Farrell’s expression eased. “That is an excellent suggestion, Doctor. In fact, it is one I will adopt, if you do not mind. I shall make a list of all my patients who have been given laudanum in the past ten years and who may yet have some remaining. The bottle grows more dangerous over time as the label peels away. I intend to persuade the patient to return or dispose of it. My son is a good doctor and will see the sense in that. He may even help me make the list. Thank you, Dr. Watson.”
I waved off any thanks but basked a little in Holmes’s approving glance. Shortly thereafter, our party broke up as our guest departed to begin that list and bespeak his son on the subject. Holmes and I walked back to our rented accommodation and talked of events as we strode along.
“Shall you report this to the Simeses?”
Holmes shook his head. “Not yet. I would like to have some idea from where the laudanum was obtained. I think they will prove to be ignorant.”
“You think it was stolen? But they would surely have noticed…” I broke off. “I see! You are thinking of that recent case, where the drug was abstracted and replaced with water?”
“Precisely. I hope Farrell will consider that.”
“We cannot be certain it will occur to him,” I said thoughtfully. “I think I shall just step along to his practice and mention it.”
I did so, to find that he already had half a dozen names on his list.
He smiled at my honest congratulations. “I have been doctor on the island for most of my life. I remember my patients, and I merely began by reading my appointments book. From the names in that, I remembered to whom I had prescribed the drug. I shall start within the hour. Now, Doctor, would you care to visit my patients with me?”
I acceded at once and we visited, in turn, an elderly lady with painful arthritis, a young mother subject to severe headaches—and having met her boisterous offspring I did not wonder at it—an ancient fisherman with painful saltwater boils that prevented a night’s sleep, and several other such people, all of whom were happy to produce their part-used bottle. Dr. Farrell spoke to each on the dangers of the drug being available to small children or family members who might be unwary, and in all but one case succeeded in obtaining its return or disposal under our eyes.
The sole refusal came from the old fisherman. “Oi ain’t done wi’ that, Doctor. Nor I don’t have no family. I’m careful, but ’tis all that gives me a night’s sleep, an’ I’m holding on to ’un. Yerss, boils be gone fer now, but they do come back and I ain’t being wi’out it, t’will save me a trip to see you agin, and paying out fer more, wun’ it?”
We agreed that this was reasonable, and as, having checked the mixture and found all to be as it should be, and having persuaded him to keep it in a less conspicuous place, we retired in good order.
“None of them,” said Dr. James Farrell. “Well, maybe someone amongst the next lot will prove to be missing the bottle and its contents. How long are you here on the island, Doctor?”
I meditated briefly. My semi-retired friend would stand in for me, but the truth is that I am not a rich man. I cannot afford to take too much time from my work. And in this case the Simeses were unlikely to be able to afford to pay me for my time.
“Another day,” I said at last. “I must return tomorrow evening.”
* * * *
That next day I uncovered nothing new, so I returned to Baker Street and was hard at work again by eight a.m. the morning after, while Holmes remained to beaver away. Influenza was about again, and I was even forced for a day or two to have my colleague return to assist me to see all my patients.
A letter arrived three days after my return, however, confirming our suspicions as to the possible origins of the drug.
The patient—a jobbing gardener, although not the man employed by Alistair Johnson—had suffered a painful injury a year earlier. He was prescribed laudanum, and on his recovery placed the bottle on a high shelf in his garden shed. He had two small children and his wife demanded it be taken out of their house. The shelf on which it was placed was high, and the bottle stood at the back, thus only the very top of it was ordinarily visible. While the gardener saw it often, he never noticed a change in the contents.
Holmes wrote that whoever removed the bottle’s contents had done so cleverly, for all of the laudanum remaining was replaced with a mixture of ingredients that counterfeited the look of the original drug very well. However, on opening the top the smell indicated that some of the replacement mixture consisted of milk—now gone very much to the bad.
When, precisely, this had been done, the gardener could not say. It might have been done at any time from his recovery a year gone, up to the previous fortnight. Dr. Farrell took the bottle and was experimenting to see if he could get any closer to the abstraction in time but was not hopeful—nor was my friend. However, it proved one thing: that someone ended up in illegal possession of a considerable amount of laudanum. Even if not used on Lily Klimpton, that fact was a worrying circumstance to any conscientious doctor.
Holmes took this information to the police, along with intelligence that Lily intended to question the will, how she knew of it—he said her family reported that her lover showed her the document only a short time before his demise, with no mention of her own surreptitious readings—and that considering everything, perhaps a closer look should be taken at the circumstances of her death?
The police asked further questions of my friend, drew some of their own conclusions, and agreed. A quiet but official investigation was now in train, and Holmes would arrive in London half a day after his letter.
I folded the sheets of paper together and sat back. It would be pleasant to have him home again, however, I admit to wondering how the police would fare. I said as much when Holmes returned, and he sighed.
“I would make no wagers on that, Watson. They have set their sights on that familiar focus, a wandering and homicidal tramp.”
I emitted a sound midway between a snort and a moan. “And is there one?”
“Naturally there are, if you allow the word ‘tramp’ a wide latitude. There are a number of elderly men no longer fit to do much work, who live rough. There are itinerant shepherds, or day laborers, those whose wits have gone astray and who not only wander, but mostly cannot say where those ramblings have taken them, or at what times, or even on what days. Then there are others who are prone to losing employment and manage by living in some shed or sheltered corner until they find work again.
“By my reckoning the police will investigate several dozen such—and get no further with them or the case. It is my opinion that this murder was both calculated and deliberate, and for more profit than a few items snatched up at random—something that did not occur to anyone’s knowledge.”
That proved to be so, after which the police investigated Kyle Johnson—who had quite a lot to say about it—and which culminated in his hiring a lawyer and talking loudly of bringing a lawsuit.
Holmes was philosophical.
“I suspected the police would make a mess of the case. They are excellent at run-of-the-mill crimes, but the intelligent criminal often escapes them.”
“You think he is intelligent?” I asked with some interest.
“He committed a successful murder,” Holmes said dryly. “He obtained the means to do so unsuspected, he convinced a coroner that the victim killed herself, managed to obtain whatever was his aim, and had it not been for the Simeses’ disbelief and determination to prove their mother innocent of self-murder, the police would be complacent to this day.”
I could only agree. “What will you do, Holmes?”
“I shall enlist the elder Doctor Farrell, and perhaps the younger one, also,” Holmes said briskly. “I have some ideas, and I have questions the Simes family may be able to answer.”
I left matters at that. I knew that look: he would disclose no more of the case until he wished to do so. I remained too busy to think more about it.
* * * *
Ho
lmes was gone the day after our conversation. He returned to spend two days on the Isle of Sheppey. I heard and saw nothing of him until I came home to find him stoking the fire.
He looked up. “Ah, Watson, I thought you would return about this time. Mrs. Hudson will bring up dinner shortly. How went your day?”
“Well enough. Too many of my patients have the influenza still, but it is tapering off, and those who have it are on the mend. Should you have need of me, I could take a short time away from my work again.”
I heard footsteps on the stairs and was in time to hold the door for our good landlady, taking the tray from her with thanks. Our dinner was very edible, as always, and after we ate and were relaxing in our chairs, I plied Holmes with questions.
“Have the police got anywhere on the case?”
“Oh, yes,” Holmes told me, with awful sarcasm. “They have made the lives of the Simes family a misery, arrested four tramps, and two simpletons, as well as the gardener whose laudanum was taken. Supposing they found one, I daresay they’d have arrested a partridge in a pear tree and charged it for loitering with intent.”
I laughed. “I see. What is the outcome?”
“A considerable uproar and a complete waste of everyone’s time.”
Containing my amusement, I commented, “I can see that, but what of your own investigations. Have you uncovered anything?”
Holmes nodded. “I have information, if nothing more. One thing I was able to ascertain from the Doctors Farrell. Farrell senior was the one called to the body, however, as you know, his son did the autopsy. He was able to say that there was only a small quantity of laudanum in the victim’s stomach.”
I would have spoken, but he held up his hand.
“Fortunately, Farrell senior retained a sample, and I was able to make some tests. There was no doubt it was the cause of death, but a normal concentration of laudanum would have done no more than prevent undue pain and make the patient sleepy.”
I seized on the words. “Normal concentration? You mean it was not?”
“I mean precisely that, Watson. Whoever administered it to Lily Klimpton had distilled the mixture so that a mere tablespoonful was lethal.”
I settled back in my chair. “It would take no great amount of apparatus. Such an operation could be carried out in a good kitchen, but it is not the sort of thing a tramp or a laborer would be capable of.”
“Quite so. I pointed this out to the police and they released those they had in custody. All save one of the tramps subsequently identified as a person who had stolen items from a farmhouse the previous weekend.”
My attention turned briefly to that. “How was he identified?”
“Because,” Holmes said, some amusement showing in his tones, “he was wearing the farmer’s trousers, his Sunday tie—as a belt—and the farmer’s wife’s best straw hat.”
My mind produced a picture and I roared with laughter.
Holmes eyed me sardonically. “Unfortunately, arresting a tramp for theft took me no further on my own investigation. However, on speaking to the gardener’s wife, I discovered something that was of use. Earlier, we had only talked to her husband. His wife shared a small piece of information that he had not known.”
“What?”
“About three months before the death of Lily Klimpton, the gardener’s small son had a toothache. The wife therefore retrieved the laudanum bottle, extracted a small amount, corked the bottle again and, on returning inside, dosed the child. She was adamant that the mixture was laudanum. It smelled of laudanum, and it ameliorated the pain as it should. You see what this means, Watson?”
“That the laudanum was taken no more than three months prior to the death,” I said slowly. “It seems that a number of things happened in that period. Lily Klimpton told her family she last read the will only a short time before her lover’s death, and that it remained unchanged.” Another idea occurred to me about the will. “I suppose she could not have challenged his will on the grounds that she might be considered Alistair Johnson’s common-law wife?”
“It is possible that she might have done so. However, with her dead, the suit would not stand. That is, her family are unable to bring a case for themselves, as that can only be done by the person directly involved. Nor do I think she would ultimately have publicly exposed herself in such a way. She appeared to be the sort of woman who would shrink from the sorts of intimate questions she would be asked.”
I mulled that over. “Did she ever tell her family about the will? I mean the composition, or a description of its appearance?”
Holmes regarded me. “That is an extraordinarily sensible question, Watson. What made you think of it?”
In truth, I could not say.
Holmes nodded. “Your subconscious leads its own life at times. It is so for us all. However, I can answer the question. Yes, I asked the Simeses, both Florence and Robin. She never described it to them, but her grandchildren were interested in the general way about wills, and to them she shared more.” His voice became measured, the tone of a man who conveys the words of another, stripping them of verbiage and obfuscation or imprecision.
“From what they could tell me, the will was six pages. The first two were mostly legalities, the next three the bequests, and the final page carried the signatures of the testator and witnesses. The pages that listed the bequests were precise; they listed everything an inheritor was to receive, larger or more valuable items having a description, and a separate list being appended as regards the library.”
He stopped, and I frowned. “Did she say anything to her family about the will that was read out after her lover’s death?”
“No. Mrs. Simes says only that her mother attended. Upon her arrival, the lawyer said that as she was not in the will she need not be present, so Lily left again. Around three hours later the lawyer visited her at the house. There he doled out her wages to that date and informed her she must remove herself and any of her possessions from the property within forty-eight hours. She was distressed and came to her daughter, saying she would not have thought Johnson would be so cruel, and asking if they could assist with her furniture removal. Florence Simes says that after she and her husband talked with her for some time her mother was more cheerful, but still angry over her betrayal.”
I remembered. “Yes, she said her mother always had a home with them. She was not destitute, and the elder Dr. Farrell says that Lily was always of an optimistic and cheerful disposition. You know, Holmes, I have patients like that myself. They do not say ‘I’m growing old, my hip hurts, and the cat just died.’ They say, ‘I’m not dead yet, it’s only one hip, it could be both, and I’ll get another cat.’”
I received one of my friend’s singular smiles. “Very true, and everyone to whom I spoke who knew the deceased, says the same thing of her. Besides, there is the laudanum. Both doctors are adamant it was never prescribed to her or to Johnson. Even their gardener, Abraham Little, swears that he never had any.
“Coincidence is not impossible, it does occur—which is why we have a word for it. However, I believe the contents of the jobbing gardener’s bottle was stolen within three months of Lily’s death. The drug she received had been distilled down to make it even more deadly. You are right, Watson. I do not think that she would have taken her own life. Her daughter is certain that her mother went from being wounded by her lover’s deceit to being angry with him and determined to manage well enough by herself now that he was gone.”
“Of course,” I said, in an attempt to be even-handed on the subject, “it might be that when she returned home, where she had lived for so many happy years, sorrow overcame her, and she decided she could not go on.” I considered that. “But then, if she did act in such a way, from where or whom did she obtain the laudanum?”
Holmes nodded. “She believed her future was secure until the will was read and she was told she had no part in it. Even if she contemplated ending her life, how could she know of the laudanum, Watson?”
“True,” I agreed.
“The gardener says he did not know her to do more than raise his hat to her in passing. How then would she know he had a bottle of the drug in his garden shed?” Holmes added. “His wife, too, says that they were on no more than nodding terms. Then there is also the distilling of the drug.”
I scowled absently at the flames, then, realizing the fire was low, I stooped from my chair to add fuel. With the fire blazing merrily again, I resumed the discussion.
“So, if we were to believe that Lily Klimpton killed herself, we must also believe that she already had laudanum illicitly in her possession. But for what purpose and from where? I say, Holmes, you don’t suppose she intended to murder Johnson?”
Holmes shook his head.
“No? And Dr. Farrell says the man was never in any great pain, so he had no need prescribe him laudanum. Are we to assume she did somehow know about the gardener’s bottle and rushed out to steal his drug—that she then spent part of her evening distilling it to deadly concentration, after which she laid down on her bed… but that, too, must be wrong—for where was the container that held the drug, and the spoon or glass? Were they found?”
I took a breath. “Say that she took the drug, disposed swiftly of the means by which she ingested it, then laid down on her bed, composed herself, and waited to die. Oh, and before that she must also write the letter and clean up all evidence of the distillation.” I looked at my friend and snorted. “D’you know, Holmes,” I said forcefully, “I don’t believe a word of it!”
My friend nodded. “I have not done so from the beginning, Watson. The trouble is firstly to convince the police of that, and secondly to uncover the method and a motive. I think that the roots of this death have been some time in the growing. Someone has a motive sufficient to commit a cold-blooded and cautious murder, and they have been very careful at every step.”
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