anguish. 'Mr Holmes… my father has murdered my mother, a vile deed which will go both undetected and unpunished unless…'
'Have you not informed the police, Miss Morgan?' Holmes stretched out his long legs. 'Surely, that is the obvious course if you are so convinced that such a dastardly act has taken place?'
'It would be useless, Mr Holmes, for Doctor Lambeth is insistent that my mother died of lockjaw. But he is ageing, he retires shortly, and I do not think that he wishes to put himself in the embarrassing position of accusing a prominent member of the community of such a crime on slender evidence.'
'Please start at the very beginning, Miss Morgan.' Holmes reached the old slipper off the floor by his side and proceeded to stuff the blackened bowl of his pipe with fine cut dark tobacco. 'I trust you have no objection to the smell of strong tobacco, Miss Morgan?'
'Not at all.' She coughed slightly for the room was already thick with pipesmoke. 'My father is Squire Royston Morgan of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire.'
'Ah, I recall the locality.' Holmes leaned back, his fingertips pressed together, seemingly drowsy to anybody who was not familiar with his posture, but I knew that he listened intently. 'Is that not in the proximity of Longparish, home of the legendary late Colonel Peter Hawker, undoubtedly one of the finest marksman which this country has ever produced, a veteran of the Crimean War who, upon being invalided out of the army, devoted the remainder of his life to the pursuit of fur and feather?'
'Indeed, it is,' Gloria Morgan smiled wryly. 'I curse him, too, even though he has been dead for half a century, for it is upon him that my father has modelled himself, although I would hope that Colonel Hawker's only shortcoming was his devotion to fishing and shooting.'
'Hawker was surely the finest game shot of all time,' Sherlock Holmes answered dreamily. 'Not content with killing twenty-four snipe consecutively on one day, without missing a shot, he used to practise on bats around Longparish Hall at dusk, and, according to his books, with equal success.'
'As my father does, especially when we have guests staying.' There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.
'I digress,' Holmes said. 'Please continue.'
'As I have already said, my father has endeavoured to build his own reputation upon that of Colonel Hawker's. A fine shot, an excellent fly fisherman and a dashing horseman, understandably he has attracted the attention of other women. I would add, at this stage, that my parent's marriage has not been a happy one. One woman in particular, is a wealthy widow by the name of Eva Dann, who currently owns Longparish, the property most coveted by my father. There have, for some years, been whispered rumours of their relationship, and my mother has had to suffer the ignominy of it. For my sake, she
clung to her marital status and rights, doubtless much to my father's chagrin.
'So, faced with the prospect of her remaining indefinitely at Winchcombe, and thereby depriving him of the opportunity to marry his mistress and acquire Longparish, he murdered her.'
'Can you prove it?'
'Alas, no, but I have not a single doubt in my mind that he killed her.'
'Then tell me everything you know, setting out your story as it happened, trying not to overlook the smallest detail, however irrelevant it may seem to you.'
'My mother had resigned herself to living beneath the same room as my father, no matter how unpleasant that may have been. One of her interests was horticulture, and on fine days she would spend her time in the gardens. Her other love was literature. There is a small library in the Hall and, after dinner each evening, she would go there to read until she retired about ten o'clock. Lately, she took to locking herself in the library because, on those occasions when my father had been drinking heavily, he would go and vent his vile temper on her. Thus, by locking the door, she ensured herself of the tranquillity she required to immerse herself in her reading.'
'And it was in the library where she met her untimely death?' There was a gentleness in Sherlock Holmes's voice as he asked the question.
'Yes', Gloria Morgan stifled a sob. 'The night before last. Dinner was an uneasy meal for my father was in an uncertain temper on account of having shot badly that day. Afterwards, my mother retired to the library as was her usual routine. I am not sure of my father's movements, possibly he went down to the gamekeeper's cottage to discuss with Randall the task of destroying a colony of moles which are currently rendering the lawns and borders an unsightly mess.'
'And the gamekeeper?'
'Randall is a hateful man. He reminds me of the stoats and weasels which hang rotting and stinking on his vermin gibbet. He is the most hated man for miles around. Several cats and dogs, belonging to the villagers, have died in his traps and snares, or eaten the poison which he lays for foxes in the game preserves. The safety of his pheasants is paramount, the greater
the slaughter on shooting days, the more prestigious his role becomes amongst the guests who shoot at Winchcombe.'
'A decidedly unpleasant character, by all accounts,' Holmes mused.
'Second only to my father. On the night in question I was somewhat later retiring than usual. As I passed the library about eleven o'clock, I noticed that a light still burned beneath the door. Fearing lest my mother might have fallen asleep in her chair, or perhaps become ill, I knocked on the door. After several knockings, and receiving no response, I hastened to summon Jenkins, the butler. Jenkins forced the door open and there… oh, Mr Holmes!'
I reached across and patted her hand. Bravely, Gloria Morgan pulled herself together, and continued her narrative. 'It was clear at first glance that my mother was dead. That, in itself, was awful enough but nothing by comparison with the expression on her features and the way in which her body was twisted into an unnatural posture. Mr Holmes, there is no doubt that my mother died in indescribable agony, unable even to call for help.'
'You then sent for the doctor?'
'Yes. Jenkins rode at once to the village to fetch Doctor Lambeth who arrived soon after.'
'And your father?'
'My father did not return until after the doctor's arrival. His show of distress was so shallow that the most amateurish of stage actors could have improved considerably upon his pathetic performance. Doctor Lambeth examined my mother and diagnosed that she had died of lockjaw which seemed to satisfy my father.'
'There would most certainly have been signs of the malady before death took place,' I interposed. 'A tetanus sufferer would have experienced pain long before the final convulsions.'
'Precisely!' Holmes added. 'Miss Morgan, did your mother appear unwell in any way during dinner?'
'No,' Gloria Morgan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, 'but of late she has suffered a loss of appetite due, I presume, to her unhappy state of mind. She ate very little on the night in question, just picked at her food.'
'And the remains of her meal?'There was a sharpness about
my friend now which had been absent of late. It appeared that Miss Morgan's story had aroused his interest above the level of a routine investigation.
'Oh, I know what you're thinking, Mister Holmes,' our visitor gave a hollow laugh. 'The same thought crossed my mind, that some form of poison had been introduced into my mother's food. In my grief and anger I suggested that to both Doctor Lambeth and my father.'
'And?'
'My father laughed cruelly. 'Very well', he said, leading us through to the dining room, 'just to prove to you how unfounded your stupid fears are, we will feed the remnants of your mother's meal to the dogs.' We followed him outside to the kennels where the dogs voraciously devoured those leftovers. The animals were still in excellent health when I left to catch the train to London this morning.'
'I see.' It was impossible even to guess what Sherlock Holmes was thinking as he lapsed into silence. I knew better than to enquire of him for he would reveal them when he was ready and not until.
Miss Morgan and I glanced at each other and there was no mistaking the anguish in her eyes. She had come here with a desperate plea for help and Sherlock Holmes was her only hope.
'Watson and I will travel down to Hampshire by the first available train in the morning.' Holmes had made his decision and he knew, without asking, that I would accompany him. 'It is important that I examine the scene of this
