by william Todd
On the left side of the altar was a small table with a gold chalice and crystal decanter of wine. “The authorities took the vial, but they were derelict in leaving the chalice and wine.” He sniffed the decanter and frowned. “Hemlock, almost certainly. It has a bit of a mousey smell. But why poison the whole decanter? Why not just the chalice alone? He certainly had the opportunity with his back to the congregation. That is very suggestive.”
I thought momentarily then offered, “If only the chalice was poisoned that would suggest the murderer was more particular of his victim, but if the whole decanter was poisoned that would mean that the killing was more indiscriminate.”
“Precisely, Watson. I do not think the priest is the murderer.”
“And it is obvious that he, too, is having ill-effects from drinking, with his sunken, grey features and profuse sweating,” I added. “Why would he poison himself?”
“And why would this murderous letch,” he said with sarcasm, “be so foolish as to leave the poison in his coat, sure to be found by the curious constabulary? Come, Watson. Let us examine where the poison was found.”
At the west end of the church, just beyond the first set of pews, we were shown through a small hallway that opened into the rectory by one of the many constables. At the end of the hallway the room opened into a large entranceway with the front door on the right, a coat rack with the priest’s overcoat still hanging adjacent to the door, and a large secretary's desk just beyond the coat rack. Other rooms opened off that small greeting area.
Holmes noticed something on the marble floor in front of the door. “Ah, Watson, a partial footprint. A left, I believe.”
The constable with us, said, “The priest’s, no doubt. The yard around is rather muddy from all the rain the past few days.”
Holmes said nothing.
He next wanted to inspect the secretary's desk, but the constable cautioned him. “You may look only, sir. Nothing is to be touched or handled in any way.”
“Yes, that does seem to be how investigations are handled here,” Holmes mumbled to me, as he looked over the desk.
After a cursory glance, he turned and walked quickly back through the hallway into the church with me at his heel.
“Did you see anything of note?” I asked.
“You know me, Watson. My eyes tend toward that which is ignored. The shoe print was not Harrison’s. His shoes are soft-soled with tread and a rounded toe. The print on the floor had no tread and a pointed toe.”
“A dress shoe,” I finished.
As we turned and went back up the center aisle, he added, “In lieu of a miraculous Providential appearance, I think Father Harrison will have to make do with us. Come, we shall look in on good, old Whympenny for a bit, then let us see what we can do about these murders.”
. . . . .
Phineas met us at the door with a smile and a sweep of his giant arm bidding us enter. “Come, come, gentlemen. You must sit and tell me of the mischief happening on my doorstep. Sherlock, it is so nice to see you again!”
Holmes chuckled, “Phin, as robust as ever, I see.”
“Yes, the clean, country air has not, unfortunately, deterred my love of food. If I have my way, when I go to that Great Beyond it shall be with a pastry stuffed between my cheeks!”
A bit breathless, he forced himself into a rose carved, balloon-back chair. “We have plenty of time to talk food. For now, though,” he added with anticipation, “indulge this fat, old man and tell me what is what across the way.”
Holmes succinctly relayed what we had learned, and afterward, Phineas said, “There has been something brewing over there for some time now. That it ended like this is not surprising to me.”
“Oh, really? Why?” asked Holmes, interest peaked, brow askew.
“If you don’t already know, Miss Mary, as she is wont to be called, is a very pretty young lady. If I were forty years younger and possessed a bit less girth—”
“You would cook her dinner then eat it all yourself,” I finished.
He nodded his head and laughed. “Touché, John. Let us then stick to fact and not fantasy. As you can see, I have a perfect view of the church through my front window here.”
“And you have seen things,” Holmes anticipated.
“Some things. Not much. But enough to know that something like this was coming.”
Holmes was going to interject something, but Phin cut him off with a sausage-sized finger, “Such as the Montfort boy showing some affection to that lovely Miss Mary right out in front of the church. It was dusk, and they thought it too dark for anyone to see. But I was blessed with the eyes of an owl. They embraced and kissed. The whole affair was over in a second, maybe two. Anyone else would not have noticed.”
I asked, “How do you go from a brief moment of intimacy to murder?”
Phin smiled wide on that full-moon face of his. “Because he was not the only admirer she cozied up to, that’s how.”
I gasped. “Which of the other young men was she playing?”
“The barrister’s son, Will Waverly.”
“Who, coincidentally, was absent from the group today,” Holmes replied somberly. “That is a dangerous game to play between friends, the effects with which she is now dealing. Was there one that she hoisted her affections upon more than the other?”
“I only witnessed a little slice of the pie—if I may use that turn-of-phrase because I am famished, but from the goings-on that I could see over this summer past in that little alcove, away from prying eyes, I would say that it was the Montfort boy who finally won her over. She spent more time in intimate conversation with him, touching him on the arm innocently, but not so innocently. Their close-in conversations, almost nose to nose,” he added almost rapturously. “I could tell that she brightened considerably in his company. With that recessed entranceway and those two large rhododendrons on either side of the steps, no one would have been a witness to any of it but me. Nonetheless, as I have previously stated, I am sure I have seen but a small part of a larger and much darker picture.”
“You have managed to see much just the same,” I replied.
“As you can see, my cottage is almost directly across from the church. All other homes are too far away at angles to see what goes on in that cloistered little nook. And I believe the empty land on the other side gave them a false sense of security. Since I rarely go outside, they forget I am here, a man of my size, if you can believe that. So, I got a front-row seat to these little affairs. Without friends with which to pass the time,” He went on, feigning melancholy, “that was my only little bit of theater…oh how I miss the Lyceum,” he lamented.
I laughed, “It seems you kept company just fine, my dear fellow, and their names were pumpernickel and Bechamel!”
Phin laughed heartily, which was warming to see, but Holmes’s features darkened. “Jesting aside,” he replied with sagacity, “if you could see her delight being in Mr. Montfort’s company, then it isn’t a far reach to think Waverly may have seen it, as well.”
“And I also believe the priest must have known something,” Phin added, “probably through their confessions if they are good Catholics. I saw him one afternoon imploring her about something, hands upon both shoulders. She had just come through the front doors, but he was right on her heels. She gave him a curt response, shook herself loose, then walked away. That was about two months ago.”
“Did you see anything untoward today?” Holmes asked.
Phin replied, “I only saw them as they returned from their hunt.”
“Did you happen to see anyone at the rectory door at any point today?”
“I did not,” was the reply.
“How does it all fit together?” I finally implored. “Did William Waverly find out he was being duped and in a jealous rage poison his friends and his would-be love? Why everyone and not just Montfort? And why was the poison found in Father Harrison’s coat pocket?”
“Maybe this Waverly boy is casting dispersions
elsewhere by setting up the priest,” Phin offered with delight, rubbing his meaty hands together.
Holmes gazed out the window at the grey day outside and was silent for a long moment. Rising, he said finally, “You relish too much the game, my dear Phin, but forget four are dead and possibly a fifth before the day is through. Come, Watson, the tangled mess in which we find ourselves has become more raveled. It is now time to attempt its unraveling.”
“And in the meantime, how does pressed duck sound for dinner?” asked our portly friend. “A special press I had ordered from Paris just arrived, and I am dying to try it out.”
“Salad and a few cold meats should be sufficient for all of us,” said I in my doctorly voice.
Holmes and Phin both groaned at the statement.
. . . . .
Phin gave us the use of his dogcart, and since I had already spent two weeks in Woodford-Upon-Lea, I knew my way around the place well enough. Phin knew where the Waverly place was due to their prominence as the area’s largest law firm. He gave us the directions, and we proceeded there.
The village shared resources with the bigger Crofton Barrow a few miles away. The Waverly family occupied a large corner brownstone in the middle of town there. When we knocked, a dowdy, rosy-cheeked lady answered the door.
Holmes bowed slightly. “Good afternoon, madame. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson. We are here on a matter of police business and are hoping to speak to Mr. William Waverly if he is in.”
Her cheeks flushed impossibly more. “Oh, I do hope everything is alright, sir. But Mr. William isn’t in at present. Is he in trouble?”
“Is trouble routinely the sort of thing Mr. Waverly would be in?”
“Oh no, sir,” she said rather unconvincingly. “It’s just that, well…on a few occasions, his temper has gotten the best of him, as has happened with all of us I’m sure. On the whole, he is a good lad.”
“An angel, no doubt,” Holmes quipped, grinning politely, “No madame. He is in no trouble, but we have some questions to ask that involve his friends and the new church in Woodford.”
“St. Anne’s, yes I know the church. They all go there regularly. Is everything alright?”
“As I said, madame,” Holmes reiterated, trying to hide his irritation, “he is in no trouble at all, or it would not be me at your door, it would be Constable Milks, no doubt.”
Relief slackened the features on the woman’s face. “Well, Mr. William, I assume, is in London. He and his friends were supposed to attend an event for some function of Sir Montfort.”
“You assume?”
“Well, the event wasn’t supposed to be for two more days, this Thursday, and I know I have seen Mr. Ramsey with the other lads he goes about with. It is very unlike any of them to go anywhere without the others, thick as thieves, they are; but this Saturday past, I heard him tell his father at dinner that he was going to London with his friends for the Sir Montfort event on Thursday, but the next day he was gone. Why he left before the rest of them is beyond me, but he sometimes likes his own company best and goes about on his own.”
“Did he pack an overnight bag?” Holmes asked.
“I never thought to check. We had a loss to the staff recently, and I have been picking up the extra work until we hire more help. But, like I said, Mr. William is a bit like the wind and comes and goes as he pleases, so it never occurred to me to look.”
“Would it be possible for us to take a look in his room?”
“I am not permitted to let anyone in when the house is empty of its owner, which it presently is, but if you are willing to wait, I shall go up to his room and look. I shan’t be but a minute.”
A few minutes later she returned with a worried look upon her face. “His valise is still in his room.”
Holmes asked, “Was it out as though he were about to use it and was perhaps called away before getting a chance to pack?”
“No, sir,” she shook her head vigorously. “It was still put away. It’s as though he left without even thinking to pack…and I think it was because of this.” She handed Holmes a card which smelled faintly of roses. On it was one word: Come. “I found it on his writing desk.”
“Do you know when this was delivered?” Holmes asked.
“I do not. I have never seen this card.” Her face deepened its rosy hue, once more. “Oh dear. What does this all mean?”
My friend gave her a reassuring smile. “I am sure there is a logical explanation for it, and he will soon be at home once more. Please tell him to get in touch with Constable Milks should he return.”
He said nothing regarding the card or missing young man as we next drove over to see how Miss Mary was faring in hospital. It was at the nearer end of Crofton Barrow on the road to Woodford-Upon-Lea. When we passed it on our way to the Waverly place, I wondered why we did not stop then, but my friend has a certain order of things that others find hard to follow. I have learned to leave him to his circuitous methodologies.
We found Mary Holowczak lying in bed with pillows propping her head up. She was grey and saturated with perspiration. Her breathing was a bit laboured, and her eyes were drearily open.
When we told the head matron that we were there in an official capacity, she acquiesced, however, we were not to stay long.
“Miss Mary, I am Sherlock Holmes, and I am helping the constabulary with the unfortunate deaths of your friends and the attempt on your life. Do you feel well enough to answer just a few questions, then we shall go?”
She shook her head yes. “I look dreadful,” she struggled out in a soft accent, “but I feel much better than I did a few hours ago. I am hoping the worst is over. I think something was in wine. It smelled funny when I drank.”
“Yes, we believe you were all poisoned. However, my inquiry at present involves your rather intimate relationships with William Waverly and Ramsey Montfort.”
Her half-closed eyes opened in surprise. “How do you know this?”
“It is my job to know,” replied Holmes.
After a moment, she nodded in acquiescence with tears in her eyes. “It is lonely not being from here and having no more family. People look at you. They…say things. I am all alone now except church. They both showed interest and did not seem to care I am foreigner. I was…how you say—hedging my bets. But Ramsey won my heart and soul. It was wrong what I did and made act of contrition for my sins.”
Holmes then asked, “Did you send a note to Mr. Waverly that simply said ‘Come’?”
She wrinkled her brow. “No. No note.”
Holmes produced the card and handed it to her. “Is this your writing upon this card?”
A look of recognition washed over her. “Oh, yes, this my card. I am teaching everyone my language. It is much fun. I make cards at home with words, English on one side and Polish on the other. I show card in English, and they say word in Polish I teach them. I show them word in Polish, and they say it in English if they remember. This one, I write come but must forget to put Polish word on back—chodz. Did you get this from Father’s desk drawer in rectory? There are many cards in there. He pulls them out when everyone wants lesson.”
“It was found in Mr. Waverly’s room on his writing desk,” Holmes replied somberly.
“But why would he want card?” the young girl asked and began to cough.
“I don’t believe he took the card Miss Holowczak, I believe it was sent to him. How did the perfume come to be on it?”
Wiping her mouth with a kerchief and breathing a bit of color back into her face she replied, “I have small room and have more on my writing desk than I should. I spilled perfume on some cards. There are many that Father has that don’t smell like roses. You will see if you look in his desk.”
“The large one next to the rectory entrance?”
“Yes, there. He keeps them in one of the drawers.”
“Turning to the relationship, did Waverly know about you and Ramsey Montfort?”
Her face grew dar
k, and she replied, “Yes, Ramsey told Will just recently, but he seemed already to know. He was not happy, but he is best friend of Ramsey, and they reconciled quickly. But Will grew quiet, and I could see the hate in his eyes when Ramsey was not looking.”
She began to sob, and the color drained from her face. “I believe it is my fault this tragedy happened. How could I be so cruel to a person? Now all my friends are dead!” Her face suddenly went slack, and the poor girl fainted.
Running to Mary’s bedside the head matron nudged me aside and said, “It is time for you to go, gentlemen. You have pushed her too far. She needs rest if she is to recover sufficiently from her near-fatal poisoning.”
Rebuffed for the time being, we left. As we walked down the hallway, I voiced a notion that had been ruminating in my mind since we were at the church. “Holmes, do you not think it odd that—and I am sure you noticed this now that we’ve seen her—that the girl was given a different poison? She was the only one who vomited and did not die where she sat.”
Holmes patted me on the back. “Bravo, Watson! You do yourself an injustice by saying that you cannot learn my methods. You are right. Miss Mary was poisoned by arsenic. The garlic smell was quite noticeable on her breath. But she ingested only a small amount. Just enough to make her sick. Another strike against the local force, which did not catch that crumb amongst the cake. I am glad I came down to see old Phin, for had I not, I fear a terrible injustice would have followed.”
. . . . .
We arrived back on Phin’s street after a short drive. I stopped the dog cart in front of the fifth cottage down from the church. Holmes knocked on the door, and a thin, pale, grey-haired woman answered.
“Hello, madame, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague Dr. Watson. We are here on police business.”
“Yes, the news makes its way down the street rather quickly here,” she replied. “Poor Mary. I do hope she pulls through. She was a good tenant—she leaned in close—despite being, well…you know.”
“No, madame, I do not,” Holmes expostulated. “Are you referring to her Slavic heritage or her Catholicism?”
