It was in February 1888 that Holmes had reposed in such a fashion for three whole days, following upon a period when he had busied himself with his various files, scribbling on a notepad and occasionally muttering to himself. He had not eaten throughout this time, his only form of sustenance lying in that strong-smelling shag tobacco, a cloud of pipesmoke enshrouding him with the opaqueness of a November fog.
"Poison, Watson," his sudden emergence from that apparent somnial state caused me to start involuntarily, "is the device of more murderers who have escaped the gallows than any other weapon used. Poison is, in many cases, undetectable, only the symptoms of some being a guide to their identification. Often death occurs after the villain has returned to his normal routine and the victim is diagnosed as having died from natural causes. Doubtless you, yourself, have, on more than one occasion, been deceived by the guile of some insidious murderer who has later reaped the rewards of his vile deed."
"I would hate to think so, Holmes." I confess his words brought with them a pang of guilt, a momentary feeling that I had, in some instances, neglected my duty as a doctor.
"It is not a comforting thought but, undoubtedly, it has occurred." He regarded me with an unwavering stare. "Likewise, I, on rare occasions, have overlooked some vital clue that would have led to a conviction. None of us are infallible although, I hope, that over the past few days I have achieved something which will make those errors, where poison is concerned, something of a rarity."
"That is good news, indeed." I knew full well that he was about to confide in me the purpose of his recent writings and contemplations. I leaned forward expectantly.
"You will doubtless recall my original thesis on poisons," he became a silhouette behind a cloud of exhaled tobacco smoke, "in which I examined the varieties in some detail."
"Yes, yes," I had read it at his invitation some time ago. Some aspects of the paper did, indeed, throw new light on the subject.
"Well, I have revised and updated it,Watson. I would hope that from now on the prospective poisoner will think twice before administering some lethal dose to an unsuspecting victim."
"That is good news, Holmes." I have never doubted my friend's variable knowledge of botany, surpassed only by a profound understanding of chemistry.
"Cyanide, for example, works slowly if administered in small doses, produces symptoms of failing health which often deceives a well-meaning doctor right up to, and beyond, the point of death. Unless, of course, he perceives a faint smell of almonds on the doomed person's breath. Now, in total contrast…"
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knocking on the door which bespoke an urgency that transcended the routine delivery of a letter or telegram. My colleague was instantly alert for it was for such moments that he lived: the unexpected visitor, in a state of distress, ushered in by the long-suffering Mrs Hudson.
"A lady to see you, Mr Holmes," the landlady withdrew, closed the door behind her for she was accustomed to strange callers, day or night, and resolutely showed no surprise.
"Mr Holmes, please forgive this intrusion." Our visitor was an exceedingly attractive lady in her early twenties, long auburn hair falling about her shoulders, her expression one of acute anxiety.
"Pray, be seated, Miss…" Holmes, like myself, had already noticed that our caller wore no wedding ring.
"I am Gloria Morgan." She seated herself on the edge of the vacant chair, wrung her hands together in obvious anguish. "Mr Holmes… my father has murdered my mother, a vile deed which will go both undetected and unpunished unless…"
"Have you not informed the police, Miss Morgan?" Holmes stretched out his long legs. "Surely, that is the obvious course if you are so convinced that such a dastardly act has taken place?"
"It would be useless, Mr Holmes, for Doctor Lambeth is insistent that my mother died of lockjaw. But he is ageing, he retires shortly, and I do not think that he wishes to put himself in the embarrassing position of accusing a prominent member of the community of such a crime on slender evidence."
"Please start at the very beginning, Miss Morgan." Holmes reached the old slipper off the floor by his side and proceeded to stuff the blackened bowl of his pipe with fine cut dark tobacco. "I trust you have no objection to the smell of strong tobacco, Miss Morgan?"
"Not at all." She coughed slightly for the room was already thick with pipesmoke. "My father is Squire Royston Morgan of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire."
"Ah, I recall the locality." Holmes leaned back, his fingertips pressed together, seemingly drowsy to anybody who was not familiar with his posture, but I knew that he listened intently. "Is that not in the proximity of Longparish, home of the legendary late Colonel Peter Hawker, undoubtedly one of the finest marksman which this country has ever produced, a veteran of the Crimean War who, upon being invalided out of the army, devoted the remainder of his life to the pursuit of fur and feather?"
"Indeed, it is," Gloria Morgan smiled wryly. "I curse him, too, even though he has been dead for half a century, for it is upon him that my father has modelled himself, although I would hope that Colonel Hawker's only shortcoming was his devotion to fishing and shooting."
"Hawker was surely the finest game shot of all time," Sherlock Holmes answered dreamily. "Not content with killing twenty-four snipe consecutively on one day, without missing a shot, he used to practise on bats around Longparish Hall at dusk, and, according to his books, with equal success."
"As my father does, especially when we have guests staying." There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.
"I digress," Holmes said. "Please continue."
"As I have already said, my father has endeavoured to build his own reputation upon that of Colonel Hawker's. A fine shot, an excellent fly fisherman and a dashing horseman, understandably he has attracted the attention of other women. I would add, at this stage, that my parent's marriage has not been a happy one. One woman in particular, is a wealthy widow by the name of Eva Dann, who currently owns Longparish, the property most coveted by my father. There have, for some years, been whispered rumours of their relationship, and my mother has had to suffer the ignominy of it. For my sake, she
clung to her marital status and rights, doubtless much to my father's chagrin.
"So, faced with the prospect of her remaining indefinitely at Winchcombe, and thereby depriving him of the opportunity to marry his mistress and acquire Longparish, he murdered her."
"Can you prove it?"
"Alas, no, but I have not a single doubt in my mind that he killed her."
"Then tell me everything you know, setting out your story as it happened, trying not to overlook the smallest detail, however irrelevant it may seem to you."
"My mother had resigned herself to living beneath the same room as my father, no matter how unpleasant that may have been. One of her interests was horticulture, and on fine days she would spend her time in the gardens. Her other love was literature. There is a small library in the Hall and, after dinner each evening, she would go there to read until she retired about ten o'clock. Lately, she took to locking herself in the library because, on those occasions when my father had been drinking heavily, he would go and vent his vile temper on her. Thus, by locking the door, she ensured herself of the tranquillity she required to immerse herself in her reading."
"And it was in the library where she met her untimely death?" There was a gentleness in Sherlock Holmes's voice as he asked the question.
"Yes", Gloria Morgan stifled a sob. "The night before last. Dinner was an uneasy meal for my father was in an uncertain temper on account of having shot badly that day. Afterwards, my mother retired to the library as was her usual routine. I am not sure of my father's movements, possibly he went down to the gamekeeper's cottage to discuss with Randall the task of destroying a colony of moles which are currently rendering the lawns and borders an unsightly mess."