Murder, My Dear Watson Read online

  “Nor could anyone have done more than he,” said I. “What are your husband’s symptoms?”

  “He fears that they are the result of some illness that lingers from his years of service, which is the main reason he has asked for Dr. Watson. None of the doctors we have consulted has been able to give a satisfactory diagnosis, and his condition worsens day by day, slowly but inevitably.”

  “But the symptoms?” Holmes asked, to bring her back to my question.

  “At first we believed Edward suffered from jaundice, but the doctors have said that is not the case. Now he has difficulty balancing himself, so much so that he is confined to his bed. He seems to weaken with every passing hour.” She touched the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief she removed from her reticule. “I fear that he is dying, Dr. Watson. Please. You must help him.”

  I was about to say that I hoped her husband had not placed too much faith in my powers, but Holmes raised a hand to silence me.

  “Dr. Watson will be glad to be of assistance,” he said. “In fact, we are ready to see your husband immediately if you will be so good as to provide us transporation.”

  “You would come, too?”

  “Perhaps I can provide Dr. Watson with a bit of assistance, as he has so ably done for me in the past.”

  “I am sure my husband will be honored to meet you. There is a coach waiting for me below. You are welcome to share it with me.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, with rather more enthusiasm that I would have expected. “Watson, get your bag.”

  I did as I was bidden, though a bit puzzled by Holmes’s interest in the matter. His curiosity about medical matters was usually restricted to those relating to crimes of one sort or another, preferably gruesome. But I did not question him, as I believed that a trip in the open air would be beneficial for him. He had been growing restless lately, and to see him take an interest in anything at all was a pleasant surprise.

  WHEN WE WERE in the coach and on our way, Holmes asked me to tell him more about my experience in Afghanistan.

  “You have never spoken of it in detail,” said he.

  “Nor has Edward,” said Mrs. Murray. “He does not like to speak of those days.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, whether from the throbbing of my leg where the musket bullet had passed through or from the sting of memory, I cannot say.

  “Many soldiers prefer not to recall battlefield experiences,” I told them. “Rather unpleasant, for the most part.”

  “But instructive, at times,” said Holmes. “How did you come to be wounded?”

  My mind turned back to that day at Maiwand.

  “Our troops left Kandahar on 3 July,” I said. “It was a blistering day, as indeed the entire summer had been. There were nearly three thousand men, marching off to support six thousand tribesmen engaged in fighting against one Ayub Khan. Ayub was in rebellion against the Amir, who had reportedly immured himself in Kabul. We had hardly gone any distance at all before we learned that the tribesmen we were going to aid had changed sides and were now supporting Ayub Khan. So the odds against, overwhelming to begin with, had become much worse. And later on the situation worsened even more.”

  “But switching sides?” said Mrs. Edwards. “Surely the tribesmen would not ally themselves with their enemy?”

  “That is the way of things in Afghanistan,” I replied, thinking of Kipling’s poem. “And there were other problems. Among the three thousand of us, many were raw recruits, hardly trained in fighting at all. Besides that, when we received orders to engage the enemy at Mai-wand late on 26 July, we had already spent much of the night breaking up our camp. So it was a group of tired, untrained men who faced a force so large that it seemed a veritable moving forest, like the one in Macbeth.”

  “A bloody tale, indeed, that one,” said Holmes.

  As I have remarked elsewhere, Holmes’s knowledge of literature was limited, but it did not surprise me that he knew something of one of the bard’s gorier tales.

  “It was a bloody tale that played out that day in Afghanistan, as well,” I said. “The temperature had climbed to well over one hundred degrees, perhaps to as much as one hundred and twenty. The enemy forces had increased to more than twenty-five thousand men, more than eight times our own strength. The only cover to be had was dry ravines and watercourses. The battle was, of course, a disaster.”

  “But you survived,” said Mrs. Murray.

  “Thanks only to your husband. There were thirty cannon ranged against us, and though the enemy fell by the score under the fire of the Martini-Henry rifles of our troops, there were far too many of them for us to overcome. Our casualties mounted nearly as swiftly as did theirs, and there were far, far fewer of us.”

  “How did you come to be shot?” asked Holmes.

  Remembering, I wiped my face and felt yet another twinge in my old wound.

  “I was ministering to a wounded man,” I said, “though there was little I could do for him. He had been shot through the lungs, of that there was no doubt. I could hear the air whistle in the wound as he tried to breathe. In any case, I was doing what I could when someone else called for me. I looked and saw another wounded man, not more than twenty feet away. Mind you, he was not the only one calling. There were wounded and dying all around me, and many of them were crying or screaming their need for help or water, for their wives and sweethearts.”

  I shook my head to rid it of the picture that had formed in my brain, but the picture persisted. I could remember the cries of the men, the smell of blood and fear.

  “In any case,” I said after a moment, “there was one man quite nearby. The pleading in his eyes was terrible to see. I stood up to go to him, and at that very moment I was struck by a musket shot. There was no pain, just the sudden shock, but when I tried to take a step, I fell on my face. I lay there for a while, how long I do not know. There was a strange buzzing in my ears, but I could still hear the wounded man calling for my help. I tried to call back to him, but no sound came from my lips. I must have lost consciousness then, for the next thing I was aware of was the motion of the horse that was carrying me to safety.”

  I stopped my narrative and looked at Mrs. Murray.

  “I never think of that day without thinking of your husband,” I told her. “His courage and devotion saved me, and I will do whatever is in my power to return that favor.”

  “Edward is counting on you,” she said. “He has great faith in your medical skills.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Holmes said, “As well he should have. Dr. Watson will soon set him right.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, Holmes,” said I, wishing that I shared it.

  OUR DESTINATION WAS a sizable house at the end of a blind street. The houses on either side of the street were small but neat. While the Murrays’ home was on a grander scale, it was in ill repair. As we left the coach, I could hear the muffled sounds of hammering from inside it.

  “When did you begin work on your house?” Holmes asked.

  “Shortly before Edward became ill,” Mrs. Murray said. “We have only recendy moved here from a much smaller place. One of my aunts died almost a year ago, and this house was my inheritance.”

  “It is often hard to find good workmen these days,” said Holmes. “Reliable men, I mean, who will stick to a job until it is finished.”

  “The men who are working here came highly recommended. They were quite busy, and at first I did not think they would take the job, but when they met Edward, they were convinced to do it.”

  We entered the house, where the sound of the workmen was louder. Our coats were taken by a tall sallow man with thin lips and a shiny bald head.

  “Thank you, Oliver,” said Mrs. Murray. When he had departed, she added, “Oliver and his wife worked for my aunt, she as cook and he as butler. They have stayed on to help me and Edward.”

  “I suppose they knew him before his illness,” Holmes said.

  “Oh, no. We never visited here. In fa
ct, the inheritance was quite unexpected. Please, follow me, and I will take you to Edward’s room.”

  We went down a dim hallway and ascended the stairs to the second floor, where the noise of hammers and saws was louder than ever. There were men building a bookcase in the room from which the noise emanated, and as we followed Mrs. Murray past a second open room, Holmes paused to look inside. The old wallpaper and backing had been peeled away to expose the wood, and a man was getting ready to apply fresh paper.

  “That is Mr. Gordon,” said Mrs. Murray, joining Holmes at the door.

  The man turned at the sound of her voice. He had a thicket of beard from which two dark eyes peered at us. He set the glue pot he was holding on the floor and said, “Good morning, ma’am.” He limped slightly as he stepped toward us and raised his hand to touch his forehead. “And how is the mister today?”

  “As well as could be expected, Mr. Gordon,” Mrs. Murray replied in a voice that indicated that was not very well at all. She indicated me. “This is Dr. Watson, who has come to examine him, and this is Dr. Watson’s friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  Gordon saluted us, muttered a greeting of some sort, and immediately turned away to get back to his work.

  Mrs. Murray started to speak again, but she refrained and took us down the hall to her husband’s room.

  I confess that I hardly recognized Edward Murray. I had known him but briefly those fourteen years ago, and then he had been young and hale, strong enough to lift a man of my size across the back of a horse. Now, however, he was shrunken and jaundiced, his cheeks hollow, his neck thin and wrinkled. He sat with his back braced by several pillows as he stared blankly out a window.

  “Edward,” his wife said, “I have brought Dr. Watson.”

  He turned his dark and sunken eyes in our direction.

  “Dr. Watson,” he said. His voice was weak. “You have not changed.”

  “Hello, Murray,” I said. “It is good to see you again.”

  “You know me, then?”

  “I do, indeed.”

  “It is a wonder. Until recently, I looked much the same as ever, or so it pleased me to think, but now . . .”

  “You have changed,” said I, stepping forward. “But I know you nevertheless. Let me introduce my friend Sherlock Holmes.”

  He raised a hand and made a feeble wave. “I have read of your adventures, Mr. Holmes, and you have told them ably, Dr. Watson.”

  “Please call me John,” I told him. “We are old friends, after all.”

  “And will my old friend be able to help me?” he asked.

  “I am sure he will,” said Holmes, once again expressing his confidence in me.

  “Then he will be the first. I have almost despaired of any cure. And that is odd indeed, for until recently I was always the healthiest of men.”

  I walked to the bedside and cleared a space for my medical bag. Then I took Murray’s sticklike wrist in my hand and felt for his pulse. Its beat was feeble at best beneath the hot, papery skin, flakes of which lay on the bedclothes, and I knew that Murray was in dire straits indeed.

  “We have come a long way since Afghanistan,” he said.

  “Indeed we have, and I have come thanks entirely to you,” I said. “Had you not put me on that horse, I would never have survived Maiwand.”

  “I am glad I was able to help,” said Murray. “It was all that I could do that day.”

  “But it was enough,” said Holmes. “I do not know how I would cope without Watson’s help.”

  There was no response to that, and I went about my examination. When it was completed, I had deduced no more about Murray’s disease than his wife had confided to us earlier.

  “Have you an appetite?” I asked, taking in his wasted frame.

  “I eat very little,” said he. “Mrs. Oliver prepares my meals, but they are meager indeed. Bread and soup, though the soup does not taste as soup should. A consequence of my disease, no doubt.”

  “I have great confidence that Watson will have you in good appetite again, and quite soon,” said Holmes. “I have no doubt of it. Is that not right, Watson?”

  “Of course,” said I, wishing that I believed it, for the case seemed quite beyond me. I had, in fact, seen nothing like it in my career as a medical man, and I was not at all certain that there was anything I could do.

  “I knew I could count on you,” Murray said. “It is not that I believed you owe me a debt, you understand.”

  “But I do. Had it not been for your efforts, I would be long since dead on the Afghan plains. And I will do all that I can to aid you.”

  I did not add that I thought the all I promised was little enough, and Murray seemed satisfied with my assurance. He sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” said his wife. “He does not often rest well, but your presence here has given him hope. What will you prescribe?”

  “I must think about that,” said I.

  The noise of the carpenters, which I had forgotten, came to my ears again, and Holmes said, “You must be very proud of your new home. Did the Olivers feel that you were intruding when you moved here?”

  Mrs. Murray smiled. “No, they did not. I believe they were quite pleased, as our coming meant they did not have to seek other employment.”

  I hardly saw what this exchange had to do with Murray’s medical problem, but I did not interrupt.

  “And are they pleased with the changes you are making in the house?”

  “Oh, I am sure they must be. My aunt had let it fall into a sad state of disrepair, but soon we will have things set to rights.”

  “I can see that you will,” said Holmes. “Well, Watson, shall we have a look around the place?”

  “Whatever for?” I asked.

  “Why, so Mrs. Murray can sit with her husband while you mull over his treatment, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, though I had no idea why.

  Holmes turned, and I followed him from the room. When we were outside, I asked where we were going.

  “To the kitchen,” said he, “to meet Mrs. Oliver.”

  MRS. OLIVER WAS her husband’s opposite: round, smiling, and cheerful. She welcomed us to the kitchen where a pot of savory-smelling soup bubbled on the stove.

  “Poor Mr. Murray does not eat much, but he must keep up his strength,” she said, and invited us to share some of the meal she was preparing as there was plenty for all.

  “All?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, sir. The carpenters often share a meal with us here.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Holmes. “I am sure they enjoy your cooking.”

  Mrs. Oliver laughed. “Oh, go along with you, sir. But it is true, nevertheless.”

  “Do they ever help you out?” Holmes asked. “By way of repaying your hospitality?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do they, for example, ever take Mr. Murray his meals?”

  “Why, yes, they sometimes do.”

  “All of them, or only Mr. Gordon?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Gordon is the very one. How did you know that?”

  “He knows a great deal more than anyone would suspect,” I said. “Where is all this leading us, Holmes?”

  “To a diagnosis, my dear Watson. Come along.”

  We returned to Murray’s room. He was lying back on the pillows, his eyes closed, with his wife watching over him. She looked up when we entered, and Holmes said to her, “Dr. Watson will soon have your husband on the way to recovery. We have discovered that he is being slowly poisoned.”

  Murray struggled to sit up in his surprise, and I confess that I was no less amazed than he. His wife said, “But how can that be?”

  “Oh, it is quite easy if one has access to arsenic,” said Holmes. “And arsenic is indeed the poison being used. I thought as much when I first heard your description of Mr. Murray’s symptoms, and my observation of him has confirmed my opinion.”

  As I have often said, Holmes has no
peer when it comes to knowledge of poisons, and I had no doubt that he was correct in this case. No wonder that I, and the other doctors whom Murray had consulted, had been unable to determine what was afflicting him. Arsenic poisoning is notoriously difficult to diagnose. Once a diagnosis has been made, however, a cure can be effected, especially if the source of the poison is removed. Now I knew why Holmes was so confident that I would be able to help Murray.

  “Who would want to poison Edward?” Mrs. Murray asked.

  “There were a number of possibilities,” said Holmes, “including yourself.” At the look on her face, he added, “But I eliminated you at once, for you said that you and your husband knew of me. No guilty person who had read Watson’s somewhat exaggerated accounts of my cases would be likely to come to him for help for fear of my involvement.”

  Mrs. Murray did not appear much mollified by this remark, so I said, “Who were the other possibilities?”

  “The Olivers, of course, came to mind,” said Holmes, “but they harbor no resentments against their new employers, and Mrs. Murray has assured us that they are happy to have new tenants in the house.”

  “But there is no one else here,” I protested.

  “There are the workmen,” said Holmes.

  “The workmen?” I said.

  “Consider this,” said Holmes. “You were once a wounded man, rescued by your orderly, Edward Murray. But there was another wounded man. What might he have felt to see the two of you leaving the field while he lay there awaiting his fate, and no rifle to roll on, as Kipling so charmingly put it.”

  Murray’s voice came quaveringly from the bed. “He would have felt a hate deep and lasting. I could see it in his eyes that day. But my duty was to Dr. Watson.”

  “True,” said Holmes, walking to the bedside, “and you performed it admirably. But suppose that man lived and managed to escape the battlefield before the women came to cut up what remained of him. And suppose that eventually he returned to England. He might have tried to put the incident out of his mind, but every twinge of his wound would remind him of it. As it does you, Watson.”

  I nodded my agreement.