The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (7 page)

Holmes shook his head. “That will be a waste of your time, Lestrade. Do you not recall the Bradford Sweets case?” From the blank look upon the inspector’s face, the answer was clear, therefore Holmes continued. “In 1858, peppermint lozenges accidentally made with a high concentration of arsenic were sold in the Bradford central market. Over two hundred people were sickened and approximately twenty died. Even the laws regulating foodstuffs were altered in response to this terrible case. But all three men who contributed to the inclusion of the arsenic into the sweets were eventually acquitted. I am certain that any barrister retained for Mr. Vaughan’s defense will cite this precedent and ensure his swift release.”

“So I am just to let them both go?”

Holmes nodded. “That would be my advice.”

Lestrade rose from his seat, shaking his head in confusion. “Alright, Pollock,” he said to his constable, “you may remove the restraints from Dr. Lowe. Then go home to your family.” He turned back to Holmes. “A strange business, Holmes.” He shrugged, tipped his hat at me, and departed, leaving us alone with Mr. Vaughan, Miss Hopton, and Dr. Lowe.

The latter rose from his seat, still rubbing his sore wrists, but plainly desirous of seeing his wife and home again after two days in the Bow Street Cells. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“A minute, doctor,” Holmes forestalled him. “Are you not curious to learn why Mr. Vaughan sought to frame you for the poisoning?”

“What?” the doctor exclaimed.

We turned to where sat Vaughan, whose face had once more taken on a bloodless appearance. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he stammered.

Holmes frowned at him. “Take care, Mr. Vaughan. I will give you one chance to be honest with us. I have almost every link in my hands, and with one untruth from you, I will swiftly call Lestrade back here. I am certain the inspector will be more than happy to find you a permanent berth at Newgate,” said he, sternly.

Vaughan nodded, a look of despair in his eyes. “If you knew, why did you tell the inspector that I was delirious when I poured the arsenic?”

“Because I suspected that there was more to the story.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Tell me about Miss Miriam Pearl,” Holmes commanded.

At the sound of this name, Vaughan’s face sank into his hands and his body was wracked with sobs. I was surprised to note that Dr. Lowe also visibly startled and paled, sinking back into his chair. Miss Pearl’s name seemed familiar to me, though I could not place it.

“Why torture me so, Mr. Holmes?” cried Vaughan in anguish. “You know all!”

“Indeed,” said Holmes grimly. “I suspected the presence of another individual in this mystery when I saw the framed picture at your bedside.”

“Queen Victoria?” I asked, mystified.

“Indeed, Watson. Though it was not always our glorious majesty. I could tell that her picture was not intended for that frame, for it was a fraction of an inch too small. And it is a rare man so patriotic as to have such a picture at his bedside. It is much more common to have the picture of someone you care for deeply, so that theirs is the last gaze you look upon when you turn out the lights.”

I frowned. “But why suddenly replace the picture?”

“Because Miss Pearl is the real key to the whole mystery, which spans almost two decades. She was the young lady who was accused by Mrs. Molyneux of stealing from the Marylebone Crippled Children’s Fund. Reverend Arden supported this denunciation, and she was cast out of the community and threatened with arrest. I imagine she felt a great despair, and at what should have been the happiest time of year, the very eve of Christmas, she took her own life by jumping from Waterloo Bridge into the frozen Thames.”

I gasped in horror. “That is terrible, Holmes!”

“Indeed,” he nodded grimly. “Over the years, the good folk at Marylebone Chapel began to wonder if she had been falsely accused.”

“Of course she was falsely accused by that foul harridan!” Vaughan exclaimed. “Miriam’s great joy was administering that fund and seeing it put to good use. She was the one who discovered the theft, which was carried out by none other than Berenice Molyneux. However, before Miriam could report it, Berenice made it appear that Miriam had stolen the funds herself. It probably would not have been sufficient to convince the police, if it had not been for the Reverend, who verbally attacked Miriam with bitter venom. To this day, I wonder if he knew that Berenice was guilty, or if his lust simply blinded him. But in either case, he was as guilty as her for causing Miriam’s death.”

“And your relation to Miss Pearl?” Holmes asked, almost gently.

“She was my fiancée.” Across the parlor, Dr. Lowe startled again at this revelation. “It was a secret, as my family did not approve of her,” Vaughan continued. “But I loved her with all of my heart and we planned to wed that spring. Until she was ripped from me by the actions of two evil people, who have now met their deserved fate.”

“But why did you not tell the police?” I asked.

He shook his head sadly. “I had no proof. It was Miriam’s word against theirs, and she was dead. But her word was true.”

“So you were powerless to act, until you recently became sick,” said Holmes. “It then became critical to you that Miriam not die unavenged. And when your familiarity with China, learned from your connections in the jade import business, taught you that a sufficient dose of arsenic could either kill you or cure you, you decided to make certain that if you died, it would not be alone. First you dismissed your old maid, so that there would be no chance that she could be suspected in the case. Then, you invited your greatest enemies to sit down at the table with you, and pay them back for a wrong they committed nearly twenty years ago. Learning the required dose in the now-burned note, you poured the poison into the ewer while their heads were bowed in prayer. You then rolled the empty bottle away from you so that it would not be found on your body, in case your gamble paid off and you actually lived.”

Vaughan nodded grimly. “I see that you understand what I have done and why it was necessary.”

“But Dr. Lowe had no role in the death of Miss Pearl,” I protested. “He may have drunk the poisoned wassail.”

“That is not true, Dr. Watson,” said Lowe, suddenly. “I too share a measure of blame for poor Miriam.”

“She was your relative?” asked Holmes.

“My cousin,” said he, hoarsely. “But when she left the faith and converted to the Church of England we cast her out. Thus, we were not there for her in her moment of greatest need. It is a terrible shame that I have borne for twenty years.”

“Vaughan blamed your entire family as an accessory, and you were its representative,” said Holmes. “Your crime was that of omission, rather than commission, so he spared you the fatal blow of the poison by arranging for the timely delivery of the note that called you from the house. But if Vaughan died, the blame for the poisoning would likely fall upon you. Even if you were set free from lack of motive, you would receive at least some mental punishment for Miriam’s death.”

Lowe rose unsteadily to his feet. “I can assure you Mr. Vaughan that the two days I have spent in the Bow Street cells are nothing compared to the lifetime of guilt that I have felt at her death. There is no excuse for my initial actions, or those of my family. I like to believe that if she had turned to us in her hour of despair that we would have welcomed her back with open arms. But she never gave us the chance, so I will never know the truth. And that haunts me to this day.”

Vaughan also rose to his feet and held out his hand to the doctor. “Then I am sorry for what I have done to you, sir. I am most glad that Mr. Holmes was here to clear your name.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, addressing Dr. Lowe. “At this time of year, it should be clear that the most important things in life are your family and your friends. No mere words from almost two millennium ago should stand in the way of that. Go be with your wife.”

When the door closed behind the doctor, Holmes turned back to our host. “And what will you do now, Mr. Vaughan?”

He appeared to contemplate this question for a minute. When he looked up, his eyes were dull. “I honestly did not think that I would make it through that dose of arsenic. That is why I settled some money on Mrs. Sumner in advance. My thoughts have been consumed with darkness for so many years, I do not see a way forward now that Molyneux and Arden have gotten their just rewards.”

Holmes laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Nothing can bring Miriam back, Mr. Vaughan. But you have been given a new lease upon life. And I understand that you are still a wealthy man. Perhaps, now that Marylebone Chapel has been cleared of its foul influences, you could continue Miriam’s work?”

A light of understanding appeared in Vaughan’s eyes. “The Crippled Children’s Fund?”

“Indeed. Today is Christmas Eve, Mr. Vaughan. I think such a day is an appropriate time to bring some joy into the world, do you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, yes!” he said, smiling broadly. He reached out and pumped Holmes’ hand enthusiastically. “You are a genius!”

I may have imagined it, but I thought I detected a small flush of color rise to Holmes’ pale cheeks upon hearing these words of praise. He may have affected the external armor of a purely rational machine, I but knew that was only part of the truth.

Mutually, we silently decided to walk back to Baker Street. The lantern-lit streets were filled with throngs of merry-makers. Last-minute gifts were being purchased, holiday geese were being distributed by burly poultry-men, and the smell of roasted chestnuts filled the air.

After we had been walking for about ten minutes, I turned to my friend. “Did we commute a felony today, Holmes?”

“Perhaps we did, Watson. By and large, the laws of England are magnificently fair, but even they cannot cover all extenuating circumstances. If I had told Lestrade the full account, Vaughan would be lucky to spend the rest of his life rotting in gaol. Recall, however, Watson, that we were hired by Mrs. Lowe to free her husband, which we did. I do not recollect Lestrade ever asking me to solve his case for him. I presented one possible solution, and to any discerning detective it had far too many defects to be plausible. I can hardly be blamed if Lestrade blindly accepted it. Furthermore, I think the new Mr. Vaughan can do more good out in the world,” he concluded magnanimously.

“So you expected him to recover from his illness?”

“It was a desperate gamble, Watson, but he was a dying man. He saw a way to rid himself of all those that he felt wronged by, and thus if he did not survive, at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken his perhaps justifiable revenge.”

“A terrible business, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson. But to some extent a happy ending for all deserving of such.”

“So when you said that you eliminated the impossible, you meant that you eliminated the possibility that his recovery was due to a miracle?”

Holmes pursed his lips. “Watson, let me tell you a story. It concerns one of the greatest thinkers of the modern era and one of the greatest despots. You once accused me of having little knowledge of astronomy, which at the time was true. But when I began to investigate the Napoleon of crime, I realized that I needed to rectify this deficiency in order to understand the mind of a man who could write about such pure mathematics as
The Dynamics of an Asteroid
. So I began with Newton, and then moved to Laplace. When reading about the Frenchman, I encountered an amusing anecdote about his meeting with Bonaparte himself. Laplace formally presented the Emperor with a copy of his masterwork,
Mécanique Céleste
, but Napoleon had already been informed regarding its contents. Bonaparte was fond of asking embarrassing questions, so he received it with the remark, ‘Monsieur Laplace, they tell me you have written this large book on the system of the universe, and have never even mentioned its Creator.’ Laplace drew himself up and answered bluntly, ‘
Je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là
.’”

“I had no need of that hypothesis,” I translated, after which. I walked on in silence for some time.

Given the acuity of his senses, Holmes was certainly able to detect that I was troubled by this answer. “Watson, do you know the true meaning of the Christmas season?”

“A midwinter festival, I suppose?” I replied irascibly.

“Yes, for certs, that is how it began,” he agreed in an amiable tone. “But it has taken on a larger meaning. People make a grave mistake when they think that they simply need to ‘believe’ for all to turn out right. It is not about believing. Belief without action accomplishes naught. The true meaning of Christmas can be found in our actions. Doing good deeds for your fellow man. And it is, of course, a time for forgiveness. A time for peace on earth and good will towards men, women, and children.”

I thought about this in silence, my equanimity slowly returning, until we reached Baker Street. We paused before Number 221 and I turned to Holmes with an outstretched hand.

“Happy Christmas, Holmes,” said I, smiling.

He took it warmly. “Happy Christmas, Watson.”

§

In the year 1998 CRAIG JANACEK took his degree of Doctor of Medicine of Vanderbilt University, and proceeded to Stanford to go through the training prescribed for pediatricians in practice. Having completed his studies there, he was duly attached to the University of California, San Francisco as Associate Professor. The author of over seventy medical monographs upon a variety of obscure lesions, his travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of his fictional works. To date, these have been published solely in electronic format, including two non-Holmes novels (
The Oxford Deception
&
The Anger of Achilles Peterson
), the trio of holiday adventures collected as
The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes
, and a Watsonian novel entitled
The Isle of Devils
. His current project is the short trilogy
The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes
. His first in-press work will be included in the forthcoming
MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories
(Fall 2015)
.
Craig Janacek is a
nom-de-plume
.

For augmented content, connect with him online at:
http://craigjanacek.wordpress.com
.

§