The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes

by Leonard Goldberg

  “And so does your body, for it was your quick action that saved Joanna and me from serious injury or worse.”

  “It was simply instinct,” my father said, downplaying his actions.

  “It was heroic,” Joanna said. “You were willing to sacrifice your life for ours.”

  My father shrugged at the praise. “You make too much of it.”

  “I think not,” Joanna insisted.

  “Now tell us, Father, was it you who saved the life of Sherlock Holmes those many, many years ago?”

  “It was,” my father said, with a hint of a smile. “It was indeed.”

  With great care we looked both ways before crossing Baker Street. I watched Joanna take my father’s arm and could not but help think, there walk Holmes and Watson again on the very same street where they lived. And once more I realized that the past was reappearing in the present.

  22

  The Special Care Unit

  Shakespeare once wrote that all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and entrances. Although he no doubt was referring to life in general, it applied most accurately to the drama that was about to unfold before my very eyes.

  From my vantage point, I could see that the special care unit was exactly as Mrs. Hughes had described. There was a single bed in its center surrounded by cardiac monitoring equipment and two carts filled with various drugs and antiseptics. A slender, bespectacled nurse, with long auburn hair, stood off to the side.

  Anyone entering through the large door saw the patient covered up to his chin with a white sheet. A wet washcloth was spread across his forehead and brow to give comfort from the periodic fever brought on by malaria. A portion of his face was still visible and showed the deep yellowing jaundice of his skin. The intramuscular injection of quinine had been given three hours earlier and thus far the only adverse effect was somnolence and an occasional extra heartbeat. The ever vigilant nurse was again taking and recording the patient’s vital signs when the door abruptly opened.

  Stephen Marburg entered and hurried to the bedside. “He continues to sleep?”

  The nurse nodded. “Except to use the bedpan.”

  “And he is comfortable?” Marburg asked, lowering his voice.

  “Quite so. Even his fever is down.”

  “Excellent. Are his vital signs stable?”

  “They remain unchanged.”

  Marburg made certain the cardiac monitoring wires were firmly attached to the patient’s arms, then switched on the electrocardiogram machine and studied the running strip it produced. “The rhythm appears normal and you will note that the extraventricular beats he had earlier have disappeared.”

  “A good sign,” the nurse said.

  “Very. But keep in mind that the blood level of quinine has not yet peaked, and that is when the terrible cardiac effects are most likely to occur. So you must be ever watchful, particularly over the next two hours.”

  “Shall I take the patient’s vital signs more frequently?”

  “Every ten minutes should suffice,” Marburg said, and turned off the electrocardiogram machine. “If there is any change at all, you must notify me without delay.”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  Marburg checked his timepiece. “I will be making rounds on my other patients here at St. Bartholomew’s over the next hour, so Dr. Moran will be looking in in my place.”

  “An excellent choice, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  I watched Marburg leave and tightened my grip on my father’s service revolver. Merely the mention of Moran’s name raised my alert level to its highest point, for I was certain his move was coming shortly. He would surely seize this perfect opportunity to do his murderous work. My eyes stayed fixed on the door, but, in my peripheral vision, I could see the conscientious nurse hovering over the bed. Perhaps because of the quiet in the room, time seemed to crawl by at an agonizingly slow pace.

  The door opened once more and Mrs. Helen Hughes, the head nurse, walked in. She appeared to be calm and entirely professional, just as Joanna had predicted. Her uniform was so strongly starched that there was not a wrinkle to be seen.

  She came to the bedside and took the patient’s pulse, then announced, “His heartbeat is steady.”

  “Even his occasional extrasystoles have ceased,” the bespectacled nurse noted.

  “Let us hope they remain so.”

  Mrs. Hughes eyed the electrocardiogram machine and said, “I trust you continue to provide the cardiogram strips every fifteen minutes as requested by Dr. Marburg.”

  “Precisely every fifteen minutes, sister,” the bespectacled nurse replied, using the term sister by which nurses are formally called. “Have you been informed that Dr. Moran will be covering for Dr. Marburg over the next hour?”

  “I have, and I have no doubt things will go well with Dr. Moran at the helm.”

  “I feel so as well.”

  “Now keep a close watch and call out for even the slightest worry.”

  Mrs. Hughes was about to secure the door when she reopened it for the hospital’s phlebotomist whom she recognized instantly. “What brings you back so soon, Rodney?”

  “We need another blood specimen, which is to be sent to France for study. Apparently the French can determine the exact level of quinine in the blood, and Dr. Marburg wants to know if the level correlates with any of the dreaded side effects.”

  “An excellent idea,” Mrs. Hughes said. “But please be careful not to dislodge the cardiac machine wires taped onto his extremities.”

  As the phlebotomist took the patient’s arm from beneath the sheet, he commented, “The man’s jaundice does not seem as pronounced as it was earlier.”

  “It is the strong sunlight,” the bespectacled nurse explained quickly. “The sun rays blazing through the window tend to whiten the skin. Dr. Marburg himself remarked on this very same point.”

  “Brilliant doctor, that Marburg, eh?”

  “Quite.”

  After Mrs. Hughes and the phlebotomist departed, the intense silence returned to the room. The waiting again became interminable and this caused my anxiety to grow. And worst of all, doubts began to enter my mind. Would Moran decide not to show his hand? Would he see through our trap and hold off for another, more opportune moment to kill Derek Cardogan? Perhaps he thought it best not to murder Cardogan medically, for this might raise suspicion. It might be better to have the deed done as if by accident. Such as being hit by a runaway horse and carriage.

  But my doubts were short-lived. Without so much as a rap on the door, Christopher Moran barged into the special care unit. He had a very determined look on his face.

  He studied the bespectacled nurse for a long moment. “Have I seen you before?”

  “I do not believe so, sir. I have only recently transferred from St. George’s Hospital.”

  “Perhaps that is where I know you from. Which section did you work in?”

  “Surgery,” the nurse answered, and turned her head to cough loudly.

  “Do you have a cold?”

  “I am afraid so, but it is beginning to subside.”

  “Does a fever accompany it?”

  “Yes. But it is low grade and without chills.”

  Moran studied the nurse once more and said, “It is not easy looking after sick patients when you yourself are sick, is it?”

  “No, Doctor. But I shall manage.”

  Moran picked up the patient’s chart and read the notes. “How deep is this somnolence?”

  “It resembles a semicoma, sir,” the nurse replied. “He barely stirs except to use the bedpan.”

  Moran glanced over at the patient. “If he has had fever, why is he covered with a sheet?”

  The nurse answered without hesitation. “There were chills and he requested it. Then he lapsed into a deep sleep. Do you believe the cover is doing him harm?”

  “I doubt it,” Moran said, and returned to the chart.

  The nurse yawn
ed widely and quickly covered it with her hand.

  Moran caught sight of the yawn. “You look very tired, sister.”

  The nurse stifled another yawn. “I believe it is my cold, together with the poor ventilation, that brings it on.”

  “Indeed, it is close in here,” Moran agreed. “It might be wise for you to take a few minutes and refresh yourself.”

  “But I must stay with—”

  Moran held up a hand, interrupting her. “I shall be glad to look after my friend for a few minutes.”

  “You are most kind, Doctor.”

  “Not at all.”

  The nurse walked out and closed the door, but she left it slightly ajar.

  Moran hurried out to shut the door completely, then came back to the patient. Glancing around quickly, he reached in his pocket for a capped needle and syringe that was filled with a milky-white fluid. He shook it back and forth, then removed the rubber cap.

  “And good-bye to you, Derek Cardogan,” Moran said cruelly. “This will surely cure you of your malaria.”

  Moran jerked the sheet back and stared down at the patient, stupefied.

  “How nice to see you again, Moran,” I said.

  Moran lunged at me and tried to inject me with the poisonous needle. But I was already off the bed and on my feet, and easily sidestepped Moran’s rush. Now Moran had the needle and syringe up high and was about to plunge it down. But I grabbed Moran’s wrist and held it firmly where it was. Around and around we went, knocking over a small nightstand and the bedpan atop it. I attempted to land a punch on Moran’s jaw, but the wiring from the cardiac monitors and the tightness of my hospital gown prevented my arm from extending fully.

  My father dashed in, but had to stay back because Moran and I were locked in a death struggle, going from one side of the room to the other, with the poisonous needle dangerously close to me. My service revolver was on the floor, completely out of my father’s reach.

  Now Moran and I were on the bed. Moran was on top, holding me down with his superior weight. The needle was only inches away from my throat and moving closer.

  The nurse had reappeared and she quickly grabbed the metal bedpan and raised it high. Then, with all of her might, she brought it down on Moran’s head. The blow caused a resounding bong to echo across the room.

  Moran straightened up for a moment, then dropped onto the bed, facedown.

  “Good shot, Joanna!” I congratulated her as I jumped to my feet. I carefully retrieved the needle and syringe that contained the milky-white fluid. I held it up to the light for closer examination. “Nasty stuff, I will wager.”

  Joanna quickly removed her spectacles and auburn wig, then reached for the syringe to study its contents. “It is what I expected.”

  Inspector Lestrade rushed in, with two constables close behind him. He glanced down at Christopher Moran, who was coming to his senses. “So this is our murderer, eh, Mrs. Blalock?”

  “It is,” Joanna said, showing the inspector the deadly needle and syringe. “And this was his weapon. He tried to inject Dr. Watson with it, just as he had done to poor Benjamin Levy.”

  Lestrade eyed the syringe, keeping his distance. “A poison, eh?”

  “One of nature’s most potent,” Joanna said.

  My father moved in for a closer look and ventured a guess. “An extract of some sort, I would think.”

  Joanna shook her head. “No, Watson. This does not come from a plant.”

  “Well then, from where does it come?” Lestrade asked.

  “From India, most likely,” Joanna replied.

  Moran got to his feet, shakily at first, then he stood tall. “You attacked me with that needle,” he accused me, as he fabricated a story. “And I shall press charges.”

  “Oh, that will never do, Moran,” Joanna said easily, and pointed to the auburn wig and spectacles on the floor. “We have a number of witnesses, you see. Besides Dr. Watson and myself, we have Watson’s father who was watching your every move through a crack in the side door.”

  “They saw only my back,” Moran snapped. “You can prove nothing.”

  “I can prove everything,” Joanna retorted. She raised up the needle and syringe and stepped toward Moran. “Allow me to inject you with the solution you intended for your friend Derek Cardogan.”

  Moran cringed and drew away.

  “Not so eager, I see.” Joanna lowered the syringe and carefully removed its needle. “We will analyze this poison and characterize it, and surely find traces of it in Benjamin Levy’s blood as well. And that will stand up in any court, particularly after your performance today.”

  Moran suddenly lunged for Joanna, but two constables moved in quickly and restrained him.

  “Who are you?” Moran demanded.

  “I am a creation of Sherlock Holmes.”

  Moran blinked rapidly as the name of the famous detective registered in his mind. He glared at Joanna. “Holmes, the snoop!”

  Joanna smiled.

  “Holmes, the meddler!”

  Joanna’s smile widened, then she said, “And hopefully Sherlock Holmes will be there in spirit to see you hanged.”

  Again Moran tried to lunge at Joanna, but the constables had a firm grip on him and he barely moved.

  Lestrade motioned to the constables and they led Moran away. He then turned to Joanna and asked, “How did you know that Dr. Moran would attack the patient today?”

  “Merely a lucky guess,” Joanna said.

  Lestrade grinned. “Oh, no, Mrs. Blalock. This is more than a guess.”

  Joanna shrugged. “Then call it an educated assumption.”

  Lestrade scratched his bald head. “What is at the bottom of all this, then?”

  “A treasure, Lestrade,” Joanna replied. “And the never-ending greed that came with it.”

  Lestrade looked at Joanna quizzically. “A treasure, you say?”

  “It will all become clear if you would be good enough to obtain a search warrant for Dr. Moran’s lodgings.”

  “I do not require a search warrant to look about the doctor’s premises.”

  Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Then you would be breaking the law.”

  “I would not,” Lestrade argued forcefully. “Because you see, madam, in view of the new evidence at hand, the Harrelston death must now be officially considered a murder investigation. And since he fell from his death from Dr. Moran’s parlor, the entire house becomes a crime scene. Now, I do not need a search warrant to examine a crime scene, do I?”

  Joanna slapped her forehead with an open palm. “How silly of me, Lestrade. Thank you for keeping me on track.”

  Lestrade beamed and happily nodded to the others, delighted that for once he had shown himself to be in command of the investigation. He came back to Joanna. “Shall we proceed to Dr. Moran’s lodgings?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said, heading for the door. “And, Inspector, we will require the talents of a safecracker.”

  “We have an abundance of those,” Lestrade said. “Anything else?”

  “We will need one more person. His name is Phillip Chapman, and you will find him at the London Zoo.”

  “What role will he play?” Lestrade asked.

  Joanna smiled thinly. “He will help gather up evidence.”

  * * *

  In our carriage, and with Joanna’s assistance, I removed the yellow pigment from my face and arms, using a weak acid solution. I had obtained the pigment from a colleague in the dermatology division, with the promise it would come off quite easily. Which was not the case. It required some vigorous scrubbing. Finally cleansed, I, along with my father, lighted Turkish cigarettes to enjoy the moment.

  “You were magnificent, Joanna,” I said genuinely. “Your performance was flawless.”

  “Particularly when Moran asked about the patient being covered despite a fever,” my father joined in. “Your quick answer saved the day.”

  “My part was simple,” Joanna said. “It was John who faced the terrible danger.�
�

  “It was close,” I had to admit. “Another inch or two and that needle would have been in my neck.”

  “And when I was finally able to reach my revolver, I could not get a shot off,” my father said unhappily. “Moran never gave me a clear target.”

  “It is probably best you did not shoot,” Joanna told him. “For if you did, you might have deprived us of the satisfaction of watching Moran hang.”

  I asked, “Will you attend the execution?”

  “Weather permitting,” Joanna replied indifferently.

  The carriage raced through the slum area of St. Giles, with its squalid tenements and filthy streets. The air was polluted and heavy with the smell of horse dung. The carriage moved on and finally turned onto Regent Street, where there were fashionable shops and well-dressed people.

  “I must confess,” I said, breaking the silence. “I have no idea how you were able to predict Moran’s behavior with such accuracy. It was as if you were reading his mind.”

  “I was reading his words and actions,” Joanna said, staring out the window at some action that momentarily caught her interest. “They told us everything.”

  “They told you, not us.”

  “I beg to differ,” Joanna said, turning back to me. “Let us begin with his weapon. You knew, as well as I, that Moran would use poison. Is that not true?”

  I nodded. “Of course I knew poison would be his weapon. But I did not know how and when it would be administered.”

  “The how was simple,” Joanna explained. “He would inject the poison into Derek Cardogan’s neck, just as he had done with Benjamin Levy. Direct injection of a potent poison into the carotid artery guarantees death. Does it not, Watson?”

  “Indeed,” my father replied. “And Moran being a physician would be aware of this.”

  “And when Moran would do it presented no problem,” Joanna went on. “He learned of Derek Cardogan’s impending admission to St. Bartholomew’s for treatment of his drug-resistant malaria. That gave Moran the perfect opening. I also reasoned he would not use a tourniquet to inject the jugular vein, for that would be time-consuming and he would have only the briefest of moments to act. Thus, he would choose the carotid artery which could be injected in seconds.”