by Dick Gillman
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The Birchwood Affair
Chapter 1 - The letter.
It was a cold, dreary afternoon on the first of December, 1890 when Holmes and I first became aware of the happenings which were to haunt us for the coming days. A cheery fire was burning in the hearth in our rooms at 221b Baker Street. Holmes was wrapped in his old dressing gown, playing an aria by Vivaldi on his beloved Stradivarius violin.
I then made the error of enquiring, “What is that, Holmes?”
Holmes glanced across at me whilst continuing to play. "I'm surprised you do not know it, Watson. It’s L'Inverno. Winter. I thought it quite apt."
I shrugged, exclaiming, “Hmpf...I would not say it was obvious.”
Holmes stopped playing and asking, “What? You cannot hear the thunder and lightning?” Springing from his chair he came towards me whilst plunging into an energetic display of bowing.
“Ah, yes. I see.” said I, waving him away and hoping to end the tumult of sound now assaulting my ears.
Holmes finally stopped playing and looked invigorated by his exertions. As I watched, he glanced towards the heavily draped windows of our rooms. “Hello, we have a visitor." Down in the street below, a Hansom cab had drawn up to the curb. A tall, well dressed figure descended and made his way to our front door. “Brother Mycroft, if I am not mistaken,” said Holmes, putting his violin in its case and flinging off his dressing gown. Holmes walked to the sideboard and brought over a decanter of Sherry and three glasses.
After a few moments there was a knock at our door and Mrs Hudson announced, “Mr Mycroft Holmes to see you sir.” and in swept Mycroft.
Mycroft was dressed in his usual caped frock coat, top hat and was holding a silver topped, black cane.
Holmes beamed, saying, “Ah, Mycroft. It is so good to see you."
This, I thought, was an unusually warm greeting from Holmes as relations between the two brothers had not always been cordial, to say the least.
“Good afternoon, Sherlock, Watson.” said Mycroft, turning and nodding in my direction.
Holmes brushed a pile of papers from our red velvet chaise-longue onto the floor saying, “Please, be seated. A glass of sherry perhaps?”
Mycroft removed his hat and cape and sat facing us both. Mycroft, like Holmes, was not a man to waste time on fripperies and waved a hand at Holmes. “Thank you, no, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice now became grave as he announced, “We, as a nation, have a gun to our head. This letter arrived with the Prime Minister's mail some ten days ago.”
Mycroft passed an envelope to Holmes who took it and moved closer to the gas light by the mantelpiece. Before opening it, Holmes examined the stamp and post mark, held the envelope to the light, turned it over and carefully sniffed at it. With nothing further to be gained, he opened the envelope and withdrew the single, folded sheet of paper. Again, he examined the letter thoroughly without reading the contents and then proceeded to read aloud.
“Sir, you will, by now, have had reports of outbreaks of serious illness around the country. This is not some seasonal malady but is one that I have engineered and control. At present, it is only serious for the old and the very young but it is within my power to kill large sections of the population. Unless the government deposits the sum of one million pounds into an account of which I shall provide the details, the gravest of consequences will ensue. If you agree to my terms, place an advertisement in the personal column of ‘The Times’ with the words, “Mr J. Bull agrees and wishes to settle his debt." If I have not heard from you within seven days, then as proof of my willingness to carry out my threat, ask your officials to pay close attention to the health of the population in the town of Truro, in Cornwall.” The letter was unsigned.
I was so taken aback that I said nothing for a few moments and then blurted out, “But… but this is blackmail, at a national level!”
“Quite so.” said Mycroft. “We have already had reports of unexpected and unexplained deaths from all over the country. What do you make of it, Sherlock?”
Holmes was now very quiet and had withdrawn to his favorite fireside chair. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his fingers steepled against his lips. His eyes seemed almost glazed as he stared into the distance. After a few moments he spoke. “This is a work of untold wickedness.”
“But is the scoundrel to be believed?” I shouted.
Holmes turned towards me and calmly said, “This horror will undoubtedly happen if the government does not pay or unless we find him first. What intelligence do you have from the government, Mycroft?”
Mycroft's complexion had turned ashen on hearing Sherlock's opinion. “The cabinet met three days ago and decided that this was a hoax.”
Holmes leapt from his chair, his face growing scarlet with anger, crying, “Stupid! How can the leaders of our country be so stupid? People will die as a direct result of this decision. What about Truro?”
Mycroft looked extremely uncomfortable and said, quietly, “So far there have been twenty deaths and the number being admitted to hospital is growing by the day.”
I was aghast! “Twenty dead? Good lord! What were their symptoms?”
Mycroft turned to me and spoke again, quietly, “From what I have been told, they looked pale, suffered from acute abdominal pain, sweating and difficulty in breathing. Most of the fatalities died within four hours of falling ill."
“My God! What evil are we dealing with here?" I gasped.
Mycroft now turned to Holmes. “We have suppressed the news of the deaths for the moment but word is sure to leak out and lead to panic. Will you take the case, Sherlock? The Prime Minister is holding an emergency cabinet meeting this evening and I am on my way to report back to him. What shall I tell him?”
“Say that I will take the case and he is to place the advertisement in ‘The Times’.”
“But...but this is defeat!” I shouted, rising from my chair.
Holmes waged his finger at me, his voice was firm in reply. “Not so, Watson. It means life to some poor devils and it gives us some breathing space. Quickly, Mycroft. Return to Downing Street. Watson and I have work to do." Mycroft nodded, collected his coat and cape and left at speed.
Holmes now began to pace in front of the fire. “There are clues here, Watson. I just have to think. Take a look at the letter, let me have your thoughts." Holmes handed me the envelope with the letter inside and I followed the procedure that I had seen Holmes carry out. I must admit that, to my eyes at least, it seemed a very ordinary envelope and contents. “What can you deduce from that, Watson?”
I looked again at the envelope. “I can see that it was posted in Chiswick on the 19th of November. It seems a very ordinary envelope that was sealed with wax but with no imprint on the seal. The paper of the letter seems very ordinary too. The writing is in black ink from quite a strong hand that leans to the right. Other than that I can see nothing. Did I miss anything?”
Holmes almost snatched the letter back from me. “The aggressive, well-formed letters imply that this was written by a middle aged man, a person who thinks he has no need to disguise his handwriting as he will not be caught. The style of writing is strong as you say…and confident. He owns a cat, probably a black domestic short hair breed. There is a single, short black cat hair attached to the gum of the envelope. The envelope has the smell of fresh paper meaning that it is quite new but there is also something else…a faint odour of tobacco. The paper is cheap, commercial quality that can be found at any stationers and bears no watermark.”
Holmes paused, placing his index finger to his lips as his mind sifted the facts. “It is, however, strange that sealing wax was used to seal the envelope even though it is a pre-gummed envelope. The postage stamp has been cut perfectly square from a sheet and has been placed precisely with the sides equidistant from the corner of the envelope. This infers that the person doing this is most meticulous in their actions, bordering on obsessive in their behavior. Other than that, I can
form no firm opinion." As ever, I was amazed at my friend's powers of observation.
Chapter 2 – Truro.
“Truro!” Holmes suddenly seemed galvanized and cried again, “Truro! Watson, pack a Gladstone!”
Seizing a railway almanac, he quickly thumbed his way through the pages and found the timetable for Truro. “Ha! We have just enough time to catch the six o'clock Cornish Express from Paddington!” I quickly packed my bag and we both hurried down the stairs to hail a Hansom and head for Paddington. With five minutes to spare we arrived at Paddington station. I bought two first class tickets whilst Holmes dived into the telegraph office. I took the bags to the train and hardly had I stowed them when I heard the guard shouting for any last passengers to board the train. I leaped to the door and saw Holmes running like a gazelle toward the train.
“Holmes! Holmes! Over here!” I cried and waved frantically from the doorway. Holmes ran towards me and bounded aboard, closing the carriage door with one swift movement.
We quickly settled down into our seats and caught our breath. “To whom did you send the telegram, Holmes?” I asked.
“Mycroft. I advised him of our departure to Truro and asked him to contact the local constabulary to arrange rooms for us at a local inn.”
With a shrill whistle from the guard, which was echoed by one from the engine, the train eased its way out of Paddington Station. I looked across at Holmes and saw that within moments he had drawn himself into a corner of the compartment and closed his eyes. I knew that it was pointless to ask anything further of him. He was now withdrawing into that contemplative state which I had seen so often over the years. His deductive powers could then be concentrated upon the meagre facts that we had gleaned from Mycroft's visit. For myself, I opened my bag and took from it my copy of ‘The Lancet’, published in August. As the train rumbled on towards Truro, I began to look through some of the submitted articles.
I must have dozed off as I was awakened by a tap on the knee from Holmes. “Come on, old fellow. Let us go over the case as we know it."
Gathering up my fallen copy of 'The Lancet', I blinked and sat back in my seat. “Well, speaking purely as a medical man, my interest is in the agent used to create this illness and the way it has been administered."
Holmes’ brow furrowed. "Yes, what might be the toxin and, more puzzling, how is the killer able to target his victims with some accuracy? It cannot be in the water supply or everyone would be affected. He must be able to select victims or expose specific groups to the toxin... but how?”
“Could it be the ingestion of specific foods?” I suggested. “Perhaps he has access to a bakery and can introduce a toxic agent into the flour?”
“Possibly, Watson. But a local baker or other supplier of food would only serve a small area of the town and unless our victims are concentrated in one specific area of Truro, that premise will fail. I think we may have to wait and look at the distribution of cases. Now... what of the toxin itself?”
“I have given that some thought,” said I. “I do not think it to be an infectious disease or other biological agent. Those are particularly difficult to control and this toxin can strike and kill within four hours. If I were a wagering man, my money would be placed on some kind of chemical poison."
“Splendid!” cried Holmes. “You confirm my own thoughts, Watson!”
I thought myself well pleased to have come to the same conclusion as Holmes and that cheered me for the rest of the journey to Truro.
Although well into the evening when we arrived, there was a constable waiting for us at the exit from the station. “Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson? Inspector Thomas sends his regards and has instructed me to escort you to your lodgings.”
“That's very kind of him, where are we to stay?” asked Holmes.
“The inspector has reserved rooms for you gentlemen at 'The Swan' in Kenwyn Street. This way sirs, it is but a short walk and you will no doubt want to stretch your legs." The constable led the way and after a five minute stroll we were outside the inn. “Here you are, sirs. The Inspector said he would be grateful if you would meet him at The Royal Cornwall Infirmary tomorrow morning at nine a.m. He will send a pony and trap to collect you at a quarter to nine. Now, if there is nothing more I can do for you gentlemen, I bid you goodnight." With a smile and a salute, the constable left us.
The Swan was quite a grand inn and, on entering the snug, we found a cosy bar with a gently burning log fire. There were still a few drinkers finishing off their ale and Holmes and I approached the bar.
The landlord had been expecting us and immediately came round from behind the bar to greet us. “Good evening, gentlemen. May I offer you some supper?”
Neither of us had eaten during our journey and we were pleased to accept. The landlord led us into a small dining room and a few minutes later he was placing bread, pork pie and cooked meats on the table, together with a flagon of Cornish country cider. We attacked the assembled supper with relish and, once replete, the landlord took us upstairs to our rooms.
The rooms were clean and simply furnished with a large bed, a wardrobe, a chair and wash stand upon which a large jug and bowl stood. Holmes called from across the hallway. “Goodnight, Watson. I shall call you at eight for breakfast.”
“Yes, thank you, Holmes.” I called in return and closed the door. Having undressed, I was soon fast asleep.
It seemed as though only a few moments had passed before there was a firm knock on my door and a familiar voice, calling, “It's ten minutes to eight, Watson. Shake a leg.” I heard Holmes chuckle as I sprang out of bed to wash and shave.
By eight o’clock I was dressed, had found my way downstairs and was being directed to the breakfast room. Holmes was already installed and was tucking into a plate of fine country eggs and Cornish bacon. I eagerly joined him, rounding off our breakfast with tea, brown, wholemeal toast and strawberry jam.
The landlord had been kind enough to supply us with a copy of the local paper, 'The Cornishman' published, I saw, in Penzance. Holmes scanned the front page and then frowned. “The hounds are on the scent, Watson.” tapping an editorial, entitled, 'Mystery deaths continue in Truro'. “We must indeed make haste with our investigation."
Chapter 3 - The victims.
By quarter to nine we were standing outside the inn on Kenwyn Street and a few moments later a pony and trap appeared, stopping in front of us. Nodding to the driver, we climbed in and headed off to our rendezvous. As we drew up in front of the Infirmary, we observed the tall figure of a uniformed police inspector, deep in conversation with a gentleman in morning dress.
Holmes leapt from the trap and held out his hand, saying, “Good morning. Inspector Thomas?”
The inspector shook Holmes’ hand, replying, “Good morning, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce Dr John Trewin." We all shook hands and the Inspector took the lead as we turned to approach the Infirmary. I was keen to engage Dr Trewin in conversation regarding the patients and their symptoms but I held my tongue.
I was a little surprised when, instead of entering the Infirmary by the main entrance, the Inspector turned left and led us to a building to the side of the main hospital. “I'm sorry if this is not what you expected, gentlemen, but under the circumstances...” His voice trailed away as he said this.
Ahead of us was a door guarded by a constable who saluted as we approached. Once inside, we found ourselves in what appeared to be the isolation wards of the old fever hospital. These consisted of two separate wards, one male and one female. From a brief glance through the glazed doors leading into the wards, I could see that many of the patients looked gravely ill. I nodded to Holmes, leaving him free to converse with Inspector Thomas whilst I moved towards the door of the female ward with Dr Trewin.
Dr Trewin was a local Cornishman, well built and smartly dressed. Although bright eyed, he looked tired with deep worry lines upon his face. “Tell me, Dr Trewin, are the symptoms common to all the patients?”
“Indeed, Dr Watson. Remark
ably so. The progress of the illness seems to follow the same pattern. It is particularly hard when nursing the children as it is they who seem most affected." I considered this for a moment and felt that it was in keeping with our theory of a chemical poison. It was my reasoning that if each patient had ingested the same amount of toxin then, because the bodies of children and women were smaller than men, the amount of poison per pound of body weight was markedly increased. Hence, the effects of the poison was also increased.
I went to the bedside of a young girl of around sixteen years. She was terribly pale and her breathing shallow. My shadow passed across her face as I moved closer and her eyes flickered open. She opened her mouth and tried to speak but I held my finger to my lips. I felt her pulse which was weak but rapid. She was sweating and obviously in some considerable pain as one of her hands rested on the bedclothes above her stomach and, occasionally, tightened into a fist.
Dr Trewin stood by my side and talked quietly at my shoulder. “This young girl is one of the lucky ones. She was brought in yesterday evening and has survived the night. We find that, generally, if they survive the first four or five hours of being here, then they slowly recover. Her name is Becky Smith, she works in the Post Room here at the hospital." I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and in return she gave me a weak smile.
Dr Trewin and I moved around the ward looking at each patient. At each bedside he gave me a brief history of each one as he knew it. Some were much worse than little Becky and I feared that they would not survive.
“Are the male patients much the same?” I asked.
“Yes, Dr Watson, but there are far fewer of them."
I thought this a curious fact and pondered it as we returned to the hallway between the wards. Holmes had been deep in conversation with Inspector Thomas but beckoned me, asking, “Ah, Watson. What do you make of this?”