by Ashton, Hugh
“You are assuming that this is the medium in which the poison was administered, then?”
“I am certain of it. Observe the tray. There is a thin film of dust covering its surface, as there is of many of the bottles. Now,” and he lifted one of the bottles in question, “this bottle has left a circle beneath it, clean and free of dust.”
“So I see.”
“Whereas by contrast this tonic bottle not only is free of dust itself, but the portion of the tray on which it stood is covered with dust. The inference is clear. This bottle was placed on the tray very recently – perhaps even last night.”
“With the expectation that the sick man would wish to use it in the morning?”
“Exactly. We were told that Lord Hareby went out for a constitutional yesterday. Obviously his condition was improving. But maybe he complained of fatigue following his exercise, and expressed a wish for his favourite nostrum to be provided again for his use. What better vehicle for the poison?”
“It would take a diabolical mind, Holmes, to be capable of such a thing.”
“And do you believe there is no such mind in this house at the moment?” he chided me. “We know full well there is such a one. And she is close at hand. Come, there is no time to lose.” He scooped up the bottle of tonic and placed it carefully in an inside pocket of his coat. “We will not lose the evidence again. This will be analysed on our return to London.”
We made our way along the oak-panelled passageway, when we were stopped by the sound of a baby’s crying, seemingly coming from a room in front of us. I admit that I froze in some fear, having heard Bouverie’s tales of the invisible and untraceable baby, but Holmes strode on ahead to the source of the sound, and flung open a door, to reveal a young baby rocked in the arms of a young woman, obviously its nurse, and who was murmuring words of comfort in its ear to stop its crying.
“My apologies,” said Holmes to the nurse, closing the door and turning to me. “Nothing strange there, you will admit?”
“It would appear not. But remember we were informed that the crying occurred even when the baby was observed to be sleeping.”
“I had not forgotten that,” he answered me, somewhat testily. “Where is Lady Hareby? We were told she was mostly to be found with her child. I begin to be concerned.”
We continued to walk down the passage, Holmes seemingly lost in thought, when he suddenly seized my arm and pulled me to one side. “Hide yourself. Do not let yourself be seen,” he hissed in my ear. He and I ducked into the closest doorway. “Look!” He pointed down the passage. Lady Hareby was now in the passageway, walking away from us.
“Where did she come from?” I whispered in Holmes’ ear. “There are no doors that I can see between us and her, from which she might have emerged.”
“Precisely,” he agreed. “Let us wait until she has descended the stairs at the end of the passage, and we will investigate.”
In a matter of a minute or less, Lady Hareby had left the passage and was now, it might be assumed, safely downstairs. Holmes and I left our place of concealment and made our way towards where we had seen her. As I had noted, there were no doors visible, and it was impossible for us to judge from where she had appeared.
“I refuse to accept the impossible,” declared Holmes. “It is outside the laws of science as we understand them for a human being to appear suddenly from nowhere.”
“I agree with you, but I see no alternative.”
By way of answer, Holmes moved to the head of the stairs at the end of the passage, turned abruptly, and strode the full length of the passageway to the other end, before returning.
“And now we go upstairs to the servants’ quarters.”
“Should we not ask permission?”
“A man’s life may be at stake,” he retorted, and sprang up the stairs leading to the servants’ rooms, two at a time. Once there, he repeated the process that he had previously undertaken on the floor below, pacing the length of the corridor. “It fits, Watson, it all fits,” was his only comment, and I could get no more out of him.
We were just about to make our way down the stairs, when Holmes stopped and cocked his head. “Do you not hear it?” he asked. I listened carefully, and could distinguish the wail of an infant in distress.
“That is not the sound of the baby downstairs. It would appear to be coming from behind that wall.”
“That is where I also would locate it,” replied Holmes. “Come.” We made our way downstairs to the ground floor. “The library,” he commanded, and we made our way to that room, where we saw the Earl, huddled in an armchair, wrapped in his own thoughts, which from the expression on his face, were ones of misery.
“Have you any good news for me?” he asked Holmes. “Quite frankly, I do not feel that I wish to live any longer. My hopes have been dashed and my spirit is broken.”
“But you will perform the Ritual of the Mace this afternoon as planned?” Holmes asked.
“I must, if it is the last act I perform on this earth,” replied Lord Darlington. He lifted his face, and I beheld an air of ravaged nobility that transcended his obvious despair.
“Either Watson or I will be by your side until that time,” said Holmes. “Although I have no good news on which you can rely absolutely, I feel that by the end of the day, we will have answers to some of the questions that have troubled you for many months.”
“I pray to God you are right,” replied the old man fervently.
“Sherlock Holmes never makes mistakes,” I assured him.
“Let us not say ‘never’,” smiled Holmes. “But in this instance, I feel it is hardly possible for me to have made a mistake.” He turned to me. “I will give orders for Lord Darlington’s luncheon to be served in here, along with yours. I would request you, though I realise it is an imposition, to taste a little of each part of each dish served to Lord Darlington. You mentioned, sir,” turning to him, “that your palate was no longer keen, and I would like Watson to use his younger and fresher senses to act as a detector in the event of any strong taste being present in your food.”
“You expect poison?” asked the old man incredulously.
“I do not say that I expect it, but it is a possibility,” replied Holmes. “Watson, pray take care.”
“May I ask where you are going?” I asked him.
“I must make preparations for this afternoon,” he replied. “I wish to make the Ritual as complete as possible.” So saying, he left us, leaving the Earl and I shaking our heads.
As you may well imagine, the responsibility with which Holmes had entrusted me weighed heavily on my mind. Even assuming that there was an attempt made to poison Lord Darlington, neither Holmes nor myself had any idea of the type of poison or the dose needed to produce results, let alone any antidote. Nonetheless, I determined to do my duty.
Luncheon arrived on a tray, and I tasted the clear soup that began the meal. There was nothing untoward about it, and I informed Lord Darlington that in my opinion, it was safe to partake. Next came a sirloin of beef, with boiled potatoes and carrots. Again, after a sampling of the different parts of the meal, I gave my approval. Lord Darlington was about to convey the first forkful of food to his mouth, when I stayed his hand.
“I am sorry,” I said to him, “but I omitted to taste the horseradish sauce you are eating with the beef.”
“Oh, really, Watson,” he protested.
“Even so, I gave my word to Holmes.” I took a little of the horseradish in my mouth. It was, as I had expected, hot, but there was a bitter underlying taste to it that I had never before discerned in horseradish. “I really do not recommend that you eat any of that horseradish,” I told him.
“Very well,” he grumbled, “though at my age it is almost the only thing that has any savour to it,” and he pointedly ignored the relish for the rest of the meal.
For myself, I felt a hot flush and an uncomfortable itching sensation developing, and though it was uncomfortable to a high degree, it was by no
means intolerable. Lord Darlington, however, commented on my flushed state, which I now began to realise was a less serious version of the symptoms that had afflicted poor Lord Hareby. Certainly, even the minute dose of the poison that I had received from my taste of the horseradish was sufficient to cause extreme discomfort. I could only imagine the agony which Lord Hareby had suffered as the result of a larger dose, taken while he was in a weaker state.
Nonetheless, I continued to taste everything set before us, finding nothing untoward in the rhubarb and custard. We had just finished our meal when Holmes re-entered, rubbing his hands together with an air of satisfaction.
“You have eaten well, I trust?” he asked, and then noticed my face. “You are in pain, Watson?” he asked with an air of genuine concern. “Shall I call a doctor – not Dr. Brendell, naturally?”
I reassured him that though I was experiencing some discomfort, I did not consider myself to be in any danger, and indeed, the burning and itching was lessening as I spoke.
“Where was it?” asked Holmes. On my informing him that the horseradish almost certainly contained the poison, he exclaimed, somewhat to the surprise of Lord Darlington, and to my amusement, “Naturally. That is where I would have placed it myself, had I had charge of the operation. Do not worry, sir,” he reassured the peer. “You should understand that the small successes I have enjoyed in the apprehension of criminals are at least in part due to the ability to put myself in the wrongdoers’ place, and thereby anticipate their next moves.” Lord Darlington appeared to be a little relieved at this. “And now, I believe, to the Ritual. I noticed the worthy Hanshaw making the arrangements by the well, and Bouverie appeared to be preparing Lady Hareby and her son to go outside.”
“Very well,” replied Lord Darlington, rising slowly to his feet.
“Have you the Mace?” asked Holmes.
“It is here,” replied the other, picking up a cloth-wrapped bundle that lay beside him on a side-table.
“Then we are ready. Let us go,” said Holmes.
-oOo-
Chapter 12: Rebecca Johnson
IT was a sombre procession that made its way to the fatal well. I could not repress a shudder when I beheld it, and remembered what ghastly object we had dragged from its depths. The Earl faltered in his steps at the sight of the well, even though he had not been present, and of us three, only Holmes appeared to be unmoved.
A group was standing by the well; Lady Hareby to one side of the other two: Bouverie, and the woman whom Holmes and I had seen earlier, presumably the nurse of the baby, as she was holding a white-wrapped bundle in her arms.
A group of servants stood a little way off. I could see Hanshaw, but failed to observe the young boy Robbins who had retrieved the body of Lord Hareby.
The Earl approached the well, leaning heavily on his stick, and unwrapped the Mace. With an effort, he extracted the last coin from the head of the ancient gnarled root, and held it aloft.
“Listen well, ye of Hareby Hall,” he intoned, as if reciting some ancient text. “This is the last of the silver pennies that were bequeathed to my ancestor by Mad Maggie eleven generations before. When this coin is lost in the depths of the well, as my poor son has already been lost...” Here his voice faltered, and there was a catch in his throat. “My poor son, as you know, has gone before,” he continued, “and when this coin falls to the bottom of the well, his son, George, Lord Wittingford, takes his place, becomes the new rightful heir to Hareby and takes on his father’s title. Then, when I leave this earth, he takes mine. The last of his line. God save us all.” With a sob, he drew back his arm as if to throw the blackened silver disc, but was halted in his action by a sudden cry from one of the servants.
“Fire! The Hall is on fire!” he shouted, pointing upward to a window.
Sure enough, dark smoke billowed forth from the window, and a voice could be heard shouting from within.
There was a horrified silence as the assembly took in the sight, suddenly broken by a scream from Lady Hareby.
“My baby!” she shrieked, and, picking up her skirts, fairly ran in the direction of the Hall.
“But her baby is here,” I said to Holmes, puzzled by this action, and pointing to the infant in the nurse’s arms.
“I fancy not,” replied Holmes, smiling.
“Then what or who is that..?”
“We will, I fancy, hear the truth from the lips of Lady Hareby, even though it may take some time to discover it.”
“But what about the fire?” exclaimed Lord Darlington, his face twitching in agitation. “Quick, everybody must work to extinguish it! Water! Buckets!” he shouted to the assembled servants.
Holmes held up his hand. “There is no need,” he said calmly. “Look,” pointing up at the window which had been the source of the billowing smoke, and from which only a few faint wisps now emerged.
“Well, that is certainly providential,” remarked Lord Darlington. “Hanshaw, go up there and ensure that all is safe, if you would.”
For some reason that I could not fully comprehend, Hanshaw darted a curious look towards Holmes, who gave an almost imperceptible nod before the coachman started for the Hall.
“Holmes,” I whispered to him, “I believe you know more about this business than you are admitting at present.”
“I would prefer not to speak of it now,” he replied. “My main concern is with Lady Hareby.”
“Where is she?”
“That is what we must discover now. Come.” He set off at a brisk pace following the path that had just been taken by Hanshaw, and I followed.
We climbed the stairs to the passage where we had earlier seen Lady Hareby miraculously appear. To my surprise, one of the oak panels lining the wall had swung open, revealing a narrow stone staircase.
“In the days of the Reformation or King James, this would have been a priest’s hole, no doubt,” remarked Holmes. “Hidden from prying eyes, and leading to a secret hiding place where Romish priests could escape their persecutors.”
“And now?” I could not help but ask.
“It has served a very different purpose, but I fear we are too late.”
As he spoke, I heard the noise of footsteps descending and coming towards us. The coachman, Hanshaw, came into view, his arms raised above his head and a look of fear on his face. The terror was explained when close behind him, a white bundle in one arm, and a small pistol in the other hand, Lady Hareby came into view.
“Let us pass, gentlemen,” she said to Holmes in a cold tone. “Hanshaw here will be driving me to the station, from where I will catch a train to London. You may choose to follow me, but I doubt that you will find me.”
Holmes shrugged. “I fear you have a poor opinion of my abilities,” he replied. “Are you not fearful for your daughter’s safety, however?” gesturing to the white bundle.
Lady Hareby regarded him with something like wonder in her eyes. “Maybe I did underestimate you once, Mr. Holmes. I have no intention of repeating the mistake, though.”
“We must stop her!” I cried, starting forward, but Holmes restrained me. “More haste, less speed. There will be time enough to catch up with the whole story in the future. Besides,” he added pleasantly, “neither you nor I have any wish to place Hanshaw in any jeopardy.”
“That’s right, sir,” replied Hanshaw, smiling despite himself.
“Oh, you think you are so clever, Mr. Holmes,” exclaimed Lady Hareby bitterly. “In the past ten minutes you may well have robbed me of thousands of pounds and thwarted the plans of several years. Believe me, you are not so clever as you may believe yourself, and I will have my revenge.” She swept out, driving Hanshaw before her at the point of her pistol.
“Why did you not stop her?” I asked when she was out of sight.
“There is little need at present. I hope that by allowing her to reach London, she will lead us to the other players in the game.”
“And what of the child she was carrying? You said it was her daughter?�
� Holmes nodded. “Who or what is that child outside that we believed was her son?”
“That is what we will find out. Let us go upstairs.”
(I attach the above sketch of the first floor as a guide to show the relative positions of the rooms on the floor from which we ascended)
We mounted the narrow twisting stone staircase to the floor above, where we found ourselves in a small room, lit only by the sunlight filtering through a small skylight in the roof. A young woman sat by an empty crib, weeping.
“Who are you?” asked Holmes, not unkindly. “Are you the boy’s mother?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t know what boy you’re talking about. I was hired by the lady when I was down in London to come here and take care of the little girl, and wet-nurse her, and she’s taken her away now, just as I was getting fond of the poor little dear.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Holmes. “Tell me, what food have you been eating?” His eyes were on a tray by the chair.
“The lady brought me my meals. Not too many of them and there wasn’t a lot to them, to be sure.”
“How long have you been here?” Holmes asked.
“Two weeks, I suppose. I have lost count of the days up here.”
“You had better come downstairs,” Holmes told her, extending his hand. “Come.”
The three of us made our way downstairs where the Earl and Bouverie awaited us.
“Bless me,” exclaimed the old man. “Who is this, and what was she doing in the priest’s hole?”
The young woman bobbed a curtsey. “Please, sir, my name is Mary Windsor, and I came to this house to look after the little girl.”
The Earl looked astounded, as well he might, and Holmes placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Bouverie, Miss Windsor here will be pleased, I am sure, to inform you about the source of the wailing and crying that has been disturbing the household. I would suggest that you take care of Miss Windsor and ensure she is comfortable. I believe the last two weeks have been somewhat trying for her, though she has had the good manners not to mention this.”