by David Marcum
“How do you do, gentlemen?” she began, her tone cold. “I am afraid that my husband is resting after a long night. He is engaged upon a medical matter of the utmost urgency.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Purcell, it is upon this same matter that we come. We were brought into the case by Sir James Saunders.”
“Oh, I see.” She raised the pince-nez to her eyes and peered again at our cards. “But only one of you is a doctor. You, Mr. Holmes, are a detective?”
“That is correct, Mrs. Purcell. I hope to determine how this plague is entering Charing Cross Hospital.”
“Ah, then my husband will be most interested in talking with you.”
Holmes smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Purcell. By the way, you must be a great enthusiast of music to share the name of England’s greatest composer.[37] I once heard Foley singing his Dido and Aeneas at the Royal Opera House. It was exquisite.”[38]
Mrs. Purcell shrugged. “I care little for frills such as music. If you excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I will rouse my husband now.”
Once she left, Holmes smiled and nodded slightly, as if she had confirmed some theory of his, though I could little see how a three-hundred-year-old Baroque opera had anything to do with the pestilence stalking Charing Cross Hospital. He turned to me and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Do you have any views upon the case, Watson?”
I shook my head. “I am baffled, Holmes. I read through the same charts as you last night, but failed to see any clue as to the origin of this plague.”
Holmes raised his finger as if to elaborate upon some point, but paused as we were joined by our host. I knew him to be closer to fifty than forty, but the slight flecks of grey at his black temples lent him a distinguished appearance rather than an aged one. His face was square, with a firm jaw and heavy eyebrows, from which penetrating brown eyes studied us. His finely cut suit was of the newest fashion, which indicated to me that his practice was remuneratively successful.
After introductions were made, Dr. Purcell waved us to the settee, as he sank into one of the armchairs. “So Sir James has asked you to help me find the source of the plague?” said he, with some measure of haughtiness in his voice.
“Just so, Dr. Purcell,” replied Holmes, agreeably. “I expect that Sir James felt you might be near the point of exhaustion, and could benefit from a fresh set of eyes.”
“Yes, of course. You have heard, gentlemen, that we lost another man, Mr. Garrett the emphysemic diamond-cutter, to it just last night? It shows no sign of relenting. At the moment my hypothesis is that it was brought in by some fool who was mingling with one of those damnable Lascars down by the docks.[39] But I am having the devil of a time determining how exactly it continues to spread from patient to patient.”
“Have you identified the index case?”
“No, I have been too busy trying to find some ward or vaccine against the plague itself. I don’t have time to be traipsing around town interviewing relatives of the deceased. But, now that you are here, Mr. Holmes, that might be just the job for you?”
If Holmes was offended to have some tedious task foisted upon him, his face did not show it. “Indeed. My thoughts were proceeding along the same lines as yours, Dr. Purcell. Tell me, the plague miasma is typically a summer malady, is it not? Do you find it unusual that it continues to linger into the autumn?”
Dr. Purcell shook his head. “Not at all. It has been unseasonably warm, don’t you think?”
“Certainly. By the way, what do you think happened to your colleague, Dr. Taylor?”
“What do you mean?” Purcell asked, sharply.
“Just that the plague had, for the most part, struck down only those already enfeebled by some other illness. Dr. Taylor was the only strong man to fall.”
The doctor shrugged. “I cannot say for certain, Mr. Holmes. No autopsy was performed in our haste to minimize spread of the contagion. Perhaps Taylor had some hereditary weakness of his heart?”
“Ah, yes, I had not considered that possibility,” said Holmes, mildly. “Well, I shall waste no more of your time, Dr. Purcell. Watson and I will begin by investigating the antecedents of the victims.”
Once we had departed the house and walked some distance in the direction of Baker Street, Holmes emitted a sharp laugh.
“What is it Holmes? I heard nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Again, Watson, that is because you heard, but did not listen. But do not concern yourself, for in this failing you are joined by nearly every other person in London, and the world, for that matter.”
I shook my head at the extent of Holmes’s pride, but recalled that his powers of observation were extraordinary. I had not forgotten how Holmes had once solved the shocking affair of the Chadwick murder simply by noting that her afternoon tea was a full ten degrees cooler than it should have been.[40]
“So, are we now going to interview the relatives of the deceased?”
“Not at all,” Holmes snorted with amusement. “I have another tactic in mind. I think that for now, Watson, you can safely return to your patients. I have a few experiments planned, and the smells may be particularly malodorous. If you would be so good as to call upon me in the morning, I expect to have all of the answers that I require.”
I arrived at Baker Street as the sun was rising, and was therefore much surprised to find the Director already present. Sir James’s composure seemed much shaken. “I am afraid that we have no choice now, we must close the hospital completely,” said he, a hint of despair in his voice. “We cannot continue to put lives in danger.”
“What has happened?” I asked.
“I received this telegram from Dr. Purcell this morning. He has identified what he believes to be the source of the contagion.”
“Indeed?” said Holmes, mildly. “And what was it?”
“Dr. Purcell believes the index case was a patient, Arthur Bryant Collier, who was treated by Dr. Taylor on the ninth of August. Mr. Collier was an explorer for the Royal Geographic Society, known for his travels amongst the Berbers of the Atlas Mountains. Collier died of apoplexy two days later, but having re-reviewed his charts, Dr. Purcell noted that there were some of the same features found in the other victims. Purcell’s note speculates that Collier’s clothing accidentally carried a mutated form of microbe back from Africa. Likely via the unhatched eggs of a sand fly, and it is now being transmitted via the bite of those now emerged flies.[41] That must be how it has spread so readily around the hospital!”
“Dear me!” said Holmes, his shining eyes and lively tone suggesting that he was much amused by this development. “Then you have no further use for me, I presume?”
“I am sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Holmes. I assure you that you shall nevertheless receive your full fee.”
Holmes held up a hand. “If you would refrain from closing the hospital for another few hours, Sir James, I think that I may still be of some assistance. In fact, I highly doubt that you shall see any more cases after today.”
Sir James appeared little mollified by this. “You have yet to hear the worst of it, Mr. Holmes. This morning, Dr. Purcell himself was struck down.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, mildly. “This plague strikes quickly. Why just last night, Dr. Purcell and I both happened to attend the premier of Grieg’s latest violin sonata,[42] and he looked to be in the prime of health.”
“I fail to see...”
“I assure you, Sir James, that I can explain in more detail later today. But time is of the essence if we are to ensure that this scourge ends with Dr. Purcell.”
“Very well,” agreed Sir James, with obvious reluctance.
Holmes and I were soon seated in a cab, whose driver was given orders to proceed to Harley Street with all haste. Holmes appeared both merry and concerned at the same time. I could certainly understand the latter, as we rolled towards a house
which contained a pestilence that could prove to mean our deaths, but the source of the former emotion was an enigma.
“I cannot fathom your attitude, Holmes. You seem most happy that Dr. Purcell has contracted this terrible disease. The man is likely to die!”
Holmes chuckled. “Well, I cannot help but take some enjoyment over this development, Watson. It has transpired almost precisely as I predicted it.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “You knew that Dr. Purcell would fall ill?”
“I thought it highly probable.”
“And the records of Mr. Collier? How did we miss those the other night?”
He smiled broadly. “We did not. In fact, I looked quite carefully through the notes on the last days of poor Mr. Collier.”
“So you already knew that he was the index case?”
“Not at all, Watson,” said he, shaking his head. “I am afraid that Dr. Purcell has made a grievous error, for no such symptoms were recorded in Mr. Collier’s chart two nights ago.”
With a confused brain I considered this new information. When we arrived at Harley Street, it was a morose Mrs. Purcell herself who eventually opened the door. “I am very sorry for the delay, gentlemen. You see, the staff has all deserted us. They learned that the Doctor had fallen ill, and did not wish to risk contracting it.”
“And yet you remain, madam?” asked Holmes.
She shrugged indifferently. “Someone needs to watch over him until he gets better.”
“What makes you so confident that he will pull through?”
“He told me that he perfected his anti-plague vaccine last night. He assured me that it will reverse his symptoms. He also gave me a dose to protect me.”
“Have you taken it?” asked Holmes suddenly, his tone sharp.
“Oh, yes. Just now. The taste is far from pleasant, so I followed it with some tea.”
Holmes dug into his coat-pocket and extracted a small phial. “If you value your life, Mrs. Purcell, I entreat you to take this immediately,” said he, gravely.
“What is it?” she exclaimed, her eyes widening.
“It is the syrup of ipecac.[43] It will cause you to violently expel the contents of your stomach. I am afraid, Mrs. Purcell, that there was an error with your husband’s formulation.”
“Oh,” she said, looking stunned. “But what of the Doctor? He too has taken it.”
“My colleague, Dr. Watson, here, will attend to him at once. Please, Mrs. Purcell, look to yourself.”
“Very well,” she agreed, clearly persuaded by Holmes’s commanding manner. She swiftly departed into the water-closet.
“Come, Watson, it is past time for us to have a little discussion with the Doctor,” said Holmes, gravely.
It was a pitiable sight that awaited us in the room at the top of the stair. Despite the fine autumn day, the drawn grey curtains of the sick-room cast a melancholy atmosphere. A rubicund, feverish face peered at us from beneath a thick quilt. His mouth hung slightly open, and his parched tongue was as black as coal. From a distance I had little doubt that the man was close to death. But he stirred as we entered.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I would stand back if I were you. I do not wish for you to fall ill as well,” said he, feebly.
“That is most kind, Dr. Purcell,” said Holmes. “But I do not think we are in much danger. In fact, I think you may rally soon.” He took one of the seats at the side table, while I maintained my place by the door.
“What do you mean?” the doctor croaked.
“It is a strange plague that you have contracted, Doctor. For one, the tarry stools. In your experience, Watson, what does such a thing indicate?”
“Why, bleeding in the intestines, of course,” I answered.
Holmes turned to me. “Do you recall, Watson, when Stamford first introduced us at the laboratory of St. Bart’s? I had at the time just perfected my chemical re-agent which is precipitated only by the presence of hemoglobin.[44] And yet, when I tested a sample of effluvium taken from the unfortunate Dr. Taylor, it was strangely negative for blood.”
Dr. Purcell pushed himself up in the bed, and wearily swung his bare legs over the side. “Perhaps the sample had degraded?” he postulated.
“Yes, that is an interesting suggestion, Doctor,” said Holmes agreeably. “And, pray tell, what is your explanation for this?” He opened his left hand and revealed a shiny bit of metal slag.
The man sighed heavily and shuffled over to the table. He picked up the curious metal and rolled it between his fingers. “I really cannot say, Mr. Holmes,” Purcell replied, sinking into the other chair.
“Ah, but I can. It took me several hours yesterday afternoon, but I finally isolated the key ingredient in your medicine to be the subsalicylate of bismuth.[45] This agent can have extraordinary benefits at treating the flux.[46] I suspect you learned as much during your research into methods to fight cholera?”
“I have long sought an adequate remedy for that terrible disease,” Purcell replied, mildly.
“Bismuth is the only known medicine to leave behind a metal slag after being heated by a Bunsen burner.”
“Is that so?”
“But that is not the only remarkable property of bismuth, Dr. Purcell. It also is very toxic to felines.”
“Truly?”
“And when given repetitively to humans, it has one very unusual side-effect. It turns the tongue and excreta black.”
Dr. Purcell sat silently, staring at Holmes. “What of it?”
“Do you not think it strange that these are two of the key features of the plague that has descended upon Charing Cross Hospital?”
The doctor shrugged. “It is an interesting coincidence, Mr. Holmes, to be certain. But if you are implying that my medicines are causing the plague, then you are clearly mistaken. For bismuth is not associated with either fevers or fits.”
“No, you are absolutely correct, Dr. Purcell. To produce such an effect you would need to mix it with something else. Say the leaf of the belladonna which, as you may be aware, contains high levels of the alkaloid known as atropine?”[47] Holmes pulled from his coat pocket one of the bottles that I had seen in the doctor’s office and set it upon the table.
A fire flared in the man’s eyes. “What are you implying, Mr. Holmes? That I have poisoned myself?” cried he, motioning to his feverish countenance. “That would be mad!”
“Not if you had carefully worked out the precise dose that falls below the fatal range. Perhaps by poisoning a series of already terminal patients?”
“And why would I want to do that? What would I have to gain?”
“From killing the patients? Nothing. But by removing your hated rival, Dr. Taylor, you now have the attentions of Miss Vivian Crawford all to yourself.”
“Who?” he stammered.
“Come now, Dr. Purcell. It will do you no good to deny it. I was not the only one to see the two of you in the box at St. James’s Hall last night.[48] Many witnesses could be found should you care to continue with your protestation of innocence.”
“You were there?” he croaked. “I did not see you.”
“That is what you might expect when I am watching you. I had little concern that you would penetrate that particular disguise.” Holmes turned to me. “You must have noted, Watson, that Dr. Purcell is a great aficionado of classical music and opera. Hence the playbills upon his desk at work. His dour wife does not share his enthusiasms, and he eventually decided to eliminate her in favor of a younger replacement who, it should be noted, also commands a considerable fortune. And what better way to ensure that no questions are raised than if the ill-fated Mrs. Purcell died from the very same plague that struck down so many others? I imagine she would have been the last victim, is that not so, Dr. Purcell? You would then dose everyone with your harmless compo
und of ‘Four Thieves Vinegar’ and declare the plague cured.”
The man sneered. “You have no proof.”
Holmes smiled. “Yes, your clever plague scare ensured that the bodies were rapidly cremated. I suspect that you first noted that your cholera treatment had the unusual side-effect of a blacked tongue. But your great inspiration occurred at the symphony, did it not? A quick perusal of the past performances at St. James’s Hall demonstrates that on the twenty-first of August they performed the Danse Macabre of Saint-Saëns.[49] It was during that medieval allegory on death that the full formulation of your plan came together.”
Dr. Purcell shook his head defiantly. “No, you are terribly mistaken, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you yourself are manifesting the initial symptoms? Delirium is quite common. I forgive you for these accusations.”
“And will your wife forgive you, Dr. Purcell?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, sharply.
“I assure you that Mrs. Purcell will be quite fine. While she had indeed just taken the dose that you gave her, my ipecac will prevent it from proving fatal. She will not go the way of your poor patients.”
As his shoulders collapsed, the fight seemed to drain from his body. “They were dying anyway.”
“Not Dr. Taylor.” Holmes shook his head. “There are scarlet threads of life running through the bright tapestry of the universe, Dr. Purcell. What gives you the right to cut a man’s thread?” asked Holmes, severely.
Dr. Purcell stared blankly at the tabletop. “It was a mercy,” he whispered, clearly still thinking upon the innocents who fell during his care.
Holmes stared at him silently for a moment and then pushed the bottle towards the Doctor. “So is this.”
Holmes rapidly turned and strode out of the room. I followed him silently, my thoughts morose. When we reached the sitting room, he turned and studied my face. “Do you disagree with my methods, Watson?”
I considered this for a moment. “I am not certain,” I finally replied.
