FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
The
Case of the Poisoned Bride
Miranda
Holmes is asked to assist her chemist when a woman’s troubling
accusations may destroy his chances of getting married. Beta-read by the wonderful Katy.
She did not have to see clients regularly. Miss Holmes was wealthy in her own right, being the sole heir of her grandfather’s brother, the brother’s dearest friend, and her own father, whom had inherited all of his father’s money and had a profitable career in banking. Her grandfather had only had one child, her father, and his brother had never had children. Her father and mother had only had her. The friend of her grandfather’s brother had never had any children himself, through either of his wives, so he had left his dearest friend’s only heir. Thus, the money had come to Miss Holmes. All of this information was told to me during a stay at the family home in the country which Miss Holmes kept up by a gossiping kitchen maid.
However, despite the lack of need, I knew that Miss Holmes enjoyed her work. She did not always like the people who hired her, but she enjoyed the actual investigation. So it was a bit worrying when she turned away client after client. Nothing would entice her to invite a man or woman into her study for consultation.
I was sure, as I have stated, that it was entirely due to the unfortunate fate of a young.
Miss Holmes was a strong woman who could look at the scene of a murder and not flinch, but the sight of a young man that had taken his own life seemed to haunt her. I could not understand it. It had not been a terribly violent end. The youth had hanged himself. Still, Miss Holmes had refused to see any client after I had accompanied her home from the funeral, where she had taken the position of chief mourner, even though she had only known him for a few days before the tragedy.
On the second day of the fourth week, the bell rang at half past three. I answered it after receiving no instructions to the contrary. Miss Holmes was in her study, I knew, but all was silent.
A man stood on the porch, his hands in his pockets. It took him a moment to realise that I had opened the door, and he shifted up onto the balls of his feet then down before looking at me. He was a man of medium height, perhaps an inch shorter than Miss Holmes, and his brown hair was starting to gray around the temples. His brown eyes were wide and gazed at me from behind a pair of glasses. He was not a young man, certainly not, but I would not ever have called him old, as he seemed to be only slightly older than myself.
“Oh! There you are!” He spoke in a reedy voice that, I felt, rather matched his skittish glancing about. “You must be Lane.”
“May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Oh! Yes, yes. Of course. My error. Completely.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small card. I took it without immediately reading it, since he bit his lip and shifted again to the balls of his feet. There was more still to be heard. “I need to speak with Miranda.”
I was a bit staggered. This was the second man that I had ever heard call my employer by her Christian name, and I admit that it took me a half second to understand who he wished to speak to.
“I am not sure that Miss Holmes will agree to see you.”
“Oh, but she has to. Please.”
“She has not been seeing any clients.”
“Please. Just give her my card. She has to see me. She has to!”
I was sure the man would have an attack if I did not at least attempt to assist him. With a nod, I left him on the porch and retreated into the house. I made my way to the study door and knocked upon it.
“What is it, Lane?”
“Sir, a gentleman is requesting to see you.”
Miss Holmes regarded me coldly.
“I don’t want to see anyone.”
“He is very insistent.”
“Many are.”
“He gave me his card.”
“Come in.” She heaved a sigh, and I resisted the urge to chuckle. As much as she liked to pretend to be apathetic, she could not resist satisfying her curiosity.
I let myself in, and Miss Holmes was seated in her chair, leaned back and staring at me from across the desk. I approached and set down the card I had been given, picking up the empty glass from her earlier whisky and soda.
“Lane,” she said suddenly, and I looked at her.
“Yes, sir?”
“Show him in.”
“Sir?”
“Show Richard in.”
“Richard, sir?”
“The man at the door. His name is Richard Jameson. He is my chemist. Show him in.”
I returned to the porch and showed the chemist in after taking his coat and hat. The man was still skittish, but a touch of color returned to his cheeks when I led him into the study. He hurried forward and seated himself at the desk. He wrung his hands, and Miss Holmes was silent for a few moments. Mr. Jameson gave me a few glances, and he was just as quiet.
“Lane, a whisky and soda for me. You know how I would like it. A bit of brandy for Richard, I think.”
I bowed slightly and left the room. I returned with the drinks and set the down before I looked at Miss Holmes. Her left hand had risen just slightly, and she bent her wrist ever so slightly. I nodded and withdrew from the study, shutting the heavy door behind myself. For the most of her cases, Miss Holmes either did not mind my presence or actively encouraged me to stay.
Mr. Jameson remained with Miss Holmes for over an hour. I occupied myself by checking the rooms of the house, but they were all immaculate. Miss Holmes was a valet’s dream in that aspect, and she knew how to dress. I have heard stories about young masters who pained their valets dreadfully by insisting on wearing the “latest fashion” which was, in fact, exceptionally horrifying. Even her books in the library were perfectly arranged by subject and title name.
The sound of the little bell in the study came as quite a relief. I returned to the study and, after fetching the coat and hat, showed the man out. He was still nervous, but he seemed to be a very little less so.
Once Mr. Jameson had bid me a good day and gone to hail a cab, I returned to the study.
Miss Holmes was sitting at her desk, and her pure silver cigarette case was open in her hands. There was a single cigarette left. She shut the case quickly when she realised that I was at the door. She looked at me for a few moments, and her head cocked slightly. I bowed slightly, meaning to convey that I would not ask her anything. She gave a small nod. She knew that I was not a man to ask questions.
“Richard Jameson is my chemist,” she said again. Her voice was quiet, and she drew herself up where she sat. “He has always had a modest business. He is not a particularly wealthy man, but he is comfortably well off.” I said nothing, just letting Miss Holmes speak. “Recently, he has become engaged to a young woman. A sweet thing, he tells me, but not particularly intelligent. She is comfortable but not wealthy, and she has two elder brothers. The likelihood of her inheriting anything of value from her father’s estate is very low.” She paused again and looked at the painting on the wall. “However, there seems to be someone that does not want the wedding to go through.”
I was silent as Miss Holmes rose to her feet.
“The young lady has recently begun to get very ill, and her doctor believes that it is arsenic poisoning. The girl’s eldest brother is certain that Richard is poisoning her, but there is no reason that he should. He gains nothing by her death, especially before they are married. The police are investigating everyone, as it seems serious, and Richard has come to me for assistance.”
For a few moments, she did not speak, and I did not interrupt whatever thoughts were being sorted in her mind. Finally, I cleared my throat, and she looked at me.
“Yes, Lane?”
“Forgive me, sir, I am sure that you have considered this, but why does Mr. Jameson not let the police search his stocks? It would seem to me that he could easily clear up the idea that he was taking from his arsenic by letting them compare his stocks and his books.”
Miss Holmes gave a wry smile and looked at me as though she were indulging a small child.
“Normally, that would be my first course of action,” she admitted. I knew there was a “however” coming. “However, Richard,” she hesitated, and her head cocked slightly to the side, surveying me carefully, “has a few stocks that are not particularly legal. There are,” another note of hesitation, “highly controlled medicinal substances that he orders in and sells to clients that do not have the required medical conditions or documentation.” Her voice had become brisk and businesslike, and I knew that she expected me to ask no questions. There was no need for me to do so.
“We will be going to see Mr. Jameson’s fiancée, sir?”
“Yes, Lane. We shall be going to Park Lane.”
“Very good, sir.” I had long since learned that when Miss Holmes said “we,” she meant just that.
Within the hour, Miss Holmes had changed her coat and I had hailed a cab. She instructed our driver on his course, and she said nothing more, even as he tried to make polite conversation. I engaged in some discussion of various matters, mostly the latest scandal of some member of Parliament or another. However, the driver did more talking than I did, requiring only a murmur or such to indicate some kind of interest and he would continue speaking.
When the cab stopped, Miss Holmes alighted from the vehicle first and brushed a few specks of dust-- I am not sure whether they were real or imagined-- from her coat and waited for me. The house was relatively small, but it was larger than the place that Miss Holmes called home. She waited near the door, and I joined her a moment later. I pressed the bell, and we waited.
A severe looking man, several years my senior, opened the door. Miss Holmes offered him her card, and he took it before shutting the door. I heard her give a kind of “hmph” under her breath at having been left to stand on a porch without even a word being said to her. The man returned a few minutes later and opened the door.
“Mr. Jameson said that you would come. Mr. William Stanley will see you now.”
Normally, Miss Holmes would have thanked the man, but this time she said nothing. She stepped into the house, removed her coat and, rather carelessly, set it upon a nearby table. The butler gave her a disgusted look, and she regarded him coldly. If there was one thing that Miss Holmes would not abide by, it was a servant that was rude to her. It would have been highly inappropriate, but I was tempted in that chuckle a little. The clash of wills was apparent, but I knew that Miss Holmes was in the right. A servant was to be quiet, respectful, and efficient, not like this man, a wilful creature if I ever saw one.
Miss Holmes was shown to a pair of oaken doors, and I moved to follow her.
“You were not invited in,” the butler said to me. Miss Holmes stopped where she was, the door opened, and she turned back toward the man.
Her eyes were narrowed, and her lips were drawn into a thin line. “My man comes with me.” Her voice was hard, and she drew herself up. While her posture was always impeccable, there was a way that she had of drawing back her shoulders and cocking her head that made her a rather stern sight. Sometimes I have considered that she might also have been quite comfortable in the role of headmistress at some school that needed discipline.
“Madam--” the butler began.
“No.” My employer’s voice was like ice. “Either my man comes with me or I shall withdraw and not assist the young lady of the house.”
“Quinn, let the man come,” an elderly voice said from beyond the opened door. It was a quiet, almost feeble voice, but there was still a trace of power. The man who possessed it had been great once, but he was declining now.
At his master’s command, the butler was forced to relent, and Miss Holmes went into the room. I followed. I was not sure whether she truly wanted me there with her or if it had become a matter of principle.
The room was a library, one that put Miss Holmes’s sizable collection to shame. She stopped a few steps into the room and gazed around. An almost childlike wonder came into her eyes, and, had she been any less controlled, she might have approached a shelf and examined the titles. The change was only momentary, and she soon was ready for business once again.
The man who had allowed me to come was seated in an invalid’s chair. He was very old, his thin hands folded on his lap, over the blanket coving his lap. His hair was very white, and his hands shook a little. His eyes were a very light green, and they were remarkably intelligent. His body had been ravaged by age, but his mind was completely intact.
“You are the Holmes that Richard has mentioned?” he asked, looking at Miss Holmes carefully.
“I am.”
“Sit, my girl, sit.”
She approached his chair and rested herself in an armchair very near him. The man looked at her and reached out one of his quivering hands and patted her knee. Miss Holmes seemed a bit uncomfortable, but I knew that she was not fond of being touched by anyone. However, she did not draw away, as I had seen her do at other times. Rather, after a moment, she put one of her hands over the one on her knee. She did not smile, but her expression seemed softer.
She spoke gently, warmly to the old man. “Your daughter was recently ill?’
“Yes, my poor little Maggie,” the old man replied, and he nodded slightly. “The children were all here, enjoying their cups of chocolate. Ever since they were little, they all enjoyed it. Little Maggie said that hers tasted strange, but her brothers both said that they didn’t taste anything wrong with their drinks, so she said that it must have been her.”
“Was Richard—Mr. Jameson, that is—here?”
“Yes. He had coffee.”
“When did your daughter fall ill?”
“Later that night,” the elderly Mr. Stanley said. “It seems that Matthew heard her in her room. She was very ill and pale. He called for Will, my other son, to ring up any doctor that would come. One arrived some half hour later, and he recommended that we send Maggie to a small, fairly private hospital to find out exactly what was wrong.”
“And the doctors ruled that it was arsenic?”
“Yes, they were quite certain of it.”
“And you suspect Mr. Jameson?”
“Well,” the old man paused, and he shook his head. “I don’t. The police seem to, and Matthew does as well. Will, well...” He smiled faintly. “Whatever Matthew says, William believes. A rather simple boy, my eldest, a bit like his mother in that respect.”
“Will you tell me about your children?”
I had never heard Miss Holmes truly ask so many questions. Usually she made demands, made assumptions and waited to be corrected or confirmed, but she treated this man quite differently than most of her clients.
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything. Everything.”
“Well, William is my oldest. He is, as I said, somewhat simple. He is very devoted to his brother and sister, and you would never suspect that they were only his half-siblings.”
Here, Miss Holmes interrupted.
“Half-siblings?”
“William’s mother, Claudia, was a very pretty girl, my first love. She was a bit simple as well, though a good woman. I see a lot of her in William. Perhaps not terribly bright, but a good nature. She died shortly after William was born. She got very ill after his birth and never recovered, you understand?”
“I understand. When did you meet your second wife? When did you marry her?”
“Oh, Lily was always a member of the household. She was Claudia’s maid when I married Claudia. A very beautiful woman and very shrewd too. I don’t think Claudia and I could have managed without her, and she was very helpful with William and the house after my wife died. I married Lily about a year and a half after I lost my dear Claudia.” The man’s voice was tainted with sorrow as he recounted his story. “I lost her when Matthew was fifteen. Maggie was only twelve.”
“What happened to her?” Miss Holmes asked the question much more gently, much more compassionately, than I would have expected.
“She was thrown from her horse one day when we were out at the country home and she went riding.” He heaved a sigh, and Miranda patted his hand gently.
“Have the police conducted any searches?”
“They have not yet.”
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Miss Holmes asked, and the old man nodded. She rose from the armchair and went into the hall. I faintly heard her ask the butler where the telephone was, but she would not tell him who she intended to call.
“I have never seen a woman quite like that before,” the old man said, acknowledging my presence. He chuckled thinly and shook his weary head. “Seen eyes like those, though. Another ‘Holmes,’ many years ago. Only met the man for a moment, but I wouldn’t forget those eyes. They must be related. She is related to the Holmes family, isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“I knew it. Too sharp not to be.”
Several minutes later, my employer returned. She was a bit tense, but she made an effort to relax for the older gentleman.
“Mr. Stanley do your sons live here?” She spoke gently, but I knew the look in her eyes. It was the look that always came when she was intent on a case.
“Yes. They both have rooms upstairs. I think that Matthew will leave soon. He rather fancies a young woman that he has seen often, from what I understand.”
“Are they at home?”
“I believe William is,” the invalid responded. “Matthew is taking a turn with his lady friend.”
“May I speak to him?”
“Of course, my dear child.”
Miss Holmes bowed her head politely and showed herself out of the room. She stopped in the doorway and motioned toward me. I bowed to Mr. Stanley and followed her into the hall and up the stairs.
My employer found the younger William Stanley’s room without difficulty. He was a fine young man, very near her age. He seemed surprised when a knock came to his open door and a woman in man’s clothing was standing there. Still, like a gallant knight of old, he bade us to enter and surrendered the chair at his desk for Miss Holmes. She refused it, but he would not seat himself unless she sat, so we all stood.
“Mr. Stanley, I am a private detective.” The blue eyes of the young man, no doubt his mother’s eyes, lit up with boyish glee. “I am here to ask a few questions about your sister. She is ill, I understand?”
“That chemist did it,” he responded with certainty. “He made her sick.”
“Did he?”
“Matthew said he did, and Matthew is very clever like that. After all, none of us have any arsenic. It had to come from that chemist fellow.”
“Mr. Jameson is a good friend of mine,” Miss Holmes replied, a bit coolly. Where the man downstairs had engaged her sympathy or something similar, this young man seemed to have only earned her annoyance. “Did you see Mr. Jameson tamper with your sister’s drink?”
“Oh, no,” the other responded. He hesitated, and I saw the obvious frustration on Miss Holmes’s features. She could not believe that the thought had never occurred to the man. “I didn’t see anything like that.”
“Who brought the drinks? The maid? The butler?”
“No,” Mr. William replied. “They had the night off. Matthew brought the drinks to us and Father sent him back to the kitchen to fix some brandy since he had forgotten it. Father likes brandy in his chocolate.”
“I am not surprised.” Miss Holmes bowed her head politely and murmured, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stanley.”
Mr. William watched her go, obviously confused. Even I was not quite certain what she had been unsurprised about. I followed her into the hall, but she did not descend the stairs. Instead, she stood at the top of them, watching the downstairs hallway as the front door was opened by the butler.
A young man, only just younger than Mr. William, walked in. He was slimly built, and his dark hair was the same colour as his half-brother’s.
“Mr. Matthew Stanley?” Miss Holmes said from the top of the stairs.
The young man looked up at her and glanced at the butler. The older man said something under his breath, and the young man bristled. He seemed to hesitate, but he mounted the stairs nonetheless.
“You are a detective.” Much like Miss Holmes’s way of speaking to many people, it was a statement, not a question. “You must be here about Maggie? I have given my view to the police.”
“Yes, I have been told that,” Miss Holmes replied. She was calm, but there was an edge to her voice. The young man’s green eyes sparkled with the same intelligence as his father, probably the same that his mother was boasted to have. “Will you show me to your bedroom? I would like to speak to you privately for a moment.”
“Rather improper, aren’t you?” he muttered, and Miss Holmes gave a quiet, derisive kind of chuckle.
“My man will be there to chaperone you.”
Mr. Matthew led Miss Holmes and myself to a bedroom at the opposite end of the floor, and I entered after my employer. She shut the door behind the three of us and looked at Mr. Matthew calmly.
“Well, we’re here,” Mr. Matthew said. “What did you want to speak to me about?”
“I want to know what happened to your sister.”
“Well, as I told the police, it is very obvious that the chemist she has taken up with must be some sort of homicidal maniac! He tried to poison her!”
“Did he?”
“Of course! Who else could have?”
“Someone else did.” Miss Holmes looked right at him and tilted her head just slightly. “I know who, too.”
“What are you doing?!” Mr. Matthew demanded as Miss Holmes opened the drawer of his nightstand. She calmly drew out a bottle and held it in her hand.
“I trust that when I hand this over to the police, it will prove to be arsenic,” Miss Holmes stated. She watched Mr. Matthew, but he did not lunge for her. Instead, he just stared at her. “You were going to send an innocent man to prison.”
Mr. Matthew said nothing for several moments, but he sat down on his bed and hung his head. “I didn’t mean to poison Maggie. I love Maggie.”
“You meant to poison your brother.”
“Yes. Maggie took the wrong drink when I went back into the kitchen for the brandy. William was supposed to get sick...”
“Your mother poisoned his, and you thought to repeat her crime with the same success. You sought to make yourself your father’s primary heir.”
This made Mr. Matthew start, and I admit that I looked at Miss Holmes. From merely speaking to Mr. Stanley and Mr. William, she had figured out more than I would have guessed. It made sense, of course, but it was not something that would have occurred to me.
“She gave this to you,” Miss Holmes said, looking at Mr. Matthew. He nodded. She was quiet for a few moments, looking at the bottle. “You will tell your father and lady friend that you are going on holiday. Write the young woman a letter about it, that you were suddenly called away. Then, you will go to Scotland Yard tonight and confess to your crime, supplying this bottle to them. I will see that the press remains silent so you may one day marry your lady friend if she waits for you.” Her head cocked slightly. “I have friends in Scotland Yard. If you do not go tonight and if you ever make an attempt on your brother’s life, I will expose you to your family. Your father, your brother, and your sister.”
“No,” Mr. Matthew said quietly. He sounded a bit pained. “Anyone but Maggie.”
“Then you will do as I say?” Mr. Matthew nodded, and Miss Holmes put the bottle of arsenic on the nightstand. “If you think to take a fair amount and kill yourself, know that your family will still know. I will not allow a friend of mine to be blamed for a crime against a woman he loves.”
“I won’t,” Mr. Matthew replied.
Miss Holmes nodded and left the room. I followed her, and she paused downstairs only to tell the elder Mr. Stanley that she felt she could sort things out and that he should not worry. “It might not even have been arsenic,” I heard her saying. A delightful liar when she wanted to be. “Some illnesses can mimic the poison, and the doctors may have been wrong. They are only human, after all. I shall make a few more inquiries, but I am sure that there has been no foul play.”
Later that evening, Inspector Lionel Gray rang up from Scotland Yard. Miss Holmes informed me later that he had assured her that Mr. Matthew had come and done as she had told him, and he was being held until charges could be brought against him. Miss Holmes waited until the next morning before she rang up several of her connections in the press.
Two days later, I accompanied Miss Holmes to Mr. Jameson’s shop for the first time. Typically, she went alone, but this time she had bade me to come with her. He beamed at her and shook her hand vibrantly. He was still a nervous man, and he took her silver cigarette case from her when she offered it forward, and he disappeared into a back room.
I watched her closely, but she did not look at me. When the chemist came back and handed her the case back, the amount he asked her for was unusually high. Tobacco did not cost that much, and I started to argue with him. Miss Holmes, however, raised a hand.
“My cigarettes are a special import,” Miss Holmes said simply. “They require much of Richard’s time to fix for me, and I absolutely grateful to him for his work.” She drew the money out and laid it in the man’s hand. She placed the case in her breast pocket and gave Mr. Jameson a small nod.
“Is there anything else, Miss Holmes?”
“Oh, no,” she responded. A faint, faint smile came across her features. “I have something that is being delivered.”
By the time we returned to the house on Baker Street, a ratty looking boy stood on the porch. When he saw us approaching, he tipped his hat and approached Miss Holmes.
“You M. Holmes?”
“Yes, I am.”
“’Spector Gray said you wanted this, guv’ner.” He handed her a small brown package in exchange for a pound note. He seemed surprised that he had been given that instead of a penny or two, but he didn’t complain.
Inside the house, Miss Holmes allowed me to take her hat and coat, and I hung them up dutifully. She was in her study by that time, and the brown package was open. The paper was folded and set on the desk, and she was holding a small glass bottle in her left hand, the very one she had found in Mr. Matthew’s room. It was empty now, no doubt having been emptied by Inspector Gray before it was sent to her.
Quietly, she rose from her chair and opened the cabinet in the room. She stood for a moment, admiring the various “treasures” she had obtained from her cases, and she placed the bottle on one of the shelves in the cabinet. She shut the door and looked at me.
“Whisky and soda.”
I returned with the drink to find her seated at her desk, and her silver cigarette case was open. One of the cigarettes was in her hand, and she struck a match and lit it as I set down her drink. I smelled the air, and it was not tobacco scented. The cigarettes were, obviously, something else... I did not ask what.
