The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  "It would be useless, Mr Holmes, for Doctor Lambeth is insistent that my mother died of lockjaw. But he is ageing, he retires shortly, and I do not think that he wishes to put himself in the embarrassing position of accusing a prominent member of the community of such a crime on slender evidence."

  "Please start at the very beginning, Miss Morgan." Holmes reached the old slipper off the floor by his side and proceeded to stuff the blackened bowl of his pipe with fine cut dark tobacco. "I trust you have no objection to the smell of strong tobacco, Miss Morgan?"

  "Not at all." She coughed slightly for the room was already thick with pipesmoke. "My father is Squire Royston Morgan of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire."

  "Ah, I recall the locality." Holmes leaned back, his fingertips pressed together, seemingly drowsy to anybody who was not familiar with his posture, but I knew that he listened intently. "Is that not in the proximity of Longparish, home of the legendary late Colonel Peter Hawker, undoubtedly one of the finest marksman which this country has ever produced, a veteran of the Crimean War who, upon being invalided out of the army, devoted the remainder of his life to the pursuit of fur and feather?"

  "Indeed, it is," Gloria Morgan smiled wryly. "I curse him, too, even though he has been dead for half a century, for it is upon him that my father has modelled himself, although I would hope that Colonel Hawker's only shortcoming was his devotion to fishing and shooting."

  "Hawker was surely the finest game shot of all time," Sherlock Holmes answered dreamily. "Not content with killing twenty-four snipe consecutively on one day, without missing a shot, he used to practise on bats around Longparish Hall at dusk, and, according to his books, with equal success."

  "As my father does, especially when we have guests staying." There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.

  "I digress," Holmes said. "Please continue."

  "As I have already said, my father has endeavoured to build his own reputation upon that of Colonel Hawker's. A fine shot, an excellent fly fisherman and a dashing horseman, understandably he has attracted the attention of other women. I would add, at this stage, that my parent's marriage has not been a happy one. One woman in particular, is a wealthy widow by the name of Eva Dann, who currently owns Longparish, the property most coveted by my father. There have, for some years, been whispered rumours of their relationship, and my mother has had to suffer the ignominy of it. For my sake, she

  clung to her marital status and rights, doubtless much to my father's chagrin.

  "So, faced with the prospect of her remaining indefinitely at Winchcombe, and thereby depriving him of the opportunity to marry his mistress and acquire Longparish, he murdered her."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "Alas, no, but I have not a single doubt in my mind that he killed her."

  "Then tell me everything you know, setting out your story as it happened, trying not to overlook the smallest detail, however irrelevant it may seem to you."

  "My mother had resigned herself to living beneath the same room as my father, no matter how unpleasant that may have been. One of her interests was horticulture, and on fine days she would spend her time in the gardens. Her other love was literature. There is a small library in the Hall and, after dinner each evening, she would go there to read until she retired about ten o'clock. Lately, she took to locking herself in the library because, on those occasions when my father had been drinking heavily, he would go and vent his vile temper on her. Thus, by locking the door, she ensured herself of the tranquillity she required to immerse herself in her reading."

  "And it was in the library where she met her untimely death?" There was a gentleness in Sherlock Holmes's voice as he asked the question.

  "Yes", Gloria Morgan stifled a sob. "The night before last. Dinner was an uneasy meal for my father was in an uncertain temper on account of having shot badly that day. Afterwards, my mother retired to the library as was her usual routine. I am not sure of my father's movements, possibly he went down to the gamekeeper's cottage to discuss with Randall the task of destroying a colony of moles which are currently rendering the lawns and borders an unsightly mess."

  "And the gamekeeper?"

  "Randall is a hateful man. He reminds me of the stoats and weasels which hang rotting and stinking on his vermin gibbet. He is the most hated man for miles around. Several cats and dogs, belonging to the villagers, have died in his traps and snares, or eaten the poison which he lays for foxes in the game preserves. The safety of his pheasants is paramount, the greater

  the slaughter on shooting days, the more prestigious his role becomes amongst the guests who shoot at Winchcombe."

  "A decidedly unpleasant character, by all accounts," Holmes mused.

  "Second only to my father. On the night in question I was somewhat later retiring than usual. As I passed the library about eleven o'clock, I noticed that a light still burned beneath the door. Fearing lest my mother might have fallen asleep in her chair, or perhaps become ill, I knocked on the door. After several knockings, and receiving no response, I hastened to summon Jenkins, the butler. Jenkins forced the door open and there ... oh, Mr Holmes!"

  I reached across and patted her hand. Bravely, Gloria Morgan pulled herself together, and continued her narrative. "It was clear at first glance that my mother was dead. That, in itself, was awful enough but nothing by comparison with the expression on her features and the way in which her body was twisted into an unnatural posture. Mr Holmes, there is no doubt that my mother died in indescribable agony, unable even to call for help."

  "You then sent for the doctor?"

  "Yes. Jenkins rode at once to the village to fetch Doctor Lambeth who arrived soon after."

  "And your father?"

  "My father did not return until after the doctor's arrival. His show of distress was so shallow that the most amateurish of stage actors could have improved considerably upon his pathetic performance. Doctor Lambeth examined my mother and diagnosed that she had died of lockjaw which seemed to satisfy my father."

  "There would most certainly have been signs of the malady before death took place," I interposed. "A tetanus sufferer would have experienced pain long before the final convulsions."

  "Precisely!" Holmes added. "Miss Morgan, did your mother appear unwell in any way during dinner?"

  "No," Gloria Morgan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, "but of late she has suffered a loss of appetite due, I presume, to her unhappy state of mind. She ate very little on the night in question, just picked at her food."

  "And the remains of her meal?"There was a sharpness about

  my friend now which had been absent of late. It appeared that Miss Morgan's story had aroused his interest above the level of a routine investigation.

  "Oh, I know what you're thinking, Mister Holmes," our visitor gave a hollow laugh. "The same thought crossed my mind, that some form of poison had been introduced into my mother's food. In my grief and anger I suggested that to both Doctor Lambeth and my father."

  "And?"

  "My father laughed cruelly. 'Very well', he said, leading us through to the dining room, 'just to prove to you how unfounded your stupid fears are, we will feed the remnants of your mother's meal to the dogs.' We followed him outside to the kennels where the dogs voraciously devoured those leftovers. The animals were still in excellent health when I left to catch the train to London this morning."

  "I see." It was impossible even to guess what Sherlock Holmes was thinking as he lapsed into silence. I knew better than to enquire of him for he would reveal them when he was ready and not until.

  Miss Morgan and I glanced at each other and there was no mistaking the anguish in her eyes. She had come here with a desperate plea for help and Sherlock Holmes was her only hope.

  "Watson and I will travel down to Hampshire by the first available train in the morning." Holmes had made his decision and he knew, without asking, that I would accompany him. "It is important that I examine the scene of this untimely death without your father's k
nowledge, Miss Morgan. Can that be arranged?"

  "Most certainly," There was sheer relief in her reply. "In spite of my mother's sudden death, my father has not seen fit to cancel a day's pheasant shooting tomorrow. He will be out in the fields and coverts with his guests from around ten in the morning until mid-afternoon."

  "Admirable!" Holmes snapped his long thin fingers. "I would prefer you to return to Winchcombe this afternoon, Miss Morgan. I presume that your father has no idea that you have visited me."

  "None, whatsoever. In fact, should he find out." I glimpsed a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes. "I dread to think what he

  might do. As well as being one of the best shots in England, my father has a violent streak in him. This was evident only last winter when he and Randall caught a poacher in the Home Covert, an otherwise harmless villager who only sought a pheasant for his dinner. The man was in hospital for some weeks afterwards with broken bones. Had it not been for my father's position, as well as squire he is chief magistrate, then I fear that the local constabulary would have brought a charge of assault against him."

  "Then we shall hope to conduct our investigations undetected." Sherlock Holmes smiled as he rose to his feet. "One final question, Miss Morgan, hurtful as it may be, your mother's body ..."

  "It lies in an ante room. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow."

  "Excellent, Watson!" Holmes said when Gloria Morgan's receding footsteps had faded. "I shall be obliged for your professional opinion on the deceased in due course. Also, it might be advisable if you slipped your service revolver into your pocket. The man we are up against, as well as being of a violent temperament, is one of the best shots in England. We cannot afford to take any chances."

  A shimmering of snow sparkled across the countryside as Holmes and I travelled down to Andover on the early morning train. My companion spoke little throughout the long journey and I knew that he was turning over in his mind everything that Miss Morgan had told us yesterday. Her story had a ring of truth to it, incredible though it seemed on reflection. Had her mother really been murdered or was it fanciful thinking by a distraught young lady? If it was murder, then how had Violet Morgan been killed within a locked room, and the act so disguised that her death had been diagnosed as from natural causes by an experienced GP? Was Doctor Lambeth in league with Royston Morgan? Was Randall, the gamekeeper, with his store of poisons with which to kill vermin and roaming domestic pets, involved? I had enough confidence in my companion to know that if there was foul play then he would unravel the truth. The weight of my service revolver in my overcoat pocket brought mixed feelings of comfort and unease. All too often

  when Holmes had instructed me to bring a pistol along we had had need of it. The man's intuition was astounding.

  On our arrival at Andover, we hired a carriage, Holmes instructing the driver to take us to Winchcombe Hall but to remain at a safe distance and to await our return. It was early afternoon as we walked up the winding poplar-lined drive.

  In the distance, where a long narrow wood snaked over the horizon, we heard the sound of gunfire. Occasionally, we glimpsed a whirring speck that was undoubtedly a pheasant bursting from cover, a bird that had survived the line of guns, gliding on downhill to land in a field of snow-covered turnips.

  "At least our friend, the squire, will be kept busy for a while," Holmes remarked as we passed through a clump of rhododendrons and had our first view of the big house. I noticed that the extensive snow-covered lawns were severely disfigured by the workings of moles, something to which Miss Morgan had alluded on her visit to our rooms in Baker Street.

  Winchcombe Hall was set in a large clearing amidst tall pines and mature shrubberies. It was clearly of Georgian origin, three-storeyed and with high chimneys. Undoubtedly, once it had been a magnificent country residence but now there was-evidence of loose mortar and the west wall was badly damp-stained. Which was all the more reason for Royston Morgan wanting to acquire the wealth of an eligible widow, I decided, but kept my thoughts to myself for Holmes would not have thanked me for them. A number of carriages were parked at the rear; undoubtedly, Squire Morgan had a full compliment of sportsmen for today.

  Even as we mounted the wide flight of steps, the front door opened and there stood Gloria Morgan, a long black dress accentuating her pallor. Yet in spite of her grief, her delight at seeing us was all too evident.

  "Oh, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson," she cried, "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you have come."

  "Have there been any further developments?" My companion asked as we stepped into the marble-floored hallway.

  "No." She shook her head. "Everything is still as it was when I left yesterday. My father is too preoccupied with his pheasant shooting to concern himself with a matter which he considers to be concluded. The library is through there." She indicated

  a door that was partly open. "My mother ..." Her trembling finger pointed to a closed door at the rear of the hall.

  "Perhaps, Watson," Holmes glanced meaningfully at myself, "you would be so kind as to take a swift professional look at the departed whilst Miss Morgan accompanies me into the library. I am curious to view a locked room where death can strike so swiftly. I will join you shortly."

  I lifted the lid of the polished oaken coffin and looked down upon Violet Morgan. Death, and the obvious agony that had accompanied it, had done its utmost to destroy her striking beauty. The soft lips were swollen and marked where she had bitten them, and even the passing of rigor mortis had not removed the grimace from her face. She screamed mutely up at me, for her final suffering had been terrible beyond belief.

  I bent over and sniffed at her mouth but the only odour was that familiar smell of death. The palms of her hands were gouged where her fingernails had dug deep and the mortician had been unable to straighten out her fingers fully, it was as though they were afflicted with some deformity. I checked for any signs of an open wound, a cut or scratch, that might have allowed tetanus to enter her bloodstream, but there were none apart from those inflicted by herself.

  Certainly the corpse bore some resemblance to the final sufferings of a victim of lockjaw but tetanus would not have struck so suddenly and without warning. Either Doctor Lambeth had never witnessed a case of lockjaw or he was taking advantage of an easy alternative. Or else he was determined to shield Squire Morgan at all costs. I was far from satisfied at what I had seen.

  I heard the door open and Holmes joined me. He stood there looking down upon the corpse and I knew that his keen eyes missed nothing.

  "Her suffering was terrible, indeed, Watson," he spoke in a low voice for fear that Gloria Morgan might overhear him.

  "Yes, but it was not lockjaw," I asserted, "but surely some kind of poison that is undetectable."

  "Many poisons leave little or no trace." He bent over the corpse. "You really must read my treatise on poisons, Watson. Ah!" His fingers lifted up one of Violet Morgan's clawed hands,

  moved it so that the fingertips were exposed to view. "You noticed that faint stain on the tip of the forefinger, Watson?"

  "I did not regard it as being of any significance," I replied somewhat abruptly for I sensed that my companion was criticizing my professionalism.

  "Let us return to the library." He straightened up. I followed him out into the hallway, feeling a little offended by his abruptness. Whatever the relevance of that discolouring of the deceased's fingertip, it clearly needed to be corroborated by an inspection of the scene of the crime. However, I knew better than to interrupt my colleague's train of thought.

  In the library Holmes commenced a minute examination of the windows and the door.

  "A beetle could have entered via the gap beneath the locked door," he spoke without looking round, "but nothing larger than an insect. Miss Morgan informs me that her mother always kept the windows tightly shut, even in summer, as she had a phobia about night moths. But, on the night in question, the temperature would have been below freezing so no window woul
d have been open, anyway." He moved across to a section of bookshelving, tilted his head slightly to one side to enable him to read the lettering on the spines of the volumes. "Hawker's Diaries, I perceive, and also that worthy man's Instructions to Young Sportsmen." He reached down the latter leather bound tome and flipped the pages. "Well read, I see."

  "As I have already told you, my father virtually worships Hawker and everything that the man stood for," there was a note of mingled repugnance and annoyance in her tone at this seeming digression from Holmes's investigations. "My father's lifelong ambition was to acquire Longparish. The place would have been a virtual shrine for him, but I am afraid family finances have been dwindling for some time."

  "And your father needed to acquire the necessary funds from other sources," Holmes remarked. "I see that there is a sizeable collection of medieval works. Also well read." He was examining another volume.

  "My father was no lover of literature, Mr Holmes, he only read sporting books and those medieval works. Mostly reprints, as you will see, and some books appertaining to that period."

  "Hmmm." Holmes's expression had changed, he was staring fixedly at the open pages of the volume in his hands. From where I stood I was just able to read the title on the spine, "Herbs and Plants of the Thirteenth Century; Their Cultivation and Uses" Holmes read intently, he seemed oblivious of our presence in the room.

  "Mr Holmes," there was a new nervousness in Gloria Morgan's voice, "the day's shooting usually concludes towards mid-afternoon in order that the unscathed pheasants may go to roost in peace. The party will be returning shortly. I had not anticipated that your investigations would take so long."

  "Tell me, Miss Morgan", Holmes appeared not to have heard her warning or else he chose to ignore it, "what was your mother's taste in reading?"

  "English literature. She read and re-read her favourite authors."

  Sherlock Holmes turned his attention back to the bookshelves, his gaze searching out that section which contained works of literature.