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

by Craig Janacek

  “The envelope was made from a very unusual paper, sir. That’s why I took note of it, you see.”

  “Unusual, how?”

  “It’s hard to say, sir. It just felt different. More fragile. And the writing was all slanted and hard to read.”

  “How large was it?”

  “About seven inches by five, I would reckon.”

  “And how thick? Was there more than one sheet?”

  “No, it was very thin. There could only have been one sheet of paper inside.”

  “Do you know why he burned it?”

  She startled. “Are you a magician, sir? How could you know that?”

  Holmes smiled. “Because there is no such letter in his office now. But there is a small amount of ash in his waste-bin, which I estimate is about two days old.”

  “Yes, sir. You are correct. I smelled the burning paper and came running, but he turned me away. He reassured me that all was well. In fact, after he read that letter, he was the happiest and the strongest that I had seen him in days.”

  “That is very interesting, Molly. I have but a few more questions for you. Did Mr. Vaughan always have a picture of Queen Victoria upon his bedside table?”

  Before the maid could answer, Lestrade spluttered in amazement. “Holmes, really! Was the man poisoned for being too patriotic?”

  Holmes merely smiled. “I have my methods, Lestrade. I shall follow my train of evidence while you follow yours. We shall see who arrives at the station first.” He turned back to the maid with raised eyebrows, awaiting her reply.

  She had followed this exchange with wide eyes, but promptly answered. “It’s certainly been there for the last few weeks, sir. But I have a feeling that there was another picture there when I first started. However, there were so many new things to learn, I am afraid I took little notice of it.”

  Holmes pursed his lips in disappointment, but nodded his head reassuringly. “That is fine, Miss Hopton, I understand.”

  “Now, then, if you will follow me over to the table, I would like for you to confirm a few things for me.” He took her by the hand and led her back into the dining-room towards the table, which was still laid out as it had been during the holiday gathering. Four goblets rested in a rough circle around a silver ewer, on top of a white tablecloth embroidered with evergreens and holly leaves. Holmes circumnavigated the table once, coming to a stop so that the passage to the kitchen was behind him.

  “Alright, Molly. Now, let me reconstruct where everyone was sitting. This is where Mrs. Molyneux sat.” He pointed to the place to his right.

  “How could you know that, sir?” said she, in an amazed tone.

  “There is a spot of facial powder on the serviette that can only have come from Mrs. Molyneux, as I note that you do not wear any.”

  Her hand flew to her cheek as a spot of color rose there. “As if any respectable maid would wear powder while serving!”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Across from me sat Reverend Arden. Upon the tablecloth, I detected a slight scent of lime-cream.[31] As Dr. Lowe does not use such a product in his hair, and I saw no such bottle upon the dressing table of Mr. Vaughan, it could only have come from the Reverend.”

  “Yes, sir,” Molly replied. “That is correct.”

  “Then the doctor sat to my left.”

  The maid nodded. “Indeed, sir.”

  I examined the table for a clue that would suggest such an arrangement, but found nothing. “How can you tell, Holmes?”

  He grinned sardonically. “You did not miss any sign, Watson. The good doctor left no mark of his passing. But it is the only place left, for I am certain that Mr. Vaughan would have sat here,” he tapped the chair in front of him, “closest to the kitchen.”

  I frowned in bewilderment. “But why would he have to sit there?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Well, perhaps it was a lucky guess. Let us just say that it fits with one possible scenario for what occurred yesterday afternoon.” He turned to the inspector. “Now, then, Lestrade. I think we’ve seen all we can here. Do you mind if I take a sample of the ashes from the office?”

  “The ashes?” exclaimed Lestrade. “Don’t you mean the wassail?”

  Holmes shrugged. “If you insist, we will take samples of that as well.” He went about collecting samples from all four goblets and the ewer into separate phials. He then carefully placed all of the waste-bin ashes into an envelope, which he sealed and placed into his waistcoat pocket.

  “By the way, Lestrade,” said Holmes, off-handedly. “What exactly was Dr. Lowe’s motive?”

  “Motive?” replied, Lestrade, puzzled.

  “Indeed. All of your evidence points towards the doctor, but why did he do it?”

  Lestrade shrugged. “Madness, I suppose. It happens this time of year.”

  “Hmmm, yes,” said Holmes. “I suppose it does. Thank you, Lestrade.”

  On the hansom ride back to Baker Street, Holmes was silent, a state I allowed to continue, as I knew the machinations of his finely-tuned mind were busy placing the clues together into a harmonious explanation for the horrors that had occurred at Vere Street. Meanwhile, I attempted to use the time to devise my own solution to the case, but soon found myself hopelessly confused. When we returned to our quarters, Holmes tossed the samples from Vaughan’s house upon his work-table and immediately sank into his archives of past crimes. After flipping through them for a quarter of an hour, he grunted in satisfaction. He quickly rose and disappeared into the bedroom.

  While he was occupied, I peered at the file that he had left open, but it was simply a series of clippings from the Times from twenty years earlier detailing various crimes that I assumed to be unresolved, as I knew Holmes had been at university during those years. Amongst the varied cases, I noted a brash mugging in Trafalgar Square, missing funds from a crippled children’s charity, a robbery at the Belgravia branch of the City and Suburban Bank, a probable suicide of young woman found in the Thames, and the theft of a J.M.W. Turner oil painting from a gallery on Bond Street. I could make out nothing that would shed any light upon the matter of Dr. Lowe.

  Knowing full well by this time his penchant for disguises, I was little surprised to find an amiable Church of England clergyman appear a few minutes later.[32] His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of benign curiosity were on par with the great actors who strode the boards at the Lyceum. I recognized the costume and mannerisms from when he had used them to briefly deceive Miss Irene Adler, and I hoped that they would prove more successful in the matter of Dr. Lowe.

  “Where are you headed, Holmes?”

  “It is Christmas time, Watson, so I am off to church, of course,” he replied, chuckling.

  “Marylebone Chapel, I presume?”

  “Very good, Watson. Your study of my methods is advancing. I have asked myself what role Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux played in this event.”

  “But Dr. Lowe claimed not to know them,” I protested mildly.

  “Indeed, and perhaps they were simply innocent bystanders. It does not do to hypothesize in advance of the facts. However, it is equally problematic to conclude in the absence of the facts, and I suspect that Inspector Lestrade is missing quite a few of them.”

  While Holmes was off on his expedition, I busied myself with one of Scott’s yellow-backed epic poems.[33] I knew that I was supposed to meet Thurston at our club for a bit of jollification, but I did not wish to miss Holmes’ return, so I wired over that I would be detained this night. I waited until ten o-clock and was about to retire to my room, when he finally returned, evidently in an excellent humor.

  He sank down into his chair and chuckled happily. “I must say, Watson, that there is certainly something I admire about Christmas time.”

  My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

  “I have just spent the last few hours surrounded by warming lanterns, singing festive carols, and then feasting upon mincemeat pies, and plum pudding,
all washed down with spiced mead. The good folks at Marylebone certainly know how to celebrate Christmas, even after the recent demise of their Reverend. It makes one wonder if they much cared for him. And their jolly spirits translated into a liberalization of their tongues in the presence of a stranger such as myself, even if I was a churchman.”

  “So Reverend Arden was not beloved by his flock?”

  “Quite the contrary, Watson. Based on what I heard tonight, he was a mean-spirited man, tight-fisted and judgmental. It seemed there was only one person that felt affection for the Reverend, that being the departed Mrs. Molyneux. She was also reputed to be quite a nasty bit of work herself, having once accused a lady of stealing from the church though most considered the lady innocent. That did not appear to stop the Reverend from carrying on an illicit affair with her behind the backs of their oblivious spouses.”

  “But there are many disagreeable people in the world, Holmes, and they rarely get served wassail heavily dosed with arsenic,” I pointed out.

  “I concur, Watson. I realized that there must be more to the story, and my persistence at the chapel was rewarded with the eventual appearance of none other than Mrs. Florence Sumner.”

  “Vaughan’s old maid?”

  “Indeed. I knew that she may be an important individual to talk with, but her arrival upon the scene saved me from having to seek her out in the morning, and now I can spend tonight meditating upon the information she provided.”

  “So she had evidence material to the crime, despite having been out of the house for several weeks?”

  “Perhaps. For one thing, I learned from her that Mr. Vaughan was a profoundly irreligious man, who devoutly avoided church-going for the entire two decades in which she served him. He often claimed that all priests and reverends were charlatans. She was flabbergasted to hear that Mr. Vaughan had been entertaining Reverend Arden, and could not account for his change of heart.”

  “Well, he was dying, Holmes. Many a man has been known to undergo a conversion in the face of such a terror.”

  “That is a possibility, Watson. And yet, I found one thing particularly strange about Mrs. Sumner.”

  “What was that?”

  “She is a lovely woman. Barely forty years of age, and one of those rare types who becomes even more caring, rather than hardened and bitter, after a life of service. In fact, she reminded me a bit of our Mrs. Hudson. Less than a month ago, Vaughan settled a significant amount of money upon her, enough that she could afford to retire.”

  I shrugged. “As I said, Holmes, he was dying. He clearly valued her years of service and wanted to ensure that she was well taken care of.”

  Holmes shook his head impatiently. “Come now, Watson. He could have simply left her the same amount of money in his will. What sort of dying man dismisses his loyal servant of twenty years, so that he can bring in a total stranger and thereby disrupt the routine of the last few weeks of his life?”

  “Perhaps he wanted to spare her the pain of watching him die?” I speculated.

  “Perhaps,” he nodded. “Perhaps. Well, there are but a few more things to do tonight.” Holmes rose from his chair and strode over to his side-table, its slate top pocked and stained from years of chemical spills. He fired up the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner under a curved retort and began the process of boiling a curved retort in order to condense some unknown substance. He dipped into the various phials that he collected from Mr. Vaughan’s table, drawing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette. Finally, he reached out for a test-tube containing a reddish solution, and added a drop to each sample before placing the mixture upon slips of litmus-paper. I watched this operation with some interest from my armchair.

  Finally he pushed back from the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Ah, now that is unusual.”

  “What is, Holmes? Is the wassail not poisoned?”

  “Oh no, the wassail is most certainly poisoned. What is unusual is that there is an equal concentration of arsenic in each goblet.”

  I frowned. “Surely that suggests that the ewer itself was poisoned and not each individual goblet.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Indeed, Watson. But why put the wassail into the ewer if the intention was to kill only one member of the holiday party?”

  “Surely you are not suggesting that the maid did it?”

  “No, there are many reasons why a new maid might wish to strike down her master, but she would have to be a magnificent actress to conceal from us the callous cruelty needed to concurrently strike down three strangers.”

  “Surely that is a strike against our client’s husband,” I concluded. “Dr. Lowe never drank from the wassail, for he was suddenly and fortuitously called away. Or so he claims.”

  “Indeed, Watson. The mysterious message at once appears to have saved the life of Dr. Lowe but simultaneously implicates him.”

  I was now more confused than ever. “So where does that leave us?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am not yet certain, Watson. There are still a few facts that escape me. This note, for example,” said he, drawing out the envelope of ashes and carefully shaking them into one side of an apothecary scale. He then hunted around his desk for another envelope, discarding several until he found one that he appeared satisfied with. He placed a single folded sheet of paper inside it, and then stuck one end into the flame of the burner. He dropped the burning envelope upon a clean tray, and once it burned itself out, he carefully swept up these ashes and deposited them into the other side of the scale. “Ah, you see, Watson. Even the ashes have a tale to tell.”

  From where I sat, I could plainly see that the two sides of the scale were imbalanced, with Holmes’ newer ashes much heavier than the ones collected from Mr. Vaughan’s study. “But what does it mean, Holmes? Did he only burn the paper and not the envelope? If so, we could search the study again and find the name of the sender!”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, that is a one plausible explanation, Watson. I have much to contemplate. It is a three pipe problem, I think.” He shrugged off his clergyman’s costume and put on a red dressing-gown. He gathered pillows from the various chairs in our sitting room. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he clearly intended to perch until he had fathomed a solution to the problem at hand.

  I rose to head towards my room and the embrace of my sheets, but hesitated in the doorway. Holmes glanced over at me. “What is it, Watson?”

  “Well, I had intended to wait until tomorrow to give this to you, but perhaps it would help tonight.” I drew forth a small wrapped box from my desk drawer and handed it to him. He stared at it for a moment as if he could not comprehend what it was. “It’s a Christmas present, Holmes.”

  “I know what it is, Watson. However, I am sorry to say that I have no reciprocal gift.”

  “Do not worry, Holmes. I am a man of little wants and needs.”

  He shook his head. “Still, I am at a loss. Perhaps if we waited until tomorrow…?”

  “Go ahead and open it, Holmes” said I, encouragingly.

  He finally nodded briskly and opened the box. Inside, he found yet another box, but this one was quite different. It was made from carved cedar, inlaid with an intricate series of geometric designs made from the colored heartwoods of other rare trees. “It’s a puzzle box!” he exclaimed.

  “Indeed it is. I often find that solutions to difficult problems come to me when my mind is distracted by other tasks, so I thought you would enjoy trying to open this one. I found it in a curio shop in the East End, and the man there said it was the most difficult one ever created. It’s from China, I believe.”

  “Japan,” he replied, distractedly. “But thank you, Watson. It was very good of you.”

  “Good night, Holmes,” said I, but he did not reply. When I closed the door to my room, he was already ensconced upon his cushions, sitting cross-legged, with his old briar pipe clenched between his lips and the blue smoke curling up from him. The only sound and mot
ion came from his hands as they twisted and probed the box in front of him, though his eyes were fixed upon the far corner of the ceiling, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.

  I turned in with the curtains undrawn so that I could gaze on the light of the stars, shining bright, as I drifted off to sleep. Everything seemed calm and at peace, except for one forlorn man in a Bow Street cell.

  §

  I awoke the following morning to a strange scene. Holmes had stirred from his perch and was rummaging through my small shelf of medical texts. He plucked out one book and quickly flipped through its pages. I recognized it as Virchow’s Die Cellularpathologie.[34] He was silent, as his eyes quickly skimmed what was obviously the relevant section, and then slammed the book closed. When he looked up, I saw the triumph in his eyes. “Yes, I have it now, Watson. It is quite remarkable.”

  “You know who poisoned Vaughan and the others?

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, smiling. “I think, Watson, that you are standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in England.”[35]

  “What was the key to the solution?”

  “It was your puzzle box. Oh yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “It was the very thing I needed to understand the common link of all of the frustrating elements to the case.”

  “So it took you some time to open it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “About five minutes. Once I found every potential movement or twist that could be made, it was simply a matter of trying them in all of the possible combinations.”[36]

  “Oh,” I said, dejectedly. I was dismayed that it had proven to be such a simple trick for Holmes. But I had no time to ruminate upon the matter, for a knock upon our door announced the arrival of Inspector Lestrade.

  His countenance was beaming. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

  Holmes merely nodded. “You are in a fine mood, Lestrade.”

  “Indeed I am! You see, Holmes, now I have means and motive for your Dr. Lowe.”

  Holmes frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “While you were going on about old maids, Queen Victoria, and some unidentifiable ashes, I was making some real progress on the case. I have just returned from a visit to Mr. Vaughan’s solicitor, and what do you think that I learned?”