Sherlock Holmes At the Raffles Hotel

by John Hall

  “Really, sir,” I protested, my ire being intensified by hearing Holmes mumble something like, “I wouldn’t be so certain.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Masterton with a rather forced laugh, “but the whole idea is preposterous. Anyway, isn’t poison supposed to be a woman’s weapon?”

  “A common misconception,” said Holmes smoothly. “Some of the most notorious poisoners have been men, and men of robustly masculine appetites at that, in many instances.”

  “H’mm.” Masterton shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. See here, Mr Holmes, Superintendent, if that box of sugarplums was the one I’d bought, it was never meddled with in this house. I’ll stake my reputation on that.”

  “And your life?” asked Holmes quickly. “What’s that?”

  “Consider this … had your wife not given that box away, who would have eaten the sweets in it?”

  The colour drained from Masterton’s face. “Good Lord! This is getting ridiculous, Mr Holmes.” He turned to me. “Doctor, you’re a man whose reputation goes before you. Was that box of sugarplums really poisoned?”

  “According to Doctor Oong, the police analyst, and there is no reason to suppose that he is incorrect.”

  “So someone really did poison the sweets?” Masterton shook his head yet again. If he were lying, he was one of the finest actors I have ever seen, on stage or off.

  “Not all,” said Holmes smoothly. “How d’you mean?”

  “Well, there was arsenic in four of the sweets which were uneaten, all ‘Violet Cremes’.”

  “That makes no sense at all. Emily Gerard hated ‘Violet Cremes’.”

  “You knew that? Yes, you clearly know. How?”

  “Common knowledge. Or at any rate it was … is … common knowledge with us here. My wife told me, we made a joke of it. But … wait a moment …” Masterton put a hand to his brow. “’Violet Cremes’? Those are my wife’s favourites. But … then … can it be …”

  “That someone planned to kill your wife? It is a sobering thought, is it not?” said Holmes, his tone considerably less smooth this time.

  “No. But … I simply don’t understand, Mr Holmes. If the poison was in sweets which Emily Gerard hated, and were left uneaten, then how was she poisoned?”

  “We suspect that there was arsenic in four other sweets, all with walnut centres.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you know of Mrs Gerard’s preference for walnuts?”

  “Yes, of course. As I told you, it was a joke with us … like Jack Sprat and his wife.”

  “Let us explore this humorous aspect further,” said Holmes. “If the box had not been given away, who would have eaten the walnut centres?”

  “Well, I suppose I would. Oh.”

  Holmes nodded. “You see the implication, Mr Masterton? There was poison in the sweets that your wife was sure to eat, and also in the ones that, in the ordinary way, she would leave untouched for you to eat. Intriguing, is it not?”

  “Good Lord! Intriguing, Mr Holmes? It’s terrifying.” Masterton thought about it for a moment. “And then … the children. We don’t encourage them to eat sweets, they’re too young, too little, but sometimes, for a treat … great heavens! When I think …” and he broke off with something like a sob, and mopped his brow.

  “It is a dreadful business, to be sure,” said Holmes. “Dreadful indeed,” agreed Masterton. “But it still makes no sense at all, sir. Why, neither Anya nor I has an enemy in the whole world.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “As sure as any man can be, Mr Holmes. Oh, I may have brushed men up the wrong way now and then in business, but nothing to justify this sort of thing.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Even less need to worry about enemies than I have.”

  “No little … ah, differences of opinion with any of the other ladies here?”

  “Lord, no. We’re a fairly tight-knit community, and the ladies, I regret to say, are the most tight-knit of all. They might well join forces against an outsider, or someone they considered an outsider, but they would never quarrel amongst themselves.”

  “And would they have regarded Mrs Gerard as an outsider, d’you think?” asked Holmes quickly.

  Masterton laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You have a way of taking a fellow up, Mr Holmes, and pouncing on any little slip of the tongue. No, I think that Emily Gerard, had she lived and remained here, would have fitted into our little circle very nicely.”

  “You yourself seem to have fitted in very well since your arrival in Singapore, which was, so I understand, not that very long ago?” said Holmes.

  “Oh, it’s a few years now,” said Masterton easily.

  “And what were you doing before you arrived here?” asked Holmes. “No-one seems to know precisely.”

  Masterton retrieved his cigar from the ashtray where I had placed it, took an experimental puff, and applied another match, taking the same care over lighting it as he had done originally, while considering Holmes’ question – and perhaps his own reply – while he did so. At length he said, “Out here, ‘East of Suez’, Mr Holmes, a man’s past isn’t always what it might have been had he remained all his life in London. And it isn’t really considered good form to enquire too deeply, if you follow me.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “I will say this,” added Masterton, “there is nothing, and nobody, in my past that would account for any animosity leading to murder. Will that satisfy you? There is a Bible somewhere in the house, should you want me to take my oath.”

  “That is not necessary. But let us return to this famous box of sugarplums,” said Holmes, with only a tinge of exasperation audible in his voice. “You say that you bought them a few days ago?”

  “I did buy them a few days ago.”

  “Can you remember the day more precisely?”

  “I’m not sure I can. It isn’t the sort of thing a man does remember, is it?” Masterton frowned. “Wait a minute, though. Yes, it was Monday. That is, I’m pretty certain it was Monday.”

  “The day on which the Gerards arrived in Singapore, that is to say?”

  “Yes, it was. Or at least I believe it was, for as I say, I cannot swear to it. But if it was Monday, then it was merely a chronological coincidence, Mr Holmes, and nothing more sinister.”

  “Was there any particular reason for your buying the box of sugarplums?”

  “Nothing special. I had been absent from the office for the weekend, of course, then on my way home on the Monday … yes, it was Monday, of course it was … I chanced to pass a little tobacconist and confectioner’s shop, I buy my own tobacco there, as a matter of fact. I stopped to buy a couple of ounces of my usual mixture, then I noticed the box in the window, and thought I’d bring Anya a little present. No special occasion, you know … if it had been a birthday or a wedding anniversary I’d have bought jewellery or a silk nightgown, something of that sort. Wish I had, now.” He shrugged. “No, nothing special. Just a sort of spur of the moment thing, it might have been flowers, but this time it was a box of sugarplums.”

  “So that was definitely on the Monday? And Mrs Masterton passed the box to Charles Gerard on Thursday. That is four days,” said Holmes. He smiled at Masterton. “In my experience, it is unusual for a box of sweets to remain so long about the place unopened.”

  Masterton shrugged again. “Neither of us has what is called ‘a sweet tooth’.”

  “And yet you bought a box of sugarplums, rather than that bunch of flowers, which you might have bought?”

  “I have told you, Mr Holmes, it was …”

  “A spur of the moment thing, yes, I know.”

  Masterton’s face flushed, and he half rose from his chair. By my side Ingham tensed his body, but Masterton sat back with a weak laugh. “Yes, that’s it exactly, Mr Holmes.”

  “Now, were you aware that Mrs Gerard had made a will leaving her money to her sister, your wife?”

  “Yes, of course. Anya tol
d me. I thought it a bit odd, but I could do nothing about it, and probably wouldn’t if I could. It was Emily’s own money, after all, and she was old enough to leave it where she wished.”

  “And on a related topic, your wife has made a will leaving all her money to you?”

  Masterton flushed again.

  “Forgive me,” said Holmes, “but I am desperately trying to make some sense of all this by determining who may have stood to gain from it all.”

  “Well, my wife gains by Emily’s will, which rather lets Charles Gerard out, unless he had some other reason to kill his wife,” said Masterton. “As for poison in the sweetmeats meant for my wife … assuming for one moment that there’s any truth in that ridiculous nonsense … then I’m the only one who stood to gain there. And I can only repeat, I didn’t attempt to poison my wife, though I don’t suppose it’s any use saying it.”

  “I accuse you of nothing,” said Holmes, holding up a hand. “But tell me this, Mr Masterton, if you and your wife had unfortunately succumbed to that box of poisoned sugarplums, then who would gain from such a double tragedy?”

  “The children, of course. If you can call it gaining to lose both parents.”

  “But they are not of age? Too young to handle a large fortune?”

  “Just so … and too young to doctor a box of sweets,” added Masterton with some contempt in his voice.

  “Just so,” repeated Holmes. “Mrs Masterton has, I believe, no family apart from her late sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you?”

  “I have no family living,” said Masterton.

  “I am sorry to hear it. So who would have control of the money, until the children came of age? Miss Earnshaw, perhaps?”

  “Maggie Earnshaw? Good Lord, no.” Masterton laughed at this. “No, the money would go into trust, and the children into the care of a pal of mine, Tommy Wharton. He and his wife have two boys of their own, but slightly older than our two, so there would be no difficulty there. As a matter of fact, Tommy has made a will leaving his children to me, in the event that his only relative, his brother, should not be living if Tommy and Mrs Wharton both … you know.”

  “An admirable arrangement. And this Mr Wharton is a businessman?”

  “And a successful one.”

  “And he would have control of the capital?”

  “No, of the interest only. His idea, not mine, and his will has exactly the same provision. The capital would be safe, looked after by the oldest firm of solicitors in Singapore.”

  “H’mm.”

  “Not what you expected, Mr Holmes?” asked Masterton, with a look that avoided being a sneer, but only just.

  “Oh, I merely explore the possibilities,” said Holmes. He said it easily enough, but he looked baffled none the less.

  “And for good measure,” Masterton continued, “old Tommy couldn’t have doctored the sugarplums if he wanted to, because his children have the measles at the moment, and he rang me to say that I should keep well away from him for a week or so unless I wanted mine to catch the wretched things. He hasn’t been to the house for a week or more, so he simply couldn’t, even if he wanted to.”

  “I see. That is certainly conclusive. But apart from the blameless Mr Wharton, anyone who came to the house might have tampered with the box?”

  “Only if they had access to my wife’s boudoir, and as her husband I don’t exactly encourage that, you understand.”

  “Miss Earnshaw would, I imagine, look in there on occasion?”

  “Look here, Mr Holmes, if it’s Maggie Earnshaw you’ve got in mind, you can forget it. I’ve told you that if Anya and I had both shuffled off this mortal coil then the children would go to the Whartons. They have a governess of their own, and so poor Maggie would be out of a job.”

  “Are the servants mentioned in your will at all?”

  “Oh, good grief! No, they are not exactly aged and faithful retainers. The only one who has been with us a couple of years is Fisher, the butler, and he gets a token legacy only.”

  “And Miss Earnshaw? Another token legacy?”

  Masterton shook his head. “She only came to us a few months ago, so I haven’t had time to alter my will in her favour, even had I wanted to. Which I didn’t.” He smiled thinly. “Nothing to be made of that, Mr Holmes. And besides, though Maggie performs her duties as well as one would wish, I don’t think she plans to remain a governess all her life. Rather than poison her employers, she’d be more likely to look for some personable young chap and … oh.” He broke off, and looked away.

  “And poison the equally personable young wife, I think you were about to say?”

  “Oh, forget that, Mr Holmes. It was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say. And besides, if Maggie …” he stopped. “I’ll consider my words very carefully, if you don’t mind. If Maggie were to kill a wife in order to marry a widower, she would surely choose someone who would inherit his wife’s money? Charles Gerard gains nothing by Emily’s death.”

  “And did Miss Earnshaw know that?”

  “Oh, yes. Maggie is more than a servant. Anya confides in her a good deal, and certainly Maggie knew about Emily’s will.” He hesitated. “Look here, Mr Holmes, I don’t know if I’m speaking out of turn here, and I don’t know how much you know about Maggie …”

  “We are aware that she and Mr Gerard had been … ah, friends, back in London,” said Holmes.

  Masterton looked relieved. “So you know? Good. Well, then, if Charles and Maggie couldn’t marry in England because neither of them has a bean, they could hardly hope to marry in the same beanless state here, could they?”

  “It is a powerful pointer to Miss Earnshaw’s total innocence, I agree,” said Holmes. “One more question only, if it is not too much trouble. Was Miss Earnshaw in the house here when Charles Gerard called on the day his wife died?”

  Masterton gave vent to a snort of sheer exasperation. Holmes held up a hand. “It is important,” he said in his most soothing tone.

  “Oh, very well, then. No, Maggie had gone out with the children, and with their nurse. I can call the nurse now, if you like, to verify that?”

  “There is no need,” said Holmes.

  “No? And then they didn’t get back until after I returned myself, and by that time Charles Gerard was long gone.”

  “Thank you, that is quite clear.” Holmes made as if to stand up.

  “One moment, Mr Holmes,” said Masterton. “Yes? You have thought of something?”

  “Not as such. Masterton hesitated. “Look here, I hate to suggest such a thing, but … well, the logical suspect when the wife is murdered must be the husband, or am I wrong?”

  Holmes shook his head. “You are not wrong, alas.”

  “Well, then … you seem to think that Charles cannot have done it, and I myself find it hard to accept such a notion. But I had no reason to kill my sister-in-law, and Anya had no reason to kill her sister, and Maggie Earnshaw certainly had no reason to kill anybody. Could it not have been Charles Gerard after all? Any discrepancies might be a clever, scheming man’s way of confusing the investigation, pointing the finger at someone else. Anyone else.”

  “It is a thought,” said Holmes, “and the motive for killing his wife? He did not stand to gain financially, as has been pointed out more than once.”

  “As to that, I cannot say,” replied Masterton. “Perhaps there was another woman … a woman as rich as, or richer than, Emily? Or perhaps the quarrel had something to do with it? The last straw, so to speak? Who can say just what may go on between a man and his wife?”

  Ingham stirred. “He refuses to explain the quarrel, that’s certain,” he grunted.

  Masterton nodded. “Significant, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes. This time he did stand up. “I think that is all I have to ask for the moment, Mr Masterton. Oh, I forgot … have you ever heard of a man named Cedric Masters?”

  “What?” Masterton had pretty obviously not expected t
his. He started, and his face grew ashen. A palpable hit, thought I, if ever I saw one.

  “Cedric Masters? You are not by any chance one Cedric Masters, are you?” asked Holmes.

  Masterton recovered himself. “I told you earlier that I had a Bible somewhere in the place,” said he. “I am perfectly willing to swear to you, here and now, that I am not Cedric Masters. Do you wish me to do that? No? In that event, you will, I am sure, excuse me. I shall ring for Fisher to show you out.” And he suited the action to the words.

  Chapter Eleven: What the Butler Saw

  Fisher, the butler, sedate and unruffled as ever, escorted us to the front door. As he stepped across the threshold, Holmes held out a hand, and I saw the gleam of gold.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Fisher, so urbanely that it was almost a benediction.

  Thank you,” replied Holmes. He half turned to go, then looked back at the butler. “I wonder … would it be inappropriate to have a quiet word with you? It is nothing that would smack of disloyalty to your employer, I assure you,” he added, as Fisher frowned.

  “Oh, in that event, sir.” Fisher glanced behind him, saw that there was nobody about, and lowered his voice. “In that event, Mr Holmes, I shall perhaps have a few moments free around eleven-thirty. There’s a little bar on the corner, nothing grand, where I sometimes pop in for a … a breather, you know.” And as there came a footfall in the passage, he said in a louder tone, “Thank you, sir. Good day to you,” and shut the door in Holmes’ face.

  “An interesting character study,” said Holmes, as we made our way to the carriage.

  “The master, or the man?” asked Ingham quickly.

  Holmes laughed. “Both,” he replied. “Though I was thinking of Mrs Masterton.”

  “Oh.” Ingham shrugged, and called out to his driver, who sat patiently on the carriage seat, “We’ll make our own way back, thanks.” As the carriage clattered away, he nodded down the road. “I know the bar that butler fellow meant. Not a very salubrious place, but I suppose it’s handy for his purposes.”