On hearing this, I was indeed baffled! I looked towards Holmes and then to De Witt. The Dutchman’s face looked firstly confused and then his expression hardened. “Ah, I see what you are saying, Mr. Holmes. So that is why I was questioned.”
Holmes nodded, sombrely. “Yes, I believe it was, Mr. De Witt, I will do all in my power to have your passport returned so that you might be on your way.” With that, Holmes gave a polite nod and strode off towards the bar to seek out our rooms.
Holmes would say no more of our meeting with De Witt, and I slept fitfully that night. As we were to have an early start, I had asked the landlord to awaken us at eight a.m. After his knock on my door and my call of thanks in return, I rose straight away. However, I was still in my nightshirt when Holmes rapped loudly upon my door, barely some ten minutes later, summoning me to breakfast. Dressing as quickly as I could, I made my way downstairs to what, I hoped, would be a good, country meal.
Finding the breakfast room, I saw that Holmes was already tucking into sausages, bacon, and eggs, accompanied by thick slices of black pudding and fried bread. I ordered the same and, upon finishing, I enjoyed buttered toast, heaped with a generous helping of some delicious Seville marmalade. It was as I relished my cup of Darjeeling that I had a mind to ask Holmes the meaning of his curious question to De Witt. “Tell me, what did you ask in Dutch last night?”
In reply, Holmes raised his hand and wagged his finger at me, saying, mischievously, “Ah! I asked him, ‘Do you agree?’ but it was not Dutch... it was Afrikaans!”
He answered just as I was taking a further swallow of tea. In truth, I almost choked upon it, causing me to quickly grasp a napkin to cover my mouth. I spluttered for some moments before being able to ask, “Afrikaans? Do you believe that he is a Boer?”
Holmes chuckled. “No, Watson. He is as he appears, I have little doubt of that. The small challenge regarding the tobacco that I set him last night was proof enough... but I wanted him to be aware of the reason why he had been questioned.”
Chapter 4: The Late Sir Charles Cavendish Short
Now breakfasted, we rose from the table with Holmes leading the way towards the High Street. Once outside, it was but a simple task to flag down a passing cab, Holmes tossing the cabbie a shilling and shouting out our destination of Watts Cemetery Chapel.
Our ride to the chapel was short, a mere three miles from the centre of Guildford. Climbing down from the cab, Holmes asked the cabbie to wait for us and tossed him a further sixpence. On arriving at the chapel, I was immediately impressed by the new, Romanesque edifice with almost-pink brick that stood before us. I had read of its recent completion in The Times, and this grand, circular-shaped chapel now towered above the countryside around it.
As we made our way around the outside of the building towards the entrance, one could not fail to be impressed by its grandeur. The fine terracotta reliefs were splendid and, to me at least, had a strong, Egyptian influence. Standing before the ornate, arched doorway was a tall figure whom I took to be Dr. Weaver. He was a thin-faced man of, I would estimate, forty years, dressed in an overcoat. I noticed a head of greying hair crowned by a dark hat. At our approach he smiled and extended his hand, asking, “Mr. Holmes? I am Dr. Weaver. Shall we go inside?”
With the door now closed behind us, I was immediately impressed by the vast circular space before me. The immensely high, domed roof was vaulted, supported by eight painted columns. These rose majestically, being embossed and gilded. The decoration reminded me of intricate, Celtic knot-work.
At the very centre of the building, there had been erected a trestle table, upon which the corpse of Sir Charles Short had been placed, covered from the neck down by a single mortuary sheet. Alongside this was a smaller table, where Sir Charles’ personal possessions had been set out, including, it seemed, all the items from his room at The Bull’s Head.
Dr. Weaver reached into his overcoat pocket and withdrew a large Manila envelope. This he offered to Holmes, saying, cryptically, “This is the post mortem and toxicology report, Mr. Holmes... I believe that you’ll find that it makes interesting reading.”
Holmes gave Weaver a questioning look as he took the envelope from his grasp. For several minutes he stood, brows furrowed, reading the report. With his forefinger now held against his lips, he passed the report to me before turning and asking, “May I examine the body, Dr. Weaver?”
At this, Weaver pulled down the sheet, exposing the dead man for Holmes’s inspection. Rough, exposed stitching indicated where the incisions for the post mortem examination of the internal organs had been carried out. Holmes stood back for a moment, as though observing the posture of the corpse, before moving forward to examine it more closely. I noticed that he seemed to be looking particularly at the limbs and extremities of this sorry figure. As I watched, he inclined his head briefly, a clear signal for me to join him at his side.
I stood close to Holmes and he turned slightly towards me, asking, “Do you notice anything particular about the fingers and the toes, Watson?”
I moved a little closer and examined the wrists, fingers, and toes of the deceased. I also took it upon myself to flex the elbows and the knees, which appeared to me to be unusually stiff, given the time that had passed since death.
With the body having been examined in some detail, our task was now complete. Holmes pulled up the mortuary sheet and moved to consider the personal effects laid out upon the side table. He spent several minutes closely examining these items, showing particular interest in Sir Charles’ pocket watch.
The watch, I noticed was a gold, stem-wound half-hunter. Holmes, his glass in his hand, again beckoned me to come to his side. On the shield-shaped cartouche decorating the back of the watch, I saw the inscription of two sets of intertwined initials, CCS and MK. The open, back cover comprised a glazed frame which contained a circular photograph of a man who was clearly Sir Charles, and a slim, unknown, woman, together with a girl of, perhaps, fourteen or fifteen years. All three were dressed formally in what I presumed to be their best attire and jewellery.
Replacing the watch on the table, Holmes now busied himself with his examination of Sir Charles’ painting regalia. I was intrigued as he picked up both the heavily-used paint palette and the blocks of colour, proceeding to offer each one up to his nose. Satisfied, he carefully replaced these items into their case... but his quizzical expression piqued my interest.
With his examination completed, Holmes turned back to Dr. Weaver, asking, “Might we be able to retain the post mortem report for a little while? I would like to consider it further with my colleague, Dr. Watson.” Weaver nodded in agreement and, on touching his hat, Holmes bade him farewell and we returned to our waiting cab.
Once more at The Bull’s Head, we sought out a quiet corner of the bar and laid out before us the report. Holmes took out his pipe, as did I, and we settled in to further consider the findings. Blowing out a gentle plume of smoke, Holmes asked, “What do you infer from the report, Watson?”
I was silent for a moment whilst I gathered together my thoughts. “Well, I was indeed concerned by the contents of the toxicology report. The dangerously high levels of poisonous metals that were found, particularly cadmium, arsenic, and white lead, was initially puzzling.” Holmes nodded and briefly waved his hand as a sign for me to go on. Gaining confidence, I continued, “However, I then recalled our conversation with De Witt and how he had observed Sir Charles being in the habit of placing his brush tip between his moistened lips to obtain a fine point. The metallic pigments in the paint would then account for their presence.”
Holmes nodded again, but then asked, “...and the concentrations? Fatal, would you say?”
My brow furrowed as I considered this. “I presume, after seeing his well-used paint box and paint-bespattered easel, that Sir Charles was an experienced painter. As such, he had been exposed to the toxicity of these paints for
some considerable time and had built up some tolerance to them. That being the case, I would say probably not.”
Holmes clapped his hand down upon the arm of his chair, crying out, “Bravo, Watson! My thoughts entirely... although the summary of the post mortem findings leans heavily towards poisoning from the imbibed paint as being the cause of death. In light of this, I would expect a coroner to pronounce a verdict of ‘death by misadventure’.”
Holmes sat back and then asked another question. “When we examined the body, I was taken by its awkward posture, for I could not imagine an undertaker arranging it so. What was your impression?”
Again I took my time to answer, thinking back to the alignment of the limbs and, particularly, the stiffness of the joints and the curvature of the hands and feet. “This aspect troubles me, Holmes, for I have seen something similar before, but cannot quite put my finger upon it.”
Holmes held his right forefinger to his lips before replying, “It is not something that is commonplace, but if I were to say to you...prussic acid?”
“Cyanide!” I cried out. “Yes, of course. I recall being required to provide a death certificate for a careless photographer who had ingested a small, but fatal, quantity whilst in his dark room. His limbs were twisted in the extreme due to the severe muscle contractions that it invoked.” Only after saying this did the full import of what was being suggested strike me. I sat, open mouthed, for a moment before asking, “You are proposing that Sir Charles may have been poisoned by cyanide? Surely that would have been evident in the post mortem report?”
Holmes’s face was grim. He drew strongly upon his pipe and then held the stem aloft, saying, “Not necessarily. The body showed no physical evidence of gross cyanide poisoning. The pathologist, on having found high levels of the presumed culprits, might have failed to observe a small dose of cyanide. However, even a small dose, to a man whose system was already heavily impaired by the paint’s toxicity, might well have been fatal.”
I sat back, thinking through the implications of this revelation. “Is it possible that the cyanide was ingested accidentally, as happened with the paint?”
Holmes shook his head. “With my suspicions raised, you will recall that I examined Sir Charles’ belongings most carefully at the chapel, including his artist’s equipment. There was nothing amongst his effects to suggest that he had ever been exposed to cyanide. Indeed, I smelt his paints and palette to see if they were contaminated, but they clearly were not.”
My mind was now in turmoil. “If cyanide had been administered deliberately, then this is murder and... and the murderer must have known that a small dose would probably be sufficient to end Sir Charles’ life.” The consequences of my words now overwhelmed me! “But... but there is only one person here who knew of Sir Charles’ habit of sucking his brushes. De Witt!”
Holmes pursed his lips. “This is indeed most puzzling, Watson, for I am certain that he is not our man. There must be another who had observed Sir Charles’ behaviour and sought to profit from it. We must talk again with De Witt.”
Chapter 5: Tea and a Slice of Cake
It was some little time after luncheon before we were to have that opportunity. We were taking afternoon tea in the bar as Jacob De Witt entered, carrying his paints and easel. On seeing us, he gave a cheery wave. At this, Holmes called out to him and beckoned him towards our table, asking, “Mr. De Witt, won’t you have a cup of tea?
De Witt nodded in thanks, put down his equipment, and was happy to join us. I sought to catch the eye of the landlord to bring another cup and, having done so, we were soon at our ease, each with a delightful cup of Darjeeling. As we sipped, Holmes asked, “Tell me, Mr. De Witt, did you and Sir Charles have to travel far to find a suitable location from which to paint?”
De Witt laughed. “No, Mr. Holmes. We barely had to travel at all for, it seems, we had both independently found the ideal viewpoint. It was a small patch of grass alongside a tea-shop which stands on the tow path beside the river. Over the years in England, I have acquired a taste for tea, to match that of Sir Charles. It would seem that he had taken tea there before, as he told me that he had seen me the previous day from the bay window of the shop, sitting close by with my easel.”
De Witt paused to take a further sip. “We had sat together painting on the day of his death. Sir Charles used his watercolours, concentrating on the flowers of the riverbank, whilst I tried to capture some of the essence of the flow of the river with my oils. At around five o’clock in the afternoon, he paused for tea and invited me to join him in the tea-shop. We shared a pot together, and the young lady who served us seemed pleased that Sir Charles had brought her a new customer, offering him a piece of fruit cake with his tea in thanks.”
At this, I saw Holmes edge forward slightly on his chair, asking, “Ah, and was it delicious?”
De Witt again laughed. “I do not know, Mr. Holmes, for I did not taste it. It looked wonderful: Lots of fruit, and with the top decorated with almonds. I asked if I could have some too, but I was told that, unfortunately, Sir Charles had been served the last piece.”
I saw Holmes stiffen, asking, “Did the proprietor say ‘Sir Charles’ as she answered your question?”
De Witt’s brows furrowed for a moment before he answered. “Why... yes, yes, I believe she did. How strange! I expect that he was an old customer of hers.”
Holmes nodded and smiled, but it was clear to me that something was amiss. Having finished his tea, De Witt was about to leave when Holmes turned to him, asking, “I wonder, Mr. De Witt, if I might have sight of your paints? I have been known to dabble in oils, but that was quite some time ago...”
Jacob De Witt beamed and moved to an empty table, upon which he placed his paint box before opening it. The box itself was of an ingenious cantilever design, and had sections for brushes, paints, cleaning rags, and various jars of oil and turpentine. Holmes moved in closer and peered at the contents most carefully. Finally, he passed his nose across the whole box, exclaiming, “Ah, how I miss the vivid colours and the smell of oils. You have a fine paint box, Mr. De Witt. I am most grateful for your indulgence.” De Witt gave a mock bow and, once all was packed away, he left us to our thoughts.
Holmes now looked deeply concerned. He had sat back in his chair, fingers steepled against his lips and eyes fixed, staring at some point in the distance. “It appears, Watson, that we are in need of a little more tea and, perhaps, a slice of cake!”
I looked quizzically at my friend and then suddenly realised what his intentions were. After an innocent inquiry of our landlord and some brief directions, we were soon on our way to seek out further refreshments.
Setting off from The Bull’s Head, our destination was but a brief walk from the town, along the banks of the River Wey, abutting the towpath. At first glance, it appeared to be a small cottage with a fine, lawned, flower garden in front and a fruit orchard to the rear. The cottage, it seemed, had once been a simple dwelling. However, on looking through its bow windows, one either side of the door, there could be seen several small tables, covered with checked tablecloths and decorated with small bunches of flowers. Around the tables sat a mixed clientele made up of couples, young families, and some fashionable ladies, all of whom were taking tea.
Holmes and I stood for a few moments observing not only the customers, but also who was serving them. The staff was comprised of a single waitress, a young, fresh-faced girl, aged less than twenty years, and also a young woman of, I would say, twenty-five years, whom I took to be the proprietor. As we watched the pair moving between the tables, it was clear that each had her own area to serve. Holmes looked quite stern and, with a tug at my sleeve, he moved with some determination towards the doorway of the tea-shop.
Once inside, I noticed that he deliberately chose to sit in the area served by the young woman. Although Holmes now appeared to be completely at his ease, I knew that, as he
casually looked around, he was taking in every single detail.
After perhaps only a minute or so, the young lady approached. She was a tall attractive figure with honey-coloured hair. She moved with an elegance that appeared to be a little out of place in this setting. She was dressed in a long, ankle-length, grey skirt above which she wore a soft, white, pleated blouse. This was open at the collar to reveal an elegant gold-and-sapphire pendant. Standing beside our table, she turned over to a fresh page in the small notepad she carried and greeted us by saying, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What may I get for you?”
Holmes smiled in return, asking, “I think we might have a pot of tea for two and, perhaps, we might choose a slice of cake? I have it on good authority that it is most excellent.”
The young lady nodded appreciatively. “It is all homemade, sir. I try, wherever I can, to use our own fruit and produce. Perhaps you may like to choose something from the display?”
Turning to me, Holmes inclined his head slightly, saying, “Watson, would you be a good fellow and allow me to peruse the cakes and make a choice for both of us?” I raised my eyebrows at this but, on seeing the determination on his face, I nodded in agreement.
Holmes smiled and gave me a brief nod before walking the few paces to the back of the shop. It was here that a large glass-fronted cabinet displayed a mouth-watering selection of scones, fruit tarts, and cakes. In truth, I was a little dismayed that I was being denied the opportunity to make a choice of my own.
Straining to obtain a better view of the wares on display, I could see that Holmes had attracted the attention of the young waitress and was now deep in conversation with her. After a minute or so of deliberation and discussion, he smiled and then pointed towards what appeared to be a dark, rich fruit cake. Whilst I judged it to be an acceptable choice, I was disappointed, as I had a particular craving for a piece of ginger cake.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 23