The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1)

by Craig Janacek

  “Had his condition gone into remission?” I interjected.

  He shook his head. “Without going into confidential specifics, I can assure you that his disease continued to run its course. But I have seen patients who manifest temporary rallies, often when their mind determines that they must feel better for a time, often for a special occasion. In any case, he seemed buoyed by my visit and even proposed a toast, crediting me for his improvement. I demurred, knowing that I had done little to actually help him, and not wanting to take false credit. But he would not be put off, and insisted that I fetch two glasses of Scotch whisky from the kitchen.”

  “Where was the maid?” Holmes interrupted.

  Lowe shrugged. “I asked him the same question, and he informed me that she was busy preparing for a holiday party. I was greatly astonished by this announcement, but assumed that this event was the raison d' être that explained both his fixation upon his projected life-span to this date as well as potentially his temporarily improved health. Not wanting to induce a relapse in his condition, I decided to humor his request, though it was far too early in the day for me to be indulging in a Scotch whisky. I had quite a few more patients to visit! Still, I descended to the kitchen and asked the maid where the Scotch was kept. She seemed little surprised by the oddity of the situation, and pointed me towards the spirit bar. I poured two draughts, a large one for my client and a smaller one for myself, and then carried them back to his room.”

  “Did you have any difficulties carrying both glasses and your medical bag up the stairs?” asked Holmes.

  Lowe smiled wanly. “I did not, for the simple reason that I had left my bag behind.”

  “Ah, of course. Please carry on.”

  “When I finally returned to the room, Mr. Vaughan seemed to lose interest in the whisky. He did take a small sip, which I mirrored before I concluded my visit.”

  “And the second unusual thing that occurred?” Holmes probed.

  “Well, he insisted that I return that very afternoon after I completed my daily rounds to attend his holiday party. I could tell from the intensity of his gaze that this was no mere request, so I again acquiesced. This was very atypical behavior for me, as I generally avoid any fraternization with my clients, but I rationalized it that it was being done as a favor to a man who was, very frankly, dying.”

  “So you returned?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, but it was a very curious holiday party. It was just four individuals, not counting the maid. There was Mr. Vaughan, who was alert but looking rather feverish, the Reverend, and Mrs. Molyneux. As I did not know the latter two individuals, nor was I much accustomed to socializing with a patient, it was an awkward gathering. Furthermore, I sensed that my arrival had interrupted some sort of argument between the three of them, as Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux kept flashing undecipherable looks between them. However, they seemed calmed by my presence, and we all eventually settled into some comfortable chairs around a small table. The maid soon appeared with four mugs and a steaming ewer of wassail.[25] Before Mr. Vaughan poured the drinks, he turned to the Reverend, asking him to give us a Christmas blessing.”

  “Given that you are a member of the Hebrew tribe, how did you participate?”

  Dr. Lowe pursed his lips and shrugged. “Most people simply do not realize that I practice a different religion than them. So as not to offend and cause a commotion, I have learned that the best act is often to keep silent. They will generally assume that is a sign of my participation.”

  “And were your eyes closed during this blessing?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I did utilize the moment to do my own communion.”

  “Did anything unusual occur during this time?”

  Lowe appeared to consider this. “No, just the usual rustlings of the maid in the kitchen.”

  “And after the blessing by Revered Arden, then what?”

  “I do not know. Just as he ended, a boy arrived with a message for me. The note claimed that one of my regular clients was critically ill, so I immediately took my leave of Mr. Vaughan and his guests.”

  “You say that the note claimed your client was ill. Was he not?”

  Lowe shook his head in bewilderment. “Not at all. That was the most puzzling aspect of the entire day. When I arrived at his house, I found him hale and hearty. He denied ever writing such a note.”

  “And even if he had, how would he have known to have it delivered to Mr. Vaughan’s? You were not supposed to be there that afternoon. It was a sudden request only that morning. You should have been at home with your wife.”

  “That is true, Mr. Holmes. I had not thought of that.” Dr. Lowe appeared to sink into thought.

  “Dr. Lowe, your case interests me very much,” said Holmes. “There are some novel features here that I cannot recall ever encountering before. Nevertheless, I have every hope that you will be freed soon. But first, Watson and I must inspect the scene of the crime, and there are a few individuals in need of questioning. We will leave you now, but you will hear from us again soon.” A glimmer of hope appeared in Lowe’s previously forlorn eyes.

  We exited back into the hall, where I had the heavy duty of throwing the key to a lock that imprisoned a man whom I believed to be innocent. As we climbed the stairs, I turned to Holmes to express this very thought, but he forestalled me. “In a minute, Watson. I have one thing to do first.” He took the key from me, strode through the open door of Bradstreet’s office, and placed it on the man’s desk without a word.

  However, as he departed the office, Holmes spoke. “Oh, Bradstreet,” Holmes called over his shoulder. “The case on your chalkboard. The robbery of the house safe at the Northumberland Hotel.”[26]

  The inspector glanced up, a puzzled look upon his plain face. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, what of it?”

  “I would round up Mr. Archibald Hatton of Homer Street, near the intersection with Crawford Street. He’s your man.”

  Bradstreet looked from Holmes to the chalkboard and back again. “But there is no suspect named Hatton.”

  “No matter. I recognize his modus operandi. I am convinced that he was involved in the case of the Duchess of Ulster’s amethyst pendant, though the proof was lacking, and it’s successful return was sufficient to permit him to slink away unscathed. I once considered him the ninth smartest man in London, but he has recently grown quite lazy and no longer varies his crimes.[27] If you act now, he may even still have some of the items in his house, and you can finally obtain the proof necessary to procure him a nice cell in Newgate.[28] I recommend, Bradstreet, that rather than spending your free time these holidays engaged in lachrymose Yuletide yowling, you carefully study the Yard’s portfolio of criminal cases that have occurred over the last decade. I guarantee that you will find them illuminating.”

  On that perhaps overly dramatic note, we exited the building. Holmes suddenly sprang into action. “Quickly Watson, there is not a moment to lose!” he shouted, leaping into the street and flagged down a passing cab. We quickly boarded, and Holmes instructed the driver to make haste towards Vere Street.

  As we settled back into our seats, Holmes turned to meet my questioning look. “We need to get there before the police have time to completely disturb every scrap of evidence,” he explained.

  “Then you think that Dr. Lowe is innocent?”

  “I am certain of it, Watson. He would have to be a bold rouge to fabricate Vaughan’s illness, which is a very simple thing to confirm through questioning of the man’s prior physician, Sir Jasper. Therefore, why would Lowe bother to kill a man that was already dying? More so, it would be a rare murderer who would rather swing than violate the confidentiality between a patient and physician. No, Watson, I think that Dr. Lowe is a man of strong moral fiber. He is not the type to poison one man, no matter how great the injury, much less two innocent bystanders.”

  “Then who poisoned them?”

  “That is what we need to ascertain, Watson. It is no use trying to convince Bradstreet and Lestra
de of Lowe’s innocence. They are too convinced by the evidence, circumstantial though it may be. In order to free the doctor, we must discover the true murderer. The game is afoot, Watson!”[29]

  I shook my head in consternation. Only a few hours earlier I was enjoying the peace and happiness of the holidays, and now I was hurling across London hoping to find the evidence that might save an innocent man from the gallows.

  When we arrived at Vere Street, we found the house of Mr. Vaughan swarming with constables. Holmes shook his head in dismay at the disarray that they had caused. “Well, there are certainly no clues left in situ upon the floor, that is for certain,” said he acerbically. Spotting an old acquaintance, he voiced his displeasure. “Do I have you to thank for this stampede, Lestrade?”

  The inspector in question turned at the sound of his voice. “Holmes!” he exclaimed irritably. “What in the devil are you doing here? This is no matter for you! We have our man, and are simply gathering up the evidence needed to seal the case,” he said, rubbing the side of his whiskered cheek.

  Holmes shook his head regretfully. “Lestrade, in the spirit of the holidays, I shall give you the gift of my services, which will save you from the grievous error of hanging the wrong man.”

  “Oh, so you say, do you? Well, I tell you Holmes, that all your deductions will be wasted here. This case is as clear as crystal. You and the good doctor should spend your time more productively. I hear that there is an excellent band and some carolers over in Florin Court off Charterhouse Square. Some festive melodies would put you in the proper spirit!”

  Holmes snorted in amusement. “Perhaps you are right, Lestrade. But if you don’t mind, we’ll take a look around all-the-same.”

  “Suit yourself, Holmes,” said Lestrade, with a smirk and an overly magnanimous wave of his hand.

  I expected that Holmes would head straight for the table where the poisoned glasses lay, so was surprised when he first began to examine the other rooms of the house. From the grunt issued by Lestrade, I could tell that he was equally puzzled by Holmes’ actions. He spent a considerable amount of time in Mr. Vaughan’s office, studying the varied objects upon his desk, including several pieces of golden jewelry inlayed with dark green stones. He noted the titles of the books lined up neatly on the fine shelves, and even the contents of the waste-bin. In the dining-room, Holmes took only a few moments to glance at the table where the four individuals had gathered for the deadly goblets of wassail. Finally, Holmes appeared satisfied by his scrutiny, and turned to the inspector. “Have you found any clues, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade smiled broadly. “Only one. But it’s all we will need. We found the bottle of poison!” He gestured to a nearby constable, who held up an evidence bag containing a small vial.[30]

  “Ah, yes, Fowler’s solution,” Holmes nodded. “I thought as much. Tell me, Lestrade, where exactly did you locate it?”

  “It had rolled into the corner of the room,” Lestrade pointed. “Behind the oriental screen that partially blocks the view of the passage to the kitchen. We found it after an exhaustive search,” said he with a note of pride in his voice.

  “Extraordinary,” exclaimed Holmes. “And the maid, where has she gone to?”

  “We sent her home,” Lestrade shrugged. “She was so frightened when everyone started dropping that she immediately fled the house. She didn’t even notify the police for several hours, hence our delay in arresting Dr. Lowe. But she knew nothing of any use.”

  “Hmmm,” said Holmes. “We shall see. Can you send one of your men to fetch her back?”

  “Waste of time, if you ask me, but I am a generous man. I will indulge your little fancies, Holmes.” Lestrade turned and gave instructions to one of the constables, who promptly departed the house.

  “While we wait, I would like to see the survivor. Mr. Vaughan is upstairs, I presume?”

  “Indeed. We carried him up to his bed when it was clear that he was still among the living. There is a doctor with him now.”

  The three of us filed up the stairs to Vaughan’s bedchamber, where we found a very thin and exceedingly pale man. He was no longer young, appearing closer to fifty than forty, though possibly prematurely aged as a result of his illness. His chestnut brown hair was tousled and his face stubbly with a day-old beard and shining with a febrile sweat. He was prostrate and unconscious upon his bed, with a blanket drawn up to his chin. His skin was mottled with several red lumps and purple spots, as if he was hemorrhaging internally. In the medial corners of his eyes, I noted small drops of blood.

  “That’s odd,” I remarked.

  “What is, Watson?” asked Holmes, turning his piercing stare upon me.

  “Bloody tears are not a typical symptom of an arsenic overdose.”

  “I agree,” said a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, who rose from the bedside chair. “Nor are the petechial rash and bruises, but the other symptoms are quite classic, and there is no doubt that Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux expired from a massive arsenic intoxication. I examined them myself. And you gentlemen are?”

  Holmes introduced us, and returned the question. “I am Dr. Silas Braithwaite.” I was familiar with the name, of course, for he was a respected Harley Street physician. “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes, and you too, Dr. Watson. I would be happy to hear your opinion of the patient.”

  I waved him off. “I am afraid that this is a bit beyond my regular practice. Do you think Mr. Vaughan will survive?”

  Dr. Braithwaite shook his head gravely. “I am highly doubtful. I suspect that he ingested a slightly smaller amount of the poison compared to his guests, which explains why he is still alive. But he has had some unusual reaction to the arsenic, and I am afraid that the bleeding is sufficient to land him on death’s door. It would be a miracle if he survived the night.”

  Holmes, however, appeared distracted by a rather ordinary framed picture of Queen Victoria which rested on the man’s bedside table. “Fascinating,” was his only response, though the exact object of his attention was not clear to my eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Braithwaite. Please let us know if anything changes with Mr. Vaughan’s condition.”

  Returning downstairs, Holmes was pleased to find the maid awaiting us. The constable gave her name as Miss Molly Hopton. She was still quite young, little more than twenty, rather below the middle height, but slim, with blond hair and light blue eyes. Her plain bonnet and ribboned hat were lightly dusted with fresh snow. Her brow and lips were drawn with nervousness and she appeared on the verge of tears.

  Holmes drew her into the parlor, where he directed her to sit upon a plush sofa. This action was clearly something she had never before contemplated, so she perched upon the edge like a doe about to bolt into the woods. “Now, then, Molly,” said Holmes reassuringly. “You are new to the house, are you not?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know that, sir?”

  Holmes smiled and waved a hand nonchalantly. “The signs are clear. In your next post, I would recommend that you take more notice of the positions of a room’s objects of decorative art, such as that figurine upon the mantle, before you dust them. This will allow you to return them to their original position. How long exactly have you been with Mr. Vaughan?”

  “Just three weeks, sir,” said she, nodding anxiously.

  “And what happened to the previous maid?”

  She licked her lips. “I understand that she retired.”

  “And had she been with him long?”

  “Yes, many years, I believe.”

  “And her name?”

  “Mrs. Sumner, Florence Sumner. I think she now lives with her daughter on Southwick Mews. But she told me that Mr. Vaughan was quite generous at the end.”

  “Holmes!” Lestrade interjected. “What do we care about his previous maid? She wasn’t even here.”

  “Don’t mind the inspector, Molly. He has a bit of a toothache. And what did you make of your master?”

  “I really couldn’t say, sir.” />
  “He was sick, was he not?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Very much so. He often looked as if he were dying.”

  “But did he stay to his bed, or did he come downstairs during the day?”

  “Most days he tried to spend at least some time in his study, unless he was especially weak.”

  “Ah yes, his study. I noted that it is far less tidy than the rest of the house….”

  But Holmes was not allowed to finish. “Those were his express instructions, sir!” she interjected. “He forbade me from cleaning in there! I swear that I was tempted to sneak in while he was sleeping, but I feared upsetting him.”

  “Yes, yes, Molly. I do not blame you. Tell me, was Mr. Vaughan a bibliophile?”

  “A what, sir?”

  “A book-lover,” Holmes clarified.

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, sir. As you can see, he had a great many books, and he spent much time reading them.”

  “And was he in his study two days ago?”

  “Yes, sir. He spent many hours there that day.”

  “Did he do anything other than read?”

  “Yes, sir. He wrote a letter, and later received one.”

  Holmes leaned forward eagerly. “Can you describe them?”

  The maid’s brows contracted in thought. “The letter that Mr. Vaughan wrote was on his usual stationary. There should be more of it in his desk.”

  “Where did he send it to?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t take note of that. I simply handed it to the boy for delivery.”

  “Was it the usual boy? Do you know him?”

  She shook her head despondently, plainly aware of Holmes’ interest in this letter. “No, sir. I am so sorry.” She appeared close to tears.

  Holmes instantly softened. “It’s no matter, Molly. You are being very helpful. What of the letter that he received?”

  “It was a response, sir, for the same boy brought it, and Mr. Vaughan gave me three shillings for him.”

  “Now think hard, Molly. What did it look like?”