Homes paused a moment to remove a boot that blocked our vision of the balance of the article, and then leaned over further, staring in utter amazement at the portion of the column that had been revealed. In a startled tone of voice, he continued:
‘“STOP PRESS: The police officials have just announced an arrest in the Caudal Hall affair, claiming that Sir Francis was the victim of none other than his guest, Mr. Wain, age 26, the American colonial. They point out that a chemist would have the necessary knowledge to administer a fatal potion in Sir Francis’ food, and that despite the knight’s known heart condition as testified to by his sister-in-law, they believe there is more to the matter than meets the eyes, and that the heart condition was at most only a contributory factor.
‘“They note that Mr. Wain is left-handed and sat on Sir Francis’ right, permitting his operative hand to constantly hover over his Lordship’s food. They believe he took advantage of the fortuitous circumstance of a bitter-almond tart being served to pour oil of nutmeg, a highly toxic abortifacient, either onto the tart itself, or more likely onto the ‘hot-dog’ itself, in a dosage sufficient to cause Sir Francis his severe abdominal pain, and eventually his death. The police base their conclusion on the faint odor of nutmeg they discerned upon the lips of the deceased, although they admit it was difficult to detect because of the almost overpowering odor of the bitter-almond tart.
‘“Whether Mr. Wain intended the dose to be fatal, the police say, is unimportant; he is nonetheless guilty of his victim’s demise and shall pay the full penalty for his crime. They claim to have evidence that Mr. Wain is a revolutionary, propounding the theory that the American colonies are now independent, a viewpoint certain to have aroused the righteous wrath of so fine a patriot as Sir Francis Gibbon. Bad feelings could only have resulted, and it is the theory of the police that the dinner party developed into an argument which culminated in the tragic death of Sir Francis. Mrs. Gibbon’s failure to remember any such quarrel is attributed to absent-mindedness, added to her concern over the success of the meal, which undoubtedly caused her to be inattentive. (Artist’s sketches on Page 3).”’
‘Fools!’ Homes exclaimed in disgust, replacing the boot and rewrapping the package. ‘Balustrade is an idiot!’ He flung himself into a chair, looking up at me broodingly. ‘We must help this poor fellow Wat, Wainey—I mean Wain, Watney!
‘But, Womes—I mean Homes,’ I said remonstratingly, ‘it appears to me that they have a strong case against the young man. As a medical practitioner I admit that stomach pain is often found to be related to heart seizure, but still, one cannot rule out the possibility of other agencies.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Homes half-angrily. ‘I can understand a young man’s reason for harming a complete stranger, and I can even understand a chemist carrying about a vial of oil of nutmeg on the offhand chance he might meet someone to whom he wished to give stomach indisposition. But what I cannot lead myself to believe is that a university graduate would be so ill-informed as to honestly believe the American colonies are independent!’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, Watney, it is here that the police case falls down!’
He tented his fingers, staring fiercely and unseeingly over them through half-lidded eyes, his long legs sprawled before him. Minutes passed while I quietly sat down, remaining silent, respecting his concentration; then, of a sudden, our reveries were interrupted by the sound of footsteps running lightly up the stairs, and a moment later the door burst open to reveal a lovely young girl in her mid-twenties. She might have been truly beautiful had it not been for the tears in her eyes and the tortured expression on her face. Scarcely pausing for breath, she hurried across the room and knelt at Homes’s side, grasping his two hands in hers.
‘Oh, Mr. Homes,’ she cried beseechingly, ‘only you can save John Wain! In the first place, the scandal would be ruinous were a house-guest of mine to be found guilty of a crime; and besides, it would play havoc with the entire scheme!’
‘You are Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon?’
‘Yes, I will pay—’ She paused, thunderstruck. ‘But how could you have possibly known my identity?’
Homes waved the question aside with his accustomed modesty, preferring to return to the problem at hand. ‘Pray be seated,’ said he, and waited until she was ensconced across from him. ‘I have read the account in the journal and I am also convinced that the police have made a grave error. Tell me,’ he continued, quite as if he were not changing the subject, ‘would I be correct in assuming that the cook at Caudal Manor is a fairly youngish woman? And unmarried, I should judge?’
‘Indeed she is, but how you knew this I cannot imagine?’
‘And did she recently have a quarrel with her fiancé?’ The young lady could only nod her head in stunned fashion.
‘And one final question,’ Homes went on, eyeing her steadily. ‘By any chance did Mr. Wain complain at the table because his ale was not iced, as he was accustomed to drinking it?’
‘He did, but—’ The girl stopped speaking, coming to her feet and staring down at Homes almost in fear. ‘Mr. Homes, your ability is more than uncanny—it borders on the supernatural!’ Her eyes were wide. ‘How could you possibly have known—?’
‘There is nothing mystical in it,’ Homes assured her gravely. ‘In any event, you may return home with an untroubled mind. I assure you that Mr. Wain will join you—a free man—before many hours.’
‘I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Homes! Everything I have heard and read about you is the truth!’ Her lovely eyes welled with tears of gratitude as she left the room.
‘Really, Homes,’ I said shortly. ‘I fail to understand any of this. What is this business of the unmarried cook and the warm ale?’
‘Later, Watney!’ Homes said, and picked up his greatcoat and deerstalker. ‘At the moment I must go out and verify a few facts, and then see to it that poor Mr. Wain is freed. These colonials suffer sufficiently from a feeling of inferiority; incarceration can only serve to aggravate it.’
It was well past midnight before I heard Homes’s key in the door below, but I had remained awake, a warmed kippered toddy prepared against my friend’s return, my curiosity also waiting to be assuaged. He clumped up the stairs wearily, doffed his coat and hat, and fell into a chair, accepting the toddy with a nod. Then, after quaffing a goodly portion, he put the glass aside, leaned forward, and burst into loud laughter.
‘It would have done you good, Watney, to see Balustrade’s stare when he was forced to unlock Wain’s cell and usher the young man to the street,’ he said with a grin. ‘I swear for a moment there I thought the Inspector was going to physically engage me in fisticuffs!’ He chuckled at the memory and finished his kippered toddy, visibly relaxing. ‘And thank you, by the way, for your thoughtfulness in preparing this toddy for me. It was delicious.’
‘You can demonstrate your gratitude in far better manner,’ I said, possibly a trifle tartly, for it was well past my usual bedtime, ‘by explaining this entire, complex, incomprehensible case to me, for none of it makes the slightest sense!’
‘No?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I am rather surprised. I should have thought the medical evidence would have pointed you in the right direction. However,’ he continued, seeing the look on my face and, as ever, properly interpreting it, ‘let us begin at the beginning.’ He lit a Pakistani.
‘First, as you well know, Watney, I respect you quite highly as a medical man, but I have also made a study in depth of toxicology. You may recall my monograph on the Buster Ketones and the Hal-loids which had such a profound effect on early Hollywood comedies—but I digress. To me the evidence presented by the article in the morning journal was quite conclusive.’
His fine eyes studied my face, as if testing me. ‘Tell me,
Watney, what precise toxicity results in the symptoms so accurately described by the writer in the journal?’ He listed them on his fingers as he continued, ‘One: stomach disorder. Two: dimness of vision—for you will remember that Sir Francis stumbled
as he left the room, and yet, after living in Caudal Manor for all his sixty-two years, one must assume he could normally have made his way about blindfolded. Three: difficulty in speaking and breathing. And four: a nasal quality to his voice.’
Homes looked at me inquiringly. ‘Well?’
‘Botulism!’ I said instantly, now wide-awake.
‘Exactly! True, the symptoms are similar for hydrocyanic poisoning, but with the knight consuming the frankfurter, botulism was clearly indicated. My questions to young Mrs. Gibbon regarding the ale and the cook merely confirmed it.’
‘I beg your pardon, Homes?’ I asked, completely lost once again.
‘Let us take the ale first,’ said he, his kindly glance forgiving my obtuseness. ‘Certainly Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon, herself a colonial, would be aware that icing of ale is almost compulsory in the colonies, and would therefore be expected by her compatriot. The failure to do so on the part of a dedicated hostess, therefore, could only have been caused by one thing—’
‘The absent-mindedness which the reporter mentioned?’ I asked, eager to be of help.
‘No, Watney! The lack of ice! Now, in a household the size of Caudal Manor, who has the responsibility for seeing that the supply of ice is adequate? Naturally, the cook. But an elderly cook with years of experience would never forget a matter as important as ice, particularly with a foreign guest expected. Therefore, the conclusion is inevitable that the cook was not elderly, but rather, on the contrary, young. Still, even young cooks who manage to secure employment in an establishment as noted as Caudal Manor are not chosen unless they are well-qualified; therefore, some problem must have been preying on the young cook’s mind to make her forget the ice. Now, Watney, what problem could bother a young lady to this extent? Only one concerning a male friend; hence my conclusion that she had had a quarrel with her fiance.’ He spread his hands.
‘But, Homes,’ I asked, bewildered, ‘what made you think of ice in the first place? Or rather, the lack of it? Merely the floe of ideas?’
‘The botulism, of course, Watney! Lack of proper refrigeration is one of the greatest causes for the rapid growth of the fatal bacteria, and both Mrs. Gibbon and her friend Mr. Wain may count themselves fortunate that the organism attacked only the one frankfurter, or they might well have both joined Sir Francis in death!’
For several moments I could only gaze at my friend Mr. Schlock Homes with the greatest admiration for his brilliant analysis and masterful deductions.
‘Homes!’ I cried. ‘You have done it again! Had it not been for your brilliant analysis and masterful deductions, an innocent colonial might have gone to the gallows for a crime due, in its entirety, to a hot-dog in the knight!’ Then I paused as another thought struck me. ‘But one thing, Homes,’ I added, puzzled. ‘What of the oil of nutmeg that the police made such a matter of?’
Homes chuckled. ‘Oh, that? That was the easiest part of the entire problem, Watney. I stopped at the mortuary while I was out tonight and had a look at Sir Francis’ cadaver. As I had anticipated, he had taken up a new aftershave lotion with a nutmet bouquet, and as soon as I can determine its name, I believe I shall purchase it as well.’
Due to the late hour when we finally retired that night, it was well past noon when I arose and made my way to the breakfast table. Homes had not arrived as yet, but I had no more than seated myself and reached for my first spoonful of chutneyed curry when he came into the room.
He greeted me genially and seated himself, drawing his napkin into his lap. In deference to his habits, I put aside my spoon for the moment and picked up the morning journal, preparing to leaf through it in search of some tidbit of news that might serve Homes as a means to ward off ennui. But I did not need to turn the page. There, staring at me from scare headlines, was an announcement that made me catch my breath.
‘Homes!’ I cried, shocked to the core. ‘A terrible thing has happened!’
He paused in the act of buttering his kipper. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ I said sadly. ‘Tragedy seems to have struck poor Mrs. Gibbon again!’
He eyed me sharply, his fish-knife poised. ‘You mean—?’
‘Yes,’ I said unhappily, reading further into the article. ‘It seems that early this morning, while taking his constitutional along Edgeware Road, Gabriel Gibbon was struck and killed by a car recklessly driving on the wrong side of the road. The police surmise the culprit may have been from the Continent, where drivers are known to use the wrong side of the road; but this is mere theory and unsupported by fact, particularly since the driver escaped and the description by the few witnesses is considered useless.’
‘That poor girl!’ said Homes, and sighed deeply.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘True, she will now inherit the Gibbon fortune, but this can scarcely compensate her for the loss of her loved one!’
‘True,’ Homes said thoughtfully. Then a possible solution came to him and he nodded. ‘We can only hope that her friend Mr. Wain will stand by her in her hour of need, even as she stood by him in his! In fact, I believe he is enough in my debt for me to suggest it. A telegram form if you please, Watney—’
The Adventure of
the Three Madmen
Philip José Farmer
I
It is with a light heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singuler genius which distinguished my friend Sherlock Holmes. I realise that I once wrote something to that effect, though at that time my heart was as heavy as it could possibly be. This time I am certain that Holmes has retired for the last time. At least, he has sworn that he will no more go a-detectiving. The adventure of the three madmen has made him financially secure, and he foresees no more grave perils menacing our country now that our great enemy has been laid low. Moreover, he has sworn that never again will he set foot on any soil but that of his native land. Nor will he ever again get near an aircraft. The mere sight or sound of one freezes his blood.
The peculiar narrative which occupies these pages began on the second day of February, 1916. At this time I was, despite my advanced age, serving on the staff of a military hospital in London. Zeppelins had made bombing raids over England for two nights previously, mainly in the Midlands. Though these were comparatively ineffective, seventy people had been killed, one hundred and thirteen injured, and a monetary damage of fifty-three thousand eight hundred and thirty-two pounds had been inflicted. These raids were the latest in a series starting the nineteenth of January. There was no panic, of course, but even stout British hearts were experiencing some uneasiness. There were rumours, no doubt originated by German agents, that the Kaiser intended to send across the channel a fleet of a thousand airships. I was discussing this rumour with my young friend, Doctor Fell, over a brandy in my quarters when a knock sounded on the door. I opened it to admit a messenger. He handed me a telegram which I wasted no time in reading.
‘Great Scott!’ I cried.
‘What is it, my. dear fellow?’ Fell said, heaving himself from the chair. Even then, on war rations, he was putting on overly much weight.
‘A summons to the F.O.,’ I said. ‘From Holmes. And I am on special leave.’
‘Sherlock?’ said Fell.’
‘No, Mycroft,’ I replied. Minutes later, having packed my few belongings, I was being driven in a limousine toward the Foreign Office. An hour later, I entered the small austere room in which the massive Mycroft Holmes sat like a great spider spinning the web that ran throughout the British Empire and many alien lands. There were two others present, both of whom I knew. One was young Merrivale, a baronet’s son, the brilliant aide to the head of the British Military Intelligence Department and soon to assume the chieftainship. He was also a qualified physician and had been one of my students when I was lecturing at Bart’s. Mycroft claimed that Merrivale was capable of rivalling Holmes himself in the art of detection and would not be far behind Mycroft himself. Holmes’ reply to this ‘needling’ was that only practise revealed true
promise.
I wondered what Merrivale was doing away from the
War Office but had no opportunity to voice my question. The sight of the second person there startled me at the same time it delighted me. It had been over a year since I had seen that tall, gaunt figure with the greying hair and the unforgettable hawklike profile.
‘My dear Holmes,’ I said. ‘I had thought that after the Von Bork affair . . .’
‘The east wind has become appallingly cold, Watson,’ he said. ‘Duty recognises no age limits, and so I am called from my bees to serve our nation once more.’
Looking even more grim, he added, ‘The Von Bork business is not over. I fear that we underestimated the fellow because we so easily captured him. He is not always taken with such facility. Our government erred grievously in permitting him to return to Germany with Von Herling. He should have faced a firing squad. A motor-car crash in Germany after his return almost did for us what we had failed to do, according to reports that have recently reached me. But, except for a permanent injury to his left eye, he has recovered.
‘Mycroft tells me that Von Bork has done us and is doing us inestimable damage. Our intelligence tells us that he is operating in Cairo, Egypt. But just where in Cairo and what disguise he has assumed is not known.’
The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes II Page 8
