untimely death without your father's knowledge, Miss Morgan. Can that be arranged?'
'Most certainly,' There was sheer relief in her reply. 'In spite of my mother's sudden death, my father has not seen fit to cancel a day's pheasant shooting tomorrow. He will be out in the fields and coverts with his guests from around ten in the morning until mid-afternoon.'
'Admirable!' Holmes snapped his long thin fingers. 'I would prefer you to return to Winchcombe this afternoon, Miss Morgan. I presume that your father has no idea that you have visited me.'
'None, whatsoever. In fact, should he find out.' I glimpsed a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes. 'I dread to think what he
might do. As well as being one of the best shots in England, my father has a violent streak in him. This was evident only last winter when he and Randall caught a poacher in the Home Covert, an otherwise harmless villager who only sought a pheasant for his dinner. The man was in hospital for some weeks afterwards with broken bones. Had it not been for my father's position, as well as squire he is chief magistrate, then I fear that the local constabulary would have brought a charge of assault against him.'
'Then we shall hope to conduct our investigations undetected.' Sherlock Holmes smiled as he rose to his feet. 'One final question, Miss Morgan, hurtful as it may be, your mother's body…'
'It lies in an ante room. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow.'
'Excellent, Watson!' Holmes said when Gloria Morgan's receding footsteps had faded. 'I shall be obliged for your professional opinion on the deceased in due course. Also, it might be advisable if you slipped your service revolver into your pocket. The man we are up against, as well as being of a violent temperament, is one of the best shots in England. We cannot afford to take any chances.'
A shimmering of snow sparkled across the countryside as Holmes and I travelled down to Andover on the early morning train. My companion spoke little throughout the long journey and I knew that he was turning over in his mind everything that Miss Morgan had told us yesterday. Her story had a ring of truth to it, incredible though it seemed on reflection. Had her mother really been murdered or was it fanciful thinking by a distraught young lady? If it was murder, then how had Violet Morgan been killed within a locked room, and the act so disguised that her death had been diagnosed as from natural causes by an experienced GP? Was Doctor Lambeth in league with Royston Morgan? Was Randall, the gamekeeper, with his store of poisons with which to kill vermin and roaming domestic pets, involved? I had enough confidence in my companion to know that if there was foul play then he would unravel the truth. The weight of my service revolver in my overcoat pocket brought mixed feelings of comfort and unease. All too often
when Holmes had instructed me to bring a pistol along we had had need of it. The man's intuition was astounding.
On our arrival at Andover, we hired a carriage, Holmes instructing the driver to take us to Winchcombe Hall but to remain at a safe distance and to await our return. It was early afternoon as we walked up the winding poplar- lined drive.
In the distance, where a long narrow wood snaked over the horizon, we heard the sound of gunfire. Occasionally, we glimpsed a whirring speck that was undoubtedly a pheasant bursting from cover, a bird that had survived the line of guns, gliding on downhill to land in a field of snow-covered turnips.
'At least our friend, the squire, will be kept busy for a while,' Holmes remarked as we passed through a clump of rhododendrons and had our first view of the big house. I noticed that the extensive snow-covered lawns were severely disfigured by the workings of moles, something to which Miss Morgan had alluded on her visit to our rooms in Baker Street.
Winchcombe Hall was set in a large clearing amidst tall pines and mature shrubberies. It was clearly of Georgian origin, three-storeyed and with high chimneys. Undoubtedly, once it had been a magnificent country residence but now there was-evidence of loose mortar and the west wall was badly damp-stained. Which was all the more reason for Royston Morgan wanting to acquire the wealth of an eligible widow, I decided, but kept my thoughts to myself for Holmes would not have thanked me for them. A number of carriages were parked at the rear; undoubtedly, Squire Morgan had a full compliment of sportsmen for today.
Even as we mounted the wide flight of steps, the front door opened and there stood Gloria Morgan, a long black dress accentuating her pallor. Yet in spite of her grief, her delight at seeing us was all too evident.
'Oh, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,' she cried, 'I can't tell you how grateful I am that you have come.'
'Have there been any further developments?' My companion asked as we stepped into the marble-floored hallway.
'No.' She shook her head. 'Everything is still as it was when I left yesterday. My father is too preoccupied with his pheasant shooting to concern himself with a matter which he considers to be concluded. The library is through there.' She indicated
a door that was partly open. 'My mother…' Her trembling finger pointed to a closed door at the rear of the hall.
'Perhaps, Watson,' Holmes glanced meaningfully at myself, 'you would be so kind as to take a swift professional look at the departed whilst Miss Morgan accompanies me into the library. I am curious to view a locked room where death can strike so swiftly. I will join you shortly.'
I lifted the lid of the polished oaken coffin and looked down upon Violet Morgan. Death, and the obvious agony that had accompanied it, had done its utmost to destroy her striking beauty. The soft lips were swollen and marked where she had bitten them, and even the passing of
I bent over and sniffed at her mouth but the only odour was that familiar smell of death. The palms of her hands were gouged where her fingernails had dug deep and the mortician had been unable to straighten out her fingers fully, it was as though they were afflicted with some deformity. I checked for any signs of an open wound, a cut or scratch, that might have allowed tetanus to enter her bloodstream, but there were none apart from those inflicted by herself.
Certainly the corpse bore some resemblance to the final sufferings of a victim of lockjaw but tetanus would not have struck so suddenly and without warning. Either Doctor Lambeth had never witnessed a case of lockjaw or he was taking advantage of an easy alternative. Or else he was determined to shield Squire Morgan at all costs. I was far from satisfied at what I had seen.
I heard the door open and Holmes joined me. He stood there looking down upon the corpse and I knew that his keen eyes missed nothing.
'Her suffering was terrible, indeed, Watson,' he spoke in a low voice for fear that Gloria Morgan might overhear him.
'Yes, but it was not lockjaw,' I asserted, 'but surely some kind of poison that is undetectable.'
'Many poisons leave little or no trace.' He bent over the corpse. 'You really must read my treatise on poisons, Watson. Ah!' His fingers lifted up one of Violet Morgan's clawed hands,
moved it so that the fingertips were exposed to view. 'You noticed that faint stain on the tip of the forefinger, Watson?'
'I did not regard it as being of any significance,' I replied somewhat abruptly for I sensed that my companion was criticizing my professionalism.
'Let us return to the library.' He straightened up. I followed him out into the hallway, feeling a little offended by his abruptness. Whatever the relevance of that discolouring of the deceased's fingertip, it clearly needed to be corroborated by an inspection of the scene of the crime. However, I knew better than to interrupt my colleague's train of thought.
In the library Holmes commenced a minute examination of the windows and the door.
'A beetle could have entered via the gap beneath the locked door,' he spoke without looking round, 'but nothing larger than an insect. Miss Morgan informs me that her mother always kept the windows tightly shut, even in summer, as she had a phobia about night moths. But, on the night in question, the temperature would have been below freezing so no window would have been open, anyway.' He moved across to a section of bookshelving, tilted his head slightly to one side to enable him to read the lettering on the spines of the volumes.
'As I have already told you, my father virtually worships Hawker and everything that the man stood for,' there
