The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (5 page)

“But there are many disagreeable people in the world, Holmes, and they rarely get served wassail heavily dosed with arsenic,” I pointed out.

“I concur, Watson. I realized that there must be more to the story, and my persistence at the chapel was rewarded with the eventual appearance of none other than Mrs. Florence Sumner.”

“Vaughan’s old maid?”

“Indeed. I knew that she may be an important individual to talk with, but her arrival upon the scene saved me from having to seek her out in the morning, and now I can spend tonight meditating upon the information she provided.”

“So she had evidence material to the crime, despite having been out of the house for several weeks?”

“Perhaps. For one thing, I learned from her that Mr. Vaughan was a profoundly irreligious man, who devoutly avoided church-going for the entire two decades in which she served him. He often claimed that all priests and reverends were charlatans. She was flabbergasted to hear that Mr. Vaughan had been entertaining Reverend Arden, and could not account for his change of heart.”

“Well, he was dying, Holmes. Many a man has been known to undergo a conversion in the face of such a terror.”

“That is a possibility, Watson. And yet, I found one thing particularly strange about Mrs. Sumner.”

“What was that?”

“She is a lovely woman. Barely forty years of age, and one of those rare types who becomes even more caring, rather than hardened and bitter, after a life of service. In fact, she reminded me a bit of our Mrs. Hudson. Less than a month ago, Vaughan settled a significant amount of money upon her, enough that she could afford to retire.”

I shrugged. “As I said, Holmes, he was dying. He clearly valued her years of service and wanted to ensure that she was well taken care of.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently. “Come now, Watson. He could have simply left her the same amount of money in his will. What sort of dying man dismisses his loyal servant of twenty years, so that he can bring in a total stranger and thereby disrupt the routine of the last few weeks of his life?”

“Perhaps he wanted to spare her the pain of watching him die?” I speculated.

“Perhaps,” he nodded. “Perhaps. Well, there are but a few more things to do tonight.” Holmes rose from his chair and strode over to his side-table, its slate top pocked and stained from years of chemical spills. He fired up the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner under a curved retort and began the process of boiling a curved retort in order to condense some unknown substance. He dipped into the various phials that he collected from Mr. Vaughan’s table, drawing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette. Finally, he reached out for a test-tube containing a reddish solution, and added a drop to each sample before placing the mixture upon slips of litmus-paper. I watched this operation with some interest from my armchair.

Finally he pushed back from the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Ah, now that is unusual.”

“What is, Holmes? Is the wassail not poisoned?”

“Oh no, the wassail is most certainly poisoned. What is unusual is that there is an equal concentration of arsenic in each goblet.”

I frowned. “Surely that suggests that the ewer itself was poisoned and not each individual goblet.”

Holmes shook his head. “Indeed, Watson. But why put the wassail into the ewer if the intention was to kill only one member of the holiday party?”

“Surely you are not suggesting that the maid did it?”

“No, there are many reasons why a new maid might wish to strike down her master, but she would have to be a magnificent actress to conceal from us the callous cruelty needed to concurrently strike down three strangers.”

“Surely that is a strike against our client’s husband,” I concluded. “Dr. Lowe never drank from the wassail, for he was suddenly and fortuitously called away. Or so he claims.”

“Indeed, Watson. The mysterious message at once appears to have saved the life of Dr. Lowe but simultaneously implicates him.”

I was now more confused than ever. “So where does that leave us?”

Holmes shook his head. “I am not yet certain, Watson. There are still a few facts that escape me. This note, for example,” said he, drawing out the envelope of ashes and carefully shaking them into one side of an apothecary scale. He then hunted around his desk for another envelope, discarding several until he found one that he appeared satisfied with. He placed a single folded sheet of paper inside it, and then stuck one end into the flame of the burner. He dropped the burning envelope upon a clean tray, and once it burned itself out, he carefully swept up these ashes and deposited them into the other side of the scale. “Ah, you see, Watson. Even the ashes have a tale to tell.”

From where I sat, I could plainly see that the two sides of the scale were imbalanced, with Holmes’ newer ashes much heavier than the ones collected from Mr. Vaughan’s study. “But what does it mean, Holmes? Did he only burn the paper and not the envelope? If so, we could search the study again and find the name of the sender!”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, that is a one plausible explanation, Watson. I have much to contemplate. It is a three pipe problem, I think.” He shrugged off his clergyman’s costume and put on a red dressing-gown. He gathered pillows from the various chairs in our sitting room. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he clearly intended to perch until he had fathomed a solution to the problem at hand.

I rose to head towards my room and the embrace of my sheets, but hesitated in the doorway. Holmes glanced over at me. “What is it, Watson?”

“Well, I had intended to wait until tomorrow to give this to you, but perhaps it would help tonight.” I drew forth a small wrapped box from my desk drawer and handed it to him. He stared at it for a moment as if he could not comprehend what it was. “It’s a Christmas present, Holmes.”

“I know what it is, Watson. However, I am sorry to say that I have no reciprocal gift.”

“Do not worry, Holmes. I am a man of little wants and needs.”

He shook his head. “Still, I am at a loss. Perhaps if we waited until tomorrow…?”

“Go ahead and open it, Holmes” said I, encouragingly.

He finally nodded briskly and opened the box. Inside, he found yet another box, but this one was quite different. It was made from carved cedar, inlaid with an intricate series of geometric designs made from the colored heartwoods of other rare trees. “It’s a puzzle box!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed it is. I often find that solutions to difficult problems come to me when my mind is distracted by other tasks, so I thought you would enjoy trying to open this one. I found it in a curio shop in the East End, and the man there said it was the most difficult one ever created. It’s from China, I believe.”

“Japan,” he replied, distractedly. “But thank you, Watson. It was very good of you.”

“Good night, Holmes,” said I, but he did not reply. When I closed the door to my room, he was already ensconced upon his cushions, sitting cross-legged, with his old briar pipe clenched between his lips and the blue smoke curling up from him. The only sound and motion came from his hands as they twisted and probed the box in front of him, though his eyes were fixed upon the far corner of the ceiling, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.

I turned in with the curtains undrawn so that I could gaze on the light of the stars, shining bright, as I drifted off to sleep. Everything seemed calm and at peace, except for one forlorn man in a Bow Street cell.

§

I awoke the following morning to a strange scene. Holmes had stirred from his perch and was rummaging through my small shelf of medical texts. He plucked out one book and quickly flipped through its pages. I recognized it as Virchow’s
Die Cellularpathologie
. He was silent, as his eyes quickly skimmed what was obviously the relevant section, and then slammed the book closed. When he looked up, I saw the triumph in his eyes. “Yes, I have it now, Watson. It is quite remarkable.”

“You know who poisoned Vaughan and the others?

“Indeed,” said Holmes, smiling. “I think, Watson, that you are standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in England.”

“What was the key to the solution?”

“It was your puzzle box. Oh yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “It was the very thing I needed to understand the common link of all of the frustrating elements to the case.”

“So it took you some time to open it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “About five minutes. Once I found every potential movement or twist that could be made, it was simply a matter of trying them in all of the possible combinations.”

“Oh,” I said, dejectedly. I was dismayed that it had proven to be such a simple trick for Holmes. But I had no time to ruminate upon the matter, for a knock upon our door announced the arrival of Inspector Lestrade.

His countenance was beaming. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

Holmes merely nodded. “You are in a fine mood, Lestrade.”

“Indeed I am! You see, Holmes, now I have means and motive for your Dr. Lowe.”

Holmes frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“While you were going on about old maids, Queen Victoria, and some unidentifiable ashes, I was making some real progress on the case. I have just returned from a visit to Mr. Vaughan’s solicitor, and what do you think that I learned?”

“I am certain that you will tell me,” said Holmes dryly.

“One week ago, Mr. Clement Vaughan changed his will, so that Dr. Benjamin Lowe would inherit everything!” he intoned.

Stunned, I sank down into my armchair. This news seemed incontrovertible. Dr. Lowe had fooled me completely. But Holmes merely laughed aloud.

Lestrade’s brow furled at this unexpected response. “I think that even you would agree, Mr. Holmes, that we have our man.”

Holmes nodded and smiled. “Perhaps you are correct, Lestrade. In fact, I have a favor to ask of you. Would be so kind as to go to the Bow Street cells and collect a constable and Dr. Lowe, and then meet us at Mr. Vaughan’s house? If you do so, I am confident that I can present you with definitive proof of guilt.”

“We’ve proof enough. Why can we not do it at the jail, Holmes?” said the inspector.

“I have my methods, Lestrade. It will be easiest to explain at the scene of the crime.”

“So be it, Holmes,” he replied. “I will meet you there in one hour.” Lestrade tipped his hat to me and departed.

Once the inspector had left, I turned to Holmes. “So you think it is over then? Dr. Lowe killed those three people?”

“Quite the contrary, Watson. I think this proves that the doctor did not do it!”

“What? How can you say that, Holmes?”

“Well, perhaps I am wrong. It does not serve to speculate when we are not yet in possession of all the facts. Go ahead and break your fast, Watson, while I write a few notes.”

By the time I was ready to depart, Holmes had completed his task and had stuffed a dozen or so letters into his jacket pocket. We descended the stairs and emerged onto Baker Street, which was crowded with people enjoying the holidays. To our left, a group of young ladies wrapped in bonnets and scarves sang a carol based on a poem by the American Longfellow. I hesitated, unsure if Holmes intended to walk or hail a cab. However, to my great surprise, he did neither. Instead, he reached into his pocket and drew forth a small whistle, which he placed to his lips and blew a series of high-pitched notes. He then returned the whistle to his pocket and waited, with a patient air. He even returned a few compliments of the season to various passers-by! Finally, the object of his mysterious signal was made plain by the boisterous appearance of a half dozen dirty and scruffy little street urchins, their rags plainly insufficient to ward off the chill of the December air. Nevertheless, they drew themselves up into the semblance of a line and stood facing Holmes with scuffed but expectant faces, like a row of tarnished statuettes. The tallest member of their number, stood forward with an air of loafing superiority that I recognized from that little scarecrow.

“Good morning, Wiggins,” said Holmes to the leader of his irregular force. “I have two tasks today. One for your boys and one for you. First, the boys are to deliver these notes, one to each shop in Limehouse where a bundle of hay hangs under its eaves,” he instructed as he handed out the envelopes that he has written earlier. “This must be done thoroughly, with no place missed. If they succeed, they are to await a reply. Your task is to find the messenger boy who delivered a note to the home of Mr. Clement Vaughan of Vere Street two days ago in the late afternoon. One you find him, bring him to me at Vere Street. Is that all clear?”

“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.

“Because you will be working on a holiday, it will be twice the old scale of pay, and a sovereign to you, Wiggins. Now, off you go!”

Wiggins and the boys grinned at this unexpected generosity from their employer, and even managed raggedly salute Holmes before they buzzed off down the road, like a stream of black and brown bees.

“Come, Watson, let us see our victim.” He hailed a passing cab, and off we went to Vere Street. We arrived nearly simultaneously with Lestrade and his constable. They were escorting a shackled Dr. Lowe, who appeared even more disheveled and haggard. But I thought I glimpsed a light of hope in his eyes, when they alit upon Holmes.