The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  ‘But what of means, Holmes? Could Mrs Abernetty have access to arsenic?’

  ‘Oh, that need prove no obstacle to a determined poisoner. Mrs Maybrick was accused of obtaining it by soaking fly-papers in a dish of water†. Mrs Abernetty could have done the same. Or she could have bought it at any chemist’s as a weedkiller, simply by signing the poison register under a false name.’#

  ‘And in the meantime, what can we do?’ I asked in some anxiety over Mr Abernetty’s fate.

  ‘Nothing, my dear fellow, except wait upon events,’ said he, with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

  However, I had good reason to believe that Holmes was not as sanguine about the case as he pretended. Over the next two days, his mood alternated between periods of contemplation when he would sit silently in his chair, his chin on his hand, and bursts of feverish activity when, leaping to his feet, he would hasten to the bookcase to consult one of his volumes on chemical analysis or rush precipitately from the house to hail a cab. From the stains on his fingers after these sudden excursions, I deduced he had been visiting his old haunts – the chemical laboratory at Bart’s hospital, my own former Alma Mater.* But I said nothing, not wishing to intrude upon his thoughts.

  At breakfast on the Friday morning, the day when Mrs Abernetty was due to visit her father-in-law for luncheon, he was particularly withdrawn and silent, waving aside the dish of eggs and bacon and drinking instead several cups of strong black coffee. I was therefore considerably startled when, flinging down his napkin, he suddenly struck himself on the forehead with his open palm at the same time exclaiming, ‘Oh, what a blind mole I am! I should be kicked from here to kingdom come!’

  With that, he ran from the room. Moments later, he emerged from his bedroom fully dressed and went plunging down the stairs and out into the street where I heard him whistling urgently for a hansom.†

  I assumed he had gone on some urgent business connected with the inquiry which I hoped would not occupy too much of his time in case a telegram arrived from Mrs Woodruffe, summoning us to Wimbledon.

  The hours came and went. At one o’clock, when he had not returned, I had luncheon alone. By two o’clock, my anxiety had grown so acute that, unable to sit any longer reading the newspapers, I stationed myself at one of the windows where I stood gazing down on to the hot, sunlit street, searching for his tall, lean figure among the passers-by or for a cab which seemed about to draw to a halt outside our door. But still he did not come.

  At half-past two, I noticed with sick apprehension a telegraph boy hurrying along the opposite pavement, looking up at the numbers on the houses, and I knew, even before he crossed the road, that the message he was carrying was for Holmes.

  Almost before he had time to ring the bell, I was down the stairs and had flung open the street door to seize the envelope which, as I had feared, was addressed to Holmes. Returning with it to the sitting-room, I turned it over and over in my hands, hesitating to open it in Holmes’ absence and wondering what news it contained although I feared the worst.

  It was while I was thus occupied that I heard footsteps come bounding up the stairs and moments later my old friend came bursting into the room.

  ‘Holmes, where on earth have you been?’ I demanded, my exasperation at his long delay tempered with relief at his return. ‘This telegram arrived only …’

  Before I could finish the sentence, he had snatched the envelope from my hands, torn it open and hurriedly scanned its contents.

  ‘Watson, fetch your hat and stick!’ he cried. ‘We must leave immediately. And let us pray heaven we arrive in time!’

  It was only when we were in a hansom, rattling on our way to Wimbledon, that I had the opportunity to read the message.

  It stated quite starkly: COME AT ONCE STOP MR ABERNETTY GRAVELY ILL STOP DOCTOR WITH HIM NOW.

  II

  Laburnum Lodge, we discovered when the cab drew up outside it, was a handsome red-brick villa, standing in considerable grounds. A brougham was already at the door: Dr Thorogood’s, I assumed.

  Holmes waited impatiently while I paid off the driver and, as I turned back to him, he said bleakly, pointing with his stick at the drawn blinds at all the windows, both upstairs and down, ‘I fear we are too late, Watson. The deed has already been done.’

  He set off at once at a rapid pace along a gravelled path which led round the side of the house towards its rear. As I hastened to catch up with him, he added over his shoulder, ‘We will speak to Mrs Woodruffe first, Watson, before we make any other inquiries.’

  A tearful Mrs Woodruffe answered our knock at the back door and showed us into a large kitchen where a little tow-haired maid, dressed in cap and apron, was seated at the table, her eyes round with shock. As soon as Mrs Woodruffe had dismissed her, Holmes at once plunged straight into his inquiries without any preamble.

  ‘I gather Mr Abernetty is dead. When did this happen?’

  ‘About forty minutes ago, Mr Holmes. He was taken so ill, sir, with stomach pains and sickness! He complained, too, of feeling dizzy and not being able to draw breath properly. I sent the gardener’s boy at once for Dr Thorogood but poor Mr Abernetty died about ten minutes after he arrived.’

  ‘I believe the doctor is still in attendance?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s in the morning room with Mrs William Abernetty as the blinds are down in the drawing room. She’s supposed to be suffering from shock, or so she pretends,’ Mrs Woodruffe concluded with some bitterness.

  ‘Does he suspect foul play?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Holmes. He said that as Mr Abernetty’s had these gastric attacks before, it was only to be expected, considering his age. Do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘No, not yet. First, I want to examine any evidence. You kept the food and dishes as I instructed? Where are they?’

  ‘In here, sir,’ the housekeeper replied, leading the way into a passage and opening a door which led into a cool, stone-flagged pantry, fitted with slate shelves. Laid out on trays upon these shelves were unwashed plates, glasses and cutlery as well as several covered serving dishes. Holmes lifted the lids of these in turn, revealing leftover vegetables and a ham, cooked on the bone, from which several slices had already been carved.

  As Holmes inspected all of these with rapid attention, peering, sniffing and even tasting each dish with the end of one finger, Mrs Woodruffe continued, ‘Because the weather was so hot, Mr Holmes, I served the ham cold, sir, with new potatoes and peas from the garden.’

  ‘And for dessert?’ Holmes inquired, turning away from these remains with evident dissatisfaction.

  ‘A raspberry compote, sir, with whipped cream. The left-overs are in the ice-box.’

  The box in question, a large metal container, stood nearby on a marble slab. Unfastening the catches, Holmes lifted back the lid to reveal its zinc-lined interior, packed with broken ice on which lay more dishes consisting of a bowl and a jug, holding the residue of the raspberry dessert and the cream, and a small glass dish containing a square piece of butter, decorated on top with a single sprig of parsley, from which a corner section had been removed.

  Holmes stood for several long moments of silence, contemplating these remnants but making no attempt to touch or taste them. It was impossible to read his thoughts. His eyes were hooded and his lean features inscrutable. Then, closing and fastening the lid, he turned back to Mrs Woodruffe, shooting off at her a veritable fusillade of questions, some of which seemed to me to have little bearing on the inquiry.

  ‘At what time precisely was the table laid?’

  ‘At a quarter past twelve. Mr Abernetty liked to have luncheon served on the dot of half-past.’

  ‘And when was it cleared away?’

  ‘At two o’clock, sir.’

  Holmes nodded, as if well pleased with her answer.

  ‘When you laid the table,’ he continued, ‘what was placed on it first?’

  ‘The plates and cutlery, Mr Holmes. Then the cold ham. I brought in the hot ve
getables only when Mr and Mrs Abernetty were seated.’

  ‘What about the condiments?’

  ‘You mean the pepper and salt, sir?’ Mrs Woodruffe asked. She appeared as bewildered as I at Holmes’ interest in such a trivial detail. ‘I put them out when I laid the cutlery.’

  ‘And the butter?’

  ‘I brought that in with the cold ham, sir.’ Brushing aside this last remark, Holmes plunged on, pursuing some line of inquiry of his own, the purpose of which I failed to grasp at the time.

  ‘Which way does the dining room face?’

  ‘Face?’ echoed poor Mrs Woodruffe, by now utterly confused.

  ‘Yes, face,’ Holmes repeated impatiently. ‘Is it north, south, east or west?’

  ‘South-east, I think, sir. I’ve never paid that much attention.’

  ‘So it would get the sun for most of the morning and the early part of the afternoon?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir.’

  Apparently satisfied, Holmes moved on to another topic which seemed as inconsequential as all the others.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Woodruffe, did Mrs Abernetty bring her embroidery with her?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Holmes. She has it with her now.’

  ‘That is all I wish to know,’ Holmes replied. Taking out his notebook, he scribbled a few words on a page which he then tore out, folded in half and handed to Mrs Woodruffe with the instructions: ‘Give this to the gardener’s boy and tell him to run as fast as his legs will carry him to Wimbledon police station where he is to hand the message to Inspector Willard and no one else.’

  As she dropped a little curtsy and withdrew, Holmes took a last look round the pantry.

  ‘To quote the bard again, Watson,’ said he, ‘as far as the investigation is concerned, this is a perfect example of a great reckoning in a little room.* It is quite extraordinary how Shakespeare manages so often to come up with the bon mot. And now that my inquiries are successfully completed, let us return to the kitchen and prevail on the excellent Mrs Woodruffe to provide us with some cooling refreshment.’

  ‘Completed, Holmes?’ I demanded, as I hastened to catch up with him. ‘But how? What precisely have you found?’

  ‘Evidence of murder, of course.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In those leftovers from luncheon which we have just examined.’

  ‘But I saw nothing,’ I protested.

  ‘Ah, Watson,’ said he, with a smile, ‘there is the difference between us. You merely see, while I take the trouble to observe. And now,’ he added, as we approached the kitchen door, ‘we must once more wait upon events, in this case the arrival of Inspector Willard.’

  I believe I have remarked before on Holmes’ ability to make himself at home in any surroundings whether in the fetid confines of an East End opium den or the gilded splendours of a ducal mansion.* He showed the same easy familiarity in Mrs Woodruffe’s kitchen, drinking a glass of that good lady’s refreshing, homemade lemon cordial with evident appreciation before lighting up his pipe. I, meanwhile, sat at his side, seething with impatience to know what he had discovered which pointed so conclusively to Mrs Abernetty’s guilt. It seemed to me it was something in the ice-box which had furnished that proof. But what exactly? It had contained nothing more suspicious than the remnants of the dessert served at luncheon and a dish of butter, leftover food which, had Holmes not insisted it be kept, would have been eaten by Mrs Woodruffe and the maid as their midday meal.

  I tried in vain to resolve the problem by using a process of logical deduction such as Holmes himself would have applied to the case but I could find no rational solution. As Mrs William Abernetty could not have known that, on this occasion, the food would be set aside and not eaten as usual by the servants, it therefore followed that, if the food was indeed poisoned, the servants would also have suffered the same ill effects as old Mr Abernetty. But would his daughter-in-law have taken such a risk? One elderly gentleman dying of a gastric attack was one thing; similar symptoms shown by the servants was quite another. The suspicions of Dr Thorogood, complacent though he appeared to be, would surely have been aroused? Besides, thinking back to that initial interview with Mrs Woodruffe in Baker Street, I remembered Holmes had questioned her about this very point and she had replied that neither she nor the maid had ever suffered any sickness on those earlier occasions when Mr Abernetty had been taken ill.

  And what of those other questions Holmes had put to the housekeeper on our arrival at the house? How could it possibly matter which way the dining room faced or whether Mrs Abernetty had brought her embroidery with her? Or, come to that, in what order the table had been set?

  I confess I could make nothing of it and, giving up the attempt with a rueful shake of the head, I sat back in my chair, trying to contain my impatience as we waited for Inspector Willard.

  He came about ten minutes later, his arrival heralded by two official-sounding knocks at the back door. Holmes, who had been lazily blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling, rose to his feet with a satisfied smile and let him into the kitchen.

  He was a large man, broad of girth as well as of features, and so immensely tall that he had to duck his head in order to pass under the lintel. From the manner in which he greeted Holmes, shaking him warmly by the hand, I deduced that this was not the first time the two men had met, a conjecture which was borne out by his opening remark.

  ‘Pleased to see you again, Mr Holmes,’ said he heartily, ‘although I gather from your message the news is not good. The lady in question, Mrs William Abernetty, is still on the premises?’

  ‘She is in the morning-room with the doctor, both of whom, I trust, know nothing yet of either your arrival or mine and Dr Watson’s.’

  At the mention of my name, Inspector Willard gave me a quick smile and a nod of his head, acknowledging my presence before turning back to my old friend.

  ‘And what about evidence, Mr Holmes? As I said to you this morning, I can take the lady in for questioning on suspicion but I need proof of guilt before I can charge her.’

  ‘Oh, the evidence is there, Inspector. Indeed, it is better than I dared hope. Have no fear; you shall shortly see it for yourself. And now, if Mrs Woodruffe will carry out the formalities and announce us, we will confront Mrs William Abernetty with that charge of murder.’

  The housekeeper, who had listened to this exchange in silence but with an expression of relief and reassurance on her face, spoke up for the first time.

  ‘Willingly, gentlemen,’ she replied as, smiling gratefully at the three of us, she preceded us out of the kitchen, along a passageway and through a baize-covered door into the main hall. Here, she tapped on another door and, when a woman’s voice bade her enter, she flung it open and announced in ringing tones, ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Inspector Willard, madam!’

  III

  The room into which she showed us overlooked the back garden and was furnished as a small sitting room with armchairs and an elegant little sofa covered in buttoned pink silk. Seated side by side on it, in an attitude of comfortable tête-à-tête which had been rudely interrupted by our unexpected arrival, were a man and a woman. The man, Dr Thorogood, was elderly and silver-haired, and had about him an air of smiling complacency as if well pleased not only with himself but with the young and beautiful lady whose company he was so evidently enjoying.

  For she was indeed beautiful. From Mrs Woodruffe’s comments, I had expected to find a hard-featured and overbearing virago. Instead, my first impression was of a young woman of perhaps three and twenty, delicately formed and exquisitely dressed in blue, a shade which complimented her eyes and enhanced the rich gold of her abundant hair.

  We had evidently interrupted her in mid-sentence for she was leaning towards her companion in an attitude of womanly appeal, those blue eyes full upon his face, one hand resting lightly on his sleeve, the other clutching a lace handkerchief.

  She had that attractive, mobile cast of features which readily conveys emotions; perhaps too readily, for as we entered I
saw that expression of tearful appeal which, a second before, had been directed at Dr Thorogood turn to one of sharp suspicion.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she demanded, rising to her feet.

  ‘Mrs William Abernetty?’ Holmes inquired with the greatest civility as he walked towards her.

  His voice and manner nonplussed her momentarily and her glance wavered. It was in those few seconds of uncertainty on her part that Holmes acted.

  Before she, or indeed any of us, was aware of his intention, Holmes had stooped and picked up a tapestry needlework bag which was lying on the floor beside the sofa.

  ‘How dare you, sir!’ Mrs Abernetty exclaimed, making as if to snatch it back from him. But she was too late. Holmes had already retreated a few paces and, setting the bag down on a small table, had opened it and begun to unpack its contents.

  First to emerge was an unfinished piece of petit-point embroidery, destined perhaps for a cushion cover or chairback. Next came a pair of scissors, several skeins of different coloured silk thread and a little felt booklet of needles. Last of all, he removed a black-japanned tin box about six inches square and three deep which, judging from the spray of pink blossom painted on its lid, may once have contained sweetmeats of some kind.

  At the sight of it, Mrs Abernetty gave a shriek and sank down on to the sofa, the lace handkerchief pressed to her lips.

  I confess none of us, not even Dr Thorogood, paid her the least heed; all our attention was fixed upon the box, the lid of which Holmes was in the act of opening.

  Heaven knows what we expected to see. For my part, I had no idea and I was considerably bewildered, and even a little disappointed, when, as the lid came off, the contents were revealed. Lying inside it on a bed of crushed ice, most of which had melted, was nothing more than a small glass dish containing a lump of butter. Like the ice, it was much reduced by the heat and had spread itself into an oily and misshapen residue, the parsley sprig with which it had once been decorated lying near the bottom of the dish although it was still possible to discern that the butter had once been square and that a portion of it had been removed.