by David Marcum
“Sir Peregrine Carruthers?”
“None other. You know ‘im?”
“Know of him. I have read several of his books. His survey of orchids of the Amazonian basin is second to none, and his On the Reproductive Habits of British Wildflowers, while flawed, has much to commend it, as does his textbook on graftage. A great man.”
At this encomium, tears welled up in Mary Smith’s eyes, and all at once she was wracked with sobs. So overwhelmed by emotion was she that she became almost hysterical, and I summoned Mrs. Hudson from downstairs to comfort her. Holmes’s redoubtable landlady succeeded in calming the girl, using the empathy and gentle blandishments that are the peculiar gift of womenfolk. Once Miss Smith had recovered, she was able to provide an account of her recent travails, the nature of which made her fragile inner state both explicable and forgivable.
“Sir Peregrine and Lady Jane were the best of employers. When ‘er ladyship passed away, Sir Peregrine was almost inconsolable with grief. ‘E came through it right enough in the end, however, and was back to ‘is old self more or less, although a man can never be the same after losing ‘is wife, can ‘e? And after nearly thirty years of marriage and all. Now, ‘e didn’t really need me anymore, being as I’m a lady’s maid, but ‘e kept me on nonetheless out of kindness. Said ‘e knew ‘ow fond Lady Jane ‘ad been of me, which is true, and she wouldn’t ‘ave wanted me turfed out if it could be avoided. I’m a ‘ard worker and ever so reliable, and ‘e appointed me as ‘ousemaid instead.”
“Are you Sir Peregrine’s only domestic employee?”
“At Bridlinghall Place? No, there’s a ‘ousekeeper as well, Mrs. Frensham, and a couple of gardeners what come in every day from the village nearby. Anyway, I was glad to stay on. I’m a foundling, you see. ‘Ence the name Mary Smith, because no one at the orphanage ‘ad the imagination to christen me anything fancier. Don’t know ‘oo my mum or dad is. I was taken on by the Carrutherses when I was fourteen, and ‘aving no children of their own they soon became like parents to me. And now...”
With an effort, Miss Smith composed herself once more.
“All was fine - as fine as can be expected, given the shadow cast by Lady Jane’s death - until about six months ago. That’s when Mrs. Frensham just turned on me for no good reason. Before, we’d got on well enough, ‘er and me, even if we wasn’t what you’d call bosom friends. Then, all at once, she starts being ‘ateful, treating me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of ‘er shoe.”
“You hadn’t done anything to offend her?”
“Not as I can recall. It was like an electric light switching off, that quick. She was frosty. She started bossing me about, whereas before she’d been polite in her requests. Once or twice she even ‘issed at me, calling me vile names, using words one woman should never say to another.”
“How frightful,” I declared, with feeling.
“I bore it,” said Miss Smith. “I wanted to snap back at ‘er but I couldn’t bring myself to. There was enough upset in the ‘ouse without me making it any worse, and I was loath to do anything as might jeopardise my position.”
“Could you not have complained to Sir Peregrine?” I asked.
“Even if I’d wanted to, there was never any proof. Mrs. Frensham was sweetness and light towards me whenever ‘e was present. She was only ever mean behind ‘is back, so it would have been my word against ‘ers. She was cunning in ‘er cruelty.”
“La donna è mobile,” said Holmes with a tinge of impatience.
Seeing Miss Smith frown in incomprehension, I said, “What my friend is implying, in his rather abrupt and abstruse way, is that he feels Mrs. Frensham’s treatment of you is not necessarily the germane issue here. Please tell us more about Sir Peregrine.”
“What’s to tell, sir? Sir Peregrine is dead too, now. Just this morning it ‘appened, and I’m the one what’s going to get it in the neck for it!”
Holmes leaned forward in his armchair. He was intrigued again, and fully attentive to what the girl had to say.
“Sir Peregrine is a great botanist, as you know,” she continued. “Foremost in ‘is field, I’ve ‘eard said. ‘Ighly respected. What ‘e don’t know about plants, particularly flowers, en’t worth knowing. There’s just one problem. It’s not something that’s ever been made public. ‘E wouldn’t ‘ave wanted the world to know. Thing is, ‘e’s fatally allergic to bee stings.”
“Bee stings?” I ejaculated. It was ironic: the flower expert, endangered by the very species that propagates his subject of study.
“He discovered it the ‘ard way when he was off on one of ‘is field trips abroad a few years back. Africa, I think it was. A bee stung ‘im, and ‘e nearly perished on the spot.”
“Anaphylaxis,” I said. “The violent reaction of the body as it attempts to rid itself of a particular substance. The immune system overcompensates, with the consequence that the throat can swell up so much that a person cannot breathe. There can be failure of the internal organs as well. Jenner first noted the phenomenon when experimenting with his smallpox inoculations at the turn of the century, and bee stings are one of its commonest causes, along with certain foodstuffs.”
“That was Sir Peregrine’s condition, yes. Anaphylaxis. ‘E barely survived that first time. A local tribesman, one of ‘is guides, somehow knew what to do. Shoved a sharp ‘ollow twig into ‘is neck for ‘im to breathe through until the swelling went down. After that, Sir Peregrine ‘ad a mortal terror of bees.”
“Understandably,” said Holmes.
“‘E made sure there were no ‘ives within five miles of Bridlinghall Place. ‘E’d run for cover if ‘e ever ‘eard so much as a buzz. That was until ‘e got ‘old of this stuff, a new medicine called epiniff - I can’t quite remember the name.”
“Epinephrine,” I said. “I read about it in The Lancet just last month. It’s a natural hormone, more commonly known as adrenaline. It has been isolated and synthesised by two American chemists, Abel and Takemine, and is now available in a form that can be injected.”
“That’s it. Sir Peregrine ‘ad some of it in a ‘ypodermic syringe what ‘e carried with ‘im at all times in case of emergency.”
“One shot would constrict the blood vessels, relax the bronchial muscles and inhibit the release of antihistamines. A life saver, for someone like him.”
“Only not this time,” said Miss Smith. “There’s a conservatory at Bridlinghall Place where Sir Peregrine would do ‘is research. It’s full of flowers, potted plants and so forth, and always kept warm because some of the plants are tropical and sensitive to the cold. One thing everyone in the ‘ousehold knew not to do, and that was leave any of the conservatory windows open. Not only would it let the ‘eat out, it might allow a bee to come in.”
“Attracted by the scent from all those blooms,” said Holmes.
“Exactly. But that, alas, is what occurred this morning. A bee got in. It stung Sir Peregrine. And now... now...”
“He was unable to inject himself with the epinephrine?”
“We found ‘im on the floor of the conservatory, shuddering ‘is last. Oh, it was ‘orrible. ‘Orrible! We ‘eard ‘im cry out. Then ‘is nephew broke down the door what connects the conservatory to the rest of the ‘ouse and tried to revive ‘im. Sir Peregrine ‘adn’t managed to dose ‘imself, so Cecil - that’s the nephew, Cecil ‘Arrison - got the syringe out of ‘is pocket and stuck it in ‘im. But it was no good. Too late. ‘E died right in front of us. And there, on the floor beside ‘im, was the bee what caused ‘is death. It was a goner also, of course, because that’s what ‘appens when a bee stings, en’t it?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “The barbed end of the stinger becomes stuck in the victim’s skin and is ripped loose from the bee’s abdomen. It is a somewhat defective defence mechanism, if you ask me, in so far as its use is tantamount to suicide. I presu
me, then, that there was a window open after all?”
“One of the little awning windows near the roof. It was only a tiny bit ajar, but that was all that was needed.”
“And you have been accused of leaving it that way?”
“I ‘ave, only I never. I never did. I wouldn’t ‘ave put Sir Peregrine’s life at risk like that. Not in a million years. It was my job to wash them windows inside and out. Mrs. Frensham made me do it just last week. I know I didn’t open any of them, not even a crack. I’ll swear to it on the ‘Oly Bible. But that’s what she’s saying. That’s exactly what she told the police when they came. She all but accused me, right in front of them, of killing Sir Peregrine. As if I would. Like I said, the man was like a father to me.”
Holmes leaned back, steepling his fingers. His expression combined sympathy and a faint, detached amusement. I knew then and there that he believed Miss Mary Smith’s innocence, as did I, but also that he was determined to prove it and exonerate her.
“Now listen, my girl,” he said. “If you are adamant that you did not leave the awning window open, someone else must have. I shall find out who, and dispel the cloud of suspicion that is hovering over you.”
“Can you, Mr. ‘Olmes? Will you?”
“Indubitably. You have been wronged, and that must be set right.”
“I cannot pay you much, if at all.”
Holmes waved a hand. “It would be churlish of me to accept your money. I have been remunerated more than generously over the years by various deep-pocketed clients, meaning I am in a position to work pro bono if I so choose, for deserving causes. You most assuredly belong in that category.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
“Bridlinghall Place. That is near Haywards Heath, is it not? Watson, be so good as to fetch down Bradshaw’s, would you? If memory serves, there is a train departing from Victoria at half past the hour. We can be at our destination by eight o’clock if we hurry. The sooner we arrive, the better, I think.”
The daylight was dwindling as the three of us journeyed south by train to Haywards Heath, and thence by trap to Bridlinghall Place. It was a Georgian manor set in grounds extending for several acres, with an impressive portico and the somewhat fantastical air of a gigantic doll’s house, the plaything of some Titan child. As the sun sank towards the horizon, its rays gilded the stucco façade and lent the windows a diamond-like dazzle.
We were met at the front door by a tall, gaunt, hatchet-faced woman in her late middle years who could only have been Mrs. Frensham. A black cloth band encircled her left arm. She barely acknowledged Holmes and myself, instead launching into a vituperative tirade against Miss Smith.
“Where have you been, child? Sloping off like that without a by your leave. The nerve! On a day like this, of all days. The police are wondering about your whereabouts. They are still very keen to interview you. No surprises there, of course. Now you have made yourself look not just neglectful but downright guilty.”
“I ‘ave brought friends,” Miss Smith said, indicating us. I was pleased to see her standing up for herself against the housekeeper’s scolding. It was not something that came naturally to her, but she clearly felt emboldened by our presence. “I did in fact tell you I was going up to London, Mrs. Frensham. Perhaps in all the commotion you forgot.”
“Why, you - !” Mrs. Frensham checked herself. Had Holmes and I not been there, she might well have given free rein to the enmity she felt towards her subordinate. In the event, she simply gritted her teeth and said, “We shall discuss this further later. As it is, I neither know who these gentlemen are, nor care. This is a household in mourning. We are not in a fit state to receive guests.”
“I am not a guest, madam,” said Holmes. “I am here at Miss Smith’s request, with my associate, in order to make enquiries into Sir Peregine’s terrible mishap. You are entirely within your rights to turn us away. However, we shall only come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. We are nothing if not persistent, and shan’t rest until we have got to the bottom of the matter. So it would be simpler just to invite us in now, and save yourself a great deal of trouble.”
Mrs. Frensham weighed up his words, and relented, reluctantly. In we went, but no sooner were we across the threshold and congregated in the hallway than a male voice said, “Who are these people?”
The speaker was a young, tousle-haired man who appeared at the top of the staircase, rubbing his face as though he had just woken up from sleep. He shambled down to join us, yawning and fixing us with a bleary eye.
“Master Cecil,” said Miss Smith, “may I introduce Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson. Mr. ‘Olmes, Dr. Watson - Cecil ‘Arrison.”
“Ah yes,” said Harrison in a louche drawl. “The detective fellow. I’ve read about you. And you’re the chap who writes the stories about him. Well, welcome to our humble abode. I’ve no idea why you feel the need to be here. Poor old Uncle Perry. It’s dreadful, but it was an accident, that’s all. I know you’re into murders and sinister doings and suchlike, but I can assure you you won’t find any of that at Bridlinghall Place. I say that as the man of the house.”
“You are Sir Peregrine’s nephew, I take it,” said Holmes.
Cecil Harrison nodded. “His closest living kin. He and Aunt Jane had no offspring of their own. I’ve always regarded myself as a surrogate son - more of a son to them than I am to my own parents, who have rather disowned me.”
“Master Cecil was the ‘ero of the ‘our,” said Mary Smith. “The way ‘e put ‘is shoulder to the conservatory door and ‘ammered it open. Proper ‘Ercules, ‘e was.”
Harrison cast down his gaze, as though embarrassed by the flattery. “Legacy of rugby at school. But if only I had been a fraction quicker off the mark, got there a fraction sooner. I came running as soon as I heard Uncle Perry cry out. He was calling for help. He knew, once he’d been stung, he had only moments. I imagine he was trying to fumble his syringe out of his pocket but couldn’t because he was already going into shock and his hands weren’t working properly.”
“Are you a resident here?” Holmes asked.
“On and off, when I’m not up in town gallivanting. My uncle employs me from time to time as an assistant. A kind of glorified secretary, really. I take notes for him and type them up. Don’t know tuppence about plants, but I’ve been learning. Don’t think I’ll ever make a scientist, but I’m grateful for the work. Was grateful. Oh God...”
Sorrow trembled through his body. I found myself unable to warm to this youth, who struck me as something of an over-privileged ne’er-do-well. All the same, one would have to have a heart of stone not to feel compassion for him.
“May we take a look at the conservatory?” Holmes asked Miss Smith.
“Of course. It’s this way.”
We followed her to the rear of the manor. Mrs. Frensham, while not invited to accompany us, did so anyway, with a fussy, peremptory air, as though she could not allow any activity under this roof to go unmonitored by herself.
Before we entered the conservatory, Holmes bent to examine the door, which was large and wooden and sported a broken lock. The jamb, where the lock engaged, was splintered.
“Was Sir Peregrine apt to lock himself inside the conservatory?”
“‘E was,” said Miss Smith. “Sometimes ‘e didn’t want to be disturbed. It ruined ‘is concentration, ‘e said, knowing there was the possibility of someone walking in at any moment.”
“Not that any of us would,” Mrs. Frensham interjected. “We knew his ways too well for that. But locking it from the inside gave him that sense of security he needed.”
“And both of you watched Cecil Harrison break the door down?”
The women nodded.
“I was first ‘ere,” said Mary Smith. “Then Mrs. Frensham. Then Master Cecil. The two of us was in a rig
ht state before ‘e came. We could ‘ear Sir Peregrine all gasping and choking, and not a thing either of us could do about it. Cecil rode in like the cavalry.”
“Most useful thing the boy ever did in his life,” Mrs. Frensham muttered. “Not that it benefited the master in the end.”
The interior of the conservatory was muggy and humid. Underfloor hot water pipes radiated warmth up through grilles. The atmosphere was ripe with the smells of verdure and soil. Every inch of available space was occupied by plants, from ferns and shrubs to bromeliads, brightly coloured orchids, and other even more exotic flora. Sir Peregrine’s body had been removed, but not so the hypodermic syringe, which lay on the floor beside its steel carrying case. Also on the floor was the tiny agent of the botanist’s doom, a humble little honeybee. Holmes picked it up in a gingerly fashion, holding it by the wings between thumb and forefinger, and brought it close to his eye for scrutiny.
“Yes, you can see by the wound at the base of the abdomen,” he said. “This bee has stung, and has pulled itself half inside out in the process. Amazing creatures, bees. I have always found them appealing - their industriousness, their organisation, their adherence to a rigid hierarchy. Mostly their lives are about productivity. They are difficult to provoke to ire, in spite of all the folklore about angry swarms. A bee stings only if it is frightened or protecting its queen. It would rather flee than fight.”
“Sir Peregrine must have alarmed it,” I said. “Perhaps, when it flew in, he panicked. He tried to swat it, and missed.”
“That would seem a feasible scenario,” Holmes allowed. “One would think he knew better, however. Given that bees posed a fatal danger to him, he might surely have done his level best not to antagonise this one.”
He turned his attention to the syringe. Having examined it minutely, he proceeded to perform a highly unwise action. There was a small amount of clear liquid left in its glass cylinder, and he tipped it upside down so that the droplets collected at the needle’s base; then he pricked the point of the needle into the tip of his thumb and depressed the plunger.