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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