“I might be able to do so, but if Morgan thinks my questions intrusive, he is likely to show me to the door, and his father may back him.”
Holmes was onto that immediately. “May? You suspect they are not entirely in charity with one another on this?”
I admitted that this was the impression I gained. “Yet they are father and son and are most likely to turn on any outsider together,” I added ruefully. “You know how it is, Holmes. People back family and friends, and let outsiders beware.”
He nodded. “Yet you are colleagues. If you make it appear that you seek enlightenment on some of the more unusual aspects of her death, that may suffice.”
I agreed that it might and changed the subject to when he would approach the local police.
“Tomorrow morning. I have a letter from Lestrade to a senior member of the police here, and another from Harrison to a Detective Inspector Willis, with whom he worked last year—a little matter of a criminal who took refuge under a false name on the Isle. For now, Watson, let us enjoy a meal and seek our beds, as the weather is getting worse, and the light is fading.”
Which was all too true, and I seized an umbrella from the kitchen to make a final trek to the small shed behind the house.
The meal was excellent. Holmes arranged that dinners should be brought over by the lady who lived next door. She was glad to earn a little money providing such meals and coming in to clean and tidy the house—with the proviso that she did not enter either bedroom.
“Why so?” I asked Holmes.
“I do not say she would read any documents,” he admitted. “In fact, I am uncertain she can read. But I would prefer she knows nothing of this case, or that she should see anything she may make the subject of gossip. Both bedrooms have doors which can be locked. Be sure to do so any time you leave the house, or at any time she arrives.”
“Of what do you suspect her?”
“Of nothing—and everything. People, Watson, are naturally both busybodies and gossips. Often their actions are not ill-intentioned, but they may nonetheless do significant damage. Suppose we find something that suggests Kyle Johnson was responsible for his brother’s death. Our housekeeper discovers this and spreads it around the Island before action can be taken against him.”
“Yes, I see. Have no fear, Holmes, I shall make certain that my bedroom door is locked at all times. But…” A thought occurred to me. “I am unlikely to have anything the good lady could not safely see.”
“No, Watson, but I am, and if I am the only one who locks his door so determinedly, she may wonder at it.”
I understood. If we both locked our doors it was not unreasonable, but if only Holmes did so, it could be cause for gossip in and of itself.
We talked for an hour or so after dinner, and then retired. I hoped that the morrow would bring useful information, police tolerance, and that I could talk to the Doctors Farrell without giving any offence. I also hoped for useful information regarding Lily Klimpton’s death. The truth was, it bothered me. I could not see how events had come about, but with the elder Dr. Farrell’s agreement that her suicide was out of character, I was more and more coming to agree with the Simes family. Somewhere, somehow, I smelt a rat in that particular woodpile.
* * * *
Holmes went out after breakfast and I did not expect to see him again until the afternoon. He would visit the police first, then certain authorities. I headed for the Farrell surgery and was fortunate to find them both in. The father swept me indoors again, introduced me to his son, and immediately asked my opinion of an unusual case brought to them only half an hour earlier.
I did not leap at that too obviously. I looked thoughtful, allowed them to see I considered the case carefully, consulted them both on certain aspects, allowed a discussion to ensue, all before proffering my own opinion based on having encountered just such a case myself about five years ago. I managed to appear diffident as I did so, and although I thought the elder Farrell saw through that, the younger did not. When it turned out, after an examination by the younger Farrell, that my diagnosis was correct, I was invited to stay for lunch—an invitation I accepted.
The conversation over luncheon was wide-ranging. We talked of strange diseases, of the number of drownings and shipwrecks that happened around the Island’s shore, and of all the ways holidaymakers and day-trippers could find to get themselves into—sometimes deadly—trouble.
“Then, too, sometimes people disappear,” the elder of my hosts said. “There was that unpleasant little man who quarreled with everyone. What was his name?”
“Sommerville. Jason Sommerville,” his son supplied. “No mystery there, he owed money and decamped.”
His father immediately contradicted him. “No, Sommerville had no shortage of money. That was Jason Hunter. Now he did leave a bill or two owing, but it was said he went to London on business and chose not to return. But then, people do strange things at times.”
I turned the talk to inexplicable diagnoses by medical colleagues, and of the peculiarities of some patients. Which subject produced a loud snort from young Dr. Morgan Farrell.
“You cannot put a patient into one pigeonhole and say she will do this or that because she has always behaved that way in the past. Under great pressure, people may change their normal character. They may then do things that would normally be unlikely, or never previously attributable to them.”
His father disagreed—fervently. “Nonsense! People are as they are. An honest man would not lie, an honest woman would not play the whore. These things will not occur unless there is some great need, or intolerable pressure brought to bear.” He turned to me. “What is your opinion?”
I spoke slowly, as if merely offering a suggestion. “I think that it goes more to a person’s basic attitude, perhaps. If they are pessimistic, they may be more likely to act in unexpected ways. That is, a man who is often depressed may kill himself if life goes strongly against him, or he may attack another. He may lie or steal or commit offences that he excuses as merely his way of redressing his ill fortune.
“Now, a bright, cheerful person is not so likely to act in that way. In my experience, anyhow, they are more likely to endure wrongs done, knowing—as they see it—that good comes in turn, and they have only to wait. They rarely act in haste. They embrace a natural belief that, as the Bible says, ‘sorrow endures for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”
The older man crowed. “Yes, that is my thinking, too.” He turned to his son. “You see, Dr. Watson agrees. And Lily was never a pessimist! She was strong, cheerful, always an optimist. I cannot believe she killed herself. No, I will not believe it!”
I looked blank while inwardly rejoicing. “Lily?” I asked.
The elder Farrell nodded. “Lily Klimpton, whom I mentioned yesterday. The coroner’s verdict was suicide, but what else could he say with her letter before him? Yet I cannot believe it of her, despite her disgust when that lawyer came, demanding that she leave the house immediately.”
“That seems harsh,” I said. “But surely she could pack quickly and be gone.”
“Not at all. Poor Lily had two rooms of her own furniture to shift. It isn’t easy to get such heavy pieces moved down the stairs with little notice.”
“She lived upstairs?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed. The kitchen, parlor, and dining room are downstairs, while the bedrooms are upstairs. Alistair moved the servants’ quarters to the back. He said it was better for both parties, that they did not live”—here he smiled—“literally on top of their employers. They all had more privacy.”
His son chimed in at that point and set his father off in an annoyed response.
“A pity the servants didn’t live atop them. They would have been able to confirm Lily Klimpton killed herself.”
“Nonsense! In what way could they have done so, my dear Morgan?”
His son smiled coolly. “Father, you know servants. They listen at keyholes, they drift past the door just when voices a
re raised, and afterwards regale their friends in the local pub with what was said. They take in the mail and note every address, ready to mention to all and sundry whom the master or mistress has heard from of late. I say that if Johnson had run the usual household, his servants would have been able to swear in court that Lily was bitterly unhappy over events, that she despaired, and that she took the laudanum of her own volition. They may even have seen her writing the letter.”
“That letter was most unlike her,” his father retorted.
“That letter was exactly like her,” Morgan Farrell shot back. “She tended to the formal in her letters. I can easily see her addressing a letter in that way.”
“To an official,” his father snapped. “But what was there in her letter to suggest she wrote to the coroner? Certainly, he received it. I handed it to him myself, but there was nothing to say it was written to him, and anyway, when you have as much experience with people and patients as I do…”
Two points caught at my attention and I pondered them while the Doctors Farrell argued, their disagreement taking what was clearly a familiar path. Once they subsided I thanked them for their hospitality and took my leave, saying that I would be delighted to host them to luncheon at the local hotel the next day.
I wended my way homewards, seized upon Holmes once I was through the door, and sat us down.
“I have come from the Farrells. They talked of Lily’s letter, her circumstances, and how she died.” Holmes looked expectant. “Firstly, the drug she supposedly took was laudanum. But where could she have obtained it? There is no suggestion that it was ever prescribed for her, or for Alistair Johnson. Secondly, there is the letter. The father is adamant that since the letter seemed to be written to her family, she would not have addressed the envelope as, ‘To Whom It May Concern.’ He says that is a formal address, and while Lily would have written that if the letter were to go to someone official, as it was for her family, she would never have done so.”
My friend nodded as I paused for breath, then continued. “Then there is her furniture. Look at her life, Holmes. She had been Johnson’s lover almost fifteen years. He knew her circumstances. He knew it would not be easy for her to remove two rooms of large, heavy furniture down a long flight of stairs. He gave every evidence of his devotion to her. Even if, for some reason, he decided to change his will and utterly disinherit her, why would he not still allow her a week or two in writing for her removal from the house? Yet there was no clause as to that in the new will. And I wonder why the brother was so desperate to have her out of the place, even before his brother was buried?”
Holmes gaze met mine. “Those are excellent questions, Watson, and ones to which we shall find answers.”
“If you wish to talk to the Farrells yourself, I am taking them to lunch tomorrow at the hotel,” I offered, and he nodded.
“Yes, I shall join you. I would like further details about the laudanum, to begin with.”
3
We were only three at the hotel’s dining table the next day, Dr. Farrell the younger having been called to an urgent maternity case. The results of our conversation, without the possible constraint of his presence, were both interesting and would, I thought, be useful.
I approached the subject of the laudanum with care. “I suppose you must prescribe moderate amounts, if not more, since the island’s isolation in winter would suggest it.”
We received a dissertation, with examples, on that subject, which primarily agreed, and Holmes looked thoughtful.
“If that is so, there must be a number of families who may still have a quantity in their homes. That could be dangerous if they have young children, I would have thought.”
Dr. Farrell spoke forcefully. “Very much so, and I take pains to collect any that remains once a patient dies.”
“What if it was not prescribed to someone very ill?” I inquired.
Dr. Farrell hesitated. “There is little I can do about it, I regret to say. They paid for my consultation and the drug. If they are determined to retain it there is nothing I can do. I warn such patients that they must lock up the drug lest it fall into childish hands, but you know people, they do not always listen. I had a sad case some twelve years gone where a patient left a half-used bottle about and her daughter, who was simple, drank it.”
“Did she survive?” Holmes asked.
“No. The girl took it around the time she normally retired, so her mother had no cause to be alarmed until the morning, when she could not rouse her. I was called at once, but it was too late.” He looked distressed. “There was an inquest. It was all deeply upsetting, but I could have done nothing to prevent it and I said so when asked. I had requested that the partly consumed bottle be returned to me, or that it be kept locked up. The mother admitted she had forgotten to do so. She told her daughter never to touch it, and as in general the child was obedient, the mother assumed the child would to as she was told. Death by misadventure, they found. Ever since I have more strongly warned those who retain laudanum of the dangers it can bring.”
“How on earth then did Lily obtain the amount she used?” I queried. “Her family are at a loss to understand. She must have taken a substantial amount to kill a healthy, well-set-up woman, or it must have been of considerable strength. Could she have purchased it from someone?”
Holmes pursed his lips and spoke before Dr. Farrell could reply. “If someone had sold it to her innocently, surely the seller would mention it to those about him. Can you not see such a conversation, Watson? He—or she—would say that they made a fine deal with Lily Klimpton, selling her an unwanted half-bottle of laudanum for such and such a sum. And, of course, that person’s friends would recall what was said as soon as Lily was found dead.” He glanced across the table. “Did any such person come forward?”
“No,” Farrell said slowly. “No, they did not. You are right, if she purchased the drug from someone who merely had a half-bottle, it would be known. But that means… that suggests…” He broke off and briefly sat in silence before staring at us.
“It suggests,” Holmes confirmed, “that whoever gave the drug to Lily Klimpton may have intended the result.” Farrell made a movement of protest. “Think about it, Doctor. If they gave or sold it to her innocently, it would likely become known. And if she demanded their silence on the purchase; would they not wonder why and, intrigued, speak of that still to a friend or two, howbeit more cautiously? And would it not yet become known, if perhaps more slowly?”
The doctor nodded. “You know people, it is likely, yes. And if that were so, there has been sufficient time for it to be talked about.”
“And it has not?”
“No.”
A waiter appeared. We selected a dessert and remained silent while Dr. Farrell mulled over what we said. At last he raised his head.
“You believe she was murdered,” he stated, in quietly monotonous tones. “I have known Lily since she was a child. To kill herself was not in her nature, not without an overwhelming reason. There was no such cause, for she loved her family deeply and knew herself loved in turn. She had savings—Florence Simes told me so—and she also knew Florence and Robin would take her in happily. Women do kill themselves over an affair gone wrong, over a betrayal, but most often it is the young who do so, for the old have seen such things before and survived them.”
“You said she was a strong woman,” I reminded him.
“Yes, and while she was naturally distressed, it seemed more anger than grief. She did not understand why Alistair did what he did. She was certain he would not do so, and she intended to ask questions. And then I was called to see her body. She was there, as if already laid in her coffin. I saw the letter, opened and read it. It did not sound like her—the address on the envelope, the single name. I ignored my doubts, but that cannot continue. She had no laudanum, gentlemen. I never prescribed it to her, nor to Alistair or her family.”
He leaned across the table, lowering his voice still further. “You are not h
ere by accident. What do you know of this? Who was it called you in?”
I glanced at Holmes.
Farrell continued. “Yes, your name was familiar, so I made inquiries.” He smiled wryly. “Which may result in the police interviewing you, for they did not seem entirely pleased to hear of your presence.” And on a further hard look at Holmes, “Ah, I see, they do know. Well, then. I may be able to guess who called you here. Florence Simes is an intelligent and forceful woman.”
He took a slow, deep breath. “Understand me. I do not condone murder, still less of an old friend. I think perhaps I shut my eyes rather than acknowledge what may have happened. But I will look now. In what way can I assist?”
Holmes spoke bluntly. “Say nothing of this to your son.”
The old man stiffened, and Holmes continued. “No, he is not suspected, but he does believe that Lily Klimpton killed herself. That was the verdict, and that is what everyone agrees. If he hears that some now suspect it was not the truth, he may speak incautiously, in an attempt to dispel what he will see as foolish or malicious gossip. We would prefer that the murderer, if one there is, does not discover that the deed is suspected. Do you not agree with this, Doctor?”
Dr. Farrell did, and said so.
“As to your assistance, can you look up your old records and list those to whom you have prescribed laudanum? Then find out quietly if there was any remaining, and if so, is it yet in their possession. Begin with the date of Lily’s death and move back from there.”
I foresaw a lot of work for the doctor. He’d find it difficult if he must also keep it from his son. I suddenly had an idea and grinned.
“Farrell, why don’t you tell your son that our recent conversation got you thinking. You are making that list to consider if prescribing lesser amounts of laudanum would result in little or none being left over. Tell him that our recent conversation reminded you, and you are concerned that other children might be harmed. Tell him it is on your conscience, and you are seeking a way to prevent a reoccurrence. If only a small amount remains in a bottle it is less likely to sicken or kill someone. Maybe a patient would be more ready to return or dispose of such a small amount.”
Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Page 17