Murder, My Dear Watson

by John Lellenberg

  She smiled back at me, ignoring my expression entirely, as she always had. She continued, “I am certain the weather will be kind to us. We have so much to do, before it is too late, and it seems God has granted us the time, the opportunity, and the good health with which to do it.”

  I realized how deeply I loved my sister and how much I had missed her company recently, and that of her husband as well.

  Taggart had the reins, and skillfully he maneuvered our way out of Station Square, and off down the country lanes towards our castle. Perhaps castle was too grand a title for it, but it was certainly an imposing structure. It was three stories high, built of solid granite to keep out the winter cold, and was set in rolling parkland. To experience the beauty of the Highlands on a sunlit summer morning is to have the senses filled with a simple but profound pleasure. We looked at each other, and felt how blessed we were to be sharing this splendor.

  Mrs. MacPhail, the housekeeper and cook, had assembled the staff at the front entrance to greet us. We were introduced to Shona and Morag, the two maids, James, the head gardener, and Ian his assistant, and to Wee Jamie and Callum, the stable boys. Taggart and Angus brought our luggage in, and Mrs. MacPhail showed us around the house. The drawing room was spacious, with oak paneling, and comfortable armchairs situated close to the fire. Scenic paintings and photographs in abundance were all round the room, giving it a sense of coziness. The corridors were lined with oil paintings of ancestors, the men looking most impressive in full Highland costume, and the women very demure. There were also claymores, leather shields, and trophies of deer’s antlers and the occasional stuffed pheasant. It was another world from Baker Street.

  “I do believe we are on the doorstep of Heaven!” Harriet remarked.

  After we had been shown to our rooms and unpacked our bags, we assembled in the dining room for a light lunch and discussed our plans for the rest of the day. We decided to ask Taggart to take us for a drive around the local countryside, so that Talbot could choose a suitable place for his painting, and I could perhaps find a stretch of the river where I could turn my hand at landing some trout.

  For supper, Mrs. MacPhail had prepared a traditional Scottish haggis, and Taggart “piped it in” with a rousing tune, to make us all feel welcome, and, no doubt, to impress upon us that we were a long way from England!

  We discussed our plans for the morrow. I would try fishing again, Talbot would embark on his painting, and Harriet would stay here and just walk around the estate. We all retired to bed early, as it had been a long day, and we wished to be up with the lark and suitably refreshed for an energetic day of pleasure.

  I awoke to find the sunshine streaming into my room, and the house bustling with activity. We English do not realize how far north the Highlands are, and therefore how early the sun rises in midsummer, and also how late it sets! After a breakfast of oats porridge, taken the proper way, with salt (and a sprinkling of sugar, when Mrs. MacPhail was not looking), Talbot and I were on our way in the carriage. We each had a small hamper containing some refreshment, and Taggart said he would pick us up at about four o’clock.

  It was a long time since I had done any fly fishing, and I tried to remember all the rules I had once learned, especially not to let my shadow fall across the water where I was going to cast my line. There were no serious mishaps, I did not get my line caught up in the bushes, and eventually my patience and diligence were rewarded with a catch of three rainbow trout. I would return home in good time for Mrs. MacPhail to prepare these for our supper—one each. Already I was feeling that London with all its bustle and smell was a thousand miles away!

  Talbot was delighted to be back painting again, and when I rejoined him to return home, he flatly refused to let me see his work until it was finished. Then, he said good-naturedly, he would hold a “grand exhibition of his summer collection” in the drawing room to which we would all be invited!

  “I’m afraid I do not like people to see my paintings until I have finished them,” he apologized. “I feel myself getting a little short-tempered when people insist on looking over my shoulder when I paint, and it is even worse when they start asking me silly questions!”

  “I promise not to do any of that, Talbot,” I reassured him.

  “I felt certain you would not!” he smiled. “I had one passerby this morning who did get me a bit angry, but as he was a fellow clergyman, I was loath to shoo him away. We chatted and found that we got on really rather well. Reverend Edwin Murray was his name. A bit younger than I am, I would say. His brother is in the chemical industry and has made a lot of money, and is persuading Edwin to retire, or at least take a good break away from it all to think about it. Consequently, he has come up to the Highlands, hoping that some fresh air and good stiff exercise will help him sort out his thoughts. I had more than enough lunch in my hamper, so I shared it with him. After that, he thanked me most generously, and apologized for any intrusion, and was off on his way.”

  “When I go on holiday, Talbot, the last thing I want to do is meet another doctor, and find myself talking shop!” I retorted.

  “Quite right, John,” he nodded in agreement. “We did not talk theology at all, nor did we compare notes about our parishes or parishioners. I don’t suppose that we will meet again.”

  But they did. That evening we each recounted what we had done during the day, and how exhilarating it was to be breathing a different air and gazing upon different scenery. I decided that tomorrow I would revisit the place where I had caught my three trout, and Harriet would accompany Talbot while he put the finishing touches to his painting. Close to lunch time, I decided to take my luncheon over to join them, and had just sat down on the grass, when the Reverend Edwin Murray reappeared, this time carrying a hamper of food and insisting that we join him.

  “Trout again tonight, John?” Harriet asked me.

  I assured her that that was on the menu, if she so wished.

  “Yes, please,” she replied enthusiastically. “I am very partial to fish, and I don’t think I am quite ready for more haggis—no offence to Mrs. MacPhail!” She turned to Murray, “And we would be delighted if you would come and join us for supper tomorrow.”

  “An excellent idea,” he agreed enthusiastically. “And in perfect time, as I plan to leave for the Isle of Skye the day after. I would enjoy that very much—even with haggis!”

  “I don’t think you need to stretch it so far,” Talbot said, with a wide smile. “I am sure if John turns his attention to it, he will be able to catch us something more to our taste.” He looked across at me encouragingly.

  “I am sure I can!” I assured them. “Perhaps even a salmon.”

  THE NEXT DAY was perfect. Harriet and Talbot spent it together, and I landed a very fine salmon that would do splendidly for our evening meal, guest included. Just after seven o’clock, Edwin arrived in his carriage, and we enjoyed a sherry before going to the dining room. Conversation flowed easily. It transpired that Edwin had been to many parts of the world where Talbot and Harriet had worked.

  “It is unfortunate that we had never met while abroad,” Talbot remarked.

  “With you there, I am sure they had no need of my humble services!” Edwin replied, to much laughter.

  “Come, come, Edwin, I can assure you that there were more than enough sinners for both of us to cope with!” Talbot retorted.

  Edwin asked how it was that we came to be holidaying in the Highlands and Harriet explained the story of the generous parishioner who had donated this to us. She also pointed out that it was hoped that there would be another member to our party, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective.

  At this, Edwin became most excited.

  “The Sherlock Holmes? You mean you are acquainted with him?” he asked.

  “Well, it is my brother, here, who is his great friend,” Harriet explained, looking at me.

  “Then you must be The Dr. Watson!” Edwin exclaimed with delight. “I am indeed honored to meet you, sir. There is scarcely a
mention of Mr. Holmes but that your name is not alongside his.”

  I blushed. “You do me undue honor, sir,” I replied.

  Edwin continued, “I follow his exploits with great enthusiasm. Such a gifted mind, so logical, such powers of reasoning! It is such a pity he could not be with us, but I fear I would make a dreadful bore of myself, pestering him with questions, if he were here.”

  “I did try to persuade him to come,” I answered, “but he had prior arrangements to go to Switzerland, to view the Reichenbach Falls. In fact, he should be setting off on his journey in two days’ time.”

  “What a coincidence!” Edwin exclaimed. “I and my brother James plan to be there soon, as well. I would like to take the liberty of introducing myself should I meet him, if for no other reason than to say what excellent hosts you have been to me, and how much you appear to be enjoying your holiday.”

  “Our holiday could not be better, could it, my dear,” Talbot said as he turned to Harriet. “Would you not agree, John?”

  “Wholeheartedly. Perhaps you can make him jealous that he did not come with us.” I responded.

  By the end of the meal, we felt we had been in the company of an old friend, not a new acquaintance. We returned to the drawing room and in a leisurely manner sipped our coffee, and the gentlemen smoked their pipes. Harriet decided to retire, while we continued to talk and enjoy some vintage tawny port. Edwin said that he had brought a contribution for this evening, a half bottle of the most excellent port he had ever tasted. Talbot declined courteously, saying that as host, he insisted on providing. Edwin seemed genuinely upset that his offer had been rejected, even though most politely. However it was amicably agreed that Talbot would accept the bottle and of course would be sure to sample it later.

  I had had a strenuous but rewarding day, so at about half past eleven, I decided to retire. Edwin felt that it was time for him also to bid us good night, and thanked us for one of the most delightful evenings he had ever spent. I left Talbot seated comfortably in an armchair in the drawing room, taking his first sips from the bottle that Edwin had left.

  “Good night, John,” he said dreamily. “Hmm, this port is truly exceptional. If Heaven is half as good as life is at this moment, I sincerely hope that the Almighty will number me amongst His chosen— but I ask Him not to call me just yet! See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Talbot,” I said, and turned to climb up the stairs.

  IT WAS MOST undignified for me, as a respected member of the medical profession, to find myself astride one of these beasts! The Highland cattle, with their long shaggy red hair and their huge curved horns that point forwards so menacingly, look like relics from the Ice Age. And this brute had a temper to go with it; no wonder he was trying to throw me off! Me, a doctor, doctor, doctor . . .

  I awoke from this silly dream to find Morag shaking me rigorously and calling, “Doctor, doctor!”

  I gathered my wits about me as quickly as I could, and I saw that she was in great distress.

  “Calm yourself down, girl, and tell me what all the fuss is about.” I said, sitting up and reaching for my dressing robe.

  “It’s the Reverend, sir,” she gasped. “Something dreadful, oh please come and look, sir!”

  It was only half past five in the morning, but the sun was streaming in through the window. I got out of bed in great haste, and pulled on my robe.

  “Lead the way,” I instructed, and followed as she went down the stairs to the drawing room. She stopped at the door, and beckoned that I should go in. I entered, and by the light that was shining through where one curtain had been pulled back, I could see Talbot slouched in the armchair, his glass spilled on the floor, his head lolled to one side, and his eyes half closed, his lower jaw sagging. I knew that he was dead. I walked over and felt for the radial pulse, knowing that it would be absent. Then I felt for the carotid, but I knew the answer before I tried. It was just an instinctive thing for me to do as a doctor, while I braced myself.

  A wave of sadness came over me, and there was a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I would have to break the news to Harriet, and I have always found that to be the most wretched and unwelcome task that befalls a doctor. There is no easy way to tell a relative that a loved one has died. One must be firm but polite, and yet put it across in words that cannot be misunderstood. And now I must tell my dear sister.

  I walked out of the room, and closed the door. Morag was sitting at the foot of the stairs, sobbing and choking the tears back, as Shona sat beside her trying to comfort her. Just at that moment, Mrs. MacPhail came in through the front door with Taggart.

  “It seems that the Reverend died in his sleep last night,” I said solemnly. “It must have been a stroke or a heart attack. I will go and inform Mrs. Ridley. Mrs. MacPhail, please could you put the kettle on. I think a pot of tea will be helpful. Taggart, if you would be so kind as to contact the local doctor, and an undertaker, and I suppose you had better call the local police, as well. Come, we all have things to do.”

  I took a deep breath and with feet like lead, I trudged up the stairs, and paused briefly at the landing. The sun was streaming in through the open curtain and outside was that magnificent land in all its splendor.

  “Here we are,” I thought to myself, “next to Heaven itself, and I must wake my dear sister to plunge her into a hellish agony. Why should such a cruel twist of fate strike us down now!”

  With an air of numbed resignation, I opened the door to Harriet’s bedroom, pulled back a curtain, and went over to the double bed. She awoke gradually, and turned to give me a sleepy smile.

  “Good morning, John. What a glorious day!” She said. She looked at me and began to register my distress. She reached her arm to the other side of the bed. “Where’s Talbot?” she asked, with a sudden anxiety in her voice.

  The words that I knew I had to say stuck in my throat, but Harriet understood the dreadful tidings that I had to bring. I saw the pain cut deep into her, and I tried to comfort her the best I could.

  THUS BEGAN THE most wretched morning of my life. I remember going about my duties in a state of shock and numbness. The local doctor came and agreed with my findings. The constable from the nearby police station arrived soon after. They conferred together, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing suspicious about Talbot’s death, and that a certificate stating it to be from natural causes was in order. The undertakers arrived and took away the body. It was agreed that we would all return to London tomorrow during the day, taking the body with us, and that after the funeral, Talbot would be buried in the graveyard of his own parish.

  I did not feel like lunch, so Taggart took me into Ballater, to the Post Office, and I sent a telegram to Martin Ridley, to inform him of the sad news. It occurred to me that I had better tell Holmes as well.

  An hour after I arrived back, two telegrams were delivered. The first, from Martin, said that he would be on the overnight train, and requested that someone pick him up at Ballater Station, and the second one was from Holmes also saying that he would be on the night train, as he had cancelled his trip to Switzerland. I felt guilty about spoiling Holmes’s holiday, but I was immensely uplifted that I would be seeing my dear friend again so soon.

  THE DOCTOR HAD left some chloral as a sleeping draught for Harriet, so she took it and retired early. I sat in the drawing room smoking my pipe and sipping malt whisky, feeling thoroughly dejected. Eventually I went to bed and woke in the morning with a headache and a sour taste in my mouth. Taggart drove me to the station, where I met Martin Ridley and Holmes, and I introduced them to each other. We rode back in silence.

  Holmes then showed a side of his nature that I have seldom seen. He was so tender towards Harriet as they walked and talked, that I marveled at it, and was very touched. After a while, Harriet went upstairs to get herself ready for the return journey. Holmes came over to me and said emphatically,

  “Watson, we must talk. Perhaps I have been pursuing criminals for so lon
g that I now have an unnaturally suspicious mind, but I would like to know a great deal more about this Reverend Edwin Murray. Tell me everything that you can recall that he said about himself.”

  It then struck me that he had said remarkably little. He was an excellent listener, and had never interrupted.

  “He did not mention his parish,” I recollected, with surprise. “We all sort of assumed that he was Church of England, because of the collar that he wore. He had traveled abroad, in fact to many of the places that Harriet and Talbot had also been, but funnily enough they had never met. You have now aroused my suspicions, Holmes. But I cannot understand why anyone would wish to kill a harmless, elderly cleric? Who could want him dead?”

  “I presume this mansion has a library, Watson?” Holmes asked.

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Good. Lead the way, and let us look up our Reverend Mr. Murray in Crockford’s Clerical Directory.”

  Holmes quickly spotted the book, next to Burke’s Peerage, and began thumbing through the pages.

  “As I suspected, Watson, our Edwin Murray is no more a cleric than you or I. Did he give any clue where he came from originally? Did he have a Scottish accent?”

  I thought for a moment, and then replied, “As far as I can remember, he did say that his grandfather came from just south of the firth that bears his name.”

  Holmes eyes lit up. “Aha, Watson, perhaps we do our cleric an injustice. Let us look up MORAY, which is of course pronounced the same . . . at least by the Scots!” Holmes thumbed through the pages again.

  “As I feared. We draw a blank again. Describe him further, his appearance, his mannerisms, anything of importance you recall.”

  I struggled in my misery to bring him back to mind. “He was tall, a trifle stooping,” I answered. “His greying hair receded a little from his brow. He was scholarly in manner, even ascetic . . . in fact exactly what one would expect of the man he pretended to be.”

  Holmes was lost in thought for a while. Then he turned to me and said, “Watson, I have had a most sinister and disturbing idea. Get a piece of paper and a pencil, and write out M O R A Y.”