Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (29 page)

“And what poison was used?”

“A concoction was distilled from the seeds of
Nux vomica
.”

As I said, even at that early stage I had made some study of chemistry and poisons. I knew that strychnine was a colorless crystalline alkaloid that, according to books, could be used to put down rodents. But it was not common to Europe and neither to

America. It had to come from the seeds of the
Nux vomica
tree native to the East Indies. I said so.

Kevin Mullan smiled.

“You are well informed, Mister Holmes. You will find, near the rives bank, three examples of
Nux vomica
—those medium-sized trees that you see. Some years ago a Captain O’Bannion, who claimed this land back in 1862 when this country was opened to settlement, brought some species here from Hawaii, where the trees were growing. There used to be six, but conditions have caused their decline.”

“It is a long way from growing
Nux vomica
trees to creating a strychnine sulfate,” I suggested.

“You seem to know your chemistry well, sir,” he replied indulgently. “It was a simple procedure. I prepared the mixture and we used it to good effect to keep down the rodents.”

“And you still have some of this mixture?” I demanded.

“Indeed. But do not worry. It is in a cupboard in the cellar of this house. It is kept strictly under lock and key.”

“Show me,” I demanded.

I had a feeling of excitement as I followed him down into the darkened cellar. There was a cupboard with a padlock in one corner. Mullan had to light a lantern, for there was no access to light down here. He went to a board concealed behind the stairway, where there were several hooks with keys hanging from them. He reached up and then hesitated and moved his hand along to pick down a key. He wiped something from it, and for a moment he examined it before moving to the cupboard.

On opening the door, two bottles of colorless liquid were
revealed on the top shelf. The bottles had labels with crudely drawn skulls and crossbones and the warning “Poison—Beware.”

“Who else knows of this?” I asked. “Would anyone else have access apart from yourself?”

“Only if they knew which key to choose. The general and I know where to find the key, and that poison was kept in this cupboard.”

“Are you sure? What of Miss Kitty?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t think it was a matter for her to know.”

“You do not often open this cupboard?”

“What makes you say so?”

“You hesitated when reaching for the key from the hooks, as if you were not sure which one.”

“I hesitated only because the key was not where I expected to find it. The last person to open the cupboard put the key back on another hook.”

“The last person being?”

“I presume it was the general. A moment of forgetfulness.”

I took the key from the cupboard and felt it between my fingers for a moment, then handed it to him.

Back in the study I dismissed Mullan, sat down behind the general’s desk, and stared at the full glass of whiskey. Had there been strychnine in it, the matter would have been simple. An idea occurred to me, and I rang the bell rope for Kitty. She came racing in and then realized it was only I. Perhaps she thought it was the general recovered and calling. I did not apologize.

“Is there an inventory kept of the bottles of whiskey bought and consumed by this house?” I demanded.

She blinked and seemed puzzled by my question.

“The question is simple. Who does the catering and ordering for this house?”

“Mrs. O’Neill when she is in residence, sir. Failing that, I do.” Her chin came up defiantly.

“Then surely you have an answer to the question?”

“The whiskey is ordered every three months from an importer who resides in Lincoln.”

I knew this to be a major town in the state, named such after the president who had been assassinated.

“And is a count kept of the bottles used?”

“No, sir. Not by me. If I notice we are running out, I remind the general and order more.”

Her answer was disappointing, to say the least.

I sat drumming my fingers for a moment.

“Where is the liquor kept before you bring it to that cabinet? I see you bring only one bottle here at a time.”

“It is kept in the cellar, sir.”

“Did you say that the drink you poured was from a bottle that had to be newly opened?”

She frowned and nodded nervously.

“So this was a new bottle that you fetched to place in the cabinet?”

“It was.”

I rose and went to the cabinet again and opened it.

“Tell me, Kitty. Do you wash your hands before serving drinks?”

“Sir!” The girl stared at me in outrage.

“I mean, if you have been engaged in some task—oiling
something, say—and are called to serve drinks to the general, would you clean your hands before doing so?”

“Of course.” Her voice was scornful. “The general and Mrs. O’Neill are most particular.”

“Come,” I said abruptly. “Show me where this whiskey is kept.”

Once again, I headed down into the cellar. On the far side, away from the locked poison cabinet, was a stack of bottles laid on their sides. Many were wines, but there was a selection of Mr. Power’s famous distillation. She pointed to them, and then I saw a frown cross her face.

“There is something singular about them?” I pressed.

“It . . . it is nothing,” she said hesitantly. “Just that I thought that I had taken the bottle from the end of the row . . . where that empty space is.”

“Well? It is empty, so why does it disturb you?”

“But the next one is also empty. I take the bottles up in an order, working from that right-hand space along the row. There seems a bottle unaccounted for.”

I picked up one of the bottles, as I had noticed a damp area under them. I put my finger on the dampness and sniffed. It was whiskey.

“These corks are easily removable,” I observed. “Tell me, Kitty, do you remove them down here or when you get up to the study?”

“I take the bottle directly to the cabinet, and when the drink is needed I remove the cork, pour the drink, and always replace the cork.”

“So there is no need for spillage here?”

She shook her head.

“There aren’t many places around this estate to—walk out?” I suddenly remarked, changing the subject.

Her head came round sharply.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Do you ever come down here with young Billy?”

The crimson on her face showed me my question had found its mark.

“We do not come down here and steal the general’s whiskey, sir!” she protested.

“I did not suggest that you do,” I placated her. “But perhaps you have brought Billy down here for some privacy. Where do he and the other men stay? I presume you and the general’s aide have rooms in this house even when the general’s wife and family are in residence?”

“There is a bunkhouse behind the house. That is where all the other men stay.”

“Would I find Billy in this bunkhouse if I went to find him now?”

She frowned and then nodded slowly.

“Very well. Ask Kevin to join me in the general’s study in twenty minutes.”

An hour later, my cousin Toorish came down the stairs as I stood waiting in the hallway.

“Well?” I asked. “How fares your patient?”

“If he survives the next twenty-four hours, then we have good reason to hope for a full recovery.”

“Yet it was strychnine poisoning and there is no known antidote. How did you manage to perform this miracle to keep him alive thus far?”

“There were several means,” confided Toorish, and not without a touch of vanity. But then it seemed he had good reason to be well pleased with himself. “It was luck that he took no more than a sip or two of the poison. I needed to absorb the poison from the digestive tract, and so infusions of active charcoal and then some tannic acid were the next steps. I keep a bottle of tannic acid with me, distilled from oak and walnut, which is good. Then, to stop the muscular convulsions, I gave the patient an inhalation of Guthrie’s chloroform. It is a better way of inducing relaxation and sleep than Long’s ether preparation. It anaesthetizes the system. So, if he relaxes this way, as I say, and is alive tomorrow, he will be on the road to recovery.” Toorish regarded me with curiosity. “And what have you been doing? Did you discover the means whereby he took this noxious brew?”

“Not only that,” I answered, with equal pride in my achievement—for remember, I was still very young. “I know who administered it and for what purposes.”

I asked Kevin to call everyone into the hall and stood on the stairway a few steps up from the floor to address them.

There was Kitty and her amour, Billy McCartan, and Kevin Mullan and the half dozen or so men who worked as guards and on the small estate.

“There has been an attempt to poison General O’Neill,” I began without preamble. “An assassination attempt or, in other words, attempted murder.”

There came a gasp from the assembly as if in one breath.

“The assassin remains among you,” I added, as the sound died.

This caused an even greater gasp and a little shriek of terror from Kitty.

“Are you going to tell us how it was done?” Toorish demanded in some irritation at my theatrics.

“It was simply done,” I replied. “The poison was administered in the general’s afternoon drink, through his favorite glass of whiskey.”

Another scream came from Kitty. One or two of the men looked at her suspiciously.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, go on,” muttered Toorish.

“Kitty had brought up a new bottle of whiskey from the cellar. She opened it and poured the customary afternoon glass of whiskey. This was placed on the general’s desk as he was working. Then she left him in the study. The general took a sip or two and noticed the bitter taste and uttered an exclamation of disgust. Curious, he rose from his desk, walked to the cabinet, and took out the bottle to examine it. Kitty thought his exclamation was a call and returned. She saw him by the cabinet and thought he was helping himself to another glass. She then left and a moment later the general had collapsed.

“She and Kevin Mullan carried him to his bedroom and Kevin, diagnosing poison, rode to get help from Dr. Sherlock here, leaving Kitty to tend to the general as best she could in the bedroom.”

“So who was responsible?” inquired Toorish sharply.

“The bottle of whiskey had already been doctored in the cellar when Kitty went to fetch it,” I replied. “Someone had gone down there, removed the cork, and probably swallowed enough of the whiskey to make room for the strychnine. He spilled a little where the bottles were stashed. Then he went to get the key for the poison cupboard, took a bottle of the poison, and poured it into the whiskey bottle so that the colorless liquid had little visible effect
on it. He then put the cork back, replaced the bottle as the next one to be taken, replaced the poison, and hung the key back on the hook.”

“But you said there was nothing wrong with the whiskey in the study,” protested a tearful Kitty.

“Neither was there,” I replied. “We are faced with a very cunning murderer. He had tried to make Kitty the reluctant assassin. As soon as the deed was done, with the general writhing in agony on the bed, he went back into the study, removed the bottle and the tumbler, and placed a noncontaminated bottle there. He even poured a similar measure in the glass and left it on the desk. He then took the poisoned bottle and tumbler to his bedroom.”

Kevin Mullan stepped forward with a grim expression.

“It is the truth, men. And thanks to young Mister Holmes’s direction, I found them—the bottle and the tumbler.”

There were more expressions of amazement from the assembly.

“Where, lieutenant?” demanded the man with the sergeant’s chevrons. “Who is the assassin?”

Mullan smiled as he turned suddenly.

“I found them under the bunk of Billy McCartan.”

There was a louder shriek from Kitty and the men moved forward to grab the young man.

“Wait a moment,” I shouted. “Perhaps Lieutenant Mullan will tell us why that bottle was not under McCartan’s bunk when I went to see him a short while ago?”

Mullan hesitated and turned to me, puzzled. His mind seemed to be working fast.

“But you told me that you suspected Billy. You told me to go and search his bunk.”

“I did indeed. It was elementary. I had worked out the method and knew the suspect. You seemed to be the only one to know about the properties of strychnine and where it was stored, and you had access to it. I knew that you must have hidden the poisoned bottle and needed to find it. I first went to find Billy, and he was quite willing to let me search his bunk area to prove his innocence. A short time later I met with you and told you that I suspected Billy. I presented you with the ideal opportunity to incriminate him by planting your hidden poisoned whiskey under his bunk. I asked you to search and not disturb anything but to report to me, then telling you that after this meeting we would go in a group to Billy’s bunk and uncover it. So it is there now, where you placed it. Indeed, Billy and I waited until you had been to the bunkhouse and left. Then we made another search and, lo—a miracle—the poisoned whiskey and tumbler had appeared as if by magic.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Mullan. “Someone else did it. They didn’t even hang the key to the poison cupboard back on the right hook. I showed you.”

“A good piece of theatrics, indeed,” I agreed. “Several hooks were on the board and you were at pains to show me that you knew the right hook for it to be placed on. Also, to muddy the waters, you showed me it was on the wrong hook. But you yourself had placed it on the wrong hook to throw me off the scent. There is also one other thing that gave you away . . .”

I smiled and pointed to his revolver that hung in the holster at his side.

“You are proud of that weapon, lieutenant, aren’t you?”

He frowned.

“I noticed it was one of the new Colt Single Action Army handguns. They only started to be issued three or four years ago. Highly prized. You are so proud that you use a lot of oil on it to keep it in good order. Personally, I dislike firearms, although I keep myself up-to-date and know the latest models. I do not know whether over-oiling is a good thing or bad. One thing I did notice was an oily thumbprint on the replacement tumbler of whiskey in the study. There were oily marks on the neck of the bottle of whiskey in the cabinet. And, when you took down the key to the poison cabinet, I noticed that you had to wipe the oil away from it. I still felt the residue of the oil when I took it from the cabinet to hand to you . . .”