The Darlington Substitution (From The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “He removed it himself? Or was the action performed by another?” I asked.

  “I hardly think another was involved. There is only one set of prints. He was alone, running, and then he stopped, ripped off his collar and tie, and proceeded.” Holmes rose to his feet and stooped to examine the grass. “Running again, and now stopped, and here is his coat. Look here, the sleeves are reversed, the lining is ripped, presumably where it caught on his cuff-links, and all indications are that this too was flung off in a frenzy. And now the running again. It appears that he was like a man possessed.”

  I felt a shudder running down my spine at those words. “Holmes,” I said to him, “I would much prefer that you used other words to describe his state.”

  “I do not mean that he was possessed by any spirit or anything of that nature,” replied Holmes. “Rather that he was not in his right mind, and that something, almost certainly of a physical nature rather than a spiritual, had seized his poor body and was driving it on in an unnatural fashion.”

  “Could not his mania have caused this?”

  “Possibly, but look here.” By now we had reached the shirt that had been thrown on the ground. “What do you make of this?”

  “It is spittle, I would hazard,” I replied, examining a stain on the sleeve of the garment. “It appears to be mixed with mucus and blood.”

  “I agree. There was no history of consumption?”

  “Not of which I am aware.”

  “I think we would have been informed had that been the case. What makes a man tear off his clothes, run like a fiend through the fields, and produce these fluids?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Some drug administered to him, I would guess, the exact composition of which I cannot be certain. Let us follow the trail and see where it leads.”

  As we proceeded, it became obvious to Holmes, as it had to me earlier, that our quarry was by now completely naked, having divested himself of all his clothes. The trail ended at the driveway, and even Holmes’ skills were unable to take the trail further. “Observe two spots of blood here,” he remarked to me, and cast around in vain for further evidence.

  “A dog?” I suggested.

  “A good thought there, Watson. Ah, but if we only had Toby, whose services we employed in the case of Jonathan Small and the Sign of the Four,” replied Holmes. “But it is useless to wish for the impossible, and we must make do with what we have.” So saying, he set off, walking briskly in the direction of the stables.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to Hanshaw. He will know if there is a dog suitable for our purposes.”

  Hanshaw, when we discovered him, and had explained the situation to him, was immediately helpful. “There’s Busker,” he told us. “One of the foxhounds. He is a little lame, and he does not go out with the Hunt any more, but he has the best nose in the kennels. If you two gentlemen will wait here, I will go and fetch him.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. “It is always a pleasure to find someone as quick-witted and obliging as our man here. I confess to feeling more sanguine already.”

  -oOo-

  IN a few minutes Hanshaw returned, leading a hound which, as had been explained, limped a little, and which sniffed with interest at Holmes’ trouser leg when introduced. For his part, Holmes, who typically displayed an indifference towards animals, appeared taken with Bosker, patting his head and rumpling his ears.

  “I have something of Lord Hareby’s here,” he explained, producing a sock that we had discovered lying by the side of the path. “Let us go to where we lost the trail, and introduce Bosker to the scent.”

  On sniffing the sock, and being led to the point on the driveway where the visible tracks ceased, the hound struck out without hesitation in a path that led towards the rear of the Hall. “Good lad, Bosker,” Hanshaw encouraged him. “Go it, boy.” We followed the dog, Holmes gripping the leash, until we came to a low circular wall behind the kitchens. The hound put his front paws on the lip of the well, for so it appeared to be, and howled dismally.

  Realisation struck me. “This is the well that is used for the Ritual of the Mace?”

  Hanshaw nodded silently. His face was grim.

  “We must assume the worst,” said Holmes, bluntly. “Hanshaw, how deep is this well?”

  “Some fifty feet or so to the water, sir.”

  “There is no ladder on the estate long enough to reach down?”

  “No, sir. In any event, the water is bottomless, they say. I am not sure that any ladder on this earth could find the bottom of the well. I will return Bosker to the kennels, and return with one of the stable-lads and a stout rope.”

  “Very good, Hanshaw. A man of whom Lord Darlington should be proud,” remarked Holmes as the coachman departed. “He has his wits about him and can think for himself. The Metropolitan Police could use him and more like him.”

  “Assuming that we discover Lord Hareby there,” I said, motioning to the well, “in your opinion, what was the reason for his action?”

  “Obviously the same cause that made him run naked through the fields. At present we have no facts on which to build theories, and I do not propose doing so at this time.”

  We waited in silence, not daring to speak in the presence of whatever lay below us in the well. Eventually, Hanshaw returned, two coils of stout rope looped over one shoulder, and followed by a young red-haired lad I judged to be about eighteen years of age, carrying a horse-blanket.

  “Robbins here will go down the well,” announced Hanshaw.

  “Has he told you what you may discover down there?” asked Holmes solicitously. “You are prepared for that?”

  The boy nodded. “Can’t say as I’m looking forward to it, sir, but it’s a job that’s got to be done.”

  “Excellent. I would recommend that you remove as many of your garments as will retain your decency, in order to provide the greatest freedom of movement.”

  The boy looked a little blank.

  “Strip down so you can move about down there,” Hanshaw amplified. “You’ll probably get yourself wet, and you’re going to need some dry clothes when you come up.”

  “Thank you,” smiled Holmes. He took one of the ropes, and deftly fashioned some kind of harness from it, using complex knots. “There, that should do the trick,” he exclaimed at length. “I learned this arrangement from an old sailor, so have no fear.” He looped the harness around the boy’s shoulders and under his arms. “Are you ready?”

  Robbins nodded mutely, his face pale. “Let us all take the other end,” suggested Holmes.

  Slowly we lowered the stable-lad down the well. As Hanshaw had told us, the depth was considerable and by my estimation we had paid out about fifty feet of rope before the voice from below called to us to stop. While still gripping the rope tightly, we moved closer to the mouth of the well to hear what Robbins had to say to us.

  “I think this is him,” floated up to us from the depths, spoken in a tone that signified disgust and repulsion. “I’m not going to be able to bring him up, though.”

  “I will send another rope down to you,” called down Holmes. “Tie it around his waist. We will pull you up first, and then pull him up. Can you manage to do that?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” The voice was wavering, but there was some confidence in it.

  Hanshaw bent over the well and called down encouragement. “That’s right, lad. Do your best. You can’t do any more than that. Give it your best shot. The rope’s coming down now.” He carefully lowered one end of the rope down the well, giving and receiving instructions to Robbins, until we received the report that the rope was made fast. “We’ll pull you up now, lad,” called down Hanshaw. “Help yourself up, and mind your knees and elbows.” We pulled together on the rope and shortly brought Robbins, dripping and shivering, to the surface. “Here you are,” Hanshaw said to him, wrapping the blanket around the boy’s shaking shoulders.

  Holmes pulled his hip-flask
from his pocket and offered it to Robbins.

  “Should I?” the stable-lad asked Hanshaw, who nodded.

  “Go on. It will do you good and warm you up. I won’t tell your Ma. He’s chapel,” he explained to Holmes and myself as Robbins accepted the flask and took a cautious sip. After he had patted the coughing boy on the back and returned the flask to Holmes, he sighed. “We’re going to have to bring him up,” he commented.

  “True enough,” agreed Holmes, and we gingerly hauled on the second rope, taking care as the hideous burden swayed and bumped against the sides of the well.

  “That’s him,” said Hanshaw, as the dripping naked corpse cleared the rim of the wall. “Turn your back and get dressed now, Robbins. You don’t want to see him, and we need the blanket, anyway.”

  The dead man’s face was contorted in agony, and I bent over the body to examine it as Holmes and Hanshaw laid it gently on the blanket.

  “He was in pain, obviously,” I remarked. “There is a curious flush to the skin that I would not have expected, and I cannot immediately account for it.” I pulled up one of the eyelids and peered at the dead man’s eyes. “The eyes are turned up,” I remarked. “I am unsure of the reason for that also.”

  “Let us wrap him in the blanket and take him inside. Hanshaw, from what I can see, you are close to Lord Darlington. Do you feel you can tell him what has happened?”

  “Like Robbins here said just now, sir, all I can tell you is that I’ll do my best. Come on now, lad,” he said to Robbins. “He’s all wrapped up now and you can look, if you really want to.”

  “Good man. And maybe I shall take care of the task of informing Lady Hareby.”

  “I’d be grateful if you’d do that, sir. It’s going to be bad enough telling his Lordship about what’s happened without me having to face her as well.”

  “Very good. Let us take him together through the back entrance to the Hall.”

  Slowly, the four of us carried our blanket-shrouded burden to the kitchen entrance, and from there up the back stairs to the bed-room where Lord Hareby had spent his last night.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Holmes.

  “No more than our duty, sir, but a sad one. I am glad you found him so quickly, though. Now I will find his Lordship and break the sad news to him.”

  Holmes and I were left alone in the room, and I gently unwrapped the body from the horse-blanket.

  “I must leave you, and inform Lady Hareby,” Holmes said to me. “I would like you to make an examination of the body as thoroughly as you can under the circumstances before anyone else arrives in this room.”

  “Is there anything in particular you want me to look for?” I asked him as he stepped out of the door.

  “The mouth and tongue,” he replied.

  I drew a sheet over the body up to the chin, noting the red inflamed skin as I did so. From my experience, such an inflammation would be accompanied by a burning itching sensation, which would explain why he had thrown off his clothes in the way he had.

  Opening the mouth, I was struck by the colour of the tongue, which was a livid purple, as was the roof of the mouth.

  I heard footsteps outside the door, and hurriedly closed the mouth and arranged the limbs in a seemly posture before throwing the sheet over the whole body. Unfortunately, the face still bore the marks of agony, for which I was unable to provide any remedy.

  As I finished, the door opened, and the Earl walked in, supporting himself on a stick, his face racked with pain.

  “Doctor,” he addressed me. “Hanshaw has just informed me of what has occurred. Is that him?” gesturing to the sheet-draped figure.

  “It is, sir.”

  “May I see him?”

  “I warn you, sir, that he is probably not as you wish to remember him.”

  “Never mind. He is— was my son,” he corrected himself. “Draw back the sheet,” he ordered me.

  I did so, exposing the face, into which the Earl stared for a full two minutes in silence, at the end of which he nodded to me to replace the sheet. “I see all now,” he said. “It is that she-devil who drove him to this.”

  I took his meaning instantly, and at that moment, Holmes re-entered the room, preceded by Lady Hareby. The old man glared at his daughter-in-law with a face of fury, and actually shook his stick at her.

  “I will see you hanged for this,” he spat out at her as he left the room.

  The door banged shut on his exit, and Lady Hareby regarded Holmes and myself with an air of injured innocence. “The grief has turned his brain,” she said lightly. “How he thinks that I could ever be found responsible for Edgar’s death... It is the fancy of a foolish old man. I have been with my child all morning, and the nurse will bear witness to that fact. That is Edgar?” she asked, gesturing towards the bed.

  “Yes, it is.” I made as if to draw down the sheet again, but she held up a hand to stop me.

  “No, do not. I have no wish to look upon his face. Thank you both for your part in this.”

  “Our part in this business is not yet complete,” answered Holmes.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I would have thought the meaning of my words was perfectly clear to you, Lady Hareby,” he replied calmly.

  “Mr. Holmes! Are you insinuating—?”

  “I am insinuating nothing. If you choose to draw any conclusions at all from my words, that is entirely your own affair.”

  “It seems I should not underestimate you, then?”

  “Many have done so in the past. It was so much the worse for them,” he replied.

  “I will see you gentlemen this afternoon at the Ritual of the Mace, I take it?” she asked with an air of innocence.

  “Why, will it still take place?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Of course, my dear Doctor” she smiled. “Life must go on, even after such a tragic experience as this.”

  With those words, she swept out of the room. I let out a long breath.

  “A dangerous woman, I think, Watson. She impresses me more every time I have the misfortune to come into range. Well, what did you discover?”

  I informed him of what I had seen inside the mouth of the dead man, and he nodded. “I was expecting something of the sort. Poison, quite obviously, but of a kind I am unable to identify at this remove from my works of reference. I am reluctant to travel to London simply to read a few words, particularly when Lord Darlington’s life also hangs by a thread.”

  “Lord Darlington!” I ejaculated. “Granted that he suffers from gout, and that his health seems to be precarious, but what are you implying?”

  “He is now,” pointed out Holmes, “the only life that now stands between Lady Hareby and her child, and this estate.”

  “You cannot mean—?”

  “I can and I do, and I see it as my duty to protect him from that woman in whatever way it takes.”

  There was a sudden knock on the door, and the elderly doctor I had met on my last visit appeared in the door, his face a mask of worry.

  “I was told you were here, Doctor,” he said to me. “I have been told the news. Shocking, shocking.” He swayed a little, and hiccoughed gently. “Have you signed the death certificate? What did you put as the cause of death, eh? Drowning?”

  “Indeed, I have done no such thing,” I replied stiffly. I have been unable to determine a cause of death, and I am going to recommend that an autopsy be performed.”

  “Should have thought it was simple enough,” replied Brendell. “Man goes outside for the first time in weeks, feels weak and dizzy, sits down on the edge of the well and falls in. Simple. Accidental death.”

  “Hardly that,” replied Holmes, who, to my astonishment and that of the inebriated doctor, seized the latter firmly by the shoulders, spun him around, and propelled him out of the door.

  “Well, bless my soul,” he exclaimed as he left the room. “I never expected to receive such treatment.”

  “Be that as it may,” muttered Holmes, chi
efly to himself, “you have received it and may consider yourself lucky that it was not accompanied by a hearty kick. Now,” he addressed himself to me, “we must look around this room for any signs of foul play in the form of poison having been administered. It may, of course, have been administered in his breakfast, or it may have been a slow-acting poison administered the previous night, but my guess is that he himself ingested it here unknowingly. The alternatives, while not impossible, would seem less likely.”

  “But what here could he have put in his mouth?”

  “Come now. There are many possibilities here. The water he drank upon rising, or the water he used to rinse his mouth after cleaning his teeth. Come to that, we might suspect his very tooth-powder, or the medicines he was taking for his various conditions.”

  “That old fraud Brendell informed me that most of the medicines he prescribed were in fact not medicines at all, but were no more than alcohol and water. Anything added to them would almost certainly be instantly detectable.” Nonetheless, I went over to the tray on the night-table and examined the bottles there. One of the bottles caught my eye. “Holmes,” I called to him. “Do you remember last month that I mentioned that a bottle of patent medicine had disappeared from the tray?”

  “Of course.”

  “It has returned.”

  “Presumably you are looking at a replacement bottle of the same type.”

  “No,” I insisted. “This is the identical bottle. I remember a particular tear with a distinctive pattern in the top right corner of the label. This is the same bottle that I saw earlier, and I would take my oath on that in court.”

  “Does it contain any of the tonic?” asked Holmes.

  I picked up the bottle and examined it. “About one-third full, I would say.”

  “And it is a pick-me-up to induce vitality? Such as a recent invalid might use to dose himself before a spell of unaccustomed exercise?”

  “I begin to see your meaning.” I opened the bottle, and was about to smell the liquid when Holmes stopped me.

  “I do not want you to expose yourself to such a risk,” he admonished me. “At present we have no knowledge of what the poison is, or how it works. The mere inhalation of the vapour may be sufficient to produce harmful effects.”