by william Todd
As I stood waiting for the slowing train to stop, I could not help but feel a sense of relief that Holmes had finally found some time to pull away from his investigations for a break. I had convinced him to come over to Woodford-Upon-Lea in Essex for some sunshine and cool, fresh air, which had been the climate at the time of the telegram. Now, unfortunately, the blue skies of early October had been replaced by grey, windswept clouds, which constantly dropped their burden with enthusiastic abandon.
I myself had gone two weeks earlier to help a long-time, mutual friend, Phineas Whympenny, convalesce as he recovered from some serious hypertensive issues. It was those issues from which he, unfortunately, never fully recovered.
Holmes had said he would pay a visit once his current affair wrapped up, and I received a telegram the day before that he would be on the morning train.
Shaking hands once he departed the train, I said, “I am glad that you could finally get away, Holmes.”
“Once I was sure the broker was stealing his own diamonds, I set Lestrade on that trail to do the work for which he is best suited. It took some time to prove my deductions correct, but alas, here I am. Better late than never. So, is the good Mr. Whympenny recovering sufficiently? I hope he has not taken a similar turn as that of the wonderful weather you promised.”
“The weather I communicated was from a week ago,” I replied as we retrieved his baggage. “You cannot expect our finicky weather to keep its good humour for any great length of time. And as far as our friend Phin is concerned, he is feeling better now, but he is not yet out of the woods. I fear for the man, but he refuses to change his diet. As you know, Phin is nearing sixty-five, and he was never what one would call fit.”
“I dare say, Watson, that for an epicurean whose height and circumference are practically interchangeable, fit has never been a useful adjective to describe old Phin. It may be that his taste for food has finally taken its toll.”
“Yes, but he is as jolly as ever,” said I. “A smile never seems far from his face, and he is anxious to see his favourite customer.”
“Is he well enough for some oysters and a brace of grouse?” Holmes asked when we climbed into the taxi.
“He is out of bed for short spells a few times a day. I am sure, with some help on our part, he would be willing to boil, bake, sauté, smoke, or pickle just about anything you ask.”
. . . . .
Phineas Whympenny’s home was the last amongst an assemblage of large, well-kept cottages on Old Oak Lane at the edge of the village. And here, the separation was abrupt between civilization and an expanse of low-rolling farmland and wood. I was pointing out Phin’s cottage as we slowed, but Holmes was more interested in the happenings across the street. A constabulary wagon was situated in front of a small, sandstone church. Four officers were at its entrance, one talking, the others listening intently.
“It seems the Church has need of a little law and order,” said Holmes as I disembarked with the bags, and he paid the driver.
“I wonder if Phin caught a glimpse of anything,” I added. “Maybe he could fill us in on what we missed.”
“Or better yet…” Holmes replied as he walked briskly across the street.
I looked at Holmes then to the cottage. I noticed Phin’s bulk framed by the parlour window. His massive shoulders bounced as he chuckled, and he waved me off as if to say, Go join Holmes.
I smiled at him and shrugged sheepishly. I then put the overnight bags down on the small front porch and joined Holmes on the other side of the street, as he was reading the signage on the front lawn which read Saint Anne’s Catholic Church.
We were met on the walkway by a young, clean-shaven constable whose forlorn features betrayed a tragedy. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but Saint Anne’s is closed.”
“May we inquire as to the reason for its shuttering?” asked Holmes.
“It is a crime scene,” said the constable laconically.
With aplomb, my friend replied, “Well, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”
“Ah, the famous consulting detective from London,” he said in a revelatory tone. “Here on holiday? You missed some nice walking weather by a few days, but I am sure the sun will return if you are patient enough. Or could it be that your deductive powers are more impressive than what the good doctor chronicles, and you were brought to this crime scene by mere instinct.”
Looking over the constable’s shoulder at the church, ignoring the thin smile of amusement that creased the officer’s face, Holmes replied with a bit of veiled sarcasm, “No holiday and no superhuman feats of intellect. I apologize if that revelation lessens your impression of my ability to deduce or my colleague’s ability to write. Yet, my arrival was not a fortuitous one. We are here visiting an old friend across the street.” He engaged the constable with a cold, direct stare, “And since we are here, would the local authorities have any need of my assistance?”
The constable’s smile disappeared at the subtle reproof. He cleared his throat. “Of course, of course.” Shaking our hands, the man went on, “I am Constable Milks, Benny Milks. And please, come, let me show you what we have. It’s not the usual fare in a village this size, and probably a bit dull for the likes of you, Mr. Holmes, but having the great detective on board will all but ensure the proper outcome.”
“What about poor, old Phin?” I asked Holmes. “He has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”
“My plan was for a week’s stay, Watson. A few stray moments here and there will not hurt the quality of our company.”
“Gentlemen,” Constable Milks said as he opened the left side of the double doors. “Please come through this door, as the right is part of the crime scene which I will explain momentarily.”
When the constable moved to open the door for us, it was then that I noticed briefly detritus of some sort, possibly stomach contents, upon the entranceway just in front of the right-side door.
We followed Milks into the narthex of the small church. From there we looked out into the nave, consisting of a central aisle and fifteen rows of pews on either side. Each row could accommodate roughly ten people. Directly in front of us, five rows back from the communion railing, a body lay awkwardly, half in the center aisle and half-hidden by a pew. Three more bodies lay at slumped angles, all in the same pew. In front of the altar a priest knelt, head bowed in prayer, with an officer standing over him.
“Instead of just relaying what was said to us, I shall let the priest explain things,” Milks said. “I will just say that sometime before the benediction all the attendants became quite ill. A fifth attendant, Miss Mary Holowczak, the housemaid and cook, became ill, as well, but managed to crawl to the door and was halfway through before she retched and collapsed. A neighbor walking his dog saw her there and notified us.”
“And she is still alive?” I asked.
“At the moment, but she is in a bad way.”
Looking on at the scene like an anxious terrier being held back by a leash, Holmes responded, “I should like to see the bodies, if I may.”
Acquiescing with a sweep of his arm, Constable Milks said, “After you, gentlemen.”
As we approached the first body lying half in the aisle, Milks offered, “This is Ramsey Montfort. He is Sir Gordon Montfort’s eldest child and only son. Sir Montfort is the local squire, whose noble name can be traced all the way back to the Battle of Hastings.”
At this, Holmes knelt and examined the body, which was crumpled in a heap upon the floor. The Montfort boy, no more than in his early twenties, was on his stomach, head cocked to the side, arms, and hands at awkward angles. Holmes sniffed around the young man’s mouth and examined his clothing.
“The three others here,” Milks continued, pointing to the other bodies, “are John Wallace, Harold Harker, and Oliver Warleggan.”
They were each slumped over in various positions. There was no visible frothing or vomiting, and I, using my olfactory senses, smelled no bitter almonds or garlic, so
my personal opinion was that whatever the poison, it was not arsenic or cyanide.
Somehow knowing my inner thoughts—or more likely seeing me sniff the air—Holmes spoke up, “I do not think it is Strychnine, either, Watson. My guess is hemlock. It mixes well with wine and other liquids. Depending on the dosage, it could have been administered anytime from breakfast to the blood of Christ.”
“I do not see how they could drink and die, and the priest seems to suffer no ill consequence,” said I.
Milks spoke up, eyeing the praying priest intently. “He might have put his lips to the chalice, but that does not mean he drank. And his back is turned to the congregants. He could have easily concealed the fact that he did not drink from the cup.”
“You think he did it?” I asked
“As you say,” Milks responded, “the priest is alive while all others are dead.”
“Not quite everyone,” Holmes added sagely.
“If the girl survives it will be by luck alone.”
As he eyed the priest at the altar, kneeling in prayer while a constable stood over him, Holmes asked in a low voice, almost to himself, “Why would a man in charge of another man’s spiritual life so callously take his physical one?” Turning back to Milks, Holmes then asked, “Where was the girl sitting?”
“According to Father Harrison, she was in the next pew behind the men.”
“I would like to speak to the priest now, if I may,” said my friend.
Milks relieved the constable guarding Father Harrison, and the priest finally stood, regarding the three of us with worry deepening the wrinkles around his weathered yet handsome features.
“This is Sherlock Holmes from London. He would like to talk to you,” Milks offered. “I shall be nearby if you need me, gentlemen.”
“I—I do not know what to tell you,” he said, regarding us. “They were all fine one moment, and the next…” his voice trailed off.
“Come, sit with us in this first pew, here,” Holmes suggested with forbearance, “and relay to me the events of the morning.”
The three of us sat in the front pew while the officers set about investigating around us.
Holmes took a languid position in the pew, fingers interlaced introspectively, eyes closed, and began, “So, is it the habit of these gentlemen to attend morning Mass?”
Taking out a handkerchief and wiping the copious perspiration from his forehead with a shaking hand, the priest said, “If it weren’t for them there would be no morning Mass when I have it. They only come after hunting.”
“I am not sure I understand. Please elaborate, and start from the beginning, please.”
“All the land around, including the property the church sits on is owned by Sir Gordon Montfort. He gave the land on which the church is built for his son, Ramsey, who converted to Catholicism three years ago. They often come over for meals, and taking breakfast before a hunt has become their habit.”
“They breakfasted with you this morning?” Holmes asked.
“Oh yes. Miss Mary makes a big breakfast before every hunt. They and Miss Mary are often my only company.” With an earnest smile, he then added, “We are a small congregation at the moment, but we are slowly growing. Most Sundays it is only Ramsey and his four friends and Miss Holowczak—Mary, with but a few others, but on holidays and some holy days of obligation, we are able to get upwards of thirty people for Mass, much to the chagrin of Sir Gordon.”
I wrinkled my brow. “I don’t think I follow. You just said that Gordon Montfort gave the land the church was built on. Why then would he not wish the church to grow?”
“Sir Gordon is a staunch Anglican and saying he wasn’t fond of Catholics would be a severe understatement. He was heartbroken when Ramsey told him he was converting. But Ramsey is his only son, so he usually gets what he wants. I have tried to accentuate what we have in common when we have a chance to converse, but our short dialogues never blossom into any sort of constructive conversation.”
“Getting back to this morning,” Holmes said with no slight irritation, “did anything unusual happen at breakfast?”
“No, nothing. It was as it has been every other day. Miss Mary came in this morning around five. I know this because I myself arise early and pray in the church, so I was there when I heard her come in through the rectory.”
“Does she live nearby?”
“She rents a room five cottages down from the church. She doesn’t normally come in that early. Ramsey tells us when the spirit moves him for a hunt, and she arrives accordingly to start on breakfast.”
“Of what does your breakfast typically consist?”
“Miss Mary usually has sausage, kidneys, eggs, toast, and marmalade set out for us, along with both coffee and tea. Oh, yes, she also sets out a bowl of czarnina soup for herself and me. I have, over these past several months, taken a liking to eastern European cuisine, and czarnina soup has become one of my favorites. Only she and I eat it, as the others do not think it appetizing. Today was just as any other day, as far as I could discern. We ate, and they went off to hunt.”
“Czarnina soup—Mary is Galician?” Holmes asked.
“That is correct.”
“Is it your habit to let the help eat meals with you?”
The priest frowned. “I do not consider Miss Mary help. This might be her situation, but she is God’s creature all the same. She is always welcome at table, especially when it’s her meals being consumed.”
Holmes finally opened his eyes and engaged the priest directly. “The men had no problem with this arrangement?”
“No, sir, they did not. All seemed to enjoy her company. And if allowed this one discretion, Miss Mary is a quite handsome young lady and wonderful at conversation with a good sense of humour. And I believe her accent adds to her allure. I doubt many men, regardless of their difference in class, would find fault in letting her sit at their table.”
“I see. Did anyone leave the room for any reason during the meal?”
“Miss Mary was always in and out, serving and taking plates. She would sit and eat and converse a bit then be up doing it all over again. I believe Ramsey got up and helped her once to bring in some dishes. That was it. The rest of the time we were all together. Miss Mary cleared the table while we said our goodbyes, and off they went to hunt.”
“What time was that?”
He thought for a moment. “About close on seven this morning, I suspect. They came back from hunting empty-handed, and I set up for Mass shortly after they arrived at half-past nine as was our custom.”
“What of the others?” Holmes asked. “What do you know of them?”
“They are all very close friends. Ramsey, John, Harold, Oliver, and William have grown up together. Their families are all close and I believe distantly related. Through governesses, school, and university they have been inseparable.”
Holmes stopped the priest. “You have mentioned four friends of Ramsey, yet only three bodies are here. Who is the William that seems to be the one friend missing?”
With his trembling hand wiping his flushed and sweaty cheeks Father Harrison said, “That is the only anomaly on the entire morning, now that I am pushed to recall it. Ramsey said that William—William Waverly—has been away, it seems. They were all to go to London for some function given by Ramsey’s father. The assumption of the others was that William went early, and he would meet up with them when they arrived on Thursday morning. He tends to be a free spirit that way and is less tethered to the group than the rest.”
“How long has he been absent?” Holmes asked.
“Only a few days I believe.”
“Please be honest with me when I ask this next question,” my friend then said with much solemnity. “It will do you no good to lie.”
“Of course,” the priest replied weakly.
“Did you partake of the wine?”
Harrison seemed offended at the question. “Of course, I did. It is the Blood of Christ, why would I not partake?”
He was silent for a moment then sighed and went on. “I believe so. At their age, Mr. Holmes, it can be hard sometimes to completely get the boy out of the man. You see, there are times when they will completely consume the contents of the chalice before it gets to Miss Mary. They do it in jest, but it is a cruel thing to do, and I admonish them when it happens.”
“Did it happen today?” Holmes asked.
He nodded as he wiped his flushed cheeks once again. “But you consume the whole Christ in the Eucharist, so it would not matter if you didn’t partake of the wine. I do believe, however, that there were a few drops left when she drank.”
It was at this point that we were interrupted by Constable Milks. “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but we will have to cut this interview short.” He held up a small, clear, glass vial with a small amount of a milky fluid still within. “This was found in the pocket of your coat, reverend, which was hanging on a hook in the entranceway of the rectory. Now, I am sure I don’t know my poisons as well as Mr. Holmes, here, but the smell to me says he was right when he guessed hemlock.” He pulled the priest up from the pew by the arm. “You are coming with us, Mr. Harrison, on suspicion of murder.”
“I did not do this!” the priest implored. “As God is my witness!”
“Well, unless the Almighty comes down here in person to vouch for you, our evidence says otherwise.” Milks then turned to us. “I apologize, Mr. Holmes, that this wasn’t much of a puzzle to solve. I guess you shall have all your time back to visit your friend.”
Milks and another constable led the priest down the center aisle.
“So that is that?” I asked.
Holmes ascended the altar. “You know me, Watson. That is never that.”