"And the gamekeeper?"
"Randall is a hateful man. He reminds me of the stoats and weasels which hang rotting and stinking on his vermin gibbet. He is the most hated man for miles around. Several cats and dogs, belonging to the villagers, have died in his traps and snares, or eaten the poison which he lays for foxes in the game preserves. The safety of his pheasants is paramount, the greater
the slaughter on shooting days, the more prestigious his role becomes amongst the guests who shoot at Winchcombe."
"A decidedly unpleasant character, by all accounts," Holmes mused.
"Second only to my father. On the night in question I was somewhat later retiring than usual. As I passed the library about eleven o'clock, I noticed that a light still burned beneath the door. Fearing lest my mother might have fallen asleep in her chair, or perhaps become ill, I knocked on the door. After several knockings, and receiving no response, I hastened to summon Jenkins, the butler. Jenkins forced the door open and there… oh, Mr Holmes!"
I reached across and patted her hand. Bravely, Gloria Morgan pulled herself together, and continued her narrative. "It was clear at first glance that my mother was dead. That, in itself, was awful enough but nothing by comparison with the expression on her features and the way in which her body was twisted into an unnatural posture. Mr Holmes, there is no doubt that my mother died in indescribable agony, unable even to call for help."
"You then sent for the doctor?"
"Yes. Jenkins rode at once to the village to fetch Doctor Lambeth who arrived soon after."
"And your father?"
"My father did not return until after the doctor's arrival. His show of distress was so shallow that the most amateurish of stage actors could have improved considerably upon his pathetic performance. Doctor Lambeth examined my mother and diagnosed that she had died of lockjaw which seemed to satisfy my father."
"There would most certainly have been signs of the malady before death took place," I interposed. "A tetanus sufferer would have experienced pain long before the final convulsions."
"Precisely!" Holmes added. "Miss Morgan, did your mother appear unwell in any way during dinner?"
"No," Gloria Morgan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, "but of late she has suffered a loss of appetite due, I presume, to her unhappy state of mind. She ate very little on the night in question, just picked at her food."
"And the remains of her meal?"There was a sharpness about
my friend now which had been absent of late. It appeared that Miss Morgan's story had aroused his interest above the level of a routine investigation.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking, Mister Holmes," our visitor gave a hollow laugh. "The same thought crossed my mind, that some form of poison had been introduced into my mother's food. In my grief and anger I suggested that to both Doctor Lambeth and my father."
"And?"
"My father laughed cruelly. 'Very well', he said, leading us through to the dining room, 'just to prove to you how unfounded your stupid fears are, we will feed the remnants of your mother's meal to the dogs.' We followed him outside to the kennels where the dogs voraciously devoured those leftovers. The animals were still in excellent health when I left to catch the train to London this morning."
"I see." It was impossible even to guess what Sherlock Holmes was thinking as he lapsed into silence. I knew better than to enquire of him for he would reveal them when he was ready and not until.
Miss Morgan and I glanced at each other and there was no mistaking the anguish in her eyes. She had come here with a desperate plea for help and Sherlock Holmes was her only hope.
"Watson and I will travel down to Hampshire by the first available train in the morning." Holmes had made his decision and he knew, without asking, that I would accompany him. "It is important that I examine the scene of this untimely death without your father's knowledge, Miss Morgan. Can that be arranged?"
"Most certainly," There was sheer relief in her reply. "In spite of my mother's sudden death, my father has not seen fit to cancel a day's pheasant shooting tomorrow. He will be out in the fields and coverts with his guests from around ten in the morning until mid-afternoon."
"Admirable!" Holmes snapped his long thin fingers. "I would prefer you to return to Winchcombe this afternoon, Miss Morgan. I presume that your father has no idea that you have visited me."
"None, whatsoever. In fact, should he find out." I glimpsed a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes. "I dread to think what he
might do. As well as being one of the best shots in England, my father has a violent streak in him. This was evident only last winter when he and Randall caught a poacher in the Home Covert, an otherwise harmless villager who only sought a pheasant for his dinner. The man was in hospital for some weeks afterwards with broken bones. Had it not been for my father's position, as well as squire he is chief magistrate, then I fear that the local constabulary would have brought a charge of assault against him."
"Then we shall hope to conduct our investigations undetected." Sherlock Holmes smiled as he rose to his feet. "One final question, Miss Morgan, hurtful as it may be, your mother's body…"
"It lies in an ante room. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow."
"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes said when Gloria Morgan's receding footsteps had faded. "I shall be obliged for your professional opinion on the deceased in due course. Also, it might be advisable if you slipped your service revolver into your pocket. The man we are up against, as well as being of a violent temperament, is one of the best shots in England. We cannot afford to take any chances."
A shimmering of snow sparkled across the countryside as Holmes and I travelled down to Andover on the early morning train. My companion spoke little throughout the long journey and I knew that he was turning over in his mind everything that Miss Morgan had told us yesterday. Her story had a ring of truth to it, incredible though it seemed on reflection. Had her mother really been murdered or was it fanciful thinking by a distraught young lady? If it was murder, then how had Violet Morgan been killed within a locked room, and the act so disguised that her death had been diagnosed as from natural causes by an experienced GP? Was Doctor Lambeth in league with Royston Morgan? Was Randall, the gamekeeper, with his store of poisons with which to kill vermin and roaming domestic pets, involved? I had enough confidence in my companion to know that if there was foul play then he would unravel the truth. The weight of my service revolver in my overcoat pocket brought mixed feelings of comfort and unease. All too often
when Holmes had instructed me to bring a pistol along we had had need of it. The man's intuition was astounding.
On our arrival at Andover, we hired a carriage, Holmes instructing the driver to take us to Winchcombe Hall but to remain at a safe distance and to await our return. It was early afternoon as we walked up the winding poplar-lined drive.
In the distance, where a long narrow wood snaked over the horizon, we heard the sound of gunfire. Occasionally, we glimpsed a whirring speck that was undoubtedly a pheasant bursting from cover, a bird that had survived the line of guns, gliding on downhill to land in a field of snow-covered turnips.
"At least our friend, the squire, will be kept busy for a while," Holmes remarked as we passed through a clump of rhododendrons and had our first view of the big house. I noticed that the extensive snow-covered lawns were severely disfigured by the workings of moles, something to which Miss Morgan had alluded on her visit to our rooms in Baker Street.