Sherlock Holmes (7 page)

Holmes
paused, placing his index finger to his lips as his mind sifted the
facts. “It is, however, strange that sealing wax was used to seal
the envelope even though it is a pre-gummed envelope. The postage
stamp has been cut perfectly square from a sheet and has been
placed precisely with the sides equidistant from the corner of the
envelope. This infers that the person doing this is most meticulous
in their actions, bordering on obsessive in their
behavior. Other than that, I can form no firm
opinion." As ever, I was amazed at my friend's powers of
observation.

“Truro!” Holmes suddenly seemed galvanized
and cried again, “Truro! Watson, pack a Gladstone!”

Seizing a railway almanac, he quickly thumbed
his way through the pages and found the timetable for Truro. “Ha!
We have just enough time to catch the six o'clock Cornish Express
from Paddington!” I quickly packed my bag and we both hurried down
the stairs to hail a Hansom and head for Paddington. With five
minutes to spare we arrived at Paddington station. I bought two
first class tickets whilst Holmes dived into the telegraph office.
I took the bags to the train and hardly had I stowed them when I
heard the guard shouting for any last passengers to board the
train. I leaped to the door and saw Holmes running like a gazelle
toward the train.

“Holmes! Holmes! Over here!” I cried and
waved frantically from the doorway. Holmes ran towards me and
bounded aboard, closing the carriage door with one swift
movement.

We quickly settled down into our seats and
caught our breath. “To whom did you send the telegram, Holmes?” I
asked.

“Mycroft. I advised him of our departure to
Truro and asked him to contact the local constabulary to arrange
rooms for us at a local inn.”

With a shrill whistle from the guard, which
was echoed by one from the engine, the train eased its way out of
Paddington Station. I looked across at Holmes and saw that within
moments he had drawn himself into a corner of the compartment and
closed his eyes. I knew that it was pointless to ask anything
further of him. He was now withdrawing into that contemplative
state which I had seen so often over the years. His deductive
powers could then be concentrated upon the meagre facts that we had
gleaned from Mycroft's visit. For myself, I opened my bag and took
from it my copy of ‘The Lancet’, published in August. As the train
rumbled on towards Truro, I began to look through some of the
submitted articles.

I must have dozed off as I was awakened by a
tap on the knee from Holmes. “Come on, old fellow. Let us go over
the case as we know it."

Gathering up my fallen copy of 'The Lancet',
I blinked and sat back in my seat. “Well, speaking purely as a
medical man, my interest is in the agent used to create this
illness and the way it has been administered."

Holmes’ brow furrowed. "Yes, what might be
the toxin and, more puzzling, how is the killer able to target his
victims with some accuracy? It cannot be in the water supply or
everyone would be affected. He must be able to select victims or
expose specific groups to the toxin... but how?”

“Could it be the ingestion of specific
foods?” I suggested. “Perhaps he has access to a bakery and can
introduce a toxic agent into the flour?”

“Possibly, Watson. But a local baker or other
supplier of food would only serve a small area of the town and
unless our victims are concentrated in one specific area of Truro,
that premise will fail. I think we may have to wait and look at the
distribution of cases. Now... what of the toxin itself?”

“I have given that some thought,” said I. “I
do not think it to be an infectious disease or other biological
agent. Those are particularly difficult to control and this toxin
can strike and kill within four hours. If I were a wagering man, my
money would be placed on some kind of chemical poison."

“Splendid!” cried Holmes. “You confirm my own
thoughts, Watson!”

I thought myself well pleased to have come to
the same conclusion as Holmes and that cheered me for the rest of
the journey to Truro.

Although well
into the evening when we arrived, there was a constable waiting for
us at the exit from the station.
“Mr
Holmes? Doctor Watson? Inspector Thomas sends his regards
and has instructed me to escort you to your lodgings.”

“That's very kind of him, where are we to
stay?” asked Holmes.

“The inspector has reserved rooms for you
gentlemen at 'The Swan' in Kenwyn Street. This way sirs, it is but
a short walk and you will no doubt want to stretch your legs." The
constable led the way and after a five minute stroll we were
outside the inn. “Here you are, sirs. The Inspector said he would
be grateful if you would meet him at The Royal Cornwall Infirmary
tomorrow morning at nine a.m. He will send a pony and trap to
collect you at a quarter to nine. Now, if there is nothing more I
can do for you gentlemen, I bid you goodnight." With a smile and a
salute, the constable left us.

The Swan was
quite a grand inn and, on entering the snug, we found a
cosy
bar with a gently burning log fire. There were
still a few drinkers finishing off their ale and Holmes and I
approached the bar.

The landlord had been expecting us and
immediately came round from behind the bar to greet us. “Good
evening, gentlemen. May I offer you some supper?”

Neither of us had eaten during our journey
and we were pleased to accept. The landlord led us into a small
dining room and a few minutes later he was placing bread, pork pie
and cooked meats on the table, together with a flagon of Cornish
country cider. We attacked the assembled supper with relish and,
once replete, the landlord took us upstairs to our rooms.

The rooms were clean and simply furnished
with a large bed, a wardrobe, a chair and wash stand upon which a
large jug and bowl stood. Holmes called from across the hallway.
“Goodnight, Watson. I shall call you at eight for breakfast.”

“Yes, thank you, Holmes.” I called in return
and closed the door. Having undressed, I was soon fast asleep.

It seemed as
though only a few moments had passed before there was a firm knock
on my door and a familiar voice, calling,
“It's ten minutes
to eight, Watson. Shake a leg.” I heard Holmes chuckle as
I sprang out of bed to wash and
shave.

By eight o’clock I was dressed, had found my
way downstairs and was being directed to the breakfast room. Holmes
was already installed and was tucking into a plate of fine country
eggs and Cornish bacon. I eagerly joined him, rounding off our
breakfast with tea, brown, wholemeal toast and strawberry jam.

The landlord had been kind enough to supply
us with a copy of the local paper, 'The Cornishman' published, I
saw, in Penzance. Holmes scanned the front page and then frowned.
“The hounds are on the scent, Watson.” tapping an editorial,
entitled, 'Mystery deaths continue in Truro'. “We must indeed make
haste with our investigation."

By quarter to nine we were standing outside
the inn on Kenwyn Street and a few moments later a pony and trap
appeared, stopping in front of us. Nodding to the driver, we
climbed in and headed off to our rendezvous. As we drew up in front
of the Infirmary, we observed the tall figure of a uniformed police
inspector, deep in conversation with a gentleman in morning
dress.

Holmes leapt from the trap and held out his
hand, saying, “Good morning. Inspector Thomas?”

The inspector shook Holmes’ hand, replying,
“Good morning, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce Dr John Trewin." We
all shook hands and the Inspector took the lead as we turned to
approach the Infirmary. I was keen to engage Dr Trewin in
conversation regarding the patients and their symptoms but I held
my tongue.

I was a little surprised when, instead of
entering the Infirmary by the main entrance, the Inspector turned
left and led us to a building to the side of the main hospital.
“I'm sorry if this is not what you expected, gentlemen, but under
the circumstances...” His voice trailed away as he said this.

 Ahead of us was a door guarded by a
constable who saluted as we approached. Once inside, we found
ourselves in what appeared to be the isolation wards of the old
fever hospital. These consisted of two separate wards, one male and
one female. From a brief glance through the glazed doors leading
into the wards, I could see that many of the patients looked
gravely ill. I nodded to Holmes, leaving him free to converse with
Inspector Thomas whilst I moved towards the door of the female ward
with Dr Trewin.

Dr Trewin was a local Cornishman, well built
and smartly dressed. Although bright eyed, he looked tired with
deep worry lines upon his face. “Tell me, Dr Trewin, are the
symptoms common to all the patients?”

“Indeed, Dr Watson. Remarkably so. The
progress of the illness seems to follow the same pattern. It is
particularly hard when nursing the children as it is they who seem
most affected." I considered this for a moment and felt that it was
in keeping with our theory of a chemical poison. It was my
reasoning that if each patient had ingested the same amount of
toxin then, because the bodies of children and women were smaller
than men, the amount of poison per pound of body weight was
markedly increased. Hence, the effects of the poison was also
increased.

I went to the bedside of a young girl of
around sixteen years. She was terribly pale and her breathing
shallow. My shadow passed across her face as I moved closer and her
eyes flickered open. She opened her mouth and tried to speak but I
held my finger to my lips. I felt her pulse which was weak but
rapid. She was sweating and obviously in some considerable pain as
one of her hands rested on the bedclothes above her stomach and,
occasionally, tightened into a fist.

Dr Trewin stood by my side and talked quietly
at my shoulder. “This young girl is one of the lucky ones. She was
brought in yesterday evening and has survived the night. We find
that, generally, if they survive the first four or five hours of
being here, then they slowly recover. Her name is Becky Smith, she
works in the Post Room here at the hospital." I gave her hand a
gentle squeeze and in return she gave me a weak smile.

Dr Trewin and I moved around the ward looking
at each patient. At each bedside he gave me a brief history of each
one as he knew it. Some were much worse than little Becky and I
feared that they would not survive.

“Are the male patients much the same?” I
asked.

“Yes, Dr Watson, but there are far fewer of
them."

I thought this a curious fact and pondered it
as we returned to the hallway between the wards. Holmes had been
deep in conversation with Inspector Thomas but beckoned me, asking,
“Ah, Watson. What do you make of this?”

Holmes stepped into a small
office which was used by the ward sister and pointed to where
Inspector Thomas had pinned a map of the city of Truro onto one of
the walls.
Sticking from the map were
coloured
pins. The black pins told their own
story. The red pins showed the areas where the surviving patients
lived and blue pins indicated their places of work.

“Do you see any patterns, Watson?” Holmes
asked.

Looking at the map, the pins seemed to me to
be randomly placed. “I'm sorry Holmes, I cannot. The cases seem
randomly spread throughout the city." Holmes had a quizzical look
upon his face as though he was beginning to see some pattern
emerging but could not quite put his finger on the reason for
it.

“Inspector? Can you give me a list of the
patients, their addresses, their places of work and occupations?”
asked Holmes.

“Certainly!” Seemingly to show off the
efficiency of the Cornish force, he opened a drawer in the sister's
desk and handed Holmes two large sheets of handwritten
foolscap.

“So many!” I gasped.

Holmes glanced briefly at the sheets and then
turned on his heel. Almost over his shoulder he called to the
Inspector and Dr Trewin “Thank you, gentlemen. Watson! We have work
to do.” and almost ran from the building.

I muttered a thank you and, leaving two very
perplexed gentlemen behind, I followed in Holmes’ wake. As I caught
up with Holmes I saw that he had hailed a passing Hansom and had
directed the cabbie to return us to our rooms at ‘The Swan’.

Holmes’ face was indeed serious. “We need
somewhere we can smoke and think, Watson. Did you see any common
threads in your mornings work?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I saw little commonality
amongst the patients other than their symptoms and the fact that
there are more women and children than men. Our thoughts on a
chemical toxin are, I believe, correct.”

Holmes looked grim and slapped his hand down
hard on his thigh, crying, “There must be a link!”

Arriving back at ‘The Swan’, we sought out a
small sitting room reserved for residents at the inn. Holmes found
a comfortable, leather armchair and began to fill his pipe.
Settling back he closed his eyes, asking, “Be a good fellow,
Watson, and read through the occupations of the patients for
me."

I picked up the two sheets of foolscap and
began. “John Trevithick, paymaster's clerk. Sarah Gold,
pawnbroker's clerk. Helena Robbins, seamstress. Anthony Trelorn,
deceased, telegram messenger boy. Lucy Mead, solicitors clerk...”
and so I continued. At the end of the two lists I looked towards
Holmes, my heart was heavy.