The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [86]
“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