by Ashton, Hugh
The Reigate Poisoning Case: Concluded
by Hugh Ashton
-oOo-
I confess to having done Dr. Watson an injustice. I had previously marked him down as having been mistaken in his reporting of the Montpensier case. It is worth repeating Watson’s words as recorded in The Hound of the Baskervilles:
“...he [Sherlock Holmes] had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carère, the young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.”
In the account of the adventure that I have edited and entitled The Reigate Poisoning Case, published by Inknbeans Press in the collection Notes from the Dispatch-Box of John H. Watson MD, there was no mention of any character named Mlle. Carère, nor of a subsequent resurrection of the victim, let alone a reappearance and marriage in New York. I had therefore assumed that Watson had confused two cases, and attached the name of the principal of one to the events of another.
It turns out that I was mistaken. Watson was correct in all the details that he had originally supplied as hints mentioned in his earlier story of Dartmoor. As I was searching through the dispatch box, I discovered an envelope into which was tucked another notebook, somewhat similar to the one in which I had discovered the story of Madame Montpensier. This was the totally unexpected sequel to the story that I had first discovered—a sequel that overturned my previous assumptions.
The notebook contained what was perhaps a final copy of the second part of the manuscript describing the adventure, to be sent to the publisher, but later withheld, almost certainly at the request of Sherlock Holmes, given the content. Certainly there are very few corrections and additions to be seen in the manuscript, and the style is as polished as any other production from the pen of John Watson.
I therefore present to you the second part of The Reigate Poisoning Case, which in my opinion, brings to a satisfactory close—as far as the plot is concerned, through many dubious moral aspects remain—those parts of the case that raised doubts in my mind when I was acquainted only with the first part of the story. This adventure is set some six months after the first, as the mention in Hound would imply.
For those who have yet to read the initial portion, Holmes discovered that Mme. Montpensier, who had previously married a Mr. Stevens, was currently in a marriage which had been contracted bigamously by her current husband, under the name of Colethorpe. This Colethorpe, as she knew him, had suborned one of the maids into collaborating with him in a complex scheme that would trick the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier into providing her daughter, Miss Annabel Stevens, with a fatal dose of poisoned cocoa. At the autopsy, conducted by the local doctor, Henry Clifford (a former student colleague of Watson’s) together with Watson and a lecturer at Bart’s Hospital (Professor Menzies), it was discovered that the death of the victim had indeed been caused by poison. Though circumstances initially pointed to Mme. Montpensier as the administrator of the poison, it was deduced by Holmes that she had acted unwittingly, and the true culprit was Colethorpe, acting through his catspaw in the form of a kitchenmaid, whom he had cajoled into acting as his accomplice. Colethorpe was found guilty and hanged, and the maid sentenced to many years’ imprisonment.
Holmes’ reasons for believing in the innocence of Mme. Montpensier were uncharacteristic, as he himself admits, and it is refreshing to see him return to his more logical rational self in this, the conclusion to this complex and troubling case.
-oOo-
Sherlock Holmes often expressed his own, often somewhat original, ideas as to the value of evidence in different sciences, and the weight that should be placed on the facts. I remember one day taking up the issue with him, and attempted to compare my profession of medicine against his chosen path of the detection of crime.
“Surely you would agree, Holmes,” I remonstrated with him, “that the art of diagnosis and cure in the healing profession have some similarities to your methods?”
“By no means,” he replied, a trifle tartly. “I agree with you in your categorisation of the medical profession’s methods as an art, rather than a science, however. With no disrespect to you, my dear Watson, who are as competent a member of the medical clan as I have ever encountered, the methods of your colleagues seem to me to be little more than mere prodding of a steam engine by savages using sharpened sticks in an attempt to discover its workings. Such an approach is, in my opinion, unlikely to bear fruit. On the other hand, my approach to detection is based on pure scientific method. I gather facts, I correlate them with my experience, and when I lack such experience, I seek the knowledge that is missing. Once this has been accomplished, the pieces of the puzzle invariably fall into place, and I am presented with the solution.”
“But my dear fellow,” I protested. “Is not this the way of the medical practitioner, as well as the detective?”
“Would it were so. The human body, however, not to mention the human mind which ultimately controls the body, is a fiendishly complex mechanism, of which even a partial understanding remains beyond our reach at present. When you see a patient in your consulting room, coughing and with a heightened temperature, I am reasonably certain that your diagnosis is almost invariably that the poor fellow is suffering from a cold or some similar minor ailment.”
“Quite probably that would be the case,” I agreed.
“But, with no disrespect to you or your abilities, or even those of your colleagues, you could be hideously mistaken in this diagnosis. The poor sufferer before you could, for example, be suffering from bubonic plague, the symptoms of which are superficially similar to those of the common cold.”
I was somewhat nettled at this reproof, which seemed to me to be unjustified. “Well, if you were the doctor in this instance with the coughing patient in front of you, what would be your course of action?”
“I would seek the circumstances surrounding the patient. This need not be done by direct questioning, of course. You have often seen me provide details of the lives of our clients before they have even begun to open their mouths, have you not? In the circumstance that we are discussing presently, it would be sufficient for me to mark the patient as a seafaring man who had recently returned from the Orient to immediately begin examining possibilities other than the obvious.”
I laughed. “You seem to forget, Holmes, that not everyone shares your powers of observation. You should remember also that we doctors must deal with dozens of patients in a single day. You are currently engaged in how many cases? Two? Three? In the years of our acquaintanceship I cannot remember your having more than four cases on hand at any one time. On the other hand, a doctor may have many patients, who suffer from a variety of disorders, who require diagnosis and treatment. And may I also remind you that unlike criminal cases, medical cases may demand a complex solution, tailored to the needs of the individual sufferer, rather than a single answer from a textbook. What you suggest would indeed be an ideal system of medicine in a perfect world, but the realities of everyday existence force us to compromise.”
Holmes threw up his hands. “Good old Watson,” he laughed. “I am lucky to have you drag me down to earth when I take off in my flights of fancy. I am heartily glad, then, that I did not follow a notion of my youth and study medicine. Tell me,” he broke off, changing the subject abruptly, as was his habit, “is there anything of interest in this morning’s post?”
I leafed through the pile of envelopes lying on the table. “We have a letter from America here,” I c
ommented.
“Postmark?” he asked.
“It appears to have been sent from New York. Posted some two weeks ago.” I passed the unopened letter to him.
“Interesting,” he remarked after he had opened the letter and scanned the contents. “You remember the poisoning case in Reigate some six months ago?”
“Indeed I do. But what does a suburban tragedy here in England have to do with a letter from New York?”
“An excellent question. On the face of it, there would appear to be no connection. However, it may well be that there is the strongest of possible connections. You are aware that I am in contact with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in America?” I nodded. “This letter is from the head of their New York bureau, and asks me to verify that a woman in New York who goes by the name of Mlle. Carère is the same as one Annabel Stevens. Apparently this person has recently married and is claiming the inheritance left to her by her supposed father.”
“That is impossible!” I cried. “I saw the body of Annabel Stevens myself. I was present at the autopsy where her cause of death was determined. I have no idea what this could mean. There is no problem here that I can perceive.”
“I agree, death would seem to preclude such an imposture as is implied here. Notwithstanding my somewhat acid comments regarding the medical profession earlier, an autopsy conducted not just by one, but by three experienced medical practitioners, surely removes any doubts on that score. Even so, I am informed that the lady in question can produce a birth certificate and can give details of a life in England which would seem to confirm her true identity as Annabel Stevens. Pinkerton’s seek my assistance in unravelling this little problem.”
“I fail to see that there is a problem,” I repeated. “I have seen her body, we saw the reports of the inquest, and it is absurd to imagine that such a claim to the identity of Annabel Stevens can have any validity.”
“All the same, I have corresponded with O’Neill on a number of occasions, and he has always struck me as being a level-headed, if not outstandingly intelligent, member of the profession. The fact that there is a large sum of money involved may, of course, be a factor in his making the request, but notwithstanding this, I hardly feel that he would be asking for my assistance, did he not consider the request to be at least partly within the bounds of possibility. In any event, this is a mystery worthy of investigation for its own sake, do you not think?”
“It strikes me as being something of a wild goose chase,” I replied. “However, if you have nothing better to occupy you at present, as you say, it is a pretty little puzzle. Where to begin?”
“Let us begin at the beginning. Who saw the body of Annabel Stevens?”
“As I said to you just now, myself, my friend Dr Clifford and Professor Menzies.”
“No, no,” with an air of impatience. “I do not mean simply at the autopsy. Let us try to recall the facts, and compose a list of all those who may have seen the body. Madame Montpensier claimed to us that it was she who discovered her dead step-daughter. There was also the maid, Hannah, whom we were told discovered Montpensier in the room after she had fainted. I believe that we were not informed that any of the other servants were present in the fatal chamber at any time.”
I cast my mind back to the events of more than half a year previously. “I believe you are correct in that assumption, but in this case absence of proof, my dear Holmes, is not proof of absence.”
“Very good,” he chuckled. “But to continue with our list, we should add the undertaker’s men, if they were the ones who were responsible for transporting the body to the mortuary, and also the mortuary attendants, as well as those who prepared the corpse for burial.”
“I am not sure what you are trying to suggest. I fear you are being somewhat macabre in your suppositions.”
“I hardly know myself what I am suggesting at present,” he confessed. “How is your practice these days? I remember you just now mentioning the dozens of patients that you saw in a single day,” he smiled at me.
“I have to admit to you that my practice is not quite as busy as I may have implied. I take it that you wish my assistance here?”
“Yes, and it is work that only you can accomplish successfully. I wish you to go to Reigate and visit your friend Clifford, to refresh your memory and his concerning the exact events surrounding the death of Miss Annabel Stevens. For myself, I will attempt to discover the exact terms of the will left by the late Mr. Stevens. In cases of this sort, insofar as it can be said that there are cases of this sort, it is always a capital maxim that one should look into the financial aspects of the matter. Very often they lead to a more accurate diagnosis of the problem than the facts that appear before one’s face.”
-oOo-
I took myself to Reigate the next day, and called at the address where I had previously visited my old college friend, Dr. Henry Clifford. However, on my ringing the bell and enquiring after him, I was informed that he had given up the practice, and was now working “in a hospital in London”. I was reminded of his previously expressed wish to enter the field of pathology, and assumed that this was the path he had chosen for himself.
I telegraphed the result of my visit to Sherlock Holmes, and returned to London, where I used a public library to consult the latest edition of the medical directory, which told me that my friend was now working in the pathology department of our alma mater, Barts.
On reaching the hospital, I enquired after him, only to discover that the medical directory that I had consulted was now out of date, and Clifford had now set up in private practice in a very fashionable area of London. I took a cab to the address I had been given, and stood before a most imposing Harley-street mansion in which apparently my friend had now set up his practice. A new brass plate on the door confirmed what I had been told by the registrar at Barts. On ringing the bell, I was admitted by a smartly dressed maid, who ushered me into a well appointed waiting-room.
After a wait of about ten minutes, Clifford himself entered the waiting-room, and shook my hand in greeting as I rose. “Come in, come in,” he invited, waving his hand toward the door leading to his consulting-room.
“I have had a rare game chasing you to earth,” I laughed, as we settled ourselves in comfortable chairs before a blazing fire. “I had no idea that you had left Reigate, and then I saw you listed in the directory as practising at Barts. They told me there that you had set up for yourself here.” I fancied that I saw him flinch a little at the mention of Reigate, but I put that down to my imagination.
“I think I mentioned to you when we met on that last melancholy occasion,” he answered me, “that I was tired of general practice and wished to move into the field of pathology.”
“Indeed you did,” I replied. “I take it that you were working with Menzies at Barts?”
“I was,” was his answer, delivered with a bitter laugh. “I warn you, Watson, never on your life attempt to work with that man for more than one or two hours at a time. He is totally impossible. I tell you that I could not do anything without his carping and criticising me, even in front of the junior staff, as well as whenever we were alone. And as you know, the effect of such criticism is often to make matters worse, so that he who is being criticised finds himself unable to do anything correctly. In the end I had no alternative but to leave. My practice now consists of wealthy hypochondriacs. They are few in number, but they pay well.”
“It is a most impressive address,” I said to him, leaving an unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he replied, laughing a little more heartily this time. “I was lucky enough to be left some money by an elderly relative at the precise time that I made up my mind to leave Menzies and to shake the dust of Barts forever from my feet. This practice came on the market at a price which I could afford, and so far it suits me very well indeed.”
This account of his doings, and of a style of practising his profession which was profoundly different from the way
in which I regarded my calling, was nonetheless of great interest to me.
“But what, if I may ask, brings you to see me, all the way from London to Reigate to Barts and then to Harley Street?” he asked.
“To tell you the truth, it is that same business that brought us together last time,” I told him.
He furrowed his brow in puzzlement. “I fail to see that there is anything more to discuss. By the way, a brandy and soda? No? If you have no objection, I will.” Much to my surprise, since according to the plate outside his door we were still within the hours allotted to consultation he poured himself a stiff measure of brandy and squirted a little soda water into it. Though I personally disapproved of this action under these circumstances, I felt it was not my place to offer him advice on how he should lead his life.
He took a long pull at his brandy and soda. “Is this on your own account, or that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“That of Sherlock Holmes, naturally. Was there anything that struck you as untoward about the case?”
“My dear Watson!” he exclaimed. “A girl who has been poisoned, a murder by a bigamist father, and you ask me if there is anything untoward? For someone like yourself, who no doubt comes in contact with murders and crimes of violence on an almost daily basis, no doubt this was mere run-of-the-mill routine for you.” His tone was not totally absent of mockery. “But for a humble general practitioner such as myself, the whole business was totally untoward. Horrifying and macabre in the extreme.” Once again he buried his face in the brandy glass, obscuring his expression from my view. I determined to change my line of questioning a little.
“When you discovered the mother, what was her state of mind?”
“Look here, Watson, I don’t quite understand what you are driving at with all these questions. If you must know, the whole business was more than a little upsetting to me.”
“You were acquainted with the young lady before her death?”
I was totally unprepared for his answer, which was delivered in a tone of anger. “You have no right to ask me such things! There is no excuse for your insolence and rudeness! I must ask you to leave immediately.” He gulped down the remains of his brandy and soda and glared at me over the rim of the glass.
