The Reigate Poisoning: Concluded (The Dispatch Box of John H Watson, MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “You are suggesting that his money is not from the deceased relative, as he told me, but rather has been paid to him by Madame?”

  “Precisely so. When faced with circumstances such as these, my mind turns to thoughts of blackmail. Montpensier has some knowledge which she wishes to keep secret. Clifford has somehow acquired this knowledge and has threatened to make it public.”

  “But I fail to see how she can be convicted of the murder of her stepdaughter, which after all, is the most likely secret crime with which she could be charged.”

  “Especially, if what O’Neill has told me from New York is true, if the stepdaughter is still alive.”

  “Holmes, this is ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “Remember, I examined the body of Annabel Stevens myself. There was a post-mortem examination. Even if she had been in some kind of catalytic trance, the actions of the autopsy would have extinguished life completely and finally.”

  “No, Watson,” Holmes contradicted me. “You did not examine the body of Annabel Stevens. You examined the body which you had been told was that of Annabel Stevens. You had no reason to doubt what you had been told, and therefore you assumed it to be the truth.”

  “I am beginning to perceive the direction in which your thoughts are heading,” I said. “What it seems to me that you are suggesting is so horrible that I can hardly believe it. But wait! Clifford knew Annabel Stevens when she was alive, did he not? He would hardly make an error such as that.”

  Holmes stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. “I did not say that Clifford made an error when he identified another body as that of Annabel Stevens.”

  “You are suggesting that he deliberately misinformed Professor Menzies and myself as to the identity of the corpse on which the post-mortem was performed? But the poison was detected in the body, and the symptoms of the poison were present. You asked me earlier if I would take my oath in court on a certain matter, and I refused to do so. But I would take my oath, even without the results of the laboratory analysis, that the body that Professor Menzies, Dr Clifford and I examined that day died as the result of ingesting poison.”

  “Quite so,” Holmes said calmly, resuming his walk.

  “But this is monstrous, Holmes! You seem to be suggesting to me that not just one poisoning took place, but two. And if that is the case, where, then, is the body of Annabel Stevens?”

  “There was only one poisoning. One body only resulted from it. I am now convinced that Annabel Stevens is alive and well and living in New York under the name of Mlle. Carère.”

  “And you are suggesting that Clifford is a party to this deception?”

  “He may well be the prime mover. I believe we have a horrible crime here, the likes of which I have never previously encountered. And if I am correct in my suppositions, not only Clifford, but the girl, the girl’s mother, and at least one of the servants in the house is involved here. We have the makings of a ghastly conspiracy. I am thankful that I can be certain that my Watson is not involved. And from everything you have told me and from what I can deduce for myself, your Professor Menzies is also innocent of any wrongdoing here.”

  “Let me see for myself if I can follow your reasoning here. You are claiming that the body that was laid to rest in the tomb marked ‘Annabel Stevens’ following a post-mortem examination and autopsy was not in fact that of Annabel Stevens. This substitution was made either by, or with the full knowledge of, Clifford. It was done at the instigation of, or at least with the full knowledge of Montpensier, and her servants. And, presumably, Annabel Stevens herself?”

  “Naturally. You have followed my reasoning precisely.” He walked on in silence for a while, and then suddenly addressed me. “Tell me, when Clifford talked of his practice to you on the occasion when you first visited Reigate, did he mention any work at an institution? A cottage hospital, perhaps? Or maybe a workhouse?”

  “He did mention, now that I come to recall the fact, that he had been called in on a number of occasions to attend the occupants of the workhouse. It was not a regular source of employment, but one that he performed in the role of a locum when the regular doctor took a holiday or was otherwise unavailable.”

  “That, then, is the source of the body presented to you as that of Miss Annabel Stevens.”

  “This is truly horrible to consider,” I told him. A thought suddenly struck me. “But Holmes, Colethorpe was arrested, tried, convicted, and hanged for the murder of Annabel Stevens, and that maid was also complicit in the crime. Surely, if he were innocent, he could have proved it to the satisfaction of the court?”

  “I fear, Watson, that I may have been instrumental in the execution of a man for a crime that he did not, in fact, commit. This occurrence does not however weigh very heavily on my conscience, as I am convinced that he was certain in his own mind that he, with the help of the maid whom you just mentioned, had indeed committed the murder. The intent was certainly in his mind, as were the means and the opportunity. The deductions I made on that occasion are still valid, in my opinion. Their only flaw is that they refer to an intended, rather than an actual crime.”

  “Even so, Holmes!” I protested. “Your words have sent a man to the gallows whom I cannot describe as innocent, but appears to have been innocent of the crime for which he was executed. If not for his sake, consider that of his family and the anguish that his arrest and execution must have caused them.”

  “I am not insensible to that fact,” Holmes replied coldly. “I investigated the case based on the evidence that was laid before me, and came to the conclusion that, as I say, was correct in every detail save one.”

  I recognised from Holmes’ tone of voice that it would be fruitless to reason with him further in this regard, and held my peace. I considered in my mind that the principal support in Holmes’ mind for the innocence of Mme. Montpensier at the time of the case was her alleged artistic integrity and ability, rather than the rational weighing of evidence which he had earlier presented to me as proof of the superiority of his methods. We continued our walk to Baker Street in silence, though I would have wagered that my silence and that of Holmes proceeded from different causes.

  On our arrival back at our rooms, Holmes flung himself into his armchair, and commenced smoking his pipe with such a sense of what might almost be termed ferocity that I felt myself driven from the room. I took myself to a music hall for the afternoon in an attempt to take my mind off the shocking events that Holmes had described to me. On exiting the performance, I happened to run into Wilkerson, an old acquaintance from my Army days whom I had not encountered for several years. It required little persuasion on his part for me to join him for a meal at his club, and we fell to chatting of old days. The time passed without my noticing, and it was nearly midnight before I returned to Baker Street.

  I was well aware that I had touched a sensitive nerve within Sherlock Holmes when I mentioned the fact that he had been largely responsible for the execution of a man who was not guilty of the crime that had sent him to the gallows. It was a point of honour for my friend to defend the innocent, and on occasion even to extend leniency to those whom he believed to be guilty in law, but innocent in a wider sense. I could well conceive of the exquisite mental anguish he suffered when confronted with the fact that he had defended a woman who appeared to be guilty of crimes which were as yet unspecified, but threatened to be revealed as hideous in the extreme. In addition to this, it would seem that he had acted as the cause of death of a man whose conduct was reprehensible, but who was nonetheless innocent of the offence of which he had been convicted. I confess that it was with some trepidation that I opened the door that led to the sitting room at Baker Street. To my relief, Holmes was still awake and greeted my entrance with a smile.

  “Your absence this afternoon and evening has been most welcome,” he informed me. “I admit that I was angry with myself for the lapse that you pointed out to me, and that anger unjustly transferred itself to you as its object. By staying away from me, you have allowed
my anger to cool, and my thoughts to become rational once again. My sincere apologies if you felt yourself offended by me.”

  Such a confession could not go unmarked by me. “My dear fellow,” I exclaimed. “For my part, I apologise if I caused you offence or worry.”

  “Then all is well,” he smiled. “As you know, if I suffer from a fault, it is that of self-love, and pride in my own abilities which is not always justified by the circumstances. I have reflected on the past, and have come to terms in my own mind with it. A nightcap before we retire?” as he reached towards the brandy decanter. “I feel that a pipe of peace, as smoked by the natives of North America, would be somewhat superfluous.”

  “Indeed it would be,” I agreed heartily. In truth, the atmosphere in the room was blue with the tobacco smoke that Holmes had produced over the past few hours. “The nightcap that you mentioned would be more than welcome, however.”

  -oOo-

  The next morning saw me reading the society pages of the morning’s newspapers, whilst Holmes scanned the agony columns for items that he deemed to be of interest.

  The morning post brought little of interest other than a small package, with a Reigate postmark.

  “Be so good as to open it,” Holmes instructed me.

  I did so, revealing a box of sweetmeats of the type known as Turkish delight. “There is a card here,” I told Holmes. “Handwritten, from Kilburton, the present tenant of Madame Montpensier’s house in Reigate, whom we saw yesterday. ‘With admiration for the great detective’.”

  “It would seem to be somewhat excessive payment for our signatures,” remarked Holmes. “Please pass the box to me.” I did so, and he examined it closely. “I know that you have not opened this box,” he said at length. “Why would Kilburton open a box of sweetmeats before sending it to us? Look closely,” he invited me, bringing out one of his lenses. “This label here should form a perfect seal. It is obvious, when you examine it at a higher magnification, that it has been opened and resealed rather clumsily, though no doubt he who performed the operation considered that it had been done with some skill.”

  “Kilburton?”

  “I doubt it very much. I doubt if Kilburton has ever seen this box of sweetmeats. I have a strong suspicion that these are not what they seem. On no account, Watson, are you ever to consider consuming the contents of this box.” So saying, he carried the box over to the small table on which he conducted his chemical experiments, and removed one of the sweetmeats with a pair of tongs.

  He used a small paintbrush to deposit into a receptacle some of the white powder with which the gelatinous cube was coated, and then proceeded to assemble some pieces of glassware which I recognised as a Marsh’s apparatus, used in the detection of arsenic. After some twenty minutes, he straightened up, with a look of triumph in his eyes.

  “I knew it, Watson! Undoubtedly there is sufficient arsenic in this box of sweets to have caused us grave injury, if not death, had we been incautious enough to partake of the contents. Have the goodness to witness and to put your signature to this account of the analysis that I have just written. It will form another plank of evidence in the case that I am building against our adversary.” I placed my signature in the spot indicated by Holmes, and he folded the paper and placed it in an envelope which he sealed.

  “Who do you suspect of doing this?”

  “Clearly, the same man who was responsible for poisoning the poor girl whose post-mortem examination you attended. I fear that he may become desperate and attempt worse if he is not apprehended soon.”

  “How does he know of us and our whereabouts, and the fact that we are following him?”

  “He must have somehow become aware of our presence yesterday in Bayswater. Following this discovery my guess is that he followed a rational train of thought through the agent from whom we discovered Montpensier’s current whereabouts, back to the Reigate house and hence to Kilburton. To give the devil his due, he has been confoundedly efficient in his investigations. We must also assume that he has a supply of this arsenic compound to hand. In any event, I feel that my sciatica is better,” giving a bitter laugh, “and I no longer feel the need to visit the doctor and return his trinket to him.”

  Holmes stretched himself at full length on our sofa, and closed his eyes. I knew from experience that this did not betoken weariness, but was rather the sign that he was engaged in complex mental cogitation. After a little under half an hour, he sprang up.

  “Come, Watson. We must strike now.”

  “We are going to Clifford’s?”

  “Not immediately. I believe that Montpensier will have something to tell us. I may have misjudged her character in the past, but I believe that she is essentially a good woman at heart, and has placed herself in the power of a monster from whom she is desperate to escape.”

  I confess that I had my doubts regarding this opinion of the woman’s character, but I was prepared to follow Holmes in this, rather than facing my former colleague, whom I was now forced to regard as being a dangerous enemy. I therefore snatched up my coat and my hat and followed Holmes into the street where we hailed a cab.

  On arriving at the house which we had visited yesterday, we were admitted by the same woman who had let us in previously, and made our way to the door of the rooms occupied by Mme. Montpensier. Our knock at the door was answered by the maid Hannah. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she appeared to have been weeping as she surveyed Holmes and myself.

  “I remember you,” she said to Holmes. “You were at Reigate that time, weren’t you? You’re the police.”

  “I am not the police,” Holmes corrected her. “Something terrible has happened, has it not?” The servant nodded in reply. “Your mistress?” Another nod. “Quick, Watson. Be prepared to do what you can, man.” He pushed past the weeping Hannah, and I followed. “Where?” he called, and the maid pointed to a door, which he opened.

  “The fiend, the fiend,” he repeated to himself. Lying on the bed was Mme. Montpensier, of considerably more wasted appearance then when we had seen her half a year previously in her house at Reigate. Her breathing was shallow, and her face was pale. I questioned the maid, and discovered that the patient had been suffering from other symptoms corresponding to those of poisoning by arsenic.

  “Is there anything that you can do for her, Doctor?” asked the maid anxiously.

  “We must get her to a hospital as soon as possible. Hail a cab, a four-wheeler if possible. Ask the police for assistance if you need it, and then return here to tell us. the result of your efforts”

  “It is arsenic, of course?” Sherlock Holmes asked me, as I examined the patient.

  “I cannot be completely certain, but I fear that is so. These are the final stages, and there would be little I could do, even supposing that I had the appropriate equipment and medicines with me.”

  While I was attending to the stricken woman, Sherlock Holmes had been searching the room. “Do you remember,” he asked me, “when we were at Reigate six months ago, Montpensier told us that she suffered from diabetes?”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “Is there any way in which the disease could be used to harm a sufferer? If she suffers from diabetes, then providing her with sweetmeats would not tempt her.”

  “Naturally you are correct in that assumption, but there could be many other ways in which a fatal dose of arsenic could be administered. I am sure that if we examined these lodgings, we could discover the source of the poison. Holmes, she is sinking, I fear. To be frank, I doubt my ability, or that of any doctor, to save her life.”

  At that moment, the maid Hannah returned. “The cab is waiting downstairs, sir.”

  “Excellent,” replied Holmes. With some difficulty, he and I took the unconscious woman, aided by a policeman who had been summoned by the maid and the landlady, who seemed outraged by what was happening, but was held back by Holmes. “Will you go with her to the hospital?” Holmes asked me. “Return here as soon as you see her safely
settled in the care of a physician.”

  “Will she be all right, sir?” asked the tearful Hannah.

  “I cannot tell you that with any certainty at the moment. I fear, though, that your mistress may not recover. I do not wish to build up false hopes, as I know you are attached to her, and you have been together for many years.” I saw no reason to be other than frank with this loyal woman.

  “Come,” said Sherlock Holmes, gently taking her by the arm and steering her back into the house as the four-wheeler drew away. At this moment, I was filled with admiration for this more human side of Holmes’ nature. Although I knew that he strongly suspected the unconscious woman with whom I shared the carriage of being a murderer or worse, and her servant of being an accomplice, he was still able to exhibit the finer human feelings.

  On arrival at the hospital, I explained my initial diagnosis to the doctor there, explaining that I had been unable to provide any form of treatment.

  “The prognosis is grave, as you suspect,” he confirmed. “I will do my best to save her, though, never fear.”

  I left the hospital with instructions to send a message to the Bayswater address, as well as to Baker-street, in the event of any change in the patient’s condition, and returned to Bayswater, where I discovered Holmes poring over a mass of papers.

  “It is as I had surmised,” he reported. “She has been paying that monster Clifford considerable sums of money for the past few months, and she has been forced to move to this.” He waved his hand round the squalid rooms. “How is she?”

  “Unlikely to survive, I am sorry to say.”

  “Then we must determine the truth of the matter from Hannah.” He rose, and called the maid into the room. “Sit down,” he told her, in a kind but yet firm tone. “I have some questions to ask, and I would like you to answer them as completely and truthfully as you are able.”

  “Very good, sir. I can see that things have reached that stage, and if I can help to put that devil behind bars, or at the end of a rope, I will do so. I’ve only kept quiet because of Madame.”