Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 5 Page 5

  I took a long draw on the pipe and savoured both the sweet aroma of the tobacco and the shocked look on Lestrade’s face as he struggled to comprehend the nature of my deduction.

  “…but, Mr. Holmes,” he stammered, “how could you know the nature of my movements, let alone when I have taken meals or contacted my wife? I have just entered your chamber and you have barely even gazed up from your pipe.”

  Watson looked up from the Times with amusement. “Yes, Holmes,” he said, “do tell us how you could know the chap’s whereabouts?”

  “Elementary, my dear fellow.” I used my pipe to point out the salient features on Lestrade’s person that led me to my deduction. “First, one will note the rumpled condition of the gentleman’s suit. We see several stains in varying degrees of coagulation which represent several hurried meals: two meat pies and a plate of bangers, I should think, by looking at the marks on his cuffs and sleeve. About eight hours between meals will put us between breakfast and the noon meal yesterday. He had no time for tea or I would expect some other traces of that repast. The fact that he has bits of food on his collar and shirt would indicate hasty dining without a proper serviette. He has traces of mud on his braces of a particular color and stench which would indicate a location near the river on the East End. The partially concealed note in his coat pocket is a telegram meant for his wife, which he neglected to post, to inform her of his delayed return.”

  Lestrade reached into his pocket and removed the telegram. “The wife will be upset,” he admitted. “You are correct in what you say, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You have been busy, Lestrade. Pray take a seat and tell us how we may be of assistance,” I said.

  Lestrade sat at a small table, and thankfully accepted the hot coffee that Mrs. Hudson had prepared. “Strangest thing I’ve seen in a long while, sir. I was called yesterday to investigate the death of a Mr. Joshua Wadsworth of Brick Lane. He was a man of sixty-three years age, retired merchant, widower, living on his savings and a modest inheritance that had been his wife’s, and residing with his daughter and a small staff. He was found dead by his servant. There was no sign of violence.”

  “I should hardly think that cause for alarm,” Watson said. “Chap probably died of a coronary.”

  “Well, that was what the servant thought, doctor, until he went to inform the other members of the household. He found them in the dining room. The son, Ernie, who was at home on holiday, had gone stark raving mad. The daughter, Eunice, was in a catatonic state. The maid was clutching her throat, eyes popping near out of her head, according to the servant.”

  “Interesting, Lestrade,” I said. “And what is it you wish from us?”

  Lestrade stared into his coffee. “Naturally, with any suspicious death, Scotland Yard was called in. I have examined the premises, interviewed the servant, a Mr. Warren, as well as the young Wadsworth’s fiancée, Lilly Brevant, and have spoken to the doctor caring for the unfortunate children and maid.”

  “Small wonder you look so tired,” Watson said. I admired and envied my friend’s endless capacity for compassion.

  “Sirs,” Lestrade continued, “I can find no motive for, or concrete signs of foul play, but still I have to admit, without an explanation for the condition of the others in the house, I am at a loss to exclude some type of poisoning. I remember too well the case of E.J. Drebber,* Mr. Holmes.”

  [* See A Study in Scarlet wherein Lestrade found poison pills at Halliday’s Hotel.]

  “True,” I admitted. “But in that case there was a clear motive for the poisoning. You have no doubt concluded that the Wadsworths had no immediate enemies and that the doctors have no explanation for the condition of the others.”

  “Quite correct, Mr. Holmes. Daresay I could use your medical expertise in this matter as well, Dr. Watson,” a tired and deflated Lestrade said.

  Watson looked out the window and we followed his gaze to the blowing rain that soaked the few hurried passersby who had ventured out upon Baker Street. “I suppose if you think it necessary, my dear fellow. Haven’t been down to the Royal London Hospital since we investigated the case of the Jezail bullet. Fresh air will do us all a bit of good.”

  “Go home to your wife and have a rest, inspector,” I encouraged. “The doctor and I will delve into the situation and see if we can shed a bit of light on your little mystery.”

  Lestrade took his leave and I jotted the facts of the case and addresses in my notebook. I had Watson pack his medical bag and had Mrs. Hudson fetch a boy to secure a hansom and send a telegram to the hospital.

  * * * *

  We soon found ourselves hurtling through the streets across London to the East End. Watson had known my methods well enough by now to have refrained from conversation during the ride, in order to allow me to compose my theories. What must have taken the better part of an hour seemed mere minutes to me, lost in thought as I was, but we arrived in good order at a house off of Brick Lane, Spitalfields. We instructed the cabbie to wait, and were shown in by Lestrade’s man, posted inside the door.

  “The inspector told me to expect you, Mr. Holmes,” the bobby said. “The butler and fiancée are in there.” He gestured to a drawing room off the small entrance hall.

  We entered the room and found the two staring at a low fire in the hearth. Neither rose in greeting; the woman, obviously in shock, continued her stare while the man looked at us with suspicion. “You must be Miss Lilly and Warren,” I said.

  “And who might you be?” asked the butler.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. We have been asked by Scotland Yard to look into the matter of the death of Mr. Wadsworth. Watson, have a look at the young lady, she seems in need of medical attention.” Watson located a small carafe of sherry on a nearby table, but remembering the strange warning of poison by Lestrade, thought better of pouring the young woman a drink. I withdrew a small flask from my coat and handed it to him as a substitute.

  While Watson attended the young woman, I began an examination of the room. I knelt on the carpet near the hearth and examined a fine layer of ash with my glass. “This is where you found Mr. Wadsworth, is it not?” I asked Warren.

  The man looked surprised. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “But how can you know that? I didn’t tell that to the police.”

  “I am sure there is much you haven’t told them,” I replied. “Like the fact that you moved the body, and smoked one of your master’s cigars before sounding the alarm.”

  This comment, as well as Watson’s ministrations, filled our female companion with new animation. “Is this true, Warren?” she asked. The servant did not reply.

  “You see, Miss Lilly,” I explained, “there is a faint outline of ash on the carpet near the hearth. Your once future father-in-law had collapsed here, shortly after his meal I should think, while he was smoking his evening cigar. If one looks closely, one sees that there are no less than three separate specimens of ash on the carpet. The first, this dark gray ash, is the residue of the gentleman’s cigar. Jamaican, I should think. Covering this first residue is a finer layer, no doubt, from the settling of ash from the hearth. This section of the rug without the residue was covered by the body as the dust settled. But this third specimen is interesting. It is the same colour as the first, indicating that it came from the same brand of cigar, but it has landed, in part, on the area covered by the body. This indicates that a second smoker must have been in the room.”

  Watson and the woman had now drawn near to the deposit on the carpet, yet Warren remained seated. I continued, “From the account given by Mr. Warren to Inspector Lestrade, Wadsworth was alone in the room when his body was discovered. This last bit of ash is undisturbed, indicating that it was deposited after the body had been moved.”

  “The ash would have been smeared if the body fell on it,” Watson clarified, as Lilly was looking puzzled.

  “Correct, my man,” I said to my friend. I turned to the taciturn Warren. “Seems you were in no hurry to alert the autho
rities to what must have seemed strange developments in the household, Mr. Warren.”

  Warren met my glance with the determination of a man who had faced interrogation before, but he could not disguise the shade of red his face had taken. “Nothing you can prove, gov’nor,” he said.

  “We shall see,” I replied. I called for the policeman. “Sergeant, see that this man is not let out of your sight for the next hour or so. Are there any other servants in the Wadsworths’ employ?”

  “With pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” the policeman said with a small salute and a reassuring pat of his truncheon. “An old woman, Mrs. Spline, is the cook. Went to do the marketing.”

  “Very well. We shall need to talk with her. Dr. Watson and I have business at the hospital, but shall return. Miss Brevant, would you do us the kindness of accompanying us to visit Master Ernie?”

  Lilly looked very concerned at the strange developments, but nodded and went to get her things.

  * * * *

  In spite of the damp chill, the promise of a gold sovereign at the end of the day’s work had kept our driver at-the-ready. We guided our young companion into the cab for the short drive to the hospital. I used the time to gently probe her for information while Watson made a futile attempt in the bouncing, crowded vehicle, to catalogue developments in his notebook. “Miss Brevant,” I said, “I know that events must seem shocking, but I must ask you, as I am sure the police already have, if you know of any reason why anyone would wish to do the Wadsworth family harm?”

  She was a plain girl, neatly-dressed in a garment of good cut that had seen some wear, suggesting a family of middle-class that had fallen on hard times. She maintained poise and dignity. “No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Wadsworth was respected in the neighborhood, even by those… immigrants, at least that was what Ernie had told me. And if you knew Ernie…well, I never met a soul who didn’t like him the minute he was introduced. He was the kindest man I have ever met. The children adore him, as does my employer, Captain Morrison.” She lost her composure and began to cry.

  Watson did his best to comfort her and offered his kerchief. When she was again calm, he asked, “What immigrants?”

  “Jews, mostly,” she said.

  “This has long been an area of residence for the Jewish community, Watson,” I explained. “Ever since Cromwell encouraged diversity and freedoms for various faiths, this area has been a home to Jews, Methodists, the Lascars. But the neighborhood has changed in recent times. As Jews have been accepted into higher circles, many have moved out of the old neighborhood and assimilated in other parts of London. A new generation of Jews faces persecution under the tsar in Russia. Again, a wave of immigration has swept our shores, but these new arrivals do not share our language, dress, or customs. I fear that we are entering a new era of misunderstanding.”

  “True, Mr. Holmes,” Lilly admitted. “But Mr. Wadsworth had a reputation of dealing fairly with everyone. I cannot believe that they would want to hurt him. What were you saying about Warren moving his body? Is that reason for concern?”

  “Yes, what do you make of it, Holmes?” Watson asked. “And the audacity to help himself to his employer’s cigars while the body lay before him? What gall.”

  “Yes, the man irks me, Watson, but we are lacking in evidence to hang him. What can you tell me about him, Miss Brevant?”

  “Not much, sir. I have only been engaged to Ernie for five months. I am a governess at Morrison Hall in Kent. Ernie was music tutor to the children there. That’s how we met. He hasn’t said much about the household. Mrs. Spline has been with the family since Ernie was a boy. I believe Warren is new to the household, but was in Mr. Wadsworth’s employ in his business. When Mr. Wadsworth sold his holdings and retired, he offered the household position to Warren. Ernie and I had come to his home to spend the holiday and discuss plans for our wedding. I am sorry I cannot tell you more, gentlemen.”

  “You have done well, given the trying circumstances,” I reassured her. “Ah, we have arrived at a familiar place, Watson. When we were last here, you were submitting to the new science of Roentgenology.”*

  [*See Watson’s Wound, in this volume.]

  Watson smiled when he recalled how the examination, by means of an X-ray photograph, of the bullet, lodged in his shoulder since the Afghan war, led to the capture of a conspirator in a plot against the government. “Bloody cold examination room,” was all he said.

  We made our way into the hospital, and the porter, expecting our arrival as the result of our telegram, escorted us to the ward where Ernie Wadsworth was lying-in. We made the acquaintance of Dr. Hemmings; the young, resident physician of the ward looked tired and overworked. “A strange case of lunacy,” he confided in Dr. Watson. “We had to sedate him to keep him from hurting himself. He seems comfortable now. I have discussed the case with my professors, but they have yet to formulate an explanation of his condition. I suspect that we may need to arrange for his transfer to Bedlam.”

  “What of the others?” Watson asked. “The sister and Wadsworth’s maid?”

  “I am sorry to say that the maid has died, doctor.”

  “The poor thing!” Lilly exclaimed.

  “Eunice Wadsworth remains in stable but an unresponsive condition. She is in the women’s ward down the hall.”

  “Would you have an objection to Dr. Watson’s examination of the patients?” I asked.

  “Certainly not!” Hemmings beamed, obviously glad for some sort of assistance, having had none from his professors.

  Watson approached Ernie Wadsworth who, in spite of some sedative, was moaning incoherently upon the bed. Watson checked the pulse, listened to the heart and lungs and with help from the porter, pried young Wadsworth’s lids open to examine the eyes. “Strange how the eyes seem to bulge,” Watson commented. We peered over his shoulder to look more closely. “The pulse is irregular and quite rapid, even after morphia has been administered.”

  “We noticed a similar appearance to the sister’s eyes,” Hemmings added.

  “I should like to see the young lady as well,” Watson said.

  We left Miss Brevant to sit with her poor, afflicted fiancée while Hemmings escorted us to a nearby ward populated by female patients in various stages of what seemed to be a mental collapse. The room was filled with terrible noises and smells. It seemed all the nurses on duty could do was to try to maintain order. We found Eunice occupying a bed in the far corner of the ward. She lay on the bed, rocking slowly back and forth, eyes staring yet not seeing. “Miss Wadsworth,” Hemmings said as he gently shook the girl, attempting to rouse her. Eunice only stared. Hemmings gestured to Watson with a defeated look.

  Watson made an examination of the girl. He again checked her pulse and eyes and listened to the heart by means of the stethoscope. “Still can’t get used to the bloody contraption,” he commented.*

  [* The stethoscope was discovered by Laennec as a means of examining the chest of a female patient without the physician placing his hands upon her, which was deemed inappropriate. Oddly, he is most remembered for his descriptions of diseases of the liver, rather than the invention that would become a standard medical device.]

  “What do these patients have in common?” I asked the two doctors.

  “Rapid, irregular pulse and altered mental state,” Hemmings said. “One with catatonia, yet the other with mania.”

  “Both have a protrusion of the eyes,” Watson said, stroking his mustache.

  “Some family characteristic?” I ventured.

  “No, Holmes. If I didn’t know better, I would say the ocular findings are the result of Grave’s disease.”

  “The situation was certainly grave for Joshua Wadsworth,” I said.

  “Grave’s disease, Mr. Holmes, is believed to be a disorder brought about by an overactivity of the thyroid gland,” the young doctor offered, obviously pleased by his bit of knowledge. He turned to Watson. “Yet, doctor, there seems to be no sign of goiter or nodularity in the necks of the patients.”


  “It all fits, however,” Watson replied. “The mental deterioration, the effects of the pulse, sweating. Possibly the cardiac collapse of the father. What baffles me, Holmes, is how such an affliction could overcome an entire household.”

  “Not an entire household,” I corrected. “The cook, butler, and Miss Brevant would not seem to be afflicted.”

  There was silence for a moment as we all contemplated the facts before us.

  “Some infection, perhaps,” Hemmings offered. “I have heard that an inflammation of the thyroid could be brought about by miasma.”

  “Lestrade suggested a poison,” Watson added. “Several poisons could have the cardiac and mental effects, but none would cause the protrusion of the eyes.”

  “There must be some commonality to the victims,” I said. “The facts are incontrovertible. This is not a disorder of heredity, or the maid would not have been afflicted. This has to be some disorder of environment, yet the entire household was not stricken, unless…” I could not control the smile as the thought and possible common link occurred to me.

  “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “Watson, let us take up no more of this young physician’s time. We have work to do back at Brick Lane.” I addressed Hemmings, “Sir, you have been of great assistance to our investigation. Pray, delay any transfer to a hospital for the insane until you hear from us.” With that, we left the baffled resident to his charges and began the return to Spitalfields.

  * * * *

  The rain had ebbed but the sun still hid behind a thicket of clouds. The wet gloom of the day prevailed as the light began to fade from the late autumn afternoon. The neighborhood around the Wadsworth home was in a state of flux. An old immigrant community had moved on, and a new one was reshaping the fabric of storefronts and street scenes. Old shops were boarded up; new establishments had makeshift signs nailed over the existing boards temporarily. The pedestrian traffic sported a variety of dress from the most modern of London fashion to the threadbare attire of the exiled Jews from Eastern Europe. The effect was that of a calico quilt, a mixture of texture and fabric.