“Hair?” Dr. Watson and I turned to each other, confused.
“I confess I should have told you sooner. You see, under a microscope, the thread had a specific weave, but hair has an entirely different molecular structure, and so they did not match when I looked. Now that we have made this discovery, it should narrow the field considerably.”
“But how?” Dr. Watson asked.
“The hair is red,” replied Mr. Holmes. “In the light you can see the hues. Red is not all that common among us, except among the Irish. Let us hope he is not one of them. Watson, do we happen to have the army volumes still in the library? Please retrieve them.”
“But what would those do for us, sir?” I asked, confused.
“They give not only the names, but also all the major work of the soldiers in the service from the last decade to the present day.”
When the volumes had been retrieved, we each took one in turn and took up the daunting task of reading each record thoroughly. Mr. Holmes left the room from time to time, taking notes or evidence with him. After nearly two hours of exhaustive study, Mr. Holmes cried out in exultation. “Aha, I believe I have found our man at last! Watson, please call on Inspector Lestrade for me. And keep your revolver ready.” As Dr. Watson left the sitting room, Mr. Holmes wrote a note and sent for a courier. After handing off the message, I asked Mr. Holmes what he knew, and he answered, “Wait but a little longer, Miss Beauregard, and I believe we shall have it out as I conjecture.”
“But to have a revolver ready? What can you possibly…” At last I understood his plan. “You’re not planning on having the man come here, are you sir?” He grinned, and I was suddenly filled with worry. “He will surely kill you where you stand!”
“Do not fear; I don’t believe he shall be so plucky as to try anything—and if he does, we shall be ready for him.”
Within the hour Inspector Lestrade had arrived, and by Mr. Holmes’s planning was hidden in the next room. Dr. Watson and I were also nearby to listen and to wait for an opportune time to intervene should the need arise. Within a few minutes, the man himself was upon the porch. Mr. Holmes went to receive him, and when the introductions were given, the man stepped into the room. He was tall and pale, with fiery hair and deep, brooding eyes. He said nothing, only stared suspiciously. Mr. Holmes met with the silence by inviting the visitor to a game of whist. My master also asked for tea, and while I went to prepare it, the distinct feeling of ill boding lingered. Dr. Watson sat with me in the kitchen, and while we said nothing, we both felt the tension coming to a head.
The conversation was light but careful; the bids were safe and ineffectual. Eventually, however, our visitor became more heated as the bids rose, while Mr. Holmes remained calm. Dr. Watson silently left the kitchen, watching intently. Flushed with anger, our visitor stood up suddenly and pointed a revolver at Mr. Holmes. He shouted, “You should have been dead the first time I shot you, but now you cannot escape!” Dr. Watson ran into the sitting room and a shot was fired. I heard a cry of pain and nearly fainted. Hearing scuffling, I ran into the sitting room. Fortunately, when I arrived upon the scene, Inspector Lestrade had the man subdued and in handcuffs. I uttered a prayer of thanks as I discovered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were unharmed. Our guest was taken away bleeding, and as we took in the triumph of the moment, I asked Mr. Holmes how he had known about the man.
“His name is Henry Bertram, obliged to leave the army over the inability to pay his debts. The rifle is a Lee-Metford, and he is also a writer.”
“A Lee-Metford?” asked Dr. Watson, confused. “But a Metford rifle is only issued to soldiers in the army. A soldier can keep the uniform, but never the gun.”
“Indeed… He most likely used a criminal contact to get it for him, and some careless citizen is now out of work.”
“But sir, how would you come to such separate conclusions?” I inquired.
“The war records from our library. The Lee-Metford also uses cordite, a substance that leaves little residue, but when burned has a bright yellow flame.”
“But what would be the motive?”
“As you yourself have seen, he has an inherently violent nature and, I conjecture, also an inherited strain to crime reinforced by the company he currently keeps. I also have many enemies; I have no doubt that they would pay handsomely to rid the world of me. When his first attempt failed, however, Bertram’s reward would most likely be revoked—knowing this, he had all the more reason to return to Baker Street and finish the job. ”
“And the cards?” Dr. Watson asked.
“An educated guess; I suspected that if he could not pay his debts, he might be somewhat of a gambler.”
“But what could you possibly do to provoke him in such a way?” I inquired nervously. “Surely you did not say anything within my hearing that put him in such anger.”
“I cheated,” said Mr. Holmes lightly.
“What? Cheating at a whist game and putting your life at the mercy of a murderer…” I shook my head in disgust. “Mr. Holmes, I would have thought you knew better.”
“There was nothing better I could have done, Martha,” he said easily, “Bertram is a cheat himself, but could not foresee someone playing him at his own game.”
“So, you brought him here to provoke him to attempt murder again, with Lestrade here to see to the official trouble of putting him behind bars,” Dr. Watson said.
“Exactly,” Mr. Holmes replied, smiling in his way, as if he had known all along. “By the way, Watson, I am glad you’re a very good shot with a revolver.”
Dr. Watson smiled, and there was a peaceful silence. One more question remained unanswered, and I decided to venture with it. “Do you believe this is the end of him, Mr. Holmes?”
He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It is not likely, but still possible that he could outwit the court. If Bertram escapes, he will certainly come, and next time with a stronger resolve.”
Although this worried me, after a while my masters were again engrossed in other, and what they claimed to be more important cases. I continued to have Baker Street in my care, and so we went about our lives in the natural manner. I am glad to say that that for some time the residents of Baker Street were left in relative peace, and I am also most grateful that we were able to solve this most intimate case.
The Poison Cup
A fortnight before the Christmas holiday, the sun shone brightly as I made a morning meal for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, who would be returning shortly from a late-night case. While so doing, I heard a knock on the front parlor door, and expecting it to be my employers, hastened to answer it. Finding no one there, I looked about me and saw a lone bottle on the porch with a note on it written thus:
“Best wishes,
and Happy Christmas!”
No sooner had I brought the bottle inside than Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson appeared in the doorway.
“Hello, Martha,” said Mr. Holmes. “Had an eventful morning, did we?” He nodded toward the bottle and smiled.
“No, sir. I came to answer the door and it was there on the porch.”
Dr. Watson read the note. “A trifle early for that, don’t you think?”
Mr. Holmes spoke quickly. “Well, my friends, shall we open it and indulge in a man’s generosity? We could all use a good dram, you know.”
Knowing his keen advances to drink from time to time, particularly in times of mental strain before a case was entirely solved, I uncorked the bottle. Taking it from me, Mr. Holmes poured himself a glass and handed Dr. Watson and myself two others. We raised our glasses, and I took the first swallows.
“You cannot drink this,” I said as the men tipped their glasses.
“What is the matter?”
“Something is not right. A strange odour…”
“I do not detect anything abnormal.” Mr. Holmes shrugged and put the glass to his lips.
“No, Mr. Holmes!” I raised my hand to stop him.
“She’s right, Holmes,” Dr.
Watson said tentatively. “What if the drink had a much more lethal substance in it?”
“Very well,” Mr. Holmes replied, putting the glass down.
Some minutes later, as I was washing dishes, I felt suddenly nauseous. Before I could fall into a chair, I stumbled to the floor, overcome with fear. I called out as my throat constricted and my breath was cut short. My vision blurred, and I felt my blood congealing as the world went dark about me.
Only seconds must have passed before I was awake again, retching and twitching like a wounded animal. I was continually given a terrible antidote to swallow, whereby more retching would ensue. When at last I thought I had not strength enough even to move, Dr. Watson said gently, “It is nearly over now; only a little more is left, and then you may rest, Martha.”
I remember little of the days in that interval between the initial poisoning and my eventual recovery. I was chiefly attended to by Dr. Watson, while Mr. Holmes was consistently absent from Baker Street, though I have since conjectured that he was engaged in discovering the whereabouts of the culprit. I have also been told that I acquired a fever after the poisoning, this being the only explanation for my behavior to be hitherto related.
With his permission, I have included Dr. Watson’s notes of the experience here:
While I attended to Martha, Holmes conducted a series of experiments. He was constantly in his laboratory; one day, I caught him mixing feverishly when suddenly he drank the mixture in one gulp.
“Holmes!” I shouted out and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?!”
He had turned extremely pale, but said to me, “Checking the strength of the poison.”
“What can you mean, Holmes?” I replied angrily.
“With this experiment I will have discovered which poison was in that bottle.”
“You’ll kill yourself!”
“No I won’t, Watson,” he smiled weakly, “The amounts are not nearly enough to kill me. I have some immunity from my previous studies as a chemist.”
“And what do you plan to do with this experiment?” Frustrated, I prepared to hear him out, for he had often included me in sounding out his theories without sharing his conclusions.
“Help Martha.”
Struck by this straightforward answer, I said, “If you die, your aid will have been in vain.”
“I don’t believe I will.” He then proceeded to tell me that for the last several days he had been taking drinks laced with minimal amounts of thallium, mercury, lead and other lethal substances when taken in larger doses. Cyanide and arsenic were out of the question—if it had been either of these, Martha would have been dead within hours or even minutes of ingesting them.
While Holmes attempted to remain unaffected by this experiment, I could see that it had taken its toll. With the promise of no more experimentation from him, I went to see to Martha once more.
* * *
For myself, I heard several voices at one time or another, though indistinct, and it felt to me as though they were at some great distance. Though I called for them, they would not come nearer. The terrors generally reserved for night haunted me in my waking hours, and even in those few hours of peace there was little rest.
In one of my rare lucid moments during this period, I realized Dr. Watson was near my bedside. I took his hand urgently in mine.
“Death is coming for me, sir.”
“Come now, my dear girl—do not give up yet. You shall be well again soon,” he answered earnestly, his brow furrowing.
I shook my head. “If I should die,” I said weakly, “please take care of Mr. Holmes. He needs you.”
He nodded, and having conveyed these thoughts, I was again tormented by the horrors which accompanied this illness.
Though Dr. Watson treated me most carefully and I am sure there were many a sleepless night between himself and Mr. Holmes, my recovery was a slow one. From his notes, Dr. Watson recalls:
As I came down the stairs to sit by the fire in the sitting room, Holmes was already there, pondering. I realized that this was to be another late-night vigil between him and I to discover the culprit. For two weeks we had had many of these similar nights until the coals burned low, but they all ended in erroneous conclusions or no conclusions at all.
“How is she?” he asked quietly.
I sighed. “Worse.” I could never hide the truth from Holmes, for even if I had attempted to do so, he would quickly have learned the truth all the same.
He put his long fingers together, head bowed. The expression on his face reminded me of the Greek god Atlas bearing the weight of the world.
“Fingerprints?” I inquired, trying to put his great mind to work.
“No,” he replied, his forehead creasing. “It would take time that we do not have to process, analyze and confirm a fingerprint. Besides, we know that Martha touched the bottle. That would only make the search more difficult.”
For a time there was no sound save the crackling of the fire in the grate. Then I had an idea.
“What about the note?” I asked.
“I already have—” he said, then stopped. He turned to me slowly; then, as if an idea was forming in his mind, became suddenly excited. “Watson, sometimes you do have strokes of genius within you! Why didn’t I see it before?”
Note in hand, he began pacing, tapping his pipe against his jaw. Examining it closely, Holmes held it up to the light and told me to join him. “See how the words slant slightly more to the right and some of the words are smudged where a new line begins? This man is left-handed.”
Next he scrutinized the letters minutely under the microscope, licked his finger and deliberately attempted to smear the ink.
“Holmes,” I said, but too late. “That’s substantial evidence!”
“Yes, but it may also lead us to our assassin. He probably mixed the poison and wrote the note at the same time. That is the most practical course. He might have even made his own ink.”
Working anxiously now, he rubbed at the ink vigorously, but nothing happened. Staring hard at the unharmed note, he sniffed it, then quickly licked the ink and coughed.
“Holmes!” I shouted out, prepared to run for my medical kit.
“Turpentine,” he gasped, still coughing. “This ink is made with turpentine.”
“But where would someone ever find enough turpentine to use it in ink?”
“I’ve heard that painters use it when they paint houses,” Holmes suggested. “But painters do not generally have the disposition to be murderers.”
“Or in medical practice,” I whispered. We stared at each other for a long moment. “We would use it to help cure rheumatism and bronchitis.”
* * *
When at last the fever abated and I was able to remain awake for several hours at a time, Mr. Holmes came in to see me. We sat in silence for a while until I finally asked if there was anything I could do for him.
“Under no circumstances are you ever allowed to eat or drink anything that passes this doorstep excepting what Watson or myself shall give you or what you make yourself,” he said angrily. “Is that understood?”
Taken aback by this speech, I was fortunately fortified by an anger of my own. “I could not very well let you die by a weakness for drink, Mr. Holmes. You know better than I that you have enemies—people who would kill you to save themselves.”
“I know it,” he said sadly. “I should have been more vigilant in my observance.” He looked at me steadily, a deep sorrow in his eyes, and hung his head.
It took some time for me to collect my thoughts, for I was still weak from the ordeal, and I did not know how to relieve him. “It was my first thought to keep you from danger. I did not want…” I could not finish, but I believe he divined its meaning from the silence.
“How did you know that the drink was poisoned?”
“My father and I made wine in our cellars at home,” I answered. “I knew not that it was poisoned, only that something was not right.”
“It was
enough to save a life,” Mr. Holmes smiled slightly and then sighed, resting his head in his hands.
Wishing to console him, I whispered, “If you are worried for me, Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that I am out of danger now. Dr. Watson did well in the application of his expertise, and would do any medical ward proud. Do not suffer needlessly for what has happened.”
“But it should not have happened at all!” he cried out.
“You should learn to forgive yourself.”
“And under my watch it shall never happen again,” Mr. Holmes continued as if he had not heard me. “I bought us a dog,” he went on cheerfully.
“A dog?” I asked, confused. “Whatever for, sir? I can hardly manage to keep you and Dr. Watson inside this house, let alone another creature.” Then with a shock I guessed his purpose. “You are not going to experiment on him, are you, Mr. Holmes?”
He stretched out his hand and made to speak, but by then it was too late.
“I’ll not stand for it! To be loved and cared for by that same master who, when you become of use, will kill you for the sake of science? No, sir, I shall not let you!”
“And you would sacrifice your life for a dog?” Mr. Holmes asked with the semblance of calm, but I could feel the tension rising, “You, who nearly lost your life because of a preventable human error. No, I will not stand for that, either.”
Finding it impossible to discuss this subject with him in an unheated manner, I decided to probe where his mind would find solace, to give it a new course on which to dwell. To this end I asked, “Who was it that attempted this murder?”
“A man by the name of Lord Neville Tocqueville,” said Mr. Holmes easily. “A man who was large in title but significantly lacking in his financial accounts. Somewhat of a gambler in all things living, from human lives to horse races, and a man not inherently criminal, only driven to it by necessity; consequently, so much so that he has turned to crime more than once. Hemlock was his weapon of choice—a substance powerful enough that in small doses it can be used as a medical remedy for spasms and hydrophobia, but in larger doses can prove fatal. Its odour is the most distinctive feature about it; that is why you knew that something was amiss. Tocqueville is also a doctor, but one who could not forego the financial opportunity of instigating my demise. Now, where he is going, money will be of little use.”
The Hudson Diaries Page 3
