The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (6 page)

“So what’s this all about, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade, irritably. “This is most irregular bringing a criminal back to the scene of his crime.”

“Trust me, Lestrade, that Dr. Lowe’s presence will provide some crucial evidence that will seal this case.”

“He will testify against himself, do you think?” he said, turning a questioning gaze upon the doctor, who remained mute.

“I think it is exceedingly probable that you will hear a confession today,” replied Holmes.

Lestrade smiled eagerly and led the way up the stairs, where Molly let us into the house. As we entered, we found Dr. Braithwaite coming down the stairs. “Gentlemen,” he called out, “I have news of the greatest magnitude!”

“Is Vaughan dead?” inquired Lestrade.

“Quite the contrary, inspector. Today I have witnessed a genuine miracle. Mr. Vaughan is alive and well.” Beside me, Benjamin Lowe startled at this revelation.

Holmes merely smiled. “Is he well enough to join us, downstairs, Doctor?”

Braithwaite considered this. “He is still weak, but yes, I believe that I could help him down.” He returned to Vaughan’s bedroom while we settled ourselves in the parlor.

The doctor soon returned, leading our host, who for his part looked like a new man altogether. His fever had broken, the red lumps and purple spots had vanished, and he was walking under his own power, if a bit unsteady on his feet.

“I don’t believe it, you’re alive!” cried Dr. Lowe.

“Aha!” exclaimed Lestrade. “So you expected to find him dead, did you?”

“Of course, this man had a terminal illness,” replied Lowe. “He had only another week or two to live, at most.”

“So you say, but that could be a simple fabrication to cover your attempt upon his life,” accused Lestrade.

Holmes interrupted the inspector. “Please explain yourself, doctor.”

Lowe appeared to gather his thoughts. “I have been caring for Mr. Vaughan for the last several weeks. He has classic symptoms of what Dr. John Hughes Bennett of the University of Edinburgh describes as ‘leukemia’ from the Greek words
‘leukos’
and
‘heima,’
meaning ‘white’ and ‘blood.’”

“Do you concur with Dr. Lowe’s diagnosis, Dr. Braithwaite?” asked Holmes.

“Perhaps,” he nodded. “It would explain the spots and the bleeding.”

“If you don’t believe me, consult with Sir Jasper Meeks, his prior physician,” interjected Dr. Lowe. “But there is no cure for this disease. I did not think that he would be alive for more than a few final days.”

“And yet I am cured, doctor! It’s a miracle!” said Vaughan with great emotion.

“Ah, but this is a strange type of miracle,” said Holmes. “For with your cure, Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux have found their deaths.”

Vaughan met his gaze, a glimmer of the passed fever still in his eyes. “As the Reverend once told me, mysterious are the ways of the Lord.”

“So you would agree, doctor,” said Holmes, turning to Lowe, “that Mr. Vaughan has experienced a miracle?”

“Well, miracles are not really my field…”

“But you said yourself that he should be dead. How do you explain that?”

“I cannot.”

“And you, Watson? Do you concur with Dr. Lowe’s opinion that Mr. Vaughan should be dead?”

I shook my head in confusion. “Yes, if he has leukemia, I don’t understand why he has improved. It’s impossible.”

“Watson, let me remind you of one of my maxims. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.”

Lestrade was confused. “I do not follow you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then let me try to enlighten you, inspector. This case is simple. The mystery of the poisoning hinges upon four items. The first is the will.”

Lestrade nodded. “Exactly! The will provides motive. A sizeable motive, indeed!”

“Does it?” Holmes arched an eyebrow. “How? You have heard my friend here, Dr. Watson, confirm Dr. Lowe’s opinion that Mr. Vaughan was suffering from a terminal disease. He was due to die in but a few days more. What would Lowe possibly have to gain by poisoning Mr. Vaughan now?”

Lestrade considered this for a moment. “Perhaps Mr. Vaughan was going to revise the terms of the will.”

Holmes turned to our host. “Were you?”

“Ah yes, of course, I thought that perhaps I was a bit hasty….”

“I see,” Holmes interrupted him. “By the way, Watson, you’ve successfully treated many patients over the years, have you not?”

“You know I have, Holmes,” I replied somewhat indignantly.

“And have many remembered you in their wills?”

I frowned. “No. Not that I can recall.”

“So Mr. Vaughan’s provision to Dr. Lowe was very generous then? Especially as he had been treating him for only a few weeks.”

“I should say so!”

“Then let us move on to the second issue. It took me a while to recognize the significance of this finding.”

“What is that, Holmes?”

“I refer, Watson, to the curious nature of the glass of Scotch whisky.”

“But the whisky was not poisoned!” Lestrade protested.

“That is what is so curious. Why did Mr. Vaughan ask Dr. Lowe to trudge downstairs for a glass of Scotch whisky that he did not drink? And if he was so inclined, why did Dr. Lowe not take this ideal chance to poison Mr. Vaughan? Why wait, and in so waiting, also doom Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux?”

“It would have been too obvious that the doctor did it,” exclaimed Lestrade.

“And so he killed two innocent people to cover his tracks?” Holmes concluded.

Lestrade smiled contentedly. “Exactly.”

I shook my head. “But his glass was also poisoned!”

“But Lowe did not taste it. He was called away,” concluded Lestrade.

“Ah, that leads us to the third item,” said Holmes. “The summons to an imaginary crisis. But who sent the note?”

“The doctor sent it to himself, of course!”

“Did he? Constable, if you check the front steps, I think that you will discover two young boys. They may not look completely respectable, but if you would ask them to come up, I think they can shed some light on our mystery.”

The man looked at Lestrade for instructions, who merely shrugged and nodded. The constable soon returned with two individuals in tow, the scruffy Wiggins and a slightly more properly-dressed lad of a similar age.

Holmes smiled. “Wiggins, were both tasks successful?”

“Yes, guv’nor,” he replied, handing Holmes a pale green envelope. “And this here is Ned. He brung the note for the doctor here two days ago.”

The boy identified as Ned looked at the constable and nodded nervously.

Holmes reached into his pocket and plucked out a guinea. “Do not be concerned, Ned. You are in no trouble. Can you please tell us who gave you the note for Dr. Lowe and the instructions to come to this house at precisely five minutes after three o’clock?”

“It was her!” he pointed to the maid.

Molly let out a shriek and collapsed. Fortunately, Dr. Braithwaite was standing nearby and caught her before she could hit her head. With some help from the constable, the limp maid was led to a sofa. After Wiggins and Ned were escorted out, a brief application of smelling salts soon brought her around. When she saw all of us gathered around her, she began to sob and wail piteously. “I didn’t poison them!” she reached out to clutch Holmes’ hand. “You must believe me, sir!”

“I do, Miss Hopton. You were given the note by your employer, Mr. Vaughan, were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” she sobbed, “that is correct.”

Holmes nodded, as if another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. He looked up at the gathered company. “Dr. Braithwaite, thank you for assistance today. If you agree that Mr. Vaughan is on the mend, then I do not think we have any further need of your services.”

Braithwaite agreed and departed, the look in his eyes making plain that he was clearly still puzzled by the strange occurrences in the house and the miraculous recovery from certain death of its owner.

After the door closed, Holmes turned back to the maid. “Now let us come to the last item. In some ways it is the most strange of all. Please Miss Hopton, tell us what the burned note looked like.”

She described the mysterious note again, with its fragile paper.

Lestrade frowned. “I don’t see how that helps us, Mr. Holmes. As you yourself said, the note was completely burned.”

“Ah, but the ashes tell a story of their own. During my investigations, I carefully collected every last piece of ash from the table and the floor. I then weighed those ashes, comparing them to those from an envelope of the same size and containing a single sheet of standard paper. And the ashes from Mr. Vaughan’s study were too light.”

“Indeed, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The note was not fully burned. Someone removed the remaining part!”

Holmes smiled. “Not quite, Watson. I believe that the note was indeed completely burned. And yet some ashes were missing. But why only remove some of the ashes, I asked myself? Why not remove all of them? No, it did not make any sense. Unless, these were all of the ashes!”

“But Holmes,” I protested, “you just said it was too light to make up all of the ashes!”

“All of the ashes of a normal sheet of paper, Watson. But not of a very thin sheet of paper!”

I frowned. “But who uses very thin paper?”

“Ah, here we come to the crux of the matter. The link that binds all of the mysterious aspects of this case. Mr. Vaughan, perhaps you know where paper was invented?”

“I am certain I do not, sir,” he answered huffily.

“It was invented in China,” Holmes replied, with a twist of his head and a lift of his eyebrow.

Lestrade had reached his boiling point. “Mr. Holmes! I fail to see the point of this conjecture. What possible relevance could China have to these deaths?”

“China is the linchpin that binds together much of this mystery.” He turned to face Mr. Vaughan. “I suppose you became interested in Chinese history from your working with jade in your jewelry, several pieces of which I noted upon your desk. The most common source of jade is from China, and the ancient dynasties were famous for their jade works.”

Vaughan nodded in mute confirmation.

“But not all of your books on China are concerning its arts and treasures,” Holmes continued. “Your shelves also contain a work entitled the
Compendium of Materia Medicam
, which is the most comprehensive tome ever written about the history of traditional Chinese medicine. I must admit, Mr. Vaughan, that I still did not understand the importance of this connection until I recalled your maid’s description of the note you wrote and how you received a reply in return. A reply written upon an unusually thin sheet of paper. I finally reached out to several prominent Chinese apothecaries in Limehouse, and I see that my queries have borne fruit.” He held up the pale green envelope passed to him from Wiggins.

“Shall I open it, Mr. Vaughan?”

Inspector Lestrade, Dr. Lowe, and I all turned to our host, confused by what Holmes was asking of him.

“There is no need,” Vaughan replied, his voice tinged with a new hoarseness.

“Indeed, for I know the answer as well as you. Certain patients with diseases of the blood that manifest as bruising, purple spots on the skin, and bleeding of the mucous membranes, can be successfully treated with the use of arsenic, including rare forms of leukemia. This wondrous property was first discovered by the Chinese, and even now is poorly understood by even the greatest physicians in England. However, as you must have learned in the note that you burned, the dose required to affect a permanent improvement is rather large. So large that it could just as easily kill the man who ingested it as help him.”

“What?” exclaimed the inspector. “Are you saying, Holmes, that Vaughan poisoned himself and the others?”

“That is exactly what I am saying, Lestrade. Dr. Lowe is innocent of the crime of poisoning. While Dr. Lowe was downstairs fetching the glasses of Scotch whisky, Mr. Vaughn pilfered his bottle of Fowler’s solution from his medical bag. However, recall that when we first looked in on Mr. Vaughan he was highly feverish. I suspect that he was hallucinating when he accidentally poured the bottle into the ewer instead of into his goblet alone. The bottle clearly fell from his hand and rolled behind the Chinese screen. The deaths of Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux were nothing more than a terrible accident.” He turned his aquiline gaze upon Vaughan.

Lestrade collapsed back into his chair as he appeared to contemplate this stunning turn of events. He finally rallied. “Is this so, Mr. Vaughan? Do you admit to taking the Fowler’s solution from Dr. Lowe?”

Vaughan had been following Holmes’ train of logic with wide eyes, and stared at Holmes for another moment before answering the inspector. “Yes, sir. I do recall taking the bottle. Dr. Lowe could not have administered the poison.”

Lestrade contemplated this for a moment, and then motioned to one of his constables. “We best take Mr. Vaughan into custody, then. Manslaughter, at least, I suppose.”