“Good evening, Harper. Good to see you,” the man said jovially, thrusting out his right hand. He gripped Harper’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Then he turned to me.
Harper introduced the man as Dr. Neill. He shook my hand while staring at me with a foolish grin half-hidden by a thick dark mustache. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes glared at me slightly askew. I could not help but think that either the man had too much to drink that night, or I had.
After a few more words, the man and his escort walked down the street.
The cab dropped Harper off at his Lambeth Palace Street room and took me home. I had fallen asleep and the cab driver had to rouse me when we reached my residence.
I barely remember going to bed that night, and I arose late the next morning. I returned to South London to continue the investigation. After some inquiries, I found that the victim of the first poisoning from last October had been staying at 8 Duke Street, off of Westminster Bridge Road. I found Duke Street to be dark and dirty and No. 8 was a rooming house, but not as well-kept as the Miss Sleaper’s on Lambert Palace Road. The woman who owned the house, Mrs. Collins, came to the door, and when I said I was inquiring into the death of one of her past lodgers she gave a shudder. She wore a faded and worn housedress, partly covered by a faded and worn apron. Upon her greying hair was tied a headkerchief. She spoke to me through the partly opened doorway.
“Ooh, that was horrible, that was,” she said with a grim expression on an already careworn face. “I’m not likely to forget that night. Poor Ellen... Ellen Donworth for that was her name. A good girl. Young, only nineteen. It was horrible sir, horrible. Two men carried her in from the street. They say she collapsed near Waterloo Road, and she was able to tell them where she lived. She was in awful pain, sir, awful pain. We had her on her bed upstairs. The whole house was roused. She was in agony. Ooh, I’ll never forget how she cried out and writhed in agony. We sent for a doctor and they took her to hospital, but she died. Poisoned they say. I’ll never forget it.”
“No way of knowing who poisoned her?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“No, sir. She was never able to say.”
“Did you know with whom Miss Donworth went out? Who her friends were?”
Mrs. Collins brought a finger to her chin in thought. “You know who might know more about Ellen is Annie Clements.”
“Annie Clements? Who is she?”
“Annie and Ellen were good friends.”
“Where might I find her?”
“Right upstairs. She’s one of my lodgers. Wait here. I’ll get her for you.”
I was left standing on the stoop for several minutes. Then the door opened, and standing in the aperture was a sleepy young woman in her nightdress.
“Annie Clements?” I said. She nodded. “Miss Clements, my name is Dr. John Watson, and I am interested in the death of Ellen Donworth. Mrs. Collins told me you and Ellen were good friends. Could you tell me anything about the men who called on her?”
“They didn’t exactly call on her,” Miss Clements said. “What I mean to say, her men did not come to the house.”
“Did you ever meet any of the men with whom Miss Donworth went out?”
“There was Ernest Linnell. Ellen took up with him for a while. She sometimes went by the name Ellen Linnell, but they were on the outs for weeks before... before Ellen... died.”
“Do you think Ernest Linnell could have poisoned Miss Donworth?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Did you and Ellen ever... go out together?”
The young woman looked affronted. “Not the way you think. I don’t do that sort of work. I have a day job. Sure, it’s only as a cleaning woman, but it’s good honest work.”
“Of course it is. I meant no offence, Miss Clements,” I said. “Do you remember anything about that last night that your friend went out?”
Annie Clements thought for a brief moment, and then spoke slowly as the memory passed before her mind.
“That morning, I was getting ready to go to work. Ellen showed me a letter that had arrived by the first post. She told me the letter was from a gentleman she had met. The letter told her to meet him outside the York Hotel, in the Waterloo Road. He added something strange.”
“What was strange?”
“The man told Ellen to bring his letter with her to prove that she received it. Neither of us understood why he asked her to do that.”
“The letter is evidence. He did not want it left behind.”
“So you believe that this man who wrote the letter poisoned Ellen?”
“It is very likely.”
The young woman released a soft gasp.
Annie Clements could not tell me the man’s name, nor give me a description of him - only that Ellen Donworth described him as a gentleman.
I left Duke Street and headed for the scene of the most recent poisonings.
Stamford Street runs between Waterloo Road and Blackfriars Road. The street’s past elegance is evident from its terraced houses, fluted columns out front, and round-headed windows. But many of the houses appear unkempt, unwashed, and have fallen into decay. The road surface is cracked or missing in places, and garbage clogs the gutters.
I knocked on the door of No. 118, and it was answered by a man whom I took to be Mr. Vogt. I remembered him from the newspaper article.
“Mr. Vogt,” I began quite amiably, “My name is Dr. John Watson, and I am here to inquire into the deaths-”
“I don’t care who you are!” Vogt said angrily. “I ain’t got time to answer questions from every gadabout looking for gruesome gossip about those poor girls! Now you get yourself out of here, Mr. Busybody, before I set the dog on your heels!”
With that, Vogt slammed the door in my face.
I hadn’t wanted to go to the police, but I had little choice if I wanted to gather any more information. After some discreet inquiry, I was directed to Inspector Harvey of the Lambeth Division.
He agreed to see me in his office. He was a burly man of medium height, with light brown hair and eyes. His face was wide, with wide features, and he wore a grim expression. He did not appear happy to see me, and he looked at my card and read it aloud: “‘Dr. John H. Watson, MD’. What can I do for you, Dr. John H. Watson, MD?”
I was not certain why he had taken such a condescending tone toward me, but I was not going to let that dissuade me.
“Inspector Harvey, I was wondering if you might give me some information on the strychnine poisoning case involving the two women of Stamford Street.”
“So, you would like me to discuss the Lambeth Poisoning case, would you, Dr. Watson? Plan on solving the case yourself, Doctor? Or are you here gathering information for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Inspector Harvey, let me assure you-”
Harvey held up a staying hand and, opening the top desk drawer he removed something, dropping it on his desk so that I could see it. It was the April edition of The Strand Magazine. I believed it carried the story of “The Noble Bachelor”.
“You are that Dr. John H. Watson, aren’t you?” Harvey asked.
“Yes, Inspector, I am.”
He picked up the magazine and leafed through it.
“I never miss an issue. I particularly like your stories about your friend the... what did he call himself? ‘The world’s first consulting detective’. These stories make every policeman appear incompetent or foolish.”
“If that is true, Inspector, then I apologize,” I said sincerely. “Let me assure you, I am not here because of Sherlock Holmes, but I am interested in learning what I can about this bad business.”
“You’re not here related to the late Mr. Holmes?”
“No, I am not.”
Harvey studied me briefly, then brought ou
t a folder from the same top desk drawer and opened it. He scanned through some notes in the folder and read from them.
“Shortly before three o’clock on the morning of April 12th, Constable Eversfield was called to 118 Stamford Street by Mr. Vogt to see to one of his lodgers, Miss Alice Marsh, age twenty-one. Miss Marsh, in her bed-gown, was in considerable distress, screaming in pain, bathed in sweat, and shivering and shuddering uncontrollably. Just then another lodger, Emma Shrivell, age eighteen, cried out from the floor above and was found in the exact same condition.
“Constable Eversfield had brought a cab to the house, and both young women were rushed to hospital. When they arrived at St. Thomas’s, Alice Marsh was dead. The house physician, Dr. Wyman, treated the other woman, Emma Shrivell, but by eight o’clock that morning, the young woman died. Both deaths were attributed to strychnine poisoning.
“Constable Eversfield attempted to question the women, even in their death throes, hoping for a clue. Their responses were hard to understand. The young women were able to say that they had eaten tinned salmon and beer.
“I personally went to the house and confiscated the open can of salmon. It was tested, but there was no trace of strychnine.”
I had listened intently to Harvey’s report. “Were the women able to say anything else?”
The inspector scanned the report and shook his head. “They were both in terrible pain. Most of what they said was indecipherable. There was reference to someone named Fred and some long thin pills.”
“Was this Fred clue looked at?”
“No. Fred is likely an alias.”
“Probably. The question remains: Why has Fred killed these three women?”
Harvey gave a strange look. I asked him if there was something. Harvey hesitated thoughtfully before he spoke.
“What I tell you now, Dr. Watson, is in the strictest confidence. Very few people know this, and I am asking you not repeat it. We now believe the Lambeth Poisoner has murdered four women. In late October, Matilda Clover, who resided at 27 Lambeth Road, became ill. She had been warned about her excessive drinking, and even after her death, it was assumed she died of epileptic seizure, ending in heart failure brought on by alcoholic poisoning. Her body was recently exhumed, and after a close examination, the true reason for her death was discovered.”
“Strychnine poisoning,” I said.
Harvey nodded.
“So that is four women.”
“And there will be more unless we stop him.”
“I agree.
We sat there in silence, knowing we had not one clue on how to identify the Lambeth Poisoner.
“I am curious about something,” I said. “It may be important, or it may mean nothing.”
“What is it?”
“There were two poisonings in October, and two poisonings in April. What could that mean? Why wait? What did he do for almost six months?”
“It’s a good question, Doctor, but I don’t have the answer.”
I left Inspector Harvey with the assurance that if I learned anything about the Lambeth Poisoner, I would let him know immediately.
I hadn’t told Harvey about the letter Dr. Joseph Harper had shown me, nor did I tell him that the younger Harper could be a suspect. I wished to eliminate Walter Harper, but truthfully I could not. I began to think about the man who had written the letter to Joseph Harper and had signed his name Murray. Was he simply a blackmailer, or did he know something? Did he know who the killer was, or was he the killer?
I decided to speak with young Harper again.
It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at 103 Lambeth Palace Road. Miss Sleaper appeared pleased to see me again. She invited me in for tea and informed me that Walter Harper was not at home, but that I was welcome to wait for him.
Miss Sleaper joined me for tea and was very talkative about her lodgers. She held Walter Harper in the highest regard.
I asked her if she had any other medical students lodging with her. She told me she has had many students in the past, but presently Walter Harper was her only student.
“Of course, I do not count Dr. Neill,” she said absently.
“Dr. Neill?”
As if on cue, a man appeared in the aperture of the sitting room. Both Miss Sleaper and I started slightly at his appearance. He was of average height, but that was the only thing average about him. His hair was thin, and he was noticeably balding on top of his tall domed skull. He wore small wire-rimmed spectacles, but the dark eyes behind them were askew. His eyes and the strange grin beneath his thick mustache gave him an odd, almost manic appearance. He was well-dressed, but his clothes looked out of place with the man himself, as if someone had dressed up a smiling hyena or a grinning baboon. It was not a very kind observation, but it was my personal impression.
“Dr. Neill,” Miss Sleaper said, half embarrassed, as if she had been caught speaking out of turn. “This is Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, this is one of my best lodgers, Dr. Thomas Neill.
I rose and took a step toward the man, and he approached me, his eyes on my face as if he were studying me intently.
We shook hands and I said, “But surely we have met before.”
“Have we?” Neill said slowly, as if suspecting some deception.
“It was only last night,” I said. “It was outside The Canterbury. I was with Walter Harper. I am afraid I’d had too much to drink. My apologies.”
“Outside The Canterbury with Walter Harper,” he repeated absently. “Yes, I do recall.” Then he smiled, but it did not appear genuine.
“You were with a young woman,” I added.
The smile fell from his mouth. Neill had been chewing gum, but his jaw stopped moving. The man still had a grip on my hand, and it tightened.
I pulled my hand away and he released his grip.
“Dr. Watson, would you care to come up to my room where we can talk?” he asked.
“That is very kind of you,” I said. I turned to Miss Sleaper and thanked her for the tea.
I followed him up the stairs to his room. He led me to a small living room with an adjoining door that presumably led to his bedroom. Dr. Neill’s living room contained two chairs on either side of a fireplace, with a small table between the chairs. In the corner sat two trunks. Standing in another corner was a narrow hall tree, upon which hung a top hat and a black coat. Against the far wall was a narrow window with a partially obstructed view of the river.
“Please have seat Dr. Watson,” Neill said. “Feel free to smoke.”
We sat, and Neill regarded me with those strange eyes, his jaw moved repetitively.
“You are American, Dr. Neill?” I said.
“Now why would you say that?”
“The chewing gum... and your accent. They are both American.”
He gave me a crooked grin.
“I am Canadian. My family immigrated to Canada from Scotland when I was a wee lad. I graduated McGill. Do you know it?”
“I am afraid not.”
“A fine university. First rate.”
“So, do you have a practice here in London?”
He stopped chewing his gum
“I was doing some postgraduate work at St. Thomas’s, but on my last visit back to Canada I was offered a job as the London agent for the Harvey Company.”
“When were you Canada?”
“This past winter. I only returned to London in April.”
“The Harvey Company?” I asked.
“Yes. The G. F. Harvey Company is a large and prestigious drug company of Saratoga Springs, New York. Let me show you something.”
Neill sprang from his chair and entered his bedroom. He returned with a wide grin, carrying a salesman’s polished wooden sample case, which he placed on the floor in front of me. Like a boy unwrapping
his gift at Christmas, Neill opened the case to reveal its contents. The inside was divided into three sections. Over fifty small bottles lined the three sections, held in place by leather straps.
“Isn’t it elegant?” Neill said, kneeling by the case and running his hands over it lovingly.
“What do you have in there?” I asked.
“They are samples only, you understand... medicinal doses.”
“Medicinal doses of what?”
“All types: Cocaine, opium, morphine... strychnine.”
“It is a very nice case,” I said.
Neill closed it up and took it back into his room.
He came back in and stood before me. “Wait here and I will get us some drinks.” He rushed out of the room and I heard him descend the stairs.
I rose from my chair and looked about the room. I went over to the bedroom door, opened it quietly, and looked inside. There was a small brass bed. The brass had long tarnished. A lamp sat upon a small table next to the bed. A portmanteau stood partly open in one corner of the room. There was another trunk. I did not see the wooden sample case. It was probably kept under the bed. I stepped into the room. I thought I heard Dr. Neill returning. I quietly closed the door and gingerly stepped over to the mantel. Next to it was a waste basket filled with newspapers. I took them out to look at them. There was copies of the Evening Monitor, Echo, Globe, News, and Star. Just then, Neill returned with a small tray holding two glasses.
“You certainly like to keep up on the news,” I told him, dropping the papers back into the basket.
“Yes,” was all that he said. He put the tray on the table and stood facing me with a glass in each hand.
“Have you been reading about the poisonings?” I asked. “I hear three women have died.”
“I heard it was four,” he said, with a playful grin.
“Four!” I exclaimed. “Are you certain?”
“I am positive.”
“Four women. Wherever did you hear that?”
“Oh, I have my sources, Dr. Watson.” He handed me a glass.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 32