The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [92]
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