The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (43 page)

Mrs. Bartholomew smiled up at me. “
Poses plastiques et tableaux vivants
. Alfie visited the house with some other officers. They took a girl each upstairs and left, but Alfie stayed watching the show, and he called me to his table.”

She frowned and looked around the room. “Where is he?” She turned to me. “Do you have a cigarette, Doctor?”

I opened my case with a cold gesture and Mrs. Bartholomew took a cigarette and lit it with a match from a passing waiter. “Alfie was polite and handsome, and he wanted to take me out for supper.”

She blew out a long stream of smoke. “He saw me home to my lodgings after, with no ‘how's your father' expected. On the third evening, he proposed, not only marriage, but a cycling trip through the Camargue. I accepted.”

“You went on holiday alone and unchaperoned with a man you had known a bare three days?” I asked.

Mrs. Bartholomew laid a hand on my arm. “What a darling you are, Doctor. Alfie was a perfect English gentleman. You remind me of him.”

I smoothed my moustache.

“After a very jolly holiday, he brought me here to London and set me up at a ladies hotel. I provided myself with a suitable wardrobe, and I met Admiral Bartholomew and his dear, but delicate wife at their London home.”

She squeezed my arm. “What I told you of Reverend Murchison's unwelcome attentions was true, Doctor. The wretch bombarded me with
billets-doux
in Paris, wouldn't take
non
for an answer, and followed me to England. What better way to get him off my back than to persuade the great private detective, Sherlock Holmes, to deal with him? Your stories in the
Strand Magazine
gave me the idea of hooking Mr. Holmes by insisting that Murchison only contact me through the Personals.”

She chuckled. “
One Cruelly Used
! Ha!” She frowned again. “Where is Alfie? He should be with me, the attentive husband and all.” She leaned towards me. “He's been a might skittish today. I suppose he was afraid of a scandal if Murchison turned up. Men are such cowards. They outrage every law of the world and are afraid of the world's tongue.”

I sniffed and looked away.

“Oh, Doctor, do not judge me. You don't know what it is to fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned,
sniffed
at!”

Mrs. Bartholomew took a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of her bridal dress and blew her nose. “One pays for one's sin, and then one pays again, and all one's life one pays. But let that pass.”

“If Mr. Holmes had not turned up,” I asked. “Would you have used your pistol?”

Mrs. Bartholomew looked around with a
moue
of annoyance. Guests, mostly female, were in small clusters around the room, looking rather nonplussed. “Where the devil has the boy got to?”

I found Holmes on the village green in a deckchair under an umbrella, drinking a pint of ale and watching the cricket match. “Should we not meet the groom and family?” I asked.

Holmes waved me to a chair beside him and ordered a pint of ale from a boy in sailor suit and a bright scarf.

I settled back in my chair. The afternoon was warm, mellowed by a cooling breeze that brought the smell of new mown grass and the scents of spring flowers across the green. There was a thwack of leather on willow, and the ball arched across the cloudless sky and was deftly caught by an elderly gentleman in cover.

“I should have expected a more Naval wedding; an arch of cutlasses and so on,” I said as we applauded.

Holmes chuckled. “What a minx it is, Watson.”

The boy arrived with my beer, and I paid him, took a sip of deliciously refreshing ale, and frowned. “Miss Berthoud, I mean Mrs. Bartholomew? Have we met her before? Who is this Daisy?”

“You mentioned once that you saw Oscar Wilde's
Lady Windemere's Fan
a few years ago.”

I shrugged. “In '92, if I recall, while you were gadding about Asia. A lot of high flown, airy nonsense, I thought. Very clever, of course, but not my cup of tea.”

“Our Daisy Watts was not on the boards that night, but she was in the wings as understudy for the part of Rosalie, the maid. I saw Daisy play the role of Lady Windermere at a private performance in the residence of the Apostolic Nuncio in Montpellier in ‘94.”

“Watts?”

“An East End costermonger family of ancient lineage.”

“Not French?”

Holmes laughed. “The taste in the bordellos in Paris, and, I dare say, Boulogne and Montpellier, is for English roses, or Daisies in this case. She crossed the Channel to try her chances, picking up a smattering of the language and the sultry accent she deployed against us. I recognized her purple prose as shadows of passages from the Wilde play, snipped and fitted for her new role as One Cruelly Wronged.”

I blinked at my friend, and a new and unpleasant thought struck me. “But what of the wedding, Holmes? Have we not set the young officer up for a terrible fall when he discovers Daisy's true identity?”

He smiled. “You wanted to meet the groom, old chap? There he is.”

A lithe young man in cricket whites with a full, imperial beard raced towards his opponent at the far wicket, swung his arm in a blur of motion and let the ball loose. It bounced just before the feet of the batsman, but he was able to deflect it, with a satisfying thwack, across the green towards the church.

“Well played, sir!” I cried. “Both of you, actually.”

I turned to Holmes and frowned. “But I just gave Daisy Watts away under the name of Miss Berthoud! Can that marriage be valid? And isn't her impersonation highly illegal and my involvement culpable?”

“Do not fret, my dear fellow; few things in life are what they seem. You were involved in a form of words, a charade for the admiral and his wife. The legal wedding took place
sub rosa
at dawn this morning in the Library of the Railway Hotel. It was presided over by the chaplain from young Bartholomew's ship and attended by his brother officers.”

“How did you - oh, the boot boy.”

Holmes smiled. “The only servant up at the time. He was bribed to silence and commandeered to serve the Navy rum in which the officers toasted the happy pair. I re-bribed him to paint the scene in his own words; the ceremony was, by his account, very affecting.”

Holmes reached into his pocket and waved a cheque at me. “On Hoare's in the Strand and for a hundred guineas. Lieutenant Bartholomew buttonholed me in the bar of the hotel before the church wedding and congratulated me on keeping Murchison away (he mentioned that he had a horsewhip handy if the reverend had turned up). Ha! Daisy's husband is not quite as easily gulled as she thinks.”

Holmes pocketed the cheque. “And we dine at the Amati's tonight.”

Another crack came from the cricket field and the bails of the nearer batsman's wicket flew apart. Lieutenant Bartholomew waved a languid hand in acknowledgement of the congratulations of his teammates and the crowd's applause. He bowed to the elderly gentleman fielding in cover.

“Admiral Bartholomew,” Holmes said. He lifted his glass. “Any man who can forsake his bride on her wedding day to play a taut game of cricket deserves a salute from us. I very much doubt that Daisy knows what she's taken on, but let us wish them both the greatest happiness.”

I raised my glass. “The Navy, Holmes!”

“And Daisy,” he answered.

The Adventure of the Poison Tea Epidemic

by Carl L. Heifetz

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in Early English charters - researches which led to results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my future narratives.

–
The Adventure of the Three Students, April 1895

After the adventure that took place at the onset of the Great War in August 1914, during a quiet time over Scotch and soda, my friend Sherlock Holmes finally gave me the permission to publish the event that brought us to one of England's great universities in a search for clues to another mystery - The Adventure of the Tea Epidemic. The name of the university and its locale must still be concealed due to the fact that some of the principals in the story, published as “The Adventure of the Three Students,” are still alive, though elderly. I pray that my readers will forgive my occasional use of spellings and references more appropriate to an American, but my language has been contaminated by my three-year sojourn in Baltimore, Maryland obtaining a fellowship in neurological diseases at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.

If I recall, the story that I will name “The Adventure of the Poison Tea Epidemic” began in the early spring of 1895. March had been particularly cold and dry that year, and we were welcoming the anticipated sunshine and warmth of April, only to experience a week of torrential rains. Being alone after the sad occasion of the death of my dear Mary, I had retaken residence in my old home on Baker Street with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Since most doctors were unavailable after surgery hours, I was often called upon during those times to render emergency medical service. In addition, I was serving two shifts in the neuroscience facility at St. Barts to keep my hand in and to provide additional income for entertainment.

I had been sitting in my favorite chair by the window, although the heavy downpour impeded the light to some extent. I had just finished
Lancet
, the
British Medical Journal
, and several treatises on experimental neurosurgery, when I noticed that Holmes had installed his large capacity curved briar into his mouth. This signaled the need to organize his papers, which were strewn into every corner of our sitting room, into his notebooks and files. Unimpeded, after a few hours work, he would have our quarters as neat as a pin. Since this was much to my liking, I thought it best to sneak off of the premises. Otherwise, seeing my presence, he might feel impelled to narrate one of his old adventures instead of completing the organizational task. I glanced at the huge grandfather clock that had been a gift from the King of Scandinavia, and noted that it was past three p.m.

I quietly tip-toed to the door and was approaching the stairs, when glancing back, I saw Holmes remove his pipe after taking a large inhalation. He said, “Have a nice evening.” He smiled briefly, as was his custom, and returned to his chores.

As I entered the street, I noticed that the rain had temporarily ceased and the sky was finally clearing. I encountered a messenger and gave him a note to deliver to my old friend Thurston, stating, “Thurston, old man, are you up to a nice dinner at our club, a few drinks, and several rounds of billiards? If so meet me at our club. I will be there in less than thirty minutes.”

After that, I beckoned a hansom cab over, and went on a short, splashy ride to my club. I climbed the flight of stairs, entered the reading room, and ordered a Scotch and soda to while away the time and read the
Guardian
.

After only a brief interlude, I spotted Thurston wiping his feet at the entrance to the chamber, his hat still dripping from the renewed downpour. After the servant had removed his rain gear, I noticed that my friend was still thin and well built. He looked as if he could still command his platoon as he had done in Afghanistan. His smile revealed bright teeth under his red moustache that was spotted with specks of gray. I ordered a Scotch and soda for him, and he sat next to me.

Picking up the drink from the intervening table, after we shook hands and seated ourselves, he took a sip and said, “Just the thing after a hard day of filing taxes for the lords and ladies of the kingdom. I'm happy to see you for a long savored relaxation.” He continued in his deep baritone voice, just slightly showing the deleterious effects of age on its timbre, “I hope that you are ready for a serious match. I haven't played in two weeks, and I'm anxious to deprive you of some of your money.”

After downing our cocktails, we were notified that our table was ready for our dinner of rare prime rib with tasty potatoes and vegetables, and a bottle of Bordeaux. Afterwards, satiated, we went up the one flight of old oaken stairs to the beautiful mahogany paneled billiard room. We were enjoying a leisurely game of three cushion billiards and our second aged cognac when a melee burst out at the entrance to the portal.

Our play was interrupted by one of the servants. He made me aware of the fact that the commissionaire, whom I had known for many years, had invaded the facility. Unlike the usually staid demeanor of the former non-commissioned officer in her Majesty's marines, the commissionaire came bursting into the billiard room. Gone was he usual military bearing and stiff upper lip. Instead, he was trembling all over. His usually stern face was red with grief and his eyes flush with tears.

He exclaimed in a loud voice, “My youngest child, Edith, is dying from pneumonia. She is burning with fever and can scarcely breathe. She is shaking all over her little body. My doctor expects her to die by morning.”

Obviously, it was my ethical duty to comply with this urgent call to service. I scooped up my bag, said a hasty farewell and apology to my opponent, and rushed down the stairs, following my old commissionaire, whom I had known for many years, and who had always provided faithful service. I dashed out the door to find a four wheeler peopled by the commissionaire, an old woman, and a tiny infant wrapped in woolen blankets. Without a second's delay, I yelled to the cabbie, “Off to St. Barts as fast as you can go. If you make it in twenty minutes you will earn an extra sovereign.”

My stethoscope informed me that the female infant was in the last stages of pneumonia. She was barely breathing and her lungs were congested. Also, I didn't need the assistance of a thermometer to determine that she was highly febrile. I knew there was only one chance for her: the new experimental serum being developed at the Serology Institute in the research area of St. Barts. The rabbit antiserum containing antibodies to all three strains of
diplococccus
was her only hope. When we had entered the new facility, I summoned the colleagues with whom I had researched for several years prior to switching to neurology. They quickly arrived, all five of them, from the areas in which they were working. My medical colleagues and I spent all night ministering to the baby with multiple intravenous injections of serum, an ice bath, and aspirin. Finally, at two in the morning, she reached the expected climax. By God's willing answer to my prayers and the power of the new medication, the fever broke, and she was again spirited and well. Joyfully, I left her and her father in the loving care of the hospital staff. I trudged out into the deep night, after promising to return at noon to see how she was faring. Finally, finding a cab, I made my way back to Baker Street, not recalling how I made it up the stairs and into my bed.

I didn't arise until a quarter past eleven a.m., if you can believe the old grandfather clock that was provided by the King of Scandinavia. I was in desperate need for a cup of hot coffee, and was grateful that the smell of fresh beverage filled the air. However, my ability to obtain this beverage was retarded by my colleague's actions. Now, I may have certain character flaws, but when it comes to plucking out a thick facial hair at the breakfast table, I draw the line. Not only was Sherlock Holmes performing that less-than-elegant act that should have been restricted to the bathroom, but he was using the highly polished coffee pot as his mirror.

“Holmes, if you don't mind, I would like to have the coffee pot. Maybe you could find a mirror in your bedroom for your preening,” I said with some asperity.

Holmes turned to me with a smile, handed me the coffee pot, and said, “I see that you made a late night of it. What did you and Thurston do after leaving the club? Did you seek female companionship? I tried to leave a message for you, but my courier could only say that you rushed out.”

“Holmes, what did you want me for? You weren't busy when I left for supper and billiards. I'm busy now. I must eat a quick breakfast and hurry off to St. Barts. I have a pneumonia patient,” I replied. “When I return, you can tell me why you went to the trouble to summon me.”

Holmes replied, “All will be revealed. Here is a sandwich that Mrs. Hudson made for me. Take your coffee with you and eat in the cab.”

Grateful to Holmes for the thoughtfulness he occasionally showed when appropriate, I was even more grateful that my miniature patient had now recovered. However, I was shocked the commissionaire had left the facility and the child was being ministered to by the previously seen elderly woman.

“Where is Bracket?” I asked loudly, “and who are you?”

Smiling gently as she stroked the child, the gray haired woman said, “Don't fret doctor, I am Edith's aunt, Teresa. Mr. Bracket is my brother. He rushed off after seeing another doctor. I don't know why or where.”

I rushed out to the nurse's station, yelling, “What happened to the commissionaire? What has caused him to leave his daughter, who is just now recovering from pneumonia?”

A beautiful, young, blonde-haired nurse, whom I had often visited for conversation, walked over to me and said, “It's Mr. Bracket's wife and other two children, a boy of two and a girl of five. They seem to be suffering from a severe poisoning. You may find them in the women's ward. Follow me.”

I walked behind her, admiring both her figure and her control of the situation. She said, pointing to the left, “Go this way. The doctors are in with them now. Perhaps you would like to take charge of the case, since the men ministering to them are only young interns.”

She turned and smiled at me, and then quickly left for her station as I reluctantly watched her go. “Well, another time would be more propitious,” I thought.

As I entered the room, I quickly sized up the situation. Bracket was sitting in a chair, his head in his hands. His wife and two children were shaking all over, in an obviously nervous state. The young interns rose to greet me, and then recognizing a senior colleague backed away as if awaiting my orders.

“These people are obviously suffering from a poisoning. Their moans indicate a state of hallucination. It appears to be some type of food poisoning, since there are no wounds on the bodies or bleeding, as I can tell from your notes. You must clear their bodies as quickly as possible. Pump their stomachs, apply enemas, flush with copious amounts of water, and then administer activated charcoal and very strong tea.”

“No tea! It's poison!” yelled Mrs. Bracket, as she sat upright in the bed. Then she quickly fell back to her supine position.

I ordered, “Cancel the tea until further notice. Continue with the other instructions.”

Observing the patients more closely, I began to recognize their symptoms as I slowly recalled the lectures I had received many years ago. They had undergone seizures, hallucinations, tremors, and now they expressed that they were nauseous. There was no diarrhea that one would expect from typical food poisoning. I hypothesized that they were suffering from a mild case of ergotism. I turned to my youngest colleague, an Indian, and said, “Mr. Singh, please run to the chemists and bring me amyl nitrite solution. Have the woman inhale 0.3 ml. and give the children 0.1 ml.”

Turning to the other two men, I said, “Mr. Riley and Mr. Addison, please watch them carefully and keep me abreast of their progress.”

As my young colleagues were ministering to my new patients, I went over to the commissionaire. Kneeling next to him, I asked “What is happening? Why are your wife and children ill and you are not? Did you drink any tea? Did it have a strange taste?”

He responded with a tremulous voice, “We were just sitting down to tea when I had to rush Edith off to the hospital. Thus, I had no tea. When I was at Edith's bedside, talking to my sister, a doctor took me away to see my family in this state. They were yelling and convulsing. No one knew what to do.”

“Fortunately, I have neurological training and I recognized signs of chemical poisoning. Has anyone eaten freshly baked rye bread or anything unusual?”

He replied, “No sir. We had eaten nothing until tea was served. I left with Edith and told them to continue the tea service while I rushed to find you. Fortunately, I know where you often go when you are not in Baker Street, and I knew that it was not one of your work nights.”

I said, “So it would appear that the tea was contaminated with rye bearing the ergot fungus. That is most unusual and surprising. Please stay here and watch your family. I will ask the nurse to bring you Edith on my way out. Now I must summon Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This sounds like a rare mystery that is beyond my power to discern,” I said as I turned to leave.

Running out to the busy street, I spotted my friend, the cabbie Jonathon. Handing him five shillings, I shouted, “Bring Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Tell him that Bracket's family has been poisoned, and such a criminal act requires his immediate attention. Other people may be at risk.”

While I awaited Holmes visit, I noticed that the victims were recovering from their attack. Finally, Mrs. Bracket turned to me and said, “Dr. Watson, thank you very much for saving our lives. We must get that tea out of the house before anyone else gets sick.”

“Where did you buy the tea? We must retrieve any that they sold or still have in hand, in case there are more poisoned lots. Also, did it taste unusual?”