Sherlock Holmes (32 page)

I picked up the next report and
continued. “On the 22nd of May 1900 an inquest into the death of
George Partridge Bedford took place at The Bulls Head Inn, Hampton
Road, Lymington. George Bedford was 36 years old and a cobbler by
trade. He had complained of severe pain in his wrists and ankles
that precluded him from working. He died on the 16th of May and
witnesses said he looked unwell when he was seen drinking beer in
The Drover's Arms the previous night. A post mortem discovered one
fortieth part of a grain of white arsenic in his liver and a trace
in his kidneys and spleen. The jury considered the medical evidence
that was presented and reached a verdict of death due to alcoholic
neuritis due to arsenical poisoning but the source of which could
not be found.”

After I had read some five
reports, Holmes held up his index finger, saying, “I think there is
little need for us to continue Watson. As a medical man, what is
your opinion?”

I sat back and thought for a
moment. “Well, it is clear that the cause of death is arsenic and
the victims all seem to be drinkers to some degree. Current medical
thinking is that the consumption of alcohol in some way predisposes
victims to arsenical poisoning.”

Holmes stood, full of emotion.
“Yes! Yes! But have a regard to what they were drinking!”

It took me but a moment to
realise the import of what he was saying. “Beer! Great heavens!
They all drank beer... and... the first night here, I drank cider
and you drank..”

“Beer! Watson. That is the key.
There is a body of evidence that suggests that those exposed to
arsenic at low doses on a regular basis develop some small degree
of tolerance whilst those who ingest infrequently may succumb
quickly to its lethal effects. That might explain why not everyone
is affected immediately but they succumb later.”

I was concerned, our reasoning
could not be applied universally. “If this is so, you surely cannot
be suggesting that my aunt's friends who have died are all beer
drinkers?”

Holmes face showed that he was
troubled. “No, now that is something that I cannot at present
explain. Tomorrow we must visit your aunt but first, I think, I
would like a drink at the bar.” I was taken aback. Surely Holmes
was not going to risk his life to prove a theory?

On opening the glazed door
marked 'Public Bar', Holmes casually looked around. Standing at the
bar was a weather beaten old man in somewhat shabby, fisherman's
clothes and smoking a clay pipe.

I observed that he was holding
an almost empty glass and Holmes’ eyes lit up as the old man turned
to see who had arrived. Holmes bade him a “Good afternoon” and the
fisherman nodded a response.

The landlord approached saying,
“Ah, Mr Holmes. I am pleased to see that you are better, sir. What
may I serve you?”

Holmes was seen to pause for a
moment whilst seeming to think. “I will have a small glass of
cider, thank you, landlord.” Holmes turned to the old man, saying,
“And you sir, will you join me in a drink?”

The old man turned and nodded.
“Thank you kindly, I'll have another pint of Yeoman's mild, please
landlord.”

Holmes considered the old man's
choice. “Do you not like the bitter, sir?”

The old man smiled. “Well, sir.
I have been a mild drinker for some 40 years and I enjoys my beer.”
The old man paused for us to appreciate what he had said. “Now,
this will make you laugh. Last week one of Yeoman's dray horses,
those big greys that pull the wagon for the brewery, went lame and
it was just before they was to deliver here.” We both nodded wisely
and waited for the fisherman to continue.

“I had drunk the last pint of
mild the night before so I has to drink bitter. Well, sir. I only
has the one pint and I was sick as a dog, I couldn't stand up! If
there's no mild again, I swear, I will go without rather than drink
bitter.”

Holmes and I laughed heartily.
Quaffing his cider and, with a wave, Holmes left the bar.

Once back in the breakfast room
I said, in a low voice, “It was very fortunate that the old
fisherman wasn't a bitter drinker, Holmes.”

A thin smile appeared on Holmes’
lips. “You have known me long enough, Watson, to understand that
luck plays but an exquisitely small, yet sometimes significant role
in the art of detection. Standing here I could see the colour of
the beer in the old man's glass through the glazed door of the bar.
He was clearly drinking mild and not bitter. On seeing that, I was
simply going to obtain his opinion of the quality of the bitter.”
Holmes’ smile broadened. “But I will admit that it was hugely
fortuitous that we gained some further insight that supports our
theory. I think that a telegram must be sent to Dr Carter in
Portsmouth informing him of our findings.” With that he took out
his notebook and dashed off a telegram.

The following morning I could
see that Holmes was greatly recovered and, together, we ate a
hearty breakfast before we made the journey by pony and trap to
visit my Aunt Rachel. Holmes, I could see, was admiring the
countryside as I had done but, as we approached my aunt's village,
Holmes touched my sleeve and then pointed towards a collection of
oddly shaped buildings.

“Stop for a moment, if you
please, driver.” The trap stopped and Holmes stood for a few
seconds. “I think this could be of interest, Watson.” I looked but
could see nothing in particular. Whatever it was, it had obviously
caught Holmes’ attention. Re-taking his seat, Holmes again
addressed the driver. “Take us to those buildings on your right, if
you please.” The driver cracked his whip and the pony trotted on.
At a fork in the road we proceeded to the right and, a few moments
later, arrived at a small hamlet.

Before us stood a large, square,
stone and brick built building from which six truncated, tiled
pyramids rose above the roof line. There were large, green, wooden
doors to the front which allowed some kind of goods in and out of
the building. The peaks of the tiled pyramids held slotted
structures which, in turn, were covered by a weathered, pyramid
shaped zinc cap.

“What is this building, Holmes?”
I asked but, as I spoke, the breeze changed slightly and the air
was immediately filled with a familiar, pungent smell. “Hops!” I
cried.

Holmes smiled. “Indeed, Watson.
The shape of a Hampshire oast house is not usually the familiar,
circular building of Kent with its conical cowl that turns with the
wind. People like their beer in Hampshire too and, a modern, square
oast house is undoubtedly much easier to build!”

As we admired the architecture,
a gentleman appeared from the building and began to fill his pipe.
Holmes, ever the one to seize an opportunity, approached him.

“Good morning sir, is this your
fine oast house?” asked Holmes.

The gentleman's face filled with
pride. “Why, yes, sir. Mind, it has only been built these five
years but I am proud of it.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, it is
impressive. Does it have the full three storeys for drying
hops?”

The owner's smile grew bigger
and his chest puffed out. “Indeed it does sir. Have you a mind to
come and see inside?”

Holmes touched his hat. “I would
welcome the invitation, sir. Come, Watson.” With that, we followed
the proud owner inside the oast house.

The interior was dimly lit and,
I must say, the heat and the smell of drying hops was almost
overpowering. On the ground floor was a kiln that was wood fired
and a stack of split, oak logs stood in one corner. Fresh air was
drawn in and heated by the kiln before being passed through the
thin, slatted floors above. The fresh, green, hops stood in hessian
sacks ready to be hoisted to the upper drying floors. There, they
would be raked out into a thin layer and dried before being left
outside to cool and then bagged.

We climbed a flight of stairs
and stood at the entrance of the first drying floor. The air there
was slightly humid from the fresh hops… but there was something
more. I detected a slight hint of wood smoke from the fire beneath
but something more again, a smell that prickled my nose. I stood
for a moment trying to determine what I smelt and then a slight
taste entered my mouth. “Sulphur!”

The owner nodded. “Yes, sir. The
hot air and moisture rises up and passes out of the slots in the
peak but we don't want to be here too long. We sometimes has to add
a bit of sulphur to prevent the hops developing blight.”

I noticed that Holmes had a
quizzical look in his eye as he asked, “Do you supply hops to the
local breweries?”

The oast house owner beamed.
“Why, yes, sir. I supply Wheatley & Ford, the biggest brewer in
these parts and many other breweries in Hampshire.”

Holmes nodded and having seen
the process, we returned to the ground floor and the kiln. It was
then that I noticed that Holmes had sidled over to a corner of the
room. He nodded towards the oast house owner and signalled me not
to follow. I was used to this particular signal. It was a sign for
me to become a slight distraction.

Placing myself as something of a
screen between the owner and Holmes, I gave a loud and somewhat
prolonged cough. Concerned, the owner came to my side and patted
me, rather soundly, several times on the back, saying,

“There you go, sir. That sulphur
can catch the back of your throat a bit, can't it?” I nodded my
thanks and pulled my handkerchief from my pocket to dab my watering
eyes. In truth, they were watering from his assistance rather than
from the feigned pungency of the sulphur!

By this time, I saw that Holmes
was returning and nodding slightly in my direction. Whatever goal
he had wanted to achieve, he had clearly done so.

With a handshake and a ‘thank
you’ to the owner, we boarded the waiting trap and were off once
more. Once on our way, I could not resist asking Holmes why he
needed me to distract the oast house owner.

Holmes smiled and withdrew a
small envelope from his coat pocket. Within it were a few pinches
of bright yellow powder. “I needed to take a small sample of the
sulphur and, when I saw that there was a bag open, I took the
liberty of acquiring a little.”

I was puzzled. “Tell me Holmes,
do you believe that in some way the sulphur might be implicated in
this affair?”

Holmes briefly held his index
finger to his lips. “At the moment, Watson, I cannot see how… but
it is prudent to consider all aspects of the case. Hops are an
ingredient in the brewing process and they are treated with
sulphur. I am merely trying to eliminate a possible source of
contamination... as I am with these.” From his other coat pocket
Holmes produced a handful of bright green hops.

The trap finally pulled up
outside Aunt Rachel's cottage and, on paying the driver, we asked
him to return in two hours time. We stood for a few moments and
admired the garden. The flowers around the gate spilled out over
the cottage's dry stone wall and, as we watched, bees made the
flowers a frequent port of call.

The path to the front door
curved slightly and had been inset with wild herbs which gave forth
an exquisite smell as they were bruised by our progress. I was
unconcerned when there was no reply to our knock on the front door.
Holmes and I followed the path towards the rear of the cottage
where my aunt had a kitchen garden. As we rounded the corner, a
familiar figure could be seen tending the bee hives at the far end
of the garden.

I called softly to my aunt in
order not to startle her. On hearing my voice, she turned and
waved. Aunt Rachel was attired in a protective veil and a close
fitting white beekeeper's smock. Even through the veil we could see
her smile. “John...and you must be Sherlock.”

Holmes touched his hat,
replying, “Indeed I am, Mrs Watson.”

Aunt Rachel beamed and wagged
her finger at Holmes, saying, “No, no. You must call me Aunt.”

Holmes nodded and smiled in
return. “As you wish.”

Grasping my hand, Aunt Rachel
led Holmes and me into the cottage kitchen and, after removing her
beekeeper's uniform, we were soon being treated to tea and honey
cake. After a few minutes, Holmes took the lead. “I know this may
be somewhat painful, Aunt Rachel, but can you tell me the
circumstances surrounding the loss of your friends?”

Aunt Rachel immediately looked
sad. “Well, it all seemed to start after May Day. We had had a
Women's Institute meeting and then, within a week, folk began to
become ill. First it was Mrs Parsons. She took to her bed and died
within a week or so. Then Mrs Wallace. She went the same… and her
husband too! I told John about poor Mrs Harvey. It all seemed to
happen so suddenly. We had the W.I. meeting and made arrangements
for buying the sugar for jam making and then it started.”

Holmes held up his forefinger,
asking, “Do you make jam, Aunt?”

Aunt Rachel smiled, “Oh, no. I
am quite happy to put honey on my bread and in my cakes. I use it
to sweeten everything... even my tea!”

Holmes seemed troubled. “But the
others, were they keen jam makers?”

Aunt Rachel nodded. “Oh, yes.
All of them made jam. They grew their own fruit or gathered it from
the hedgerows. They made jars and jars of it. That's why we
decided, as a group, to buy a sack of sugar. It was much cheaper
than buying single bags. We could get it directly from the factory.
We bought it from Redmond's Sugar Refinery in Lymington.”

Holmes nodded. “Would you say
that your fellow W.I. members were beer drinkers?”

My aunt gave Holmes a very
strange look. “No. Not at all! Perhaps some would partake of a
small glass of sherry at Christmas but many of my friends are
Methodists and tee-total.”

In a softer voice, Holmes
continued. “Your friend, Mrs Harvey. Did she make jam?”