• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“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.

Winchcombe Hall was set in a large clearing amidst tall pines and mature shrubberies. It was clearly of Georgian origin, three-storeyed and with high chimneys. Undoubtedly, once it had been a magnificent country residence but now there was evidence of loose mortar and the west wall was badly damp-stained. Which was all the more reason for Royston Morgan wanting to acquire the wealth of an eligible widow, I decided, but kept my thoughts to myself for Holmes would not have thanked me for them. A number of carriages were parked at the rear; undoubtedly, Squire Morgan had a full compliment of sportsmen for today.

Even as we mounted the wide flight of steps, the front door opened and there stood Gloria Morgan, a long black dress accentuating her pallor. Yet in spite of her grief, her delight at seeing us was all too evident.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,” she cried, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have come.”

“Have there been any further developments?” My companion asked as we stepped into the marble-floored hallway.

“No.” She shook her head. “Everything is still as it was when I left yesterday. My father is too preoccupied with his pheasant shooting to concern himself with a matter which he considers to be concluded. The library is through there.” She indicated a door that was partly open. “My mother …”