by Dick Gillman
“But how has it become contaminated? Surely you do not suspect deliberate mass poisoning?”
Holmes frowned. “Unlikely, Watson, but it is a possibility. I think we must wait for confirmation of our theory from Dr Parry before we can proceed. I need to think more on this.”
Chapter 10 - Memories and Epsom salts
Nothing more could be done that day and on the following morning Holmes could be seen in the lounge pacing like a caged tiger, desperate for the results of the analysis. “Steady Holmes.” said I, conscious of the frustration that was rapidly consuming him.
Holmes stopped pacing, his eyes ablaze. I knew that I must offer some form of distraction. “Lymington has some fine, open air, baths, I have a fancy to take a little exercise and see them. Would you care to join me?”
Holmes nodded, realising that he needed to retreat from his growing obsession with the results of the analysis.
Within a few minutes we were off. As we walked, I could see a subtle change in Holmes as he welcomed the distraction of physical activity.
I had read that Lymington, in days gone by, had been a centre for salt production. Seawater was collected, filtered and then evaporated in large, coal fired pans to produce high quality table salt. However, due to heavy taxation and the exploitation of a cheaper source of salt from the mines of Cheshire, the business had ceased some decades earlier.
Before long we were striding along Bath Road and approaching the plainly modern, bath house. “It doesn't look particularly Romanesque, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes and he began to chuckle. As both his friend and physician, I was relieved to see that the inner tension had been released.
The open air salt water baths were indeed extensive in size and I thought that even Holmes could not fail to be impressed. As we walked, we enjoying the dappled shade from several pine trees and observed that the baths were part open to the elements and part covered for the less hardy bathers.
We stopped briefly to admire the expanse of over an acre of water that formed the swimming pool. As we stood, I noticed a plaque on the wall of the baths. This gave some details of the pool and, also, the town's history in producing salt.
The scent of pine and the mention of salt baths brought a memory flooding back to me. My mind reeled back to my acutely embarrassing experience in Old Burlington Street. There I had had to endure an assisted bath in the case of The Bishop's Tie Pin.
Holmes was standing in the part shade with his eyes closed, face inclined, enjoying the sun's warmth. “It says here, Holmes, that not only was the town noted for its table salt production, but also for the production of Epsom salts.”
“Hmm” said Holmes, continuing to bask in the warmth.
“Yes. It says that some of the salt was dissolved in spring water and then sulphuric acid was added to...”
Holmes’ eyes flicked open. “Of course! Quickly, Watson! There is no time to lose!”
Holmes urgently tugged at my arm and we hastened to a nearby cab stand. Clambering aboard, Holmes shouted up to the driver. “Lymington Town Hall please driver, as quick as you like!” With that, we were off at a fearsome pace.
As we hurtled along, I pressed Holmes to explain. “What is it Holmes? Tell me, for pity’s sake!”
“The acid, Watson! The acid! Sugar cane is crushed and then treated with sulphuric acid to strip the sugar from it. The acid is obtained from pure sulphur but I suspect that, in this case, it has been made from iron sulphide, pyrites. Arsenic occurs naturally in the iron pyrites and has been transferred to the sugar!” I sat back in shock for this was something that I would never have considered.
Within a few minutes we were outside the town hall. Leaping from the cab, Holmes ran into the building leaving me to pay the cabbie. Following the arrow showing the Public Health department to be on the first floor, I raced up the stairs and stood panting whilst Holmes hammered on the window marked 'Enquiries'.
So intense was Holmes’ attack on the window that I feared the glass might shatter. Thankfully, a few moments later a somewhat frightened young girl opened the frosted window asking, in a trembling voice, “Yes, sir?”
“I need to speak to Dr Parry, immediately! It is a matter of life and death!” The girl blinked but did not move. Holmes’ fist crashed down upon the wooden counter and the girl scurried away in full flight.
Within moments, John Parry appeared and Holmes quickly appraised him of his suspicions. To his credit, Parry immediately sent a messenger to Redmond's instructing them to cease sugar production and also a telegram to his superior in Portsmouth.
On shaking hands, we left the town hall for there was little more that could be done. Dr Parry had informed us that he would call at The Ship Inn as soon as he had any news.
True to his word, John Parry appeared shortly after luncheon. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. I and the people of Hampshire are plainly in your debt. The results of the analysis from Portsmouth showed that whilst the sulphur sample and the hops were free of contamination, the jam contained a potentially lethal level of arsenic.”
On hearing this I gasped and struggled to keep my balance. Holmes, however, simply nodded. “Yes, the high sugar content of the jam would make it particularly toxic. What of the sulphuric acid used at the sugar refinery?”
Dr Parry looked particularly pleased. “Upon your departure, I visited Redmond's and, as you suspected, they had indeed used iron pyrites to produce the sulphuric acid. This was purely a commercial decision on their part because of a large increase in the cost of sulphur. I fear, however, that they will have to answer to the courts for such a decision.” We again shook hands and John Parry left us to our thoughts.
Sitting back contentedly in the lounge of The Ship Inn, we smoked an afternoon pipe of tobacco. Turning over in my mind the events of the last few days, I leaned over towards Holmes. “I see now the value of my aunt's bees to her continued health.”
Holmes looked wistful and blew out a long, steady stream of blue smoke. “Yes, your aunt was most fortunate. Bees are the most curious creatures. I see their devotion to their Queen and how they work towards a common purpose to be most admirable. It has stirred in me something that I have seldom felt before whilst studying any other population.”
I nodded at my friend's wisdom but suppressed a chuckle as he continued, “I look forward, with some pleasure, to Mrs Hudson's use of the fruits of their labour.”
~~~***~~~
The Second Key
Chapter 1 - A meeting with Elizabeth Carter
It was upon a somewhat gloomy day in April1901that the case that I have here recorded as that of ‘The Second Key’ began. We had breakfasted and Holmes was now entirely hidden from view behind his copy of 'The Times'. The only indication of any activity being the occasional plume of blue smoke rising from behind the paper and the odd derisory grunt as he continued to read. I had settled down to read my copy of 'The Lancet' and had become intrigued by an article reporting on 'Dermatitis from arsenic in stockings'.
From the floor below we heard the ringing of our door bell followed closely by the unmistakable sound of Mrs Hudson's tread on the stairs.
Holmes put down his paper and was then immediately alert, saying, "It appears that we have a visitor, Watson. From her step, a young lady, it would seem."
Although we had both heard the same sounds of persons climbing the stairs to our rooms, I had not been able to determine anything of our visitor. A few moments later there was a gentle knock at our door and Mrs Hudson entered. Our visitor was indeed a young lady but her appearance was somewhat surprising. Before us stood a slender figure of average height, dressed completely in black, her face covered entirely by a black, mourning veil.
Mrs Hudson nodded to us both and announced our visitor. "This is Mrs Carter, sir. She wishes to consult you."
Holmes stood and moved forwards, extending his hand, saying, "Good morning. Please, be seated. How can I be of assistance?"
Our visitor held out her black gloved hand and allowed herself to be
guided to our settee by Holmes. After she had sat for a few moments, she raised her veil. Once her features were revealed, I could see that she was a woman aged, I would say, around thirty years. Her dark brown hair was pulled back severely and her face looked drawn, eyes reddened from tears.
Taking a deep breath, she began her story. "My... my name is Elizabeth Carter, Mr Holmes. I have come to you in despair. My husband, Henry, was killed recently by an explosion at Liverpool Street Station."
Holmes looked thoughtful and then nodded, saying, "Yes, I do remember reading of this. It was reported, as I recall, that it was caused by an anarchist bomb."
Mrs Carter dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief and then continued, "But I fear it was not, sir… I know it. Henry had become involved in something... something not right. After he was killed, I was clearing out his clothes and I found this tucked away at the back of his wardrobe." Opening her black, drawstring bag, she drew from it an envelope and passed it to Holmes.
Holmes took the envelope and reached for his glass. He sat for perhaps half a minute examining it before taking out a single, folded sheet of paper. "May I read this to my colleague, Dr Watson?" asked Holmes.
Looking towards me and giving the briefest of smiles, Mrs Carter nodded in agreement.
Holmes began thus, "Here are the five sovereigns, as agreed. Make the impression and give it to the man who, on Wednesday morning, asks if there is a train that runs from Putney to Pimlico and stops at Golders Green. He will give you the ticket for the bag. You can collect it on the twelfth, but not before."
Looking towards Holmes, I could see that his face had hardened and he was now greatly concerned. "Tell me, Mrs Carter, was your husband employed by the railway?"
Mrs Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. He was the Senior Ticket Clerk at Liverpool Street Station. Please sir, I needs to know. What was Henry a party to? Anarchist posters had been posted up outside the station but he was no anarchist, sir, I am sure…" She began to sob and I moved to comfort her.
Holmes moved forwards in his chair and asked, "Do the police know of this note?"
Mrs Carter shook her head. "No sir. I was too ashamed. I didn't know if it would damage Henry’s reputation if I were to take it to them. I thought… I thought you might..."
Holmes rose and, taking Mrs Carter's hand, he gently patted it, saying, "Fear not, Madam. We will be discreet. How might we be able to find you?"
Rising from the settee, she reached again into her bag and from it removed a small visiting card. "Here sir. It was one of Henry's. I took the liberty of writing my address on the reverse."
Holmes nodded and escorted Mrs Carter to the door of our rooms. After replacing her veil and with a few final words of encouragement from Holmes, she left.
I sat and scratched my head before looking towards Holmes for some enlightenment. "You seem greatly concerned, Holmes. What are your thoughts?"
Holmes had once more taken up his pipe. His expression was grim. He seemed to be looking towards some point far in the distance. With fingers steepled against his lips, he was now deep in thought. "It is most curious, Watson. Whilst an anarchist bomb plot is an eminently plausible explanation for the explosion, this note presents further possibilities." With that, Holmes rose and began to search in our ever growing archive of newspaper cuttings. Fortunately, the explosion at Liverpool Street was but recent and so was easily found.
For the next few minutes Holmes read through the relevant articles. When he had finished, he again took up the note and envelope. Tossing it to me, he asked, "Give me your observations on this, Watson."
I caught the manila envelope and began to examine it. It appeared, to me at least, to be quite ordinary. It had seemingly been delivered by hand as it bore no stamp and had only the initials “H.C.” written upon it.
Clearing my throat, I began, "Well, the note is written in a strong, flowing hand in black ink on paper of commercial stock. There is no watermark, but I detect a slight smell of perfume... although that may be attributable to Mrs Carter. The envelope shows the recipients initials but bears no seal." I passed the note and envelope back to Holmes knowing full well that he had gained far more from it than had I.
Holmes took it from me and then wagged a finger in my direction, saying, reproachfully, “I thought, at least, that you might recognise the handwriting, Watson.”
I was taken aback for a moment. At first I didn’t realise the importance of what he was saying. “Why, I have never seen anything like… Great Heavens! Moriarty! No! It cannot be…surely not, Holmes.”
Holmes’ face was now like riven granite. “I see her hand in this, Watson…but what is her game? The note was clearly written by her and the envelope clearly shows the circular imprint of the five sovereigns.” Holmes began to fill his pipe and then continued, “But what is the meaning of the note? Clearly there is a small payment for some task to be fulfilled by Carter. Presumably, it is for making the impression that is mentioned. Logic suggests it to be an impression of a key…but for where? He is also to collect a bag, presumably by means of the ticket he is to be given…but not before the twelfth. Why, Watson? Why?”
I looked towards Holmes and shook my head. It seemed now that there were indeed more questions than answers! Suddenly, I became inspired, saying, “Left luggage! Perhaps…perhaps the ticket was for the Left Luggage Office at Liverpool Street Station!”
Holmes smiled and nodded, saying, “Quite so, Watson. That is to be my next port of call.” Springing from his chair, Holmes tapped me on the shoulder whilst crying, “Gather your coat, Watson. Let us examine the site of the explosion and also call at the Left Luggage Office.”
Chapter 2 -The Left Luggage Office
Following Holmes almost at the gallop, I headed downstairs and waited as he waved impatiently, trying to attract the attention of a passing cabbie. Having now successfully hailed a Hansom, we were on our way. Thinking again of the contents of the note, I turned to Holmes, asking, “What of the password to identify who was to receive the impression? Surely anyone might have innocently asked for this information about the train journey?”
Holmes smiled, saying, “No, Watson. That is a totally fictitious journey that could not be made.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Tell me, Watson, do you recall the date of the explosion?”
I had to think for a moment and then said, “The eleventh, I believe…no, no…the twelfth!” I sat back stunned. It was as if a thunderbolt had struck me from the heavens! “The twelfth! Good Lord! You do not think…the bag… it contained the bomb?”
Holmes’ face was now indeed grim. “I fear that it might. The intention was not only to terrorise the public, but to kill someone in particular. What better way to disguise the murder of one man than by hiding his death amongst the deaths of others? To contrive to have the police blame the explosion on anarchists, that was indeed a stroke of genius, Watson. It was truly her doing!”
I sat in the cab numb from the horror of it all. I found it most difficult to believe that anyone would sacrifice the lives of others to disguise the killing of one individual. It was beyond my comprehension.
The cab drew up outside Liverpool Street Station and we quickly found our way to the Left Luggage Office. As we walked, I observed that an area had been roped off and a police constable was standing guard. Behind the ropes, the floor of the station was scarred by a small crater, perhaps three feet in diameter. The walls were blackened and pitted from shrapnel. Thankfully, they had been washed and all traces of blood had been removed.
At our approach, the constable saluted smartly. He recognised Holmes who, in turn, raised his cane in salute. Pointing towards the area of damage, Holmes asked, “Tell me, Constable, are there any theories as to how this happened?”
The constable rubbed his chin and said, “From what I have heard, sir, it was an anarchist bomb that was probably placed beside what’s left of that bench.” He turned and pointed a stubby finger towards an iron frame and a few fragments of wood that stood by the
wall. “The Special Branch officers found a bit of a handle. They reckon the bomb was in a bag which was found by a passing railway employee. When he opened it, it exploded. The bag was full of nails and what not, they say.” The constable now looked sad and simply shook his head, saying, “Wickedness…pure wickedness.”
Holmes nodded, touched his hat and we walked on. After only some fifteen yards we found ourselves outside the Left Luggage Office. Even here the walls bore witness to the volley of metal fragments from the explosion. Holmes stood for a moment and looked back towards where the constable stood, saying, almost to himself, “Yes, that is perhaps as far as a curious man might get.”
We entered the Left Luggage Office and found ourselves inside a small, wood panelled vestibule which was painted a rather sallow cream and highlighted by a rather muddy chocolate brown. At the centre of one wall was a small counter with a mahogany top that clearly showed the many years of heavy luggage passing across its rutted surface. Behind the counter there could be seen shelves and wire racks that held trunks, valises, suitcases, carpet bags and luggage of all descriptions. Holmes pressed down upon a tarnished, tired looking circular brass bell of the type commonly found on the reception desk of a cheap hotel. Some moments later, an equally tired looking railway employee appeared behind the counter.
Holmes addressed him brightly. “Good morning. I wonder if it might be possible to look at your register for left luggage. I am particularly interested in the days leading up to the twelfth, the day of the explosion.”
The clerk looked Holmes up and down and then sniffed, saying, “I can’t do that sir. That’s private, that is. It’s against company rules.”