The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (45 page)

“For how sadly Madeline's life turned out.”

“Hmm. Aren't you leaving out something?”

“By George, yes! He did kill Vittoria.”

“Interesting. On what do you base this?”

“He gave her an injection of some poison, and shortly thereafter she died.”

“I hadn't realized she died of poisoning. Didn't the newspaper say something else?”

“She died of a massive head wound.”

“This Randall person bludgeoned her?”

“She fell from her horse.”

“Ah. He trained the horse to drop her.”

“You make the woman's death sound so silly.” We were coming to a grand old gothic cathedral, whose bells chimed the hour.

“No one's death is silly,” Holmes said. He had the cherrywood pipe going well, and took a few extra puffs to prove it. “When these cathedrals were being built (and they were erected simultaneously all over Europe as well as here), many structures such as the cathedral at Rheims took well over a hundred years to complete. Think of it! Concurrent lifetimes, workers of all sorts jammed together. Naturally, there were a great many accidents. As sons and apprenticed workers learned the family trade—masonry, for example—by doing, really everything that could happen did. Scaffolds and materials fell. Tools were mishandled. Plenty of accidents happened, but very few of them mortal. It's like carriage drivers today: Our streets were designed for pedestrians and the occasional cart, and never meant to bear so much traffic. So collisions are not unheard of, far from it. But given the proximity of all these speeding vehicles, and the likelihood they might interact, it may be considered surprising there aren't
more
accidents and
more
deaths . . . Where was I?”

“Cathedrals.”

“Yes. Accidents. All those workmen could be quite loud working at once over the long hard days, pounding and shouting to one another. But quite regularly one would hear the cry of a young man in pain and the pounding would go silent a minute, awaiting the news that the boy would live to bear some typical scar of his profession, often on the hands, of course, but it might be any place on his person. In these moments of silence, some philosopher would often announce as a warning, ‘Ah, there's the sound of the Trade entering the body.' And so it was.”

“Well, Holmes, what has this to do with Vittoria?”

“Just so: She was a most experienced horsewoman and acrobat, so say all accounts, yet she fell.”

“She fainted.”

“Fainted, say you?”

“Yes. The Ringmaster said she seemed to lose balance and her breath, then fell, and none of the innumerable witnesses disagree.”

“Well, fainting! Tell me what causes that; you're knowledgeable in medical matters.” (So was he, but I didn't wish to dispute while he was smoking his cherrywood and tearing up a conclusion.)

“A lot of things really . . . Palpitations, fainting and vertigo are all symptoms generally considered to be suggestive of cardiac arrhythmia. Any blockage of circulation can do the same. Then, of course, there's extreme heat or exertion, dehydration, starvation, excess bleeding or anaemia—even a serious fright might make one faint. Then there are matters related to expectant motherhood which could increase the patient's susceptibility to all the foregoing, and otherwise complicate matters, adding dizziness, nervousness, and in rare cases where toxemia is present, even raise the blood pressure.”

“Pregnancy?” Holmes inquired. “That's what you mean?”

“Yes. It's been known to occur in women.”

“Hardly ever in men.”

“Exactly so.”

“Blockage of circulation?”

“Yes, a prime cause of fainting.”

“Could a blockage be caused by a corset tightly laced to disguise ‘expectant motherhood'?”

“Yes, it might be caused by a corset tightly laced for any purpose. But such a cause would be ruling out poison.”

“Indeed, poison. What sort of poison was used?”

“That I don't know. I only know it was injected.”

“In large quantity?”

“No, I suspect not, as the syringe was small. Why?”

“Nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously. Salt can be toxic. Ruling out all poisons if that could be done (and it cannot) would be time-consuming and ultimately valueless.”

“Time-consuming, yes, but why valueless?”

“People don't go about injecting every household solution into others hoping to kill them.”

“That is so.”

Holmes said this next as if reciting to himself some private formula: “Everything should be made as simple as possible but no simpler.”

“I don't follow.”

“You said Vittoria died of injuries sustained during a faint, yet you know she was poisoned.”

“Yes.”

“I won't ask you how you know, as you are obviously taking care to hide the fact.”

I looked at him. How much did he know?

“What I don't understand,” he continued, “is why you never asked Madeline what poison it was.”

“I meant to, yet I hated to bring up that day at all. Also, when I—Say, how did you know it was from Madeline?”

“Who else did you know then whom you would still be so anxious to protect, even from me?”

I coloured slightly, but in cover of darkness was not further embarrassed by obvious embarrassment.

“So why didn't you ask her?”

“Well, we exchanged a few polite letters, but I didn't wish to put the matter in writing. I assumed we would have the chance to speak in person.”

“And didn't you?”

“We did, but not about that topic. Two months after Vittoria's death, Maddy wrote me that Jane's father had met with Randall's uncle. I was invited to ‘the glad occasion' of Jane and Randall's imminent wedding! Well, I was appalled but relieved at once, you can understand, and called upon Madeline to, uh, inquire after her future plans. I was astonished to hear that not only was she pleased with the match, but she was leaving with the newlyweds the week after their wedding to ‘help them settle' in their country home! I
pleaded with her to stay in London; I was sure with the financial pressure thus relieved by the marriage that Jane's father would willingly provide her with a home until a suitable marriage could be found for her. Madeline is, as you know, a lovely gentlewoman. She took my hand, looked me sweetly in the eye and said, ‘Whither Jane goest, I shall go.' The shame of it! The waste! But for Randall traumatizing her with his selfish, loutish ways, my cousin would have had a home and a family of her own!”

“Like you have.”

“Yes! Well, Mary and I haven't any children, but we hope to. The point is, look how her life turned out because of one weak and loathsome man!”

“How did her life turn out, then?”

“Sadly, as far as I can see.”

“Why do you say that?”

“From that meeting onward, I barely saw Madeline. It was as if Jane's life plans had simply swallowed Madeline's. First there was the wedding to be arranged, and quickly so that they need not travel at the height of winter. Jane's mother was no longer living, so Jane's father thought it appropriate that Madeline take on those tasks. Then actually moving to the country with them, helping them ‘settle in'—you'd never know Maddy wasn't Jane's lady's maid! I wrote Madeline often, and after several months began beseeching her to come to London if only for a visit. I could not leave London due to my studies, I explained, but I certainly had time to see her, and knew a number of fine gentlemen who were anxious to make her acquaintance. I would be more than happy to chaperone if she liked. Moreover, even if she did
not
wish to explore her social possibilities just yet, I suggested it was high time she let the newlyweds get acquainted in privacy. This much was only their due . . .”

“And the result?” Holmes asked.

“The result surprised me. The newlyweds were already quite well acquainted, she wrote, a child was in fact expected, and she would not leave Jane's side. There the matter ended. I ceased writing
eloquent entreaties, and the four of them, Madeline, Jane, Randall and the child moved together to London after the child was walking.”

“Ah, so she did return to London, then.”

“Not she, Holmes, they. I tried to arrange to see her, to speak with her. She tried to arrange for me to ‘meet the baby.' I saw her and the baby, little Randall. They were in preposterously good health and good cheer. She seemed to do nearly all the work associated with the child, although Jane, of course, and Randall doted on him. They did have someone to do the washing, and a cook and so forth . . .”

“Doesn't sound like life turned out so sadly for her. Sounds as though you're the one who's sad.”

“You're not listening!”

“Really? Are you?”

“I'm saying without the least concern for her, they let her live with them as a nanny, when rightfully by birth her social station is just the same as Jane's.”

“But not Randall's,” Holmes put in.

“Oh, what's the use in talking about it!” I cried. We were nearing the House of Norris then, and it was plain to me we would not reach an understanding before we reached the door. “Holmes,” I said, placatingly, “you've always been a man of Science, not of Society. There is no earthly reason why you would comprehend that treasure known as family life of which Randall has deprived her.”

“Let me ask you two more things, then,” Holmes said. “First, can you repeat to me that saying about self-aggrandizing speech which begins ‘As we say in medicine'?”

I laughed and obliged him. “Of course. It goes: ‘As we say in medicine, if you've seen one instance of a malady, you say, “In my experience . . .” If you see two, you say, “In case after case . . .” And if you see three, you say, “In my series . . .” ' ”

We laughed together at that.

The door bore a carved letter N, surrounded for the occasion
by a black-ribbon wreath. I rapped with the griffin-shaped knocker.

Then Holmes asked, “How many people have you met who are really like Madeline?”

“Just the one.”

“So ‘in your experience,' then, the lives of Madelines turn out sadly. Yet all the evidence isn't in. Talk to her, Watson. ‘He who is too shy to ask questions will never learn.' ”

“Who said that, Confucius?”

“Rabbi Theodor Klein.”

The door opened and we went in.

We were shown into an enormous parlour hung with black draping. A dozen weary men and women of what had obviously been a larger crowd earlier sat in armchairs waiting for the rosy fingers of dawn to release them from their vigil.

Against the far wall, a raised funeral bier had been erected, surrounded by numerous small tables which held enormous displays of white lilies, and carnations twisted into the shape of the cross, and such-like. I stepped up to the bier which held the mortal remains of Lord Randall, Earl of Norris. The carved mahogany casket was the most elaborate I had ever seen. The funeral home's “men's best” casket, I supposed. He looked good, even better than before; he was clean and tidy (somebody had got all the blood off him), and at last he finally wasn't doing anything, the sight of which came as a relief to me. He had, surprisingly, the same expression on his face which had bothered me so much before—a look of eminent self-satisfaction. Perhaps this was just an accident of the shape of his mouth. I would ask a phrenologist.

“John! John Watson!”

I turned toward Madeline like a flower turns towards the sun.

She wore black, of course, but the intervening years had rounded and ripened her so that black became her, for the same reason that black can make the very young and thin look pinched and angular.

Behind her, trying to affix a necklace around Madeline's neck
was Jane, so that all I could see of her at first was her hands around Maddy's throat.

“Well, John, what do you think?”

It was a grey pearl choker, and went well with Madeline's eyes.

“It looks exactly as it should,” I said.

“Young Randall found that today,” Jane told me, “when he was going through a deed box. As soon as he saw it he said, ‘is for Lady Madeline' ”

“Randall,” Madeline said to the child, “this is your cousin, Dr. John Watson, but you may as well call him Uncle. You're the man of the house now, so it's your job to welcome him and introduce him to those who are here.”

“Hello, Dr.—Uncle John!” the boy said, and shook my hand manfully. A beautiful boy he was; he looked to be about eleven, with amber curls and eyes like the blue in a flame. “Welcome. Of course you already know my mothers (your cousins), and these gentlemen are my father's friends and hunting companions.” Young Randall introduced each by name, and told of the biggest animal each had shot. We all shook hands and Randall Junior seemed pleased with our progress. After he had introduced all the well-dressed gentleman, he turned to the houseman. “This is Gregory,” Randall Junior continued. “Gregory's family has been in service to this family for seventy-two years.” Gregory nodded. Then a smile stole across the lad's face as he came to the good part: “Every Saturday morning, all of us—all of us men, that is—go hunting. And of course they go with us.”

He was pointing to a trio of sizeable dogs who had set up shop beneath the bier and so were able to guard their still master and rest at the same time. “The black and tan dog is called Sammy. Sammy is fast and never quits. The fawn-color dog is Topaz. Topaz is Sammy's mother.” As the child mentioned the dogs' names, each pricked up its ears, but otherwise lay very still. “Father said that Topaz was too old for the hunt and probably wouldn't come back
with us one of these weeks. So I said just leave her here in the house. He said no. But now
he's
not going on the hunt . . . So I'm not going on the hunt. Lady Madeline and Mother say a young man can learn to do other things besides read and hunt. But I like to hunt! I also like Science. I'm going to be a famous inventor one day like Thomas Edison and Jules Verne. O! I forgot to say we have a retriever, too. A Labrador. She's the stout black one. We named her Little Doris after the Dickens play.”