Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  Kidd had treated Disraeli until the end, and had been reluctant to allow anyone else to tend to the great man despite his quickening condition. It took the Queen’s own influence to allow Dr. Richard Quain and Dr. John Mitchell Bruce, traditional physicians and not homeopaths, to examine the former prime minister. These little irregularities chimed distant alarm bells in my mind. There was room for mischief in closed circles, and the lack of any sort of post-mortem examination concerned me. I wanted to believe it was purely due to the routine manner of Disraeli’s passing—notwithstanding his sudden decline—but Holmes had me doubting my instincts.

  As I continued reading, letting my tea go untouched, Holmes began to stir.

  “Have you found something useful?”

  It was a good question. Had I? I placed the final sheet down on a stack and shook my head. “No. Disraeli succumbed fast and given his chronic gout and other conditions, it did not rouse suspicion. He was attended by three physicians, and none of them seem to have made a thorough examination of his corpse or performed an autopsy.”

  “Would an autopsy be usually warranted for bronchitis?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “However, were any of his doctors to suspect a sinister cause for his rapid deterioration, it would have been proper to call for one. You might not know this, but the study of autopsies has dramatically improved in the last decade or so, thanks to the work of Rudolf Ludwig Karl Virchow, a German who developed a systematic procedure to be used, studying the entire body in detail. Had Disraeli been so studied, we might have learned something, if there was something to be learned, of course.”

  “We still might, Watson. I take it there is no death certificate or detailed medical reports in that box?” I shook my head. “Curious.”

  “Indeed it is,” I agreed. There was more to this. Perhaps the answers we were looking for lay in Disraeli’s medical files? But I also felt we were moving further away from our primary goal: finding Norbert Wynter. I said as much to Holmes who shook his head in disagreement.

  “Not at all, Watson. We are exploring an avenue of investigation, ascertaining whether or not the timing of Disraeli’s death is mere coincidence or suggests a larger, more sinister reason, one which also claimed Wynter’s life.”

  “Can there truly be a connection between the death of so important a man as Disraeli and so unimportant a man as Wynter?”

  Holmes seemingly dismissed me as he refilled his pipe and set to thinking on some unspoken problem. No doubt an aspect of this current case he would not share with me for a week or more, by which time my input would be little more than to nod and look impressed.

  As he turned inward, I began to think about whom else I might be able to contact in order to access Disraeli’s medical files.

  “Is there no one in your circle of acquaintances who might be able to support our cause?”

  “I have given that consideration, Watson, but frankly, my work has usually not involved these tiers of Her Majesty’s Government,” said Holmes.

  “More’s the pity,” said I.

  I could not go back to Rowton, but perhaps a sitting member of the House of Commons might have the influence to produce that which I needed. It was my last chance. I wrote a telegram to Alexander Macdonald—a representative from Stafford and a man I had been introduced to at several parties over the last year—and called for Mrs. Hudson to take it to the nearest telegraph office. If fortune favoured me, he would remember me and do as I asked.

  I continued to review Kidd’s article while Holmes, who had roused himself from his brown study, rose and began pulling volumes off a bookshelf. I presumed he was beginning his research into the origins of the weapon that had so nearly shredded him alive.

  Being followed, Holmes being attacked—this was taking on a most peculiar and potentially deadly turn of events. What the devil had Wynter stumbled into?

  * * *

  Some time later, Mrs. Hudson rang the bell. She brought with her a telegram, which informed me that Macdonald requested a meeting at five that very evening. I washed, changed my jacket, and took a cab to Parliament, hoping I was not becoming a regular enough visitor to be recognised. Upon entering the Westminster Palace I was taken to a set of small offices where I found Macdonald signing letters. He put his pen down and rose to shake my hand, then offered me a seat across from him.

  He was sixty and had a ragged look to his monkish tonsure and a ruddy complexion to his loose jowls. His suit was well worn and in need of repair, but he didn’t seem to take notice, much as he paid little mind to the ink stains on his thick fingers. Instead, he sat back and appraised me in his own open manner.

  “When was the last time we met?” he inquired.

  “It was at a charity ball for the Irish cause, I believe,” I replied. That seemed to awaken pleasant memories since he was a major proponent of Irish Home Rule, so much so that it earned him more than a few enemies in both Houses. Other charges levelled against him came from the likes of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, the Communist philosophers. Amongst other things, they felt he was too close to Disraeli, although that was the very reason I found myself in his presence.

  He did not look terribly well, and to my practised eye, I noticed a slight discolouration in his corneas that might well have been indicative of an underlying medical condition. It dawned on me that I was increasingly replicating Holmes’s habits of observation. I was uncertain if that was for the best or not. Today though, I ignored such thoughts and allowed Macdonald to wax lyrical about the latest issues with Ireland. He then moved on to the plight of miners, an issue that had propelled him to re-election the previous year.

  “But you didn’t ask to meet just so I could prattle on about miner safety,” said he.

  “As a doctor, I am always interested in the safety of others. But as you will have gathered from my telegram, my interest today is regarding one whose safety is beyond the control of men,” I said.

  “You piqued my curiosity, I admit. It was a most bizarre request, but given your profession I presumed you had your reasons. It is no small thing to dig into a prime minister’s medical reports. Luckily for you, they are now official parliamentary record.”

  “Were you able to obtain them?”

  He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a thick folder. He tapped it, then laid a hand atop it. “They are right here, but tell me the truth, Doctor: why on earth do you want to look at Lord Beaconsfield’s medical history? No lies, or this goes back in the archive to gather dust.”

  Once more I felt the need to invoke Holmes’s name, although this time it lacked the desired effect. He was unfamiliar with my collaborator so I endeavoured to briefly explain who he was and his value to the government. I then sketched out for him Wynter’s sad story and the suspicion that Disraeli’s death was somehow connected, which still felt like a stretch of logic that required the listener to take a leap of faith with me. The one thing I omitted was the attack on Holmes since we had yet to determine if there was a genuine connection between this and the other events.

  Macdonald looked as perplexed by my story as Rowton had done. “I would not do this for a man I did not know, you understand?” I allowed that I did. “Yet perhaps it will do no harm, and maybe some good.” He raised his hand and opened the folder. “I will only show you those documents that relate to the period prior to his death. That should ease my conscience.” He shuffled through several pages before finding the ones from March and April. Withdrawing them, he invited me to come to his side of the desk and review them.

  “I must admit, Kidd’s scrawl is not easy to decipher,” Macdonald said with a bark of a laugh. “The man was born to be a doctor.”

  I scanned Dr. Joseph Kidd’s notes regarding Disraeli’s deteriorating condition including drafts of the nightly bulletins that were released to quell the concerns of the public. He had recorded Disraeli’s move to his home at 19 Curzon Street where his asthma appeared to improve, and the frequency and dosage of various “cures”. I was con
cerned at the increased reliance on powder of saltpetre and stramonium, which was burned and the vapours fed to Disraeli. They apparently helped at first but the efficacy of each treatment seemed to diminish. Despite this, Kidd continued to employ this treatment until the end.

  I remembered Kidd’s article on the death of Disraeli, which Rowton had supplied. It had made no note of the patient slipping into a comatose state, but his handwritten notes made that clear. And there were a series of other notations, the substance of which had also been omitted from the article, and made me quite alarmed.

  “Something wrong, Doctor?”

  “I am not certain,” I said, not entirely truthfully. “I want to check these notes against my own medical texts before I say anything. May I use some paper?”

  He withdrew a fresh sheet from the desk and I hastily copied out Kidd’s notations, each stroke confirming to me that my initial suspicions were correct. I thanked him for his help and he rose to escort me out. As he walked, I noticed him wince with every third or fourth step. That clue, combined with the colouring of his eyes, led me to a concerning diagnosis, although I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

  When he bade me goodbye, I suggested he looked tired and might want to visit his own physician. He assured me he would, but the tone of his voice told me that it was unlikely.

  * * *

  I lost myself in thought as I took a cab back to 221B Baker Street. Before I could ascend the stairs, Mrs. Hudson handed me a note, which turned out to be from an engineer from the Dido—one of Wynter’s fellows whom I had contacted—who was willing to see me the next day. Entering our rooms, I was most pleased to see Holmes at his violin and not creating another pile of ash. A melancholy melody filled the air, but faded as he became aware that he was no longer alone. Holmes put the instrument away, his impatience palpable.

  “Was Macdonald of help?” he asked before I had sat myself down.

  “Quite. He is also, I am of the belief, suffering from the early stage of jaundice. I have to say, Holmes, I’ve become a far more astute observer of such minutiae now that I have made your acquaintance.”

  He sniffed. “You are a trained doctor and therefore would be expected to notice such things. Had you not noticed those symptoms I should have been far more alarmed.”

  I had not thought of it in that manner and realised he was quite right. My association with him was merely making me a better physician. I swallowed his comments and proceeded with my own narrative.

  “He had the records and allowed me to read those from March and April. Dr. Kidd’s notes were most thorough and it’s interesting he kept many of his observations out of the public accounts.” That got Holmes’s attention. He sat upright in his chair, not taking his eyes from me, his gaze intent. “Disraeli suffered from gout, which affects the kidneys, so his urine output was already diminished. As a result, Kidd and the other doctors in attendance didn’t realise that the more rapid decrease in volume in his final days was due to some other cause. A cause that also led to the drop in his blood pressure, and likely explains his comatose state. And there is another symptom that does not fit in with either Disraeli’s gout or bronchitis—acute abdominal pain. Presumably his doctors dismissed this as of no importance, given his more clear-cut symptoms. Yet if one puts it together with the diminished urination and lowered blood pressure, one can reach a more sinister diagnosis.”

  Holmes smiled at the confirmation that something was indeed amiss. Leaning forward in the chair, he asked, “What could have caused this?”

  I raised a hand to stay his line of questioning. I rose and went to my medical texts and selected one volume. Holmes settled himself in his chair, allowing me to confirm my theory before speaking. Such caution and dedication to fact certainly earned his admiration. I found the entry I had sought, read it once, twice, then closed the book. As the covers softly sounded, Holmes came alert and leaned forward, anxious to hear the next clue to our case.

  “I am of the belief that these are symptoms of an overdose of castor bean extract. The oil of the castor bean is used to treat liver and gall bladder ailments, and is harmless, but a deadly poison can also be distilled by those who know the method. It only occurred to me because a fellow army doctor made a study of it and had me read the paper he wrote on the subject.”

  Holmes nodded impatiently. “I am well aware of the toxic properties of the castor bean, Watson. I have made a study of hundreds of poisons at great length. Although I admit, it is unlikely that I would have been able to identify the culprit without your medical knowledge.” I smiled at this. “Tell me, how do you think it was administered?”

  “It was probably delivered orally, smuggled in with his other medications. It would have been no mean feat; he had three different doctors attending him night and day.”

  “Would he have survived the bronchitis otherwise?”

  “Based on Kidd’s notes, it is a possibility. Disraeli was quite ill and could have died regardless, but his death was most certainly hastened.”

  “Watson, do you know where the world’s supply of castor beans comes from?”

  “I daresay I do not, but clearly you do.”

  “I do,” he said with triumph. “The beans are most plentiful in India.”

  Seven

  Recruiting Wiggins

  Holmes’s revelation offered a clear link between his attacker and Disraeli, which set my mind to racing. I truly had not expected anything of the sort. Indeed, right up until that moment, I had been of a mind that Holmes was seeking clues where none existed. But here we were, with evidence that not only had Disraeli been killed before his time by a poison, but one that hailed from India.

  What I could not puzzle out was how Disraeli and the Indian assassin were connected to Norbert Wynter and the Boer conflict. India was, after all, in Asia, while the Boer conflict was strictly in South Africa. Surely there could be no overt connection between the two territories? Had we stumbled on two completely different crimes? I posed this question to Holmes. He admitted he had yet to piece everything together, but much as a spider spins one thin strand of silk after another until a web is formed, so would this case present itself. Given what we had learned, I conceded his point.

  “Should we report our findings about Lord Beaconsfield? It seems the ethical thing to do,” I said.

  “What good would come of that? The very first question would be who poisoned him. The next question would be why. After all, he was no longer in power and could not influence trade with India or the Boer conflict.”

  “Why indeed,” I repeated, feeling somewhat dejected despite the previous moment’s elation at making our first significant connection.

  “I remain somewhat fatigued, Watson,” said Holmes. “Let us have supper and retire early. In the morning, I want you to become an expert on the castor bean. I daresay such information now appears vital.”

  Feeling my own gripping fatigue, I agreed. A summons to Mrs. Hudson resulted in a light meal, which we ate in relative silence, both of us lost in thought.

  * * *

  The following morning I felt properly refreshed and as I emerged from my bedroom into the sitting room, Holmes was already heading down the stairs to the street. I called to him but he either did not hear me or more likely deliberately paid me no heed. After breakfast and my ritual reading of The Times, I headed out to keep two appointments, starting with the Dido’s engineer and then a visit to the Royal Society of Medicine on Berners Street and their well-appointed library. Being a splendidly sunny morning I decided to walk and half an hour later, I arrived at a small restaurant.

  I was fortunate to learn that Raskill had left the Dido and was awaiting his next posting. He was in London visiting relatives, which is where my note found him.

  George Raskill was a large man in both height and girth. He was the largest object in the restaurant, dwarfing my sight of its rear, and seemed to be straining against his woollen clothing. The engineer had thick hands like ham hocks and a wide, flat nose
, red-veined cheeks, and thinning dark hair. Despite his size, there was no loose fat on his frame; he was quite muscular and clearly not one to trifle with. He rose, filling the space even more, easily topping six feet. As he extended a hand, I was afraid of cracking a bone as we shook.

  “Have we met, Doctor?” Raskill’s voice was surprisingly high, almost a tenor.

  “I daresay we have not, sir,” I replied as I took my seat opposite him. A waitress came to take our order and we both had pots of tea.

  “Then I am most curious as to your note,” he said. “You mentioned Wynter. Are you related?”

  I briefly spoke of my connection to Mrs. Wynter and he relaxed his posture, which I had not quite noticed was that of a coiled spring, waiting to explode. “I am trying to build a portrait of this man, which may assist Mr. Holmes and myself in finding him.”

  “Good enough,” Raskill said. “Bert was a good man.”

  “When did you last see him?” I opened my notebook.

  His face crumpled in concentration. “It was while we were in Africa…” After several tense moments, his features relaxed and he said, “It was just before he went ashore. He was one of us sent to join the Naval Brigade. I last saw him the night before he disembarked.”

  “And he did not return with the dead or wounded?”

  “No, and we were so busy below deck I never stopped to inquire of his whereabouts. To be honest, Doctor, I didn’t think about the chap for a few days and by then, it was clear he was gone.”