by Dick Gillman
Holmes’ body was wracked with pain and he was again clutching his stomach. I went to the water closet at the end of the landing and returned with the empty pot and I also gathered the pot from my room, in case it was needed. From the washstand I took a flannel and dampened it, cleaning my friends face. It was then I detected that his breath had a slight smell of garlic which, at the time, I thought unusual but did not give it any great importance.
I sat with Holmes for several hours and tried, with some success, to administer a little Laudanum. I was indeed thankful that he was able to retain most of it. I must have dozed off as it was a little before 8 o'clock the next morning that I awoke to see my friend with his eyes open and with a little colour in his cheeks. “Ah, Holmes. I trust you are a little better?” I asked.
A weak smile showed on his face and he nodded. A thin, dry voice came from his lips. “Yes, a little better, thank you, Watson. I am most grateful for your ministrations and company last night.” Holmes tried to sit but fell back onto the pillow, his face covered in sweat from the exertion. “I am so weak, Watson, and my head swims so!”
“You must lie still, Holmes, and allow what has affected you to pass through your body.” I picked up the glass of water and held it to his lips. Holmes drained the glass, he was clearly dehydrated. I was pleased to see that he was now able to drink and he consumed almost another full glass.
A look in the chamber pot showed me that he had not vomited again but his urine presented a very dark appearance. It was as I took the pot away that I again smelled garlic. “Arsenic! But how?”
Over the years, as Holmes’ companion and also within my own practice, I had come into contact with the victims of arsenical poisoning. I cursed myself for not having diagnosed it at once.
Chapter 4 - A visit to Aunt Rachel
Returning to Holmes’ room and with the word “How?” ringing in my ears, it was perfectly clear to me that in his present condition, Holmes was unable to be part of finding the answer.
I leant close to my friend. “Holmes, old man. I am going downstairs for some breakfast but will be back shortly.” Holmes nodded weakly and I left him so nature could take its course and cleanse his body. There was little more that I could do.
Finding the landlord behind the bar, I ordered my breakfast and I also had a mind to question him about the prawns. As far as I could ascertain, this was the only thing different in our meal of the previous night. “Tell me, landlord. The prawns my friend ate last night, they were fresh?”
The landlord looked most hurt! “Indeed they were, sir. I bought them fresh from the quayside yesterday afternoon, they had just come off the boat and been cooked there and then. Me and the wife both had them last night and we are as right as rain!” I nodded and thanked him, although I could see that he was a still a little rattled by my question.
“Forgive me, landlord. I am a doctor and I have a duty to make these enquiries in order to seek the best treatment for my patient.” The landlord was somewhat placated by this and nodded in understanding.
After breakfast I returned to Holmes’ room and saw that he was sound asleep, the Laudanum was still at work. Returning downstairs, I decided that the best course of action for me was to let Holmes rest. Rather than waste the morning watching a sleeping man, I would seek out my aunt who lived but a mile or so outside Lymington.
Gathering my hat, I gave instructions that a small hand bell be placed at Holmes’ bedside and that the maid should look in on him at least every hour. Feeling that I had done all that I could, I left the inn in search of my aunt.
I found a pony and trap for hire close by and, on consulting my notebook, I found my aunt's address. Giving this to the driver we were soon off at a fair pace towards the outlying village.
August in England is a magical time and I marvelled at the colours and scents of the blossoms of the countryside, something I sorely missed as a city dweller. Soon the driver was pulling up outside a small cottage with a lawned front garden and beds filled with flowers. Climbing down from the trap I tossed the driver a shilling and asked him to return in two hours.
As I approached the cottage gate I waved to my aunt as she looked up from her weeding.
“John! How wonderful to see you!” Aunt Rachel dropped her hoe and hurried to the front gate to give me an embracing hug. “My, you look well. Come in, come in.” Aunt Rachel held my hand as she had done when I was a small child and led me to her cottage.
The cottage, whilst small, was beautifully kept and furnished in a simple, rustic style in keeping with its setting. I had been so carried along by Aunt Rachel's enthusiasm that I had not yet said a word!
“You are looking well aunt, the cottage is a picture!” As we reached the front door, I looked around, drinking in the sights and smells of a fine English summer. As a boy, I had always enjoyed going to Aunt Rachel's as she was renowned within the family for providing fine, country fare. Whether it be game pie, scones or her unforgettable, honey cake. I had always found her cooking delicious!
Aunt Rachel took me through to the kitchen. This was dominated by a large, cast iron cooking range which was immaculately clean and displayed a fine patina of black lead. Upon it, a large copper kettle was gently producing a small cloud of steam and aunt pushed it a little more towards the centre of the stove to encourage it to boil a little faster.
We sat on a bench at the large, wooden kitchen table. Sitting there, I felt I had to ask a rather more serious question. “Tell me, Aunt. How are you coping after the death of Uncle Jim?” This was a question that needed to be asked but one that I didn't relish.
Aunt Rachel's face clouded. She had been married to my uncle for well over 40 years and they had been devoted to each other. “It is hard, John. There is a lot of work involved in keeping the garden tended and then there are the repairs to the house. Jim left me a small amount of money and I'll supplement that with the money I will hopefully make from selling fruit and vegetables from the garden. I will, perhaps, be able to sell a few jars of honey from the hives too.”
For a moment I had forgotten that my aunt and uncle kept bees. As a child, I had lost my fear of bees after helping my aunt and uncle with their hives. I thoroughly enjoyed collecting and processing the honeycomb to produce superb, golden, country honey. The kettle had now boiled and steam surged from the teapot as the scalding water from the kettle fell into the pot.
“Would you care for a slice of honey cake, John?” asked my aunt. It took me barely a moment to say yes. Aunt Rachel went to the larder at the side of the kitchen and brought forth a large round biscuit tin. Opening it, she withdrew a golden brown, almost burnished, cake. Taking up a knife, she cut me a sizeable slice.
I was in heaven and instantly transported back to my childhood days. The smell was intoxicating. It was a sweet, cloying odour that coated the nostrils with pleasure. I took a bite....it was, as always, delicious!
Between bites, I endeavoured to say, “Aunt, you must give me the recipe for this cake so that I might give it to Mrs Hudson.”
Aunt Rachel gave me a strange look. I wondered if I had transgressed by asking her for the recipe.
“Even if I give it to you, John, she will be unable to make the cake.”
I was taken aback. “Is it a secret recipe, Aunt?” I asked.
“No, but I fear that she will still be unable to make it... without this.” Getting up from the table, she went back to her pantry and returned with a gleaming jar of her honey. We both laughed heartily. Of course, I remembered that Aunt Rachel always substituted honey for the sugar that would be found in a traditional cake recipe.
Chapter 5 - Absent friends
Over tea and cake I told her of my life in the City with Holmes and recounted some of our adventures. In return, Aunt Rachel talked about village life and it was then she said something that I found shocking and it greatly concerned me.
“You know, John. I and many of my friends are members of our newly formed 'Women's Institute'. We call it the 'W.I.' a
nd meet at the Parish Hall each Tuesday. We have talks from visiting speakers, we exchange recipes... and village gossip.” She smiled and then continued, but her voice took on a more serious tone. “I am very concerned that we have lost so many members of late. Our village is but a small one, barely some 150 persons and many of us are becoming elderly… but it's not right!”
I held out my hand and took hers, trying to both comfort my aunt and to encourage her to say more. “John, in the last month alone we have lost 3 members and, of those remaining, some have lost husbands. It's terrible.”
I was shocked by this. Whilst I well understand that as we age we become more frail and likely to fall victim to disease, these figures for such a small population were truly worrying. “Do you know what happened to these people, Aunt?” I enquired.
“Well, from my conversations, it appears that most of them started with sickness and stomach pains. They quite quickly became more ill and finally bed bound, unable to move their arms and legs. I visited a few of them. Mrs Harvey was barely 50 and a prolific knitter. She would knit for everybody in the village but her hands became almost paralysed and she died in great pain.”
Aunt Rachel began to sob and she covered her face with her pinafore. “We... we were all so happy, we knitted, sang and made cakes and jams together. We had a village fete for May Day, that was our last happy time together and then...then it began. Over the months since then, the villagers have just become ill and died.”
My aunt sobbed again and I stood, putting my arm around her to comfort her. “Drink some more of your tea Aunt. This is something upon which I need to consult my friend Holmes.”
I stayed for perhaps an hour and was then packed off back to Lymington with a large wedge of honey cake, the recipe and my precious jar of honey.
Arriving back at the inn I immediately enquired about the wellbeing of my friend. I was delighted to hear that he had requested a breakfast tray of tea and toast and I bounded up the stairs, collected my bag and entered his room. Holmes, I found, was sitting up, propped by two or three large pillows. His colour had started to return and I was pleased to see that he was becoming impatient to get up.
Delving into my Gladstone, I grasped my stethoscope. “I'm sorry, Holmes, I cannot allow it until I have examined you.”
“Nonsense, Watson. I am on the mend!” Holmes was a most unreasonable patient and tried to rise but I applied a firm hand to his chest which was enough to ensure his compliance.
For two or three minutes he quietly seethed as I examined him. I paid particular attention to his extremities and was reprimanded as I pricked his hands and feet to test their sensitivity. Finally he could take no more. “Great heavens, Watson! Let me be!” Pushing me to one side, Holmes swung his legs to the floor and attempted to stand. I was obliged to swiftly grasp my friend's arm to prevent him from falling. He was plainly suffering from vertigo, another symptom of arsenical poisoning.
“Sit for a moment, Holmes. You must not be so eager, it takes time to recover. From my examination, your peripheral nervous system has been unaffected but you are still weak.”
Following my advice, Holmes sat. I told him of my diagnosis regarding his illness and also of my questioning of the landlord.
“Yes, Watson. I believe you are correct. Your diagnosis matches my own thoughts on the matter but the problem remains. How can I have ingested the arsenic? If no one else was affected after eating the prawns then...” His voice trailed off as though his thoughts had taken a different track.
Angry with his own bodily weakness, Holmes still wanted to use his prodigious brain. “Tell me of your visit to your aunt, Watson.”
I recounted my visit and, in particular, I stressed the symptoms and the number of deaths of her friends at the Women's Institute. Holmes’ face clearly showed his concern.
“From what you have told me, Watson, I think we are facing an outbreak of arsenical poisoning... but from where? I am not aware of any particular sources of metal workings in this area which might use arsenic or have it as a by-product.” Holmes moved further back onto the bed and remained propped by the pillows, deep in thought. “I think I must visit your aunt before we can move forward in this matter. In the meantime, I would like you to visit the local coroner's office and obtain any details you can from inquests held on the known victims.” I nodded, making a mental note for the morning.
The next day when I appeared in the breakfast room, I discovered Holmes dressed and reading a newspaper. I drew up a chair and, as I did so, Holmes lowered his paper and tapped the front page with his index finger. “It is imperative, Watson, that I have sight of the coroner's reports, they may hold a vital clue to this case.”
“Yes, Holmes. I intend to visit the coroner's office immediately after breakfast.” I have to say that whilst I understood that the information was important, I did think I was being somewhat driven by the indisposed Holmes!
As soon as I had finished breakfast, I nodded to Holmes and, after a short walk, made my way to Lymington High Street.
The Town Hall was easily found, a very fine building with a peaked, classical facade having a relief of Greek, or perhaps, Roman figures. The body of the building was built using alternating stripes of light and dark coloured brickwork with sash windows either side of a central arched window below the peak.
On enquiring inside, I soon found the coroner's office. Here, I was provided with copies of the coroner's reports that had been released for publication in the local newspaper. I did not look at the reports but returned immediately to Holmes so that we could read them together and confer.
Chapter 6 - Considering the evidence
On returning from the coroner's office I found that Holmes was pleased to see me and eager to proceed. “Ah, Watson. Let us glean what we can.”
Holmes was seemingly almost back to full health and, to prove a point, had already lit his pipe!
I cleared the table and, dividing the twenty or so reports between us, we painstakingly read through them, mentally noting the details. I put to one side those that specifically mentioned arsenic and by the end, I was shocked to find that more than half of the reports had been identified. I had been concentrating hard on the task in hand and had not noticed that Holmes had employed the same strategy. Combining our results, of the twenty reports, twelve referred specifically to the presence of arsenic.
I was mortified. “This is horrendous, Holmes! What can we do?”
“Yes, what indeed?” Holmes put his index finger to his lip for a moment whilst he thought. “We must examine them again and look for some instance of commonality. Be a good fellow and read some of the reports aloud to me.”
I knew this to be an analytical method that Holmes often employed. He would close his eyes and concentrate his considerable powers of deduction on the substance of what he was hearing. Holmes sat back, closed his eyes and drew slowly upon his pipe.
I picked up the first report and began to read. “On the 14th of May, 1900 an inquest took place at the Spotted Cow Hotel, Lymington into the death of Irene Small. Mrs Small was 51 years of age and lived at 31, Parson's Drive, Lymington. She had been employed as a cleaner for some years at the Yew Tree Inn but had suffered poor health for the previous two months which prevented her from working. Witnesses say she had enjoyed good health up until May of this year and was sometimes seen in the Yew Tree Inn, of an evening, enjoying a glass of beer. Her death certificate showed the cause of death as peripheral neuritis and the Inquest was adjourned 'sine die'.”
Holmes blew out a long slow stream of smoke. “Be so good as to read another, Watson.”
I picked up the next report and continued. “On the 22nd of May 1900 an inquest into the death of George Partridge Bedford took place at The Bulls Head Inn, Hampton Road, Lymington. George Bedford was 36 years old and a cobbler by trade. He had complained of severe pain in his wrists and ankles that precluded him from working. He died on the 16th of May and witnesses said he looked unwell when he was seen drinking beer in
The Drover's Arms the previous night. A post mortem discovered one fortieth part of a grain of white arsenic in his liver and a trace in his kidneys and spleen. The jury considered the medical evidence that was presented and reached a verdict of death due to alcoholic neuritis due to arsenical poisoning but the source of which could not be found.”
After I had read some five reports, Holmes held up his index finger, saying, “I think there is little need for us to continue Watson. As a medical man, what is your opinion?”
I sat back and thought for a moment. “Well, it is clear that the cause of death is arsenic and the victims all seem to be drinkers to some degree. Current medical thinking is that the consumption of alcohol in some way predisposes victims to arsenical poisoning.”
Holmes stood, full of emotion. “Yes! Yes! But have a regard to what they were drinking!”
It took me but a moment to realise the import of what he was saying. “Beer! Great heavens! They all drank beer... and... the first night here, I drank cider and you drank..”
“Beer! Watson. That is the key. There is a body of evidence that suggests that those exposed to arsenic at low doses on a regular basis develop some small degree of tolerance whilst those who ingest infrequently may succumb quickly to its lethal effects. That might explain why not everyone is affected immediately but they succumb later.”
I was concerned, our reasoning could not be applied universally. “If this is so, you surely cannot be suggesting that my aunt's friends who have died are all beer drinkers?”
Holmes face showed that he was troubled. “No, now that is something that I cannot at present explain. Tomorrow we must visit your aunt but first, I think, I would like a drink at the bar.” I was taken aback. Surely Holmes was not going to risk his life to prove a theory?