by Hugh Ashton
“You continue to amaze me, Holmes. May I ask why you are doing this?”
“It is at the request of the Prime Minister,” he replied. “He, too, has noticed the discrepancy between Sir Roderick’s income and his expenditure. He fears the possibility of an associated scandal, and he wishes to prevent the occurrence of any such. He has therefore retained me to make such enquiries as are necessary.”
I could not refrain from bursting out laughing. “So you and I are here at the orders of the British Government!” I exclaimed. “And what conclusions have you reached so far?”
“None that makes any sense,” he admitted. “The business I uncovered this morning distracted me a little, I admit, but may well be connected with my original object in coming here, now I come to reflect on the matter. The business you have just attended to makes me believe that there is something more in this place that I can use to provide my explanations to the Prime Minister, however.”
I considered what Holmes had just said. “This is mere supposition on my part,” I admitted, “but what if the operations of which we discovered the traces this morning, whatever they turn out to be, are definitely connected with Sir Roderick?”
“I think this connection to be most likely,” remarked Holmes, “but without any further detailed knowledge of these operations, we are no further forward in our enquiries, and it is fruitless to speculate on the matter. By the by, Mrs Buncombe’s expression last night after dinner when I lit my pipe leads me to believe she is no fan of tobacco indoors. I will therefore take my pipe and ponder these matters in the garden.”
I was left alone in the room, and decided to study the latest edition of the Lancet, which I had brought down from London with me. By a strange coincidence, one of the articles dealt with a new drug, based on opium, and developed in Germany. The drug, diacetylmorphine, was being marketed in Germany for the purpose of suppressing coughs under the name of “Heroin”, and was claimed by the makers to eliminate the unfortunate dependency, amounting almost to addiction, to which users of morphine were prone. I marked the article, and determined to show it to Holmes when he arrived from the garden. The rest of the journal was of less immediate interest, but I noted the name of one of my former fellow-students at Barts, who seemed to be making a name for himself in a specialised field of surgery.
When Holmes returned from the garden, I showed the article to him. He read it through, with particular attention to the process described therein for the manufacture of the drug.
“I have heard of this opiate,” he told me, “but this is the most detailed and trustworthy information I have come across so far. You are to be congratulated on drawing it to my attention. Would you say that the symptoms you observed earlier today corresponded to the description here of a patient who has inadvertently taken too much of the drug?”
“Certainly, but they could apply to any of the opiates, as you are yourself aware.”
“Nonetheless, Watson,” and Holmes turned to me, his eyes glittering, “I believe we are about to discover the mysterious source of Sir Roderick’s wealth.”
“Sir Roderick is not engaged in the pharmaceutical trade, is he?” I asked.
“He holds a directorship in one of the smaller pharmaceutical companies,” replied my friend, “and his name is not unknown among amateur practitioners of the chemical sciences. The production of this ‘Heroin’ would not be beyond his powers, nor would the procurement of the necessary apparatus pose any problem.”
“But surely,” I retorted, “even if he were producing this drug, it would be for the good of mankind.”
“Ah, Watson, you know only what you read here,” pointing to the Lancet. “My sources tell me that far from reducing the dependency which makes morphine so undesirable to many, this drug turns its user into a virtual slave, whose animal craving produces physical and mental horrors beyond all imagination. Furthermore, the effects of the drug when it is first administered are reportedly of an ecstasy beyond compare. I thank you for assisting me to end my dependence on cocaine, but I confess that the pleasure that I obtained from that drug in my idle hours was indeed as exquisite as the pain it cost me to break the habit. If this ‘Heroin’ is more powerful in each regard…”
“I know what it cost you to break that habit,” I replied, “and I salute your courage in having done so.”
“What,” Holmes continued, ignoring me, “if some unscrupulous fiend were to dose others with this new drug, knowing that they would become, as it were, hooked on it like fish on a line, and would demand more of it, paying any price to obtain their ration?”
I shuddered. “That would indeed be inhuman,” I agreed. “And you believe Sir Roderick Gilbert-Pryor, a Minister of the Crown, is engaged in such a vile trade?”
“I now have reason to suspect so,” replied my friend gravely. “Tomorrow, we will attempt to ascertain the truth. If Sir Roderick turns out to have a missing right incisor, I will know that my suspicions are correct.”
“And if they are?”
My friend shrugged. “That is not for me to decide. I make my report to Downing Street, and the matter is then out of my hands. But come, my nose informs me of a roast fowl, and if Mrs Buncombe’s skills tonight match those of last night, we shall be well fed indeed.”
-oOo-
The next morning arrived, thankfully without revolver practice, and Holmes and I settled down to a breakfast consisting chiefly of a fine kitchari which brought back memories of my service in India.
“Today, we visit Sir Roderick,” proclaimed Holmes.
“And if he is not at home?”
“He will not be in London, during the Parliamentary recess,” Holmes pointed out. “This is his only country place, and I think it more than likely that he will be here. It wants three weeks until the Glorious Twelfth, so he will not be on the grouse moors. It is conceivable, I suppose, that he may be staying with a colleague in Scotland, tormenting salmon with those ridiculous artificial flies, but the odds are against it.”
“I have never understood your prejudice against angling, Holmes, but let that pass. Let us assume, then, that Sir Roderick will be at home. On what grounds do you propose to make his acquaintance?”
“We are already acquainted,” replied Holmes. “I believe I mentioned last night that he is an amateur chemist of some considerable ability. I, too, have dabbled in the subject, as you know, and he and I once collaborated on a work dealing with the use of acetone as a universal solvent. We have encountered each other with relative frequency over the past few years at meetings of the Chemical Society and the like. On the last occasion we met, some twelve months ago, he apparently was in possession of all his teeth, as I recall, but one never knows what accidents may have befallen him in that line since that time.”
We enquired the way to Sir Roderick’s of Mrs Buncombe, and set off on what she assured us was an easy walk. Along the way, Holmes, to my surprise, purchased a bag of small green apples.
“These look nourishing enough,” he remarked, in answer to my questioning glance.
“They hardly appeared to be the most appetising specimens on display,” I objected.
“They will serve their purpose,” he replied, enigmatically.
On arrival at Sir Roderick’s establishment, a fine example of the architecture of the last century, but one which had been allowed to fall into decay, Holmes’ conjecture was proved to be correct. A servant took our cards, and returned to inform us that Sir Roderick was at home and would receive us. We were conducted to a handsome room that appeared to serve as both a library and as Sir Roderick’s study.
The Minister rose from behind his desk to greet us.
“Holmes,” he exclaimed, smiling widely, showing us a perfect row of even white teeth, somewhat, I confess, to my disappointment. “How good to see you here. If you’d let me know before you arrived, I would have been delighted to offer you my hospitality. Your assistance would be invaluable with one or two little problems I am currently encountering in
my laboratory. I would be more than happy to have you and your friend here as my guests.”
Holmes bowed as he introduced me, and I bowed to the baronet in my turn. “You give my poor efforts far too much praise,” remarked Holmes. “We are very comfortably lodged in one of the houses of the town, and we would not dream of imposing on your generous nature.”
It may have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that a look of relief seemed to pass over Sir Roderick’s face as Holmes declined the invitation. “Very well, as you will,” he said, “but I must insist on your dining with me some night. Let me see now,” he went on, consulting a notebook, “tonight I am engaged, and the next night as well, but maybe the day after that? Good. I shall expect you about seven, then. And since we are in the country, I feel there is no need to dress. Pray feel free to make yourself as comfortable as you please in these rural surroundings.” He could not have been more affable, but I felt that some of his sociability was a little forced, and this was confirmed in his answer to Holmes’ next enquiry, about Lady Jocelyn.
“The poor gal is not in the best of health these days, I am sorry to say. She came down from London three months ago, and has hardly left her room since that time. The local doctor, Dr Pengelly, is an excellent man, and we have also had specialists from London come to examine her, but their efforts to discover the cause of her indisposition have so far remained fruitless.”
I forbore from further enquiry, though my professional interest was naturally piqued, but felt it was hardly my place to interfere, and I doubted my ability to be of any practical value in the case, particularly if the finest doctors in the land had declared themselves baffled.
“I am sorry to hear that,” replied Holmes. “Please present my regards to her.”
“I will certainly do that,” replied Sir Roderick. “What, if I may be so bold as to ask, do you have there, by the way? I am intrigued.” He gestured towards the bag of apples that Holmes still carried in his hand.
“Some local agricultural specimens,” replied my friend, “which I purchased on a sudden impulse on my way here. Perhaps you would care for one?” So saying, he pressed one into my hand before offering the bag to Sir Roderick, who looked at him in some perplexity.
“Well, this is most kind of you,” said Sir Roderick, selecting an apple for himself, and polishing it on a handkerchief that he withdrew from his sleeve. He inspected the apple with a critical eye. “I hope you’re not offended, Holmes, but I will reserve this for my dessert following luncheon. My digestion, you know.”
“Naturally,” Holmes replied. In the meantime, I had taken a bite of the fruit that Holmes had forced on me, and discovered it to be as hard and sour as I had surmised from its appearance. I stealthily placed the remainder into my coat pocket, without, I hoped, either of the others becoming aware of my having done so. Holmes, I noticed, was not partaking of his purchase.
After a little conversation between the other two concerning chemical subjects, which, to be frank, was of no interest to me and beyond my powers of comprehension, and a renewed invitation to and acceptance of dinner on the day after the next, we took our leave of Sir Roderick.
“My dear fellow,” I said to Holmes, as we were walking down the drive of Sir Roderick’s house, through the spacious gardens. “Why on earth did you give me one of those damnable apples?”
He ignored my words, but fixed his attention on the flower-beds on each side of the path. “Look here, Watson. What do you see?”
I answered rather sharply, I am afraid. The memory of the apple was still with me, and I feared I had loosened one of my back teeth when biting it. “Poppies, of course.”
“Of course,” he said. “You were in Afghanistan, were you not?”
“You know well that I served there in my Army days. I fail to see the point of the question.”
“Afghanistan grows a certain type of poppy, as I am sure you are aware,” he remarked, in a conversational tone.
“So it does. The opium poppy.” I stopped and looked more closely at the flowers beside me. “By Jove, Holmes! And in plain sight of all! Whoever would have suspected a Minister of the Crown to be cultivating such a thing?”
“I remarked to you yesterday on the principles of association and incongruity. Consider this to be another example of the same.”
“Remarkable,” I said.
“Not so remarkable, I feel.” We passed through the gates, and Holmes held out his hand to me, in which lay a few long serrated leaves of some plant, arranged themselves somewhat like the outstretched fingers of a hand. “Do you recognise this?”
I looked closely. “Cannabis sativa,” I replied. “Another herb, producing fibres used in the production of rope.”
“It is also held to produce some sort of effect on those who eat it or smoke it,” added Holmes. “I plucked this from Sir Roderick’s garden just now. However, this plant is growing rampant throughout the vicinity. I noticed many such examples as we walked from the station the other day. It appears to be a positive weed in this town. Its use must be quite common here.”
I considered the other more usual employment of this plant. “This is a port,” I remarked to Holmes, “and the ships and boats require hempen rigging. There is nothing more natural that the boatmen here would have cultivated the plant locally for this purpose before the advent of modern transportation permitted the ropes to be brought from a central manufactory.”
“Quite possibly you are correct,” replied Holmes. “But it is an indubitable fact that the distinctive aroma of the smoke of this herb was to be perceived just now while we were talking to Sir Roderick.”
“He is under the influence of this drug?”
“Maybe not he. Maybe his wife, or conceivably one of the servants. His wife’s being ill may or may not be another suspicious circumstance. Unless I am aware of the nature of Lady Jocelyn’s complaint, I cannot be sure. But there are many little factors here, Watson, none of them of great importance in themselves, but added together—”
I stopped suddenly in my tracks, and gave a small cry.
“What is the matter?” my companion asked me.
“My tooth,” I complained bitterly. “Your damned apple.” I clutched the side of my face. “I feel I must seek the service of a dentist immediately.”
“Dear, dear,” said Holmes in an animated fashion. “How very fortunate.”
“‘Fortunate’, did you say, Holmes? I am in some pain, I assure you.” I was almost angry with my friend.
“Did I indeed say ‘fortunate’? I meant ‘unfortunate’, naturally,” he replied. For a moment I almost believed I had misheard his previous utterance, such was his sympathetic tone.
We enquired of a passer-by regarding the existence of a dentist in the town, and were informed that there was one such, whose services were highly praised by our informant.
“I will wait in the waiting-room while your tooth is attended to,” said Holmes to me as we entered the dental surgery. “I trust that there will not be anything seriously amiss.”
The dentist, a Mr Garland, indeed proved to be splendidly competent. Anointing the afflicted sub-molar with oil of cloves, he advised me to avoid using that side of my mouth for mastication for a few days, and invited me to visit him again should the pain continue after that time.
I emerged from the surgery to the waiting room to discover Holmes lounging there, seemingly engrossed in a copy of the Illustrated London News.
“Nothing serious, I trust?” he asked with an expression of great concern. There seemed to be, however, a sense of triumph in his voice, the reason for which I was totally at a loss to discover.
“No thanks to you,” I grudgingly replied.
“I apologise, Watson,” he answered me. “Fully and without reserve. I hereby dispose of the offending articles. They have served their purpose – indeed, better than I expected them to do.” So saying, he dropped the apples in their bag, into a small stream that flowed beside the road along which we were walking. In a sl
ightly better mood than previously, I retrieved the half-apple from my pocket, and sent it flying to join its fellows.
“Our next port of call is the post-office,” went on Holmes. “We must act fast, I fear.”
At the post-office, Holmes wrote out a telegram to London, which he dispatched reply-paid.
“And now to Mrs Buncombe’s, to await the reply, which should be with us in an hour or less, if luck is with us.”
It proved to be about an hour and a half before Holmes received his reply. “Excellent, Watson!” was his comment upon reading it. “Now let us have a few words with our worthy hostess.”
“Mrs Buncombe,” he enquired of her a few minutes later, “two friends of mine will be arriving in this town later today. Would it be possible for them to take lodging with you, at the same rates as Dr Watson and myself for one, possibly two nights, from tonight?”
“With pleasure, sir, though you must admit it is somewhat short notice” she smiled. “These would be gentlemen, I take it?”
“Two Chinese gentlemen,” replied Holmes. Her face changed slightly as she digested the news. “One of them is a product of Oxford University, and a credit to our civilisation and his. As to the other, I confess I do not know well, but I am fully prepared to take full responsibility for him. Naturally, I will pay you in advance for their lodging,” he added, withdrawing his wallet, and presenting her with a Bank of England note. “This will compensate you for any inconvenience, I think?”
“Well, if these Chinamen are known to you, sir, I suppose there’ll be no trouble in putting them up here. In the usual run of things, of course, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. But seeing as you are being so generous about these matters, sir, I have to say I will be happy to fall in with your wishes. I’ll put them up in the back. I take it they won’t take it amiss if they share a room?”
“Capital!” he answered her. “Thank you, Mrs Buncombe. I will leave all the domestic arrangements to your good sense. Now, Watson,” he addressed me, as she left the room, “we have work to do, and only a little time to do it in. Tonight, after dinner, we will make another little expedition to the castle.”