My colleague snapped the tome shut and, in a couple of strides, was at the window, staring out with an intensity which told me that he had spotted something which was relevant to our investigations.
"The moles," he snapped, "they have made a devil of a mess of the lawns and borders. What method is being used to halt their depredations?"
"My father has been attending to the matter himself" Gloria Morgan was visibly surprised by yet another digression. "I believe that he obtained some substance from Randall with which to kill the creatures. I recall him mentioning it to my mother a few days ago when she expressed concern at the damage done by the moles. Something which was put down the holes, I believe, although I did not take much interest at the time."
"Capital!" Holmes cried. "Everything fits at last, the final piece in the jigsaw has slotted into place."
"Mr Holmes!" Gloria Morgan's cry of alarm interrupted my companion's moment of exultation, and in the brief moment of silence which followed we heard the slamming of the front door, followed by heavy footfalls in the hallway. "Mr Holmes, it is too late, my father has returned!"
At that very moment the library door crashed back on its hinges and I was afforded my first view of Royston Morgan, the sporting squire of Winchcombe Hall. He stood there framed in the doorway, a giant of a fellow, well over six feet tall and surely all of sixteen stone in weight, seemingly even more immense clad in baggy plus-fours and a tweed shooting jacket which strained at the shoulder seams. Silver hair spilled from beneath a wide-brimmed floppy hat. His expression was one of escalating fury, wide cheeks darkly flushed, lips bared to reveal tusk-like teeth as he removed a long black cheroot from his cruel mouth.
But it was not just his size, the demoniac expression in his sunken eyes, nor his raging fury, which caused him to tremble in every limb, that had Miss Morgan cowering against the table. Rather it was the double-barrelled shotgun which he pointed in our direction as he demanded of his daughter in slurred stentorian tones, "Gloria, what is the meaning of this? Who are these gentlemen who have left their carriage down on the road and slunk up here like thieves intent on burgling us?"
"Father." I admired her for the way in which she regained her composure and spoke with a voice that had only the slightest tremor in it. "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Doctor Watson."
"Sherlock Holmes!" The name was uttered in a whisper which embodied both shock and anger, accompanied by an intake of breath. His gaze fastened on my companion and those cheeks became darker still. "I have heard of you, Mr Holmes. Holmes, the meddler, Scotland Yard's errand boy! What brings you here? How dare you set foot in my house uninvited!"
"I invited Mr Holmes, Father", Gloria Morgan spoke coolly and looked even more radiant in her moment of defiance.
"Leave my house at once!" The gun barrels swung round and came to a halt, trained upon Holmes, "or I shall summon the local constabulary and have you arrested. Nobody sets foot in Winchcombe Hall except at my invitation!"
"I rather think that it will snow again before nightfall," Sherlock Holmes remarked as though he was totally unaware of the gun which threatened him.
"Get out!"
"Perhaps," Holmes continued, undeterred, "you would be good enough to summon your local constabulary, after all, Squire Morgan, so that I may present my recent findings to them. I am now able to reveal the manner in which you murdered your wife two nights ago."
Morgan might have been a statue, frozen into immobility, the gun extended, one-handed, forefinger curled around the front trigger. My own hand crept into the pocket of my overcoat, gripped the butt of my revolver, my thumb easing back the hammer slowly so that the cocking action would not click and reveal that I was armed. Indeed, I would have shot Royston Morgan through my pocket except that I feared that the impact of the striking bullet might cause the shotgun to detonate and
blast Holmes at point blank range. That was the only reason why I did not shoot this fiend down in cold blood.
"This is preposterous!" Morgan's lips moved at last, his denial an unconvincing whine. "My dear wife died of lockjaw, caused, doubtless, by some wound whilst going about her horticultural interests."
"No." Holmes's gaze never wavered, not so much as a hint of fear did he show in the face of that scattergun. "There is no such wound upon your wife's body, my medical colleague has already checked and informs me, with authority, that she did not die from tetanus. Rather, she died from strychnine poisoning, which is both sudden and terrible, a tiny amount of the substance, which is odourless, proving fatal. You procured the poison from Randall, your gamekeeper, for the supposed purpose of poisoning moles but instead you used it to murder your unsuspecting wife."
"I… I used the strychine to poison the moles in the grounds." I was heartily relieved to see those gun barrels lowered and pointing to the floor.
"Some of it, perhaps." Sherlock Holmes gave a short laugh. "But it only required a minute quantity to bring about a terrible end for your wife and free you to marry into considerable wealth, thereby fulfilling your lifelong ambition of owning the Longparish estate. It was a foul and cunning plan, aided by the fact that an ageing medical practitioner would not even consider the possibility that the local squire might have committed murder."
"It's a lie, Mister Holmes, spawned by my daughter who has hated me since childhood, and who sees a means whereby to inherit Winchcombe Hall before her time."
"It is no lie, Squire Morgan, although certainly your own daughter had good reason to hate you. What better, you thought, than to have your wife die in a locked room, and the accusation of death by poisoning dispelled by feeding the remnants of her last meal to the dogs which showed not the slightest ill-effect."
"You can prove nothing, Mr Sherlock Holmes!"
"Indeed, I can." These were the moments which Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most, revealing his observations and deductions only when they were finalized beyond all possible doubt. "Your fascination for medieval herbs and potions led you to discover a means by which unsuspecting victims were poisoned five centuries or more ago. In the days of parchment and inflexible leaves, often readers wetted a finger to turn the pages.Your own wife had developed that same habit, and the idea occurred to you that if you adhered strychnine to the top right-hand corner of the pages of whatever book she happened to be reading at the time, then it was almost certain that the poison would be conveyed to her mouth. And so it was."
"Prove it!" Morgan growled but his tone now had an uncertainty in it. "You're guessing, bluffing."
"No." Sherlock Holmes shook his head, the smile still lingering on his lips. "Indeed, I can prove, beyond all doubt, that it was yourself who adhered strychnine to the pages of the book with moistened flour, rendering it virtually invisible against the whiteness of the paper. Having discovered which book your wife was reading, you carried out your filthy plan. Remnants of the strychnine would not, in itself, be enough to convict you. However, a small quantity of Burma cheroot ash was dislodged and showered on to the page in question whilst you were applying the poison. Some traces remain and I note, Squire Morgan, that you have a liking for that particular variety of strong cheroot. I am somewhat of an expert on the subject of tobacco ash, and I am able, at a glance, to differentiate between the various types."
Royston Morgan's previously florid features were now deathly pale. He was shaking, not from rage this time, but from fear because his dastardly deed had been exposed and he would undoubtedly go to the gallows. Cowardice prevailed, but my own concern was that his shaking finger might pull upon the trigger of his shotgun, or that he might blast us all in a desperate attempt to conceal his crime.