by David Marcum
“And Lady Elizabeth?”
“Almost the polar opposite, Mr. Holmes. Although also well-liked in town, she is not from here, and when I say ‘here,’ I mean to say England. Sir Evan took a two-year world-tour after his father died, and he arrived back on these shores a married man. Lady Elizabeth is actually an Elizabetta who grew up rich and privileged in Italy. She is a charming, warm woman who has captivated the local social scene and has turned more than a few heads. But here we are, and you can meet her momentarily for yourself.”
We alighted from the carriage and were standing in front of a large three-storey block of a manor house. The door we were about to enter was set into the right front façade of the home. Its curved header was mimicked in all of the long windows on this, the ground floor of the home. I glanced about as we entered the portico and saw that the house stood on a large plot of land that was probably once a much larger estate.
We were greeted at the door by Michaels, the Thornton’s valet and butler, who informed us we could wait in the library for Mrs. Thornton to come down and speak to us.
“Before we do that,” said Holmes, “I would like to examine the body.”
“Right this way, Mr. Holmes,” replied Neal, leading us up the central stairs and into a well-appointed bedroom.
Sir Evan Thornton’s body was on the bed, covered by a single sheet. Neal closed the door behind us and Holmes removed the temporary shroud.
Sir Evan’s face was contorted in a paroxysm of agony. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his hands were clenched.
“Note the rigidity and the facial expression. This was not a natural death. What do you make of it, Watson?” asked Holmes.
I leaned over and looked into the corpse’s eyes and mouth. The eyes were that of any dead man, and the mouth and odour from it were also no different. Many poisons leave traces or tell-tale signs in both locations, but in this case there was nothing. From a small mark on the arm it was clear that the local doctor had drawn blood to have it tested.
Holmes watched me as I made my examination of the body. As I rose and stepped away, he asked for my opinion.
“I would have to agree with the local doctor. At this point I would say poison or poisons unknown is the cause,” I replied.
After this morbid examination, the three of us left the death room and walked downstairs and into the library.
The library was a typical one for a country estate. The room, which featured doors leading into the garden, was lined with book cases. A long table dominated one end of the room, while a large, heavy desk commanded respect at the other. As we waited, the ever-curious Holmes wandered the room, looking at the collection of rare and not-so-rare books.
“Mark my words, Neal. You can learn a lot about a man by the books he keeps, and even more by the books he reads,” said Holmes, looking over the shelves near the desk.
Shortly afterwards, Michaels opened the door and Lady Thornton, dressed in full mourning, glided into the room, aided by a man who could only be her brother.
“Gentlemen, I am Lady Elizabetta Thornton, and this is my brother, Mario Conti,” said our host as we introduced ourselves.
Lady Elizabetta was a raven-haired Italian beauty.
“I will do whatever I can to help you in your investigation. My husband’s murderer must be found. Stop at nothing, the cost is immaterial,” she said.
“Madam, I am here to find the truth, not a pay day,” replied Holmes. “Can we begin with last night?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” said Lady Elizabetta, sitting on the settee, while her brother stood resolutely behind her.
“My husband returned home late from the city. He often returns on the six p.m. train, but that night it was the 8:15. He was picked up at the station by Michaels. I saw my husband briefly and then retired for the evening. I know nothing more of his movements until the next morning when Michaels found him.”
“Do you know who he saw while in the city?” asked Holmes.
“No sir, I do not. My husband kept the various business aspects of the estate very close to himself. He once told me the firm of lawyers he uses, or I should say used, but I have no idea what took him to London yesterday,” answered Lady Elizabetta.
“Very succinct, Lady Thornton, thank you. Mr. Conti, did you see Sir Evan yesterday evening?”
“I did, indeed. In fact, I dined with him, which, no doubt, Michaels will confirm, since he served the meal. I was also in the city that day, doing some research at your British Museum. I arrived here about 7:45 and discovered that my brother-in-law had not yet returned but was expected soon, so I waited for him. We had some matters to discuss and I saw no reason to delay. I may as well tell you now, the conversation over dinner was a heated one, as I am sure the spying staff will report.”
“And what was it that you were discussing?” asked Holmes.
“None of your concern, I can assure you.”
“That is for me to decide. What matters did you discuss, heatedly, with the late Sir Evan?” repeated Holmes.
Conti glanced down at his seated sister; she looked up at him and nodded slightly, giving her permission to discuss what must have been a private subject its public airing.
“We were discussing a member of staff, and also my sister’s return to Italy. The marriage has been less than she dreamt of, and she was looking for a split. We are staunch Catholics and revere the word from Rome. We know there will be no divorce, but a separation of thousands of miles will help the situation. Sir Evan would have nothing to do with the scheme and threatened to cut her off financially should she ever even attempt to leave England,” said Conti.
“Surely your family fortune would be enough,” said Holmes.
“The fortune is not what it once was, and our father, who is a strong nationalist, was very hurt when his only daughter left Italy to be with an English knight,” replied Conti.
“You corroborate this, Lady Thornton?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, it is true, and it now looks bad for us, but it is true. I loved Evan when we met, and when we travelled together around Italy and the rest of the continent. He seemed to this young girl so worldly, so knowledgeable, I was swept off my feet. When we came to this house, he became a different person. He was so involved in the estate and the local community, he forgot about me and the life we had planned to share. He was more concerned with his house, the grounds, and the gardens, than he was with his new bride,” said Lady Thornton.
“I told myself this would change. He would, as you say, come around. He didn’t, and after five years of this marriage, I decided to leave him. By this time, my brother was here studying and I confided in him. We went to my husband as a united front, but were rebuffed and denied as if we were merely asking to redecorate a room,” continued Lady Thornton.
Holmes looked over at Inspector Neal and said, “I would like to talk to the valet now.”
“You have nothing more to ask us, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lady Thornton.
“Not at the moment. Your statements are clear and concise, and I do not want to keep you any longer than necessary. I am sure you have arrangements to make, and further questions can be asked later.”
Lady Thornton and her brother left the room and Michaels was invited in. He soon confirmed the tone and content of the dinner conversation which Conti had disclosed.
“How long have you been with the family?” asked Holmes.
“Man and boy, Mr. Holmes. I started here in the stables when I was just a lad and my father was the game keeper. I went to school with Sir Evan, and also went with him as his valet when he was on his Grand Tour. The estate and Sir Evan has changed a lot over the years,” reminisced Michaels. “The estate has gotten smaller, with outer parts being sold off or given away to the poor. Sir Evan expanded the garden and now wants to eat as much as he can from his own propert
y. Did you know, Mr. Holmes, we grow four different types of carrots? And that’s just a start of the variety of vegetables gown right here.”
“Did Sir Evan actually do the gardening, or was that left up to staff?” asked Holmes.
“Oh no, sir. Sir Evan was in the garden most days during the season, and planning and reading about gardening through the winter. Those bookcases there,” said Michaels, pointing to three glass-fronted cases near the large desk, “are full of books on the subject and his own journals and plan books. Mr. Conti was the same. Although they didn’t agree on all topics, as you have heard, they certainly did when it came to matters of the soil and garden. I have been of assistance to both of them, although, of course, much more assistance to Sir Evan, having served him for so many years. I take some pride in being able to say there is not a bed, a tree or a plant on the grounds that I do not know, or have not had a hand in planting, pruning or shaping. “
“Thank you, Michaels. That will be all for now,” said Holmes. It was just as Michaels was leaving the room that a local constable came in and handed Neal a sealed envelope.
“This will be the coroner’s report, Mr. Holmes. I asked the office to send it to me, wherever I was.”
“Excellent. It may prove to be interesting reading,” said Holmes.
Neal sat at the desk, with Holmes and me standing over his shoulders. The report was one page and outlined Sir Evan’s general health, age and other vitals. The final paragraph was the critical part for us. However, after each of us reading, the conclusions we were no further ahead.
“Well, Mr. Holmes. Death by poison unknown. Nothing much new here, I’m afraid,” said Neal.
“On the contrary. It confirms our earlier suspicions, rules out other possibilities, and sets us on our track. Let us walk in the garden and think,” replied Holmes.
Our forty-minute walk through the famed gardens was a quiet one. Holmes had brought along his briar-root pipe, a favourite of his for country walks. The two detectives walked together while I trailed behind them. The beds ranged from showy flowers, which I have not the faintest idea of what they are, to a large vegetable and herb patch, which featured items I was more familiar with. Several times Holmes stopped at a bed, examined a plant or two, and continued.
“Like the library, Neal, a man’s hobbies can tell much about the person. In this case, I believe we can learn as much about his death as we can his life,” said Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes, I know of your queer ways and obtuse remarks, but I am completely at sea if you think I can learn about who killed Sir Evan by a stroll around the garden,” replied Neal.
“Like my friend Watson here, you see but you do not observe,” said Holmes.
By this time, we had reached the front of the house again. Michaels was standing near the police brougham, and Conti was on the top step, examining a large ornamental planter.
“I am here at the behest of my sister, Mr. Holmes. Is there anything further you need from any of us?”
“Not at the moment, thank you,” said Holmes as we approached the four-wheeler.
“I believe I have forgotten my walking stick in the garden,” added Holmes. “I will just nip round and retrieve it, I will only be a moment,” Holmes said as he hurried away.
Holmes returned a few minutes later without his stick.
“Age is a cruel master, Mr. Conti. I don’t believe I had my stick with me at all today. Tricks of the mind,” said Holmes, stepping into the brougham.
“Please let your sister know I will be in touch in a day or two. We will get to the bottom of this, be assured.”
“What now, Mr. Holmes? I don’t see that we are any further ahead in this murder investigation,” asked Neal.
“On the contrary. We are near the end, I believe. It is back to the police station for you, and back to London for Watson and me. Can you meet us in at Baker Street in London for dinner tomorrow evening? I think by then, the fog shall lift and I will provide you with a solution to this very pretty little murder,” said Holmes.
“Yes, of course. But what shall I do until then?” asked Neal.
“Whatever policemen in the country do. Except, I would advise you not to dine at Hartham House.”
With that we drove back to the station and were in our Baker Street rooms before sunset.
“Before dinner, Watson, I would like to conduct a chemical experiment. You are welcome to assist me if you care to.”
“Today’s exertions and the meandering garden walk has not helped by injured knee at all. Also, your experiments often put up such foul smells I may not be down for dinner at all. However, for now I will retire to my room and rest,” I replied, leaving our sitting room to Holmes’s machinations.
When I awoke two hours later, I was pleasantly surprised with the clearness of the air. When I made my way down to our sitting room, Holmes sat amidst a scattering of papers, a satisfied look upon his face.
“Well, Holmes, you don’t have to be a detective to see that you are pleased with something. However, from the air and lack of an acrid smell, I would suggest that you did not, after all, conduct any experiments.”
“Quite the opposite,” said Holmes. “I did, and they were a success. One cup of butter will never be the same, but this time the experiment was self-contained and proved my theory regarding the Thornton murder.”
“Clearly he was murdered with poison, Holmes. However, how you could sit here and positively discover how or with what is beyond me,” I replied.
“Not the biggest stretch for us, but a pretty little case in a pretty little corner of our country,” said Holmes. “I do hope that Neal has fathomed his way through it better than you, Watson.”
“So, you will not tell me who killed Sir Evan?”
“Not at the moment. You know my love for the dramatic. All will be revealed at dinner tomorrow when the good inspector joins us. Until then, Mrs. Hudson has prepared a full cold dinner for us, which we shouldn’t put off much longer.”
The next day was a long one for me. Not only was I anxiously awaiting Inspector Neal to arrive so we could get on with the explanation of the murder, but my knee had swollen due to the previous day’s outings, and I read in the paper that The Gentlemen had lost the match, an outcome my superior batting prowess may have been able to avoid.
Time did pass, as it always does, and we soon heard a knock on our door. Inspector Neal was led into our room by our landlady. As Mrs. Hudson was about to leave, Holmes said, “We will now take that dinner you and I had discussed, Mrs. Hudson.”
She closed the door, and the three of us stood around the cold fireplace.
“Well, Mr. Holmes. Here we are. I am no further ahead in the murder investigation, but I certainly hope you are.”
“Murder, and especially poisonings, are nothing to discuss on an empty stomach. Once our dinner is laid out, and we are sitting enjoying Mrs. Hudson’s repast, all shall be revealed,” said Holmes.
While we were waiting for our landlady to set the table for the three of us and bring out a cornucopia of cold dishes for our dinner, we discussed the latest news from Scotland Yard. The trials and tribulations of the growing force was of interest to me, while Holmes seemed, of course, most keen on the C.I.D., or Criminal Investigations Division. After mulling its existence and structure, we were ready to sit down.
“Now, Inspector. Our landlady is not renowned for her cooking, but she is certainly more than adequate. Before we partake in the cold joint, I would like to bring your attention to the long serving dish with two squares of butter on it. Squares identical to these aided me in unravelling our Hertfordshire mystery.”
“Really, Mr. Holmes? You have me at a complete loss,” replied the inspector.
“Perhaps so. Allow me to recreate a small experiment I conducted here yesterday evening.”
With that, Hol
mes gestured toward the long, glass-covered dish containing the two squares of butter. He then revealed two smaller glass dishes. Each of these, seemingly, had parsley in them, and I commented as much.
“You are correct, Watson. They do seem alike, and they do seem like parsley. Both of these samples I liberated from the garden at Hartham House yesterday when I returned for my mislaid walking stick.”
“The sample on the right is the type of parsley found all too often on the side of plates in restaurants throughout the city and the country. The parsley on the left is something very different indeed,” said Holmes.
Holmes then took a pair of pincers from his laboratory table and put a few springs of each in its corresponding square of butter.
“Now, gentlemen, I request from you nothing more than some patience,” said Holmes.
With five minutes, the results of the experiment were clear. The parsley on the right pad of butter was just as Holmes had placed it. The one on the left, however, had sunk three-quarters of the way through the butter and would soon be resting on the bottom of the dish. The butter around that piece of parsley was melted and oozing into a puddle.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce to you the very rare, petroselinum virdi mortem, or Green-Leafed Death, as it is known in parts of northern Italy. It is particularly insidious, in that it initially tastes and acts like any other type of parsley. Once it mixes with food and other acids in the victim’s stomach, however, death surely follows.”
“But what is it, Holmes?” I asked.
“It is a distant relative of the common parsley plant, but one that has a long and checkered past. This is what Sir Evan died from, and this is why the coroner could not find it in any toxicology books. The plant is virtually unknown outside of a small area around Lake Como, and even there it is rare and hardly ever grown in a garden. As soon as the leaves are picked, the plant excretes a very toxic, acid-like sap. The few sprigs I brought back with me almost ate through the envelope in which I placed them,” said Holmes.