Sherlock Holmes At the Raffles Hotel

by John Hall

  Anya Masterton put a tiny lace handkerchief to her face. “I know that poor Emily is dead, of course,” she said. “And Derek hinted that there was some … some doubt … some suspicion … as to the cause of her death. Oh, but he must be wrong,” she added in a stronger tone. “Surely it is enough that poor Emily has been taken from me, without there being any hint of … no! It is madness to think it.”

  Ingham, embarrassed, cleared his throat. “I’m afraid your husband is quite right, though, Mrs Masterton. I wish it were otherwise, and I wish there was an easier way to tell you this, but the plain fact is that Mrs Gerard was poisoned.”

  “Oh!”

  I rose to my feet as Mrs Masterton seemed to shrink into the chair, but she waved me away. “No need, thank you, Doctor Watson, I am not the fainting type,” she told me. And to Ingham, she said, “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure, madam. Again, I wish we weren’t.”

  “I see. And I believe that you have arrested Charles … Mr Gerard, that is?”

  Ingham nodded.

  Mrs Masterton shook her head in disbelief. “It is ridiculous. I’m sure you must have some reason … what you think of as good reason … for suspecting Charles, but I assure you that you are wrong.”

  Holmes stirred. “There are certain discrepancies which might show that Mr Gerard is innocent,” he said.

  “There you are, then. Some tragic accident … assuming, that is, that it was not some sudden illness, or …”

  “There was no possibility of accident or illness, Mrs Masterton,” said Ingham heavily. “I wish there were. No, it was poison all right.”

  “But there are many questions left unanswered,” added Holmes.

  “And you think that I know the answers?” Mrs Masterton’s tone was scornful.

  “You may well be able to clear up some puzzling little points, madam,” said Holmes.

  “Very well, though I warn you that I am not very likely to be of help to your investigations.”

  “First of all, then,” said Ingham, “can you think of anyone who might have wanted your sister dead? Anyone with a grudge against her, that sort of thing?”

  “Not at all,” said Mrs Masterton, shaking her head. “And if there were anyone of that kind in the whole wide world, there could surely be no-one here in Singapore, for poor Emily had never been here before. She arrived here only a day or two ago, for the first time in her life, and she knew nobody here apart from Derek and myself.”

  “And Miss Earnshaw, as I understand?” murmured Holmes.

  “Maggie? Oh, yes, I think they knew each other vaguely in London, but were not particular friends. Not close enough to be enemies, I mean.”

  “I understand. Well, then,” said Holmes, “did your sister ever suffer from melancholy, or depression?”

  “Not in the least. Emily was of a most robust disposition, mentally as well as physically.” Mrs Masterton managed a weak smile. “In fact, she had very positive views on many subjects, and hated to be shown to be in the wrong.”

  “Ah! There had been, I believe, a quarrel of some sort between the Gerards on the day of her death?”

  For a moment, Mrs Masterton was taken aback. She sat up straight, and stared at Holmes. Then, “No,” she told him, “I cannot believe that a silly quarrel would affect either my sister or her husband to any great extent … certainly not to the extent which you appear to suggest, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes raised a hand. “I suggest nothing, madam,” he said. “But Mr Gerard has refused to tell us the cause of the quarrel. Perhaps you might enlighten us?”

  “If I knew, Mr Holmes, I should not tell you,” replied Mrs Masterton, with a little flounce of the head. “In the event, it is academic, as I do not know. Charles did seem on edge when he called upon us, and when my husband had gone out on business I pressed Charles as to the reason for his odd behaviour, and for Emily’s failure to visit us. He admitted that there had been a minor tiff, but would not elaborate, and I did not feel inclined to press him.”

  “No, of course not. But to return to my line of questioning,” said Holmes, “there was never anything that might have caused you to think that your sister might ever … make away with herself?”

  “Suicide?” The scorn was palpable in Mrs Masterton’s voice. “I never heard such rubbish in all my life, Mr Holmes. Emily would never consider such a thing.”

  It was now Holmes, who was momentarily taken aback by this vehemence, recovered his composure and smiled. “That confirms my own deductions, madam. I am sorry to have to ask such things, but there is good reason, I assure you. Now, Mr Gerard has told us that he asked his new wife to make a rather peculiar will immediately after the marriage, whereby she left her own money to you, and not to her husband.”

  Mrs Masterton nodded, but said nothing. “Did you know of this will?” asked Holmes. “Oh, yes. Emily wrote and told me.”

  “And what did you think about it?”

  Mrs Masterton considered. “I must say that I certainly thought it a little odd,” she said at last. “After all, if Charles Gerard were genuinely in love with Emily, if he were not just after her money, then why should he need to prove the fact, to underline it, as it were, by asking her to leave her money to me? On the other hand, if he were truly an independent sort of man, then it might make some sense to act as he did.” The wan little smile flickered briefly across her face a second time. “In either event, Mr Holmes, it seemed to me, odd though it might be, that there was no harm done by it. Not at that stage, though if Charles had later persuaded, or attempted to persuade, Emily to alter her will, I might have taken a more serious interest in the matter.” She smiled once more. “And again, in either event, it does rather tend to prove Charles is innocent of Emily’s murder, does it not? If he were after her money alone, then he would make very sure that her will left it to him, and not to me, before he administered poison or anything else.”

  “That point had occurred to me,” admitted Holmes. “But tell me, having thought that the will was a trifle odd, will you now abide by its contents? Will you take your inheritance?”

  “Oh, yes. It was Charles’s wish that Emily make her will in that fashion … he can hardly complain now can he? If … when, rather … when he is cleared of this nonsensical charge, I am sure Derek will take him into the firm, and equally sure that he will do well. And, should he later decide to set up in business on his own account, I shall happily lend, or even give, him some cash to help out. If the necessity arises, that is, for I think he has real ability, and only needs a chance to make something of himself.”

  “You are probably right,” said Holmes unctuously. “The provisions of your own will … forgive me … but they are quite conventional?”

  “Oh, yes. My modest fortune goes to Derek, or to the children should he predecease me. And, in case you wondered, Mr Holmes, Derek’s will leaves all to me, or again to the children should I leave him first.”

  “You have no other family to be considered?”

  “Emily was my only living relative, and Derek, poor man, had nobody either. We are quite self-contained, the two of us, and our dear children.”

  “Tell me, did your husband also know of the provisions of your sister’s will?”

  “Oh, yes. I talked about it with him, when my sister wrote to me.”

  “And did Miss Earnshaw know about it?”

  “Yes. Miss Earnshaw is a trusted friend and confidant as well as our children’s governess. Why do you ask that?”

  Holmes ignored the question. “Did you correspond regularly with your sister?”

  “Fairly regularly. One always wishes one had done more, said more, kept in touch on a regular basis, do you not find?”

  “Yes, indeed. Tell me, did you entirely approve of your sister’s marriage?”

  The abruptness of the question seemed to take Mrs Masterton aback slightly. She considered a moment, then replied, “I cannot say that I approved or disapproved. Remember that I had only met Charles Gerard for
the first time a week ago, or less. I was, perhaps, a little displeased as to the manner of her marriage. I felt, to be plain, that they could have waited, for Derek and I would have liked to go to England and be present at the ceremony, rather than being presented with a fait accompli, but that did not cause any serious rift.”

  “Did your sister perhaps write to you apologizing for her failure to invite you?”

  “She did, as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you recall the words or phrases she used?”

  “Not word for word,” said Mrs Masterton. “She apologized for not inviting us, said that they had acted in haste out of love, the usual sort of thing.”

  “And do you have the letter still?”

  “I do not think so. I am not particularly sentimental with regard to correspondence.”

  “Can you recall whether your sister ever referred to you in her letters as ‘my dearest one’?”

  Mrs Masterton shook her head. “Not that I remember. She usually called me by name, and I did the same. Occasionally we might have written ‘my dear sister’, or something of the kind, but we were generally not overly demonstrative, in the way that some people are.” She regarded Holmes curiously. “Why do you ask these questions, Mr Holmes?”

  “Oh, one must get to know the background, you know,” said Holmes vaguely, “and hope that something emerges, as it were, from the fog. I believe that Charles Gerard gave his wife a box of sugarplums on the day of her death? Sugarplums that you in turn had given to him?”

  “What an odd question. Yes, when he burbled on about a quarrel, I suggested he buy Emily a present, a peace offering, so to speak. He just sat there looking remarkably like a shorn sheep … men are absolutely hopeless when it comes to presents for ladies. Anyway, I remembered that I had a box of sweets, a local speciality, in the house, and gave them to Charles to give to Emily.” She frowned. “But you’re not suggesting that there was poison in those, I hope? For if you were …”

  Holmes held up a hand. “Your sister was, I believe, particularly fond of walnut confections?”

  “Mr Holmes, you are beginning to disturb me. I …”

  “Was your sister fond of walnut centres, Mrs Masterton?”

  “She was.”

  “And you yourself?”

  “Walnuts? No, I detest them. But …”

  “Do you have any preference at all in that line?”

  “Mr Holmes …”

  “If you please, Mrs Masterton.” It was Ingham who said this, with all the gravity he could muster.

  “Oh, what nonsense. Yes, if you must know, I have a particular weakness for ‘Violet Cremes’, and that sort of thing.”

  Holmes asked, his voice quivering with suppressed excitement, “When did you buy the sugarplums, Mrs Masterton?”

  “I did not. They were a present from Derek. Mr Masterton. He bought them the day before I gave them to Charles … I knew he would not mind my giving them away, under the circumstances. Now, I really must ask, why are you asking this? Do you seriously think the sugarplums were poisoned?”

  “We know they were, madam,” said Ingham heavily.

  “Not all of them, though,” added Holmes. “The walnut centres had all been eaten, presumably by Mrs Gerard, but of those that remained, there was arsenic only in the ‘Violet Cremes’.”

  For a moment, Mrs Masterton sat there in silence, gazing at my friend. Then she seemed to collapse inwards upon herself, and this time my professional services were needed, as she slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  Chapter Ten: … But Mr Masterton Does Not

  “Damnable!” said Derek Masterton. His nostrils flared like those of some wild beast, and he drew in his breath, evidently in preparation for delivering a more elaborate condemnation. Between us we had escorted Mrs Masterton back to her bed, and she was now being fussed over – that is, being attended to – by her Chinese maid. Mr Masterton had appeared mysteriously when his wife collapsed. He had helped us get her to bed, then ushered us back downstairs, and now he was all too evidently just about to express his opinion of our methods of interrogation.

  Superintendent Ingham held up a large hand. “I apologize unreservedly, sir, for any distress we may have caused your wife,” he said. “But I think you’ll agree that this whole business might reasonably be described as damnable, and so the sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better for all of us. After all, you don’t shoot the messenger because the message is unwelcome do you?”

  Derek Masterton considered this for a moment, then he smiled and held his hand out to the Superintendent, who shook it solemnly.

  “I should apologize to you, of course,” said Masterton. “But, under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree that it was understandable, if not excusable? Come back into the drawing room, though, and let’s sit down, for I believe you wanted to talk to me? I don’t know about you chaps,” he added, as we found chairs, “but I could do with a drink.”

  “Oh, certainly,” I said. “Capital notion. Brandy, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Holmes frowned at me, and the Superintendent made great play of being on duty – foolishly, in my view, for how better to lull a suspect into a false sense of security than to have a drink with him? Anyway, such was the thought in my own mind, and I happily accepted the generous measure that Derek Masterton poured for me.

  “A cigar?” he said. “Please smoke your pipes, if you prefer.”

  “Thank you.” Holmes and Ingham found their pipes, while I took a respectable cigar, which Masterton told me was from Sumatra, from a silver box.

  Masterton took his time cutting and lighting his cigar, regarding the rest of us over it as he did so. Playing for time, perhaps? I had the distinct impression that such was the case. When the cigar was going to his satisfaction, Masterton asked, “Tell me, Mr Holmes, just what was it that so upset Anya? I can understand that the whole thing has been a bit of a shock to her, naturally, but she seemed to be getting over the worst, and now … this.”

  “It was the shock of hearing the details, I think, sir,” said Ingham.

  “Ah, yes, the details,” said Masterton. “You’ve played it very close to your chest, Superintendent, with regard to the details. I take it you’re going to let me into the secret, too, now?”

  “We’ve been deliberately cagey, sir,” replied Ingham stolidly. “The fewer people who get to know the details at this stage, the better it is for us, the police.”

  Masterton thought about this. “Oh, I see. If someone lets slip they know a bit too much, then you can ask ‘em just how come they know, is that it?”

  “That’s it exactly, sir.” Ingham kept his voice level, but I knew that he was thinking the same as I was, namely that Mr Derek Masterton knew a little too much about police procedures for comfort. Holmes, of course, would have worked that out at first glance from the state of Masterton’s shoes, or something equally improbable. Ingham went on, “Now, I believe that you bought a box of these ‘Singapore Sugarplums’ for Mrs Masterton recently? Is that so?”

  Masterton looked at him blankly. “No. But what on earth …”

  “Are you quite sure you didn’t buy a box of that particular confectionery, sir?”

  Masterton seemed about to protest, then he gave little start. “Oh. Now you mention it, I think I did buy Anya a box of the damned things, but that was a day or so ago. I’d quite forgotten.”

  “Is that so, sir? Tell me, does Mrs Masterton have a special liking for those sugarplums?” asked Ingham.

  Masterton shrugged his shoulders. “Not really. She eats one now and then. Though she does have a taste for ‘Violet Cremes’, she normally eats those right off.”

  “But not this time?” Holmes suggested.

  Another shrug. “Didn’t she? I couldn’t tell you.” Masterton regarded us closely. “From all these questions about a box of sweets, I gather that there was … oh!” He shook his head. “But you cannot be suggesting that they were poisoned, or something? And anyway, how coul
d a box of sweets that I’d bought for Anya possibly poison her sister?”

  “We think they did, though, sir,” said Ingham. Masterton shook his head. “Out of the question.”

  “Mrs Masterton apparently gave the box of sweets … untouched … to Mr Charles Gerard, to give to his wife.”

  “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of it!”

  “It’s true, sir, or at any rate we’re sure that your wife gave the sugarplums to Mr Gerard. Unless, that is, both Mr Gerard and your wife are … are not exactly telling us the truth,” said Ingham.

  Masterton shook his head again in disbelief. “I cannot comprehend it,” he said. “But, while I cannot speak for Charles Gerard because I have known him only a very few days … although I have never had any reason to doubt his honesty … I can certainly tell you that my wife would never lie to the police. If she tells you … as you now tell me … that she gave the box of sugarplums, which I had given her, to Charles Gerard, then I know it is so.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Ingham with a little nod of satisfaction.

  “But that still doesn’t mean that I accept for one moment that there was poison in the sugarplums.”

  “The police analyst found it there, sir. Arsenic.”

  “Good Heavens!” Masterton dropped his cigar in his agitation, and I went over and picked it up, as he seemed not to have noticed. “Thank you, Doctor Watson,” he muttered in an abstracted fashion. “Well, Superintendent, gentlemen. This has come as a shock, and no mistake. Yes, I can see now why poor Anya was so taken aback by your news. But tell me, are you sure it was the same box? There is no possibility that another, poisoned, box somehow found its way to the unfortunate lady?”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely at all, sir,” said Ingham. “And that being the case, our task resolves itself into the little matter of finding out who put the poison into the sugarplums.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. I promise you that. And it wasn’t Anya, or Miss Earnshaw.”

  “What about the servants? The butler?” asked Holmes. “Good Lord, you don’t suggest that the butler did it! Why, even Doctor Watson here would not use such a hackneyed device in one of his lurid tales.”