“Look here, Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes, this is a case that requires police work, not the speculation and theorizing of which you are so fond. I’m only dealing in facts here. And the facts is that Percival was a pansy. And he was getting a bit ‘o action.” He rubbed his chin. “Just not on the night of the murder.”
“It is crucial information, to be sure. And have you been able to find the man dressed in the vampire costume, Constable?” Sherlock’s sarcastic amusement was written across his face as he set down his pipe and picked up his Stradivarius, plucking on the strings.
“Naturally we have not. If we had, we would have the murderer.”
“Technically Mrs. Kitchens was the person who poisoned Percy, allowing for his murder,” Sherlock said.
“Now I know you’re bonkers. Not so, Mr. Holmes! Ha ha! The body showed signs of asphyxia. There was no poison in Percival’s system and no poison in the food.” He smiled broadly. “Now who has the false assumptions?”
“Asphyxia?” Dr. Watson considered these words with interest. He appeared to be deep in thought as he inadvertently stroked his dark blonde mustache where it met his long sideburns.
“What are you thinking, Watson?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“Lord Percival’s blood was drained, and yet his body reacted in death as if he were strangled—which the marks on his neck did not indicate.”
***
Recalling Percy’s body, a young man taken in his prime—a friend—Mycroft felt his gut clenching.
True, he encountered murder and terror everyday, but to have his club and his friends targeted was devastation.
For Mycroft’s own reputation and position, he was concerned, but those concerns paled before other considerations. To personally face the hatred in the world in such a beastly manner was sickening, taking him out of his usual joy and pleasure in life, to say the least. One had to take care not to let the hatred of others turn one dark.
The only solution was to hold onto the love, joy, and kindness in one’s heart.
While being diverted by the opera and fine dining, of course.
Sherlock studied Athelney. “And what did the autopsy show was in the body? Only the dinner? Did it match up to the cook’s description?”
“The dinner and the wine, yes.”
“And the mushrooms?”
“Oh, the blasted ‘shrooms. Yes, yes, they were there. Along with the beef and the vegetables.” Athelney sneered. “Poison indeed.”
“What type of mushrooms?” Sherlock set his violin beside his chair.
“You thought you had me there, didn’t you, ’Olmes? Not the poisonous type. It was . . .” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket which he subsequently read. “It was the Coprinus mushroom.”
“Ah ha! As I suspected,” Sherlock exclaimed, standing from his chair and punching his fist in the air. “The Coprinus mushroom was the instigator of Percy’s death, administered by Mrs. Kitchens.”
Mycroft yawned, motioning to Miss Hudson for another sherry. She was a dear girl. And curious, which a person of intelligence should seek to be. Curiosity was at the root of most pleasure and all achievement in life.
“But I just told you the Coprinus mushroom is not poisonous and there was no poisons in Lord Percival’s body. What the devil are you spouting off about, ’Olmes?”
“The wine is where you should be focusing, Police Constable,” Mycroft said languidly, accepting the sherry.
“The saints preserve us. What are you talking about, Mr. Secretary?” Athelney demanded. “We tested the remains of the wine bottle—it weren’t poisoned.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mycroft brushed the sleeves of his super fine tuxedo jacket.
“What in the blazes are you blathering on about? You’re as bad as your brother.”
“I should hope so. Perhaps something will be accomplished.” I do hope Shirley doesn’t over-exert himself in the attempt. His younger brother had been a person of unusually high energy even in the womb; he had almost driven their dear mother crazy. Shirley’s brain never stopped, and rarely did his body. He himself at least had the good sense to know when to rest.
“I tested the wine myself,” Sherlock agreed, beginning to pace the room.
Of course you did, brother dear. Mycroft took another sip of sherry. But I know what you found without asking. Shirley was always one to do things by the book.
“I know very well the wine wasn’t poisoned,” Sherlock concluded.
Naturally.
“How would the wine 'ave killed Lord Percival then? You’re spouting nonsense as usual. Only I’m hearin’ it in duplicate.”
“I assure you there is nothing nonsensical about this murder,” Mycroft said. “It was expertly planned.”
“I know your great disdain for theorizing, Athelney. Therefore, I withheld my opinion until I was certain. Which I am, now that you furnished the final clue,” Sherlock proclaimed.
“Me? Furnished . . . And what clue was that?”
The relations of course, Mycroft thought.
“The relations of course.” Sherlock looked about the room, appearing to lose interest in his conversation with the constable—quite understandable, it would bore a turnip—as the specifics of the case revealed itself to him.
“Do you remember the recent murder of the female prostitute, Constable? A particularly gruesome murder,” Sherlock asked.
“Of course I do. I weren’t put on the police force yesterday.”
“This murder is along those lines: a crime of passion,” Mycroft said. “Whoever performed this murder has a great hatred of men of a certain persuasion. You share that in common, Constable.”
“Now see here. Because I don’t think it is godly or natural, don’t mean I support murder.” Athelney cleared his throat.
“That’s a relief, Constable. There was some question in my mind on the subject,” Mycroft added.
“I assure you Police Constable Jones will proceed with the same degree of professionalism he advances to every case,” Sherlock’s countenance was expressionless.
“That is my precise fear,” Mycroft murmured.
“Naturally I will. But the evidence shows that the vampire did not have relations with Percival. Or, rather, no one did on the night in question.”
“And what does the lack of relations prove, Constable?” Mycroft asked. “That the vampire wasn’t a male prostitute? That he wasn’t Percy’s lover? Not necessarily.”
“But you told me earlier the lack of relations did prove that. And chided me right rough over it.”
“True. But you can’t expect me to pass up an opportunity to inflame your sensibilities, my dear Athelney.” Mycroft leaned back into the settee, stretching his legs out before him. “It forces you to confront the disparity between your logic and your prejudices, as well as providing amusement for me.”
“Deuce it all, Mycroft Holmes. We’ve a murder to solve and don’t need foolish antics on top of it.”
“There, there, dear Constable. The mental exercise is good for you.” Pointless, probably, but one must try.
“Perhaps the vampire loathes persons of this persuasion and has set a trap for them. Murdered them in fact,” Dr. Watson posed. The good doctor generally had a handle on things.
Mycroft nodded absently. “Unless I miss my guess, the murderer wishes to send a message.”
“Mere speculation,” Athelney pronounced.
“It isn’t speculation that we have a dead body. Or that Mrs. Kitchens has vanished. As the vampire has,” Sherlock said.
“Both temporary employees, in a manner of speaking.” Mycroft added somberly, “And yet, Mrs. Kitchens might be under our very noses—who Denzil will identify. I’m surprised you haven’t rounded up some possible suspects for Denzil to identify, Constable.”
“Damn it to hell,” Athelney muttered. “I’ve no reason to be interested in Mrs. Kitchens at this point. Why do you keep saying Percival was poisoned? The autopsy proves it weren’t so.”
/>
“To the contrary. The Coprinus mushroom causes illness when consumed with alcohol,” Sherlock said “The Coprinus aren’t deadly—necessarily. However, if combined with wine, they would result in sickness and weakness, enough to make the murder easier. Much easier.”
“Reducing a man’s ability to fight back is often the difference between life and death,” Dr. Watson said.
“They both ate the mushrooms. Then why didn’t the vampire get sick?” Athelney asked.
“Aha!” Dr. Watson exclaimed. “Because he didn’t drink the wine. Both ate the mushrooms, but only one of the party drank the wine, and we know it to be Lord Percival.”
“Recollect that only one of the glasses had wine in it,” Sherlock said. “As Watson pointed out, we already know that Percy was a wine drinker.”
“Then how was Lord Percival actually killed if the mushrooms only made him sick enough to overtake?” Athelney asked.
CHAPTER TEN
An Unusual Murder
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” - Sherlock Holmes
“The Boscombe Valley Mystery” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Watson, I know you can answer this question. But may I pose it to my assistant?”
Dr. Watson nodded graciously, his turquoise eyes alight with understanding.
Mirabella moved nervously towards Sherlock, hoping she didn’t miss the question. Inadvertently she touched the cameo at her neckline.
“Miss Hudson, what plant when consumed does not reveal itself in an autopsy, the only evidence being asphyxia, which could be rooted in any number of causes?”
She released her breath. “Aconite. Sometimes called monkshood or wolfsbane.”
Whew! With four men staring at her, she was relieved to know the answer.
“Precisely.” A slight smile formed on his lips.
“I thought of that,” Athelney said.
“Did you, Constable?” Sherlock ceased his pacing to return to his seat.
“But we found none in the food which was left on the plate.” Athelney said smugly.
“Do you recall the small dart mark on the Percy’s neck? Almost hidden by the fang marks, as was no doubt intended?”
Dr. Watson whistled to himself. “A tincture.”
“The monkshood was put into a tincture, used to coat the needle, which was inserted into Lord Percival’s neck,” Mirabella said, feeling excitement as confusion moved to comprehension.
Sherlock nodded. “Then it was only a matter of time before he died of the loss of blood—or asphyxiation—whichever came first.”
“Dreadful.” She shivered. “What a horrid thing to do.”
“Essentially both are caused by lack of oxygen,” Dr. Watson added.
“Certainly not the dinner guest I would care for.” Mycroft frowned.
“Would you say our murderer is a chemist?” Sherlock posed.
“That or a Shakespearean actor. There is quite a bit of unnecessary drama to the murder,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock leaned against the window, looking out onto Baker street. “I wouldn’t say the drama is unnecessary. It served its purpose.”
“Indeed, the element of revenge is strong in this unholy assault,” Mycroft added somberly. “It was not an immediate death. I expect that our murderer had a conversation with his victim.”
“He genuinely hated the deceased,” Mirabella said.
“I can’t disregard the theatrical aspects,” Mycroft said somberly. “The general public is all agog over ‘Varney the Vampire’. The serial publication is somewhat humorous, but also terrifying in its implications of the supernatural.”
Athelney shook his head. “The tincture doesn’t make sense. Too much trouble. Why not kill Percival with the wolfsbane in the food?”
“Because the poison would have to be in both dinners,” Dr. Watson explained. “It would have aroused Percival’s suspicions if his vampire guest had abstained.”
“Not the thing at all.” Mycroft nodded somberly. “That’s why this is so ingenious: Percy was just debilitated enough to be unable to fight back.”
“And no poisons were found in the food,” Dr. Watson added. “Creating confusion about the murder weapon and pointing to a supernatural being.”
“The method threw suspicion away from the kitchen,” With his prominent chin and piercing gaze, Mycroft’s strong masculine features were never more evident. “Quite effectively, it appears.”
“If indeed Mrs. Kitchens assisted in this heinous murder, what then was her motive?” asked Athelney.
“I should say that you find her and question her,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock warned, “This case is confused by motive, knowledge, and means. If I give you poison telling you it is medicine, and you give it to someone who dies, who is the guilty party?”
“You, of course, Holmes,” Athelney grumbled. “I’ve thought so all along.”
“We only just learned that Lord Percival died of asphyxiation, leading us to the monkshood, which could not have been administered by Mrs. Kitchens. All clues point to the vampire as dealing the final blow,” Sherlock concluded.
“That’s what I said from the beginning,” Athelney objected. “And you lead me on this wild goose chase. I was right all along.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Collecting the facts is never a wild goose chase.”
“Granted you were right, Constable,” Sherlock conceded. “But for the wrong reasons.”
“Faith and begorrah.” Athelney looked up to the heavens, as if praying for patience. “Cooking up mushrooms could be done without intent to kill. But sticking a needle in someone’s neck and pumping in poison is a bit more deliberate.”
“Combining the wine and the Coprinus mushroom was both cold-hearted and deliberate,” Mycroft said.
“As well as necessary to the crime,” Sherlock said. “Nothing will hold up in a court of law without evidence. You must find your suspects, Constable. That will lead you to the motive.”
“True. Simply taking a stab in the dark and hitting upon the answer will not do,” Mycroft agreed.
“Perhaps it was a religious conviction,” Mirabella suggested. “Because Lord Percival was different, you know.”
There was no amusement in Mycroft’s expression. “You speak of ‘religious conviction’ as if it were the murderer’s relationship with God. This heinous act had nothing to do with God.”
“If the victim’s sexuality is a motivator, I suggest we look at the family of the man who had the love affair with Percival,” Sherlock suggested.
“Overton Bristow?” Athelney rubbed his chin.
“Indeed.”
“I wonder. Do you think there is the possibility Overton Bristow didn’t commit suicide—but was murdered as well?” Mirabella asked softly.
“Ah ha! You’re sounding like a detective now, Miss Belle.” Sherlock turned away from Athelney to look at her. She would have been elated at the rare praise from her employer if it weren’t for the somber nature of the topic.
“We already looked at that,” Athelney said. “There was a suicide note indicating Overton’s despair over his affair with Lord Percival, confessing that a love affair between men was wrong.”
“I question the authenticity of that note. Overton and Percy got along famously,” Mycroft said quietly.
“The obvious suspect would be the betrayed fiancé,” Dr. Watson suggested. “She has been utterly humiliated.”
“Overton was too heavy for a woman to carry,” Athelney said.
Sherlock rubbed his chin, “I believe it is something that we should consider. There is too much at stake.”
“Do what you will, ’Olmes. While you are sitting in your warm parlor drinking your brandy and discussing the cases, we policeman will be out on the streets finding the answers.” Athelney added under his breath, “Proving what we knew to be right from the beginning.”
“We shall need every bit of brain power we can muster on this case.” Sherlock picked u
p his hat as he headed for the door. His parting words were mere mutterings to himself.
“Data. I must have data.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Body Tells All
Whitechapel
“There was something awesome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.” - “Selecting a Ghost” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Shouldn’t we be looking for the vampire and the scullery maid?” Mirabella went to the wash basin to wash her hands.
“We haven’t been given leave by the Yard to do so. We provide the clues and it is the Constable’s job to find the suspects.” Sherlock frowned, indicating that he was not entirely confident in the collaboration. “Patience, my dear girl. Give the police a little more time. We mustn’t save them every time or they never learn.”
From Sherlock’s attire, it wasn’t evident if he was about to engage in a boxing match or if he was ready to work. He had foregone his usual ascot tie and wore a loose shirt open at the neck revealing his muscular chest. For warmth he wore a casual corduroy jacket, and a fedora hat atop his wavy ebony hair caressing his unshaven face. When Sherlock was in the middle of a case he rarely took time to attend to the niceties, the result being that he had a bit of a wild, crazed look.
There was an uncontrolled intensity in the air, as always happened when Sherlock was on the verge of something momentous.
“The police do have another eye witness. Longstaff.” Dr. Watson looked more than his twenty-nine years of age today as he removed the white sheet, studying the body on the table. The good doctor, of course, was impeccably dressed in a three-piece wool suit. Running along a train track, dodging bullets, dissecting bodies, or dining at the Clarence, it didn’t matter, John Watson would be dressed superbly.
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