The situation was certainly grave for Joshua Wadsworth,” I said.

“Grave’s disease, Mr Holmes, is believed to be a disorder brought about by an overactivity of the thyroid gland,” the young doctor offered, obviously pleased by his bit of knowledge. He turned to Watson. “Yet, doctor, there seems to be no sign of goiter or nodularity in the necks of the patients.”

“It all fits, however,” Watson replied. “The mental deterioration, the effects of the pulse, sweating. Possibly the cardiac collapse of the father. What baffles me, Holmes, is how such an affliction could overcome an entire household.”

“Not an entire household,” I corrected. “The cook, butler, and Miss Brevant would not seem to be afflicted.”

There was silence for a moment as we all contemplated the facts before us.

“Some infection, perhaps,” Hemmings offered. “I have heard that an inflammation of the thyroid could be brought about by miasma.”

“Lestrade suggested a poison,” Watson added. “Several poisons could have the cardiac and mental effects, but none would cause the protrusion of the eyes.”

“There must be some commonality to the victims,” I said. “The facts are incontrovertible. This is not a disorder of heredity, or the maid would not have been afflicted. This has to be some disorder of environment, yet the entire household was not stricken, unless…” I could not control the smile as the thought and possible common link occurred to me.

“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked.

“Watson, let us take up no more of this young physician’s time. We have work to do back at Brick Lane.” I addressed Hemmings, “Sir, you have been of great assistance to our investigation. Pray, delay any transfer to a hospital for the insane until you hear from us.”

With that, we left the baffled resident to his charges and began the return to Spitalfields.

* * * *

The rain had ebbed but the sun still hid behind a thicket of clouds. The wet gloom of the day prevailed as the light began to fade from the late autumn afternoon. The neighbourhood around the Wadsworth home was in a state of flux. An old immigrant community had moved on, and a new one was reshaping the fabric of storefronts and street scenes. Old shops were boarded up; new establishments had makeshift signs nailed over the existing boards temporarily. The pedestrian traffic sported a variety of dress from the most modern of London fashion to the threadbare attire of the exiled Jews from Eastern Europe. The effect was that of the newly popular “crazy quilt,” a mixture of texture and fabric.

We soon arrived back at the Wadsworth house and found the policeman enjoying tea and small sandwiches. He looked a trifle embarrassed to be found eating on duty, but we put him at ease and told him he could hardly be expected to stand guard over our prisoner without aid of sustenance. The man reported no change from Warren, who had remained the model detainee, seated by the fire.

The cook had returned from market, which explained the policeman’s repast. Watson and Lilly accepted tea from the matronly Mrs Spline. The woman, we learned, had been in the employ of Mr Wadsworth for more than twenty years. She was badly shaken by the recent events and was quick to inquire about the health of “Master Ernie” and “Miss Neesie,” whom she had attended since they were very young. Watson attempted to keep the news cheerful, but had to admit that there was no change in their condition. The death of the maid seemed a bad portent.

“Miss Lilly,” I asked, “have you been dining with the Wadsworths these last few days?”

“No, Mr Holmes. Ernest and I went our separate ways upon our return to London. I went home to visit my mother and began plans for the wedding. I only arrived here yesterday as…as the present crisis was unfolding.” She struggled to hold back tears. Mrs Spline patted her on the shoulder and poured more tea in an attempt to comfort her.

“Mrs Spline,” I said, “you seem an excellent cook, if these sandwiches are any indication of your abilities. Had you prepared a special meal in honour of Master Ernie’s return?”

The woman brightened at my compliment. “Why, yes, sir, I did. Yorkshire pudding, glazed plums and tenderloin of beef.”

“And who is your purveyor of meats, madam?”

“Cohen and Sons. They are just down the road.”

I gazed at Warren, who had suddenly become quite interested in my line of questioning. “Do the servants dine on the same fare as the family?” I asked.

“Would that they did,” Warren said. “Think they would share a bit of their happiness.” He turned bitterly back to the fire.

“Why so interested in the cookery?” Watson asked, between brushing crumbs from his trousers and sipping tea.

“It just might be the key to our mystery,” I said. Both Watson and the sergeant looked down doubtfully at their sandwiches.

“Still think I killed the old man?” muttered Warren.

“I think there is every possibility that the killer was Mrs Spline,” I said. Before giving the company time to react, I headed for the door, “Come, Watson. Let us visit the local butcher.”

* * * *

Down a side street, off the main lane, we found a shop with a faded sign:
Cohen and Sons, Kosher Butchers,
with some Hebrew lettering below the English inscription. We entered to find the proprietor behind a counter, wiping a large cleaver on the bottom of an already blood-spattered apron. “Help you, gentlemen? Joint of mutton, slab of bacon, or perhaps some lamb?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t be Mr Cohen?” I asked, already confident of the reply.

“Why, no, sir. Bradley is the name. Just purchased the business from the Cohens. Place is a bit rundown, but I hope to have the shop looking smart for the clientele shortly. I may retain the name on the sign for some time, though. Old Cohen had a good reputation in the neighbourhood.”

“You know Mrs Spline, I should think.”

“Cook for Wadsworth. She was here earlier today. Shame about the chap, though. Never had the chance to make his acquaintance.”

“Is the tenderloin fresh?” I asked. Watson gave a start but held his tongue.

“Nothing but the best, I assure you, my man,” Bradley said. He gestured to the back of the shop, where attendants were in the process of carving up a huge slab of meat. “Sold some to Mrs Spline, special the other day. She seemed quite pleased.”

“And do you perform the slaughter on the premises?”

“No, sir, done by my men at the slaughterhouse.”

“From which part of the animal is the tenderloin obtained?”

“Generally, sir, it is from the large muscle of the shoulder near the neck,” he replied, gesturing to his own throat with the cleaver. “Any interest in the tenderloin? I can put in any special request you have. Have it here for you next day?”

“Not this moment,” I replied. “We will be sure to keep you in mind. Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure, sirs,” he mumbled, and sunk the end of his cleaver into his chopping block.

We took leave of the disappointed butcher and made our way back toward the Wadsworth house. “What do you know about kosher food, Watson?” I asked.

“Something about the Jewish diet,” he said with a shrug. “Knew a chap at school, Marks, wouldn’t dine at the club. Wouldn’t eat pork.”

“Precisely. The Jews consider the pig to be unclean. Our man Bradley at Cohen and Sons offered us bacon. Clearly he has retained the name but not the standards of the kosher butcher. It is not just the type of meat consumed that is proscribed by the kosher law, but
how
the meat is prepared is also of vast import. The slaughter of the animal is carried out in a humane fashion. The animal’s throat is slit and the blood allowed to slowly drain from the body over the course of the day.”

“Sounds ghastly,” Watson said.

“That is the Jewish law. Now, Watson, if the blood is allowed to drain from the animal
before
it is carved into the various cuts of meat, might not certain organs undergo a change in appearance as compared to those of a freshly slaughtered animal?” I allowed Watson to ponder the question as I continued my line of reasoning. “Is not the thyroid gland of the neck intimately associated with the strap-like muscles of the neck?”

“The sternocleidomastoid muscles,” Watson agreed, “run from the base of the skull to the collarbone. The thyroid is suspended between them.” Watson stopped walking abruptly. The sudden dawning of recognition on his face seemed a light in the fading grey of the day. “I see, Holmes! You think the kosher butcher would easily be able to recognize the thyroid tissue from the muscles of the neck. The blood, having drained away, would render the gland a dull grey colour, while the meaty muscles of the neck would retain their red hue.”

“It would be a simple matter to trim away the glandular tissue for the kosher butcher of experience, but perhaps quite another matter for our friend Bradley who is new to the business.”

“I have to admit that all the tissue of the neck would look equally red and bloody in the newly killed animal, just as the various tissue types of the cadaver in the anatomy laboratory are much easier to discern than those of the living tissues in the operating theatre!” Watson cried.

“And so, my good fellow, we must conclude that in Bradley’s haste to please his new customer, Mrs Spline, he incorporated a generous portion of the thyroid in the tenderloin, thus poisoning the household with the various products of gland.”

“The result,” Watson added, “would vary in each person who ate the meat depending on the quantity of glandular secretion ingested, and the relative constitution of the individual.”

“Thus, we have the deaths of the fragile maid and Joshua Wadsworth. His children will fare better as they are no doubt, in more robust health. The maid must have sneaked a bit of the loin for herself when no one was watching. Warren and Mrs Spline were not offered the meat and Miss Lilly was away visiting her mother, hence they have remained unaffected by the malady.”

“You make it sound so obvious, Holmes.”

“I could not have come to the conclusion without the aid of your medical expertise,” I complimented.

“But what about Warren?” Watson asked. “Surely he must be up to no good; he seems very suspicious. And what of the fact that he moved the body and smoked the cigar over the corpse of his employer?”

“Oh, rest assured he is not innocent. He had some plan in mind but was able to take advantage of a most unusual opportunity. He must have known that his employer kept a safe. With the impending wedding, Wadsworth must have kept or transferred some valuables to the safe for the return of the betrothed couple. I should think there would be money and perhaps the jewellery of his late wife to bestow upon the bride-to-be in honour and preparation of the nuptials. Warren would have needed a way to obtain the key from his master, who would have kept it close to his person. I can only imagine what was in the mind of the criminal who so obviously had disdain for his employer.”

“But when he found the whole family to be suddenly incapacitated…” Watson followed my reasoning.

“He helped himself to a cigar while searching the body for the key,” I concluded. “I think we will find quite an empty safe when we return to the house.”

The sound of the police whistle interrupted our discourse. There was a commotion and several policemen came up Brick Lane at the run.

“Watson, did you bring your service revolver?”

He patted the breast pocket of his coat. “I have learned by now to bring it along on these little forays, Holmes.”

We hastened to the house to find that a crowd had gathered on the street by the Wadsworth house. Several policemen were forcing their way through the onlookers in an attempt at gaining access to the door. The policeman inside continued to sound the alarm and the crowd began to shout. I pulled Watson by the sleeve and shouted over the din, “Around the back, man! Quickly.”