The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

was a note of mingled repugnance and annoyance in her tone at this seeming digression from Holmes's investigations. 'My father's lifelong ambition was to acquire Longparish. The place would have been a virtual shrine for him, but I am afraid family finances have been dwindling for some time.'

'And your father needed to acquire the necessary funds from other sources,' Holmes remarked. 'I see that there is a sizeable collection of medieval works. Also well read.' He was examining another volume.

'My father was no lover of literature, Mr Holmes, he only read sporting books and those medieval works. Mostly reprints, as you will see, and some books appertaining to that period.'

'Hmmm.' Holmes's expression had changed, he was staring fixedly at the open pages of the volume in his hands. From where I stood I was just able to read the title on the spine, 'Herbs and Plants of the Thirteenth Century; Their Cultivation and Uses' Holmes read intently, he seemed oblivious of our presence in the room.

'Mr Holmes,' there was a new nervousness in Gloria Morgan's voice, 'the day's shooting usually concludes towards mid-afternoon in order that the unscathed pheasants may go to roost in peace. The party will be returning shortly. I had not anticipated that your investigations would take so long.'

'Tell me, Miss Morgan', Holmes appeared not to have heard her warning or else he chose to ignore it, 'what was your mother's taste in reading?'

'English literature. She read and re-read her favourite authors.'

Sherlock Holmes turned his attention back to the bookshelves, his gaze searching out that section which contained works of literature.

'Ah!' His exclamation was one of triumph as he reached down a book which protruded from one of the neat rows. 'This is the one which your mother was reading at the moment of her untimely death, I perceive. It was returned to its rightful place, presumably by your butler when he tidied up the room, but, in his haste, he failed to replace it fully. Charles Dickens, I see, although I have not read his works myself.'

'Little Dorrit,' Miss Morgan answered. 'I know because she mentioned it at dinner that night. Also, the volume was lying beside her when we… we found her. As you point out, Jenkins must have returned it to the shelves when he tidied up the room after Doctor Lambeth and the mortician had finished.'

Sherlock Holmes carried the volume across to the mahogany reading table where he pored over it with an intensity which I had witnessed many times in the past.

'Your mother showed little respect for books.' He was turning the pages delicately, almost as though it was a sacrilege to touch them. From where I stood I could see that each leaf was creased in the top right hand corner as if it had been turned down to mark the reader's place.

'It was a habit which she developed in childhood, Mr Holmes,

and never relinquished, that of turning each page with a wetted forefinger.'

Holmes examined the pages with his lens, blew gently upon one. A faint puff of something white, it might have been dandruff from a previous reader's hair, was dislodged, fell to the floor and became indiscernible. A cloud of what I took to be some kind of ash floated down in its wake.

My colleague snapped the tome shut and, in a couple of strides, was at the window, staring out with an intensity which told me that he had spotted something which was relevant to our investigations.

'The moles,' he snapped, 'they have made a devil of a mess of the lawns and borders. What method is being used to halt their depredations?'

'My father has been attending to the matter himself' Gloria Morgan was visibly surprised by yet another digression. 'I believe that he obtained some substance from Randall with which to kill the creatures. I recall him mentioning it to my mother a few days ago when she expressed concern at the damage done by the moles. Something which was put down the holes, I believe, although I did not take much interest at the time.'

'Capital!' Holmes cried. 'Everything fits at last, the final piece in the jigsaw has slotted into place.'

'Mr Holmes!' Gloria Morgan's cry of alarm interrupted my companion's moment of exultation, and in the brief moment of silence which followed we heard the slamming of the front door, followed by heavy footfalls in the hallway. 'Mr Holmes, it is too late, my father has returned!'

At that very moment the library door crashed back on its hinges and I was afforded my first view of Royston Morgan, the sporting squire of Winchcombe Hall. He stood there framed in the doorway, a giant of a fellow, well over six feet tall and surely all of sixteen stone in weight, seemingly even more immense clad in baggy plus-fours and a tweed shooting jacket which strained at the shoulder seams. Silver hair spilled from beneath a wide-brimmed floppy hat. His expression was one of escalating fury, wide cheeks darkly flushed, lips bared to reveal tusk-like teeth as he removed a long black cheroot from his cruel mouth.

But it was not just his size, the demoniac expression in his sunken eyes, nor his raging fury, which caused him to tremble in every limb, that had Miss Morgan cowering against the table. Rather it was the double-barrelled shotgun which he pointed in our direction as he demanded of his daughter in slurred stentorian tones, 'Gloria, what is the meaning of this? Who are these gentlemen who have left their carriage down on the road and slunk up here like thieves intent on burgling us?'

'Father.' I admired her for the way in which she regained her composure and spoke with a voice that had only the slightest tremor in it. 'This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Doctor Watson.'

'Sherlock Holmes!' The name was uttered in a whisper which embodied both shock and anger, accompanied by an intake of breath. His gaze fastened on my companion and those cheeks became darker still. 'I have heard of you, Mr Holmes. Holmes, the meddler, Scotland Yard's errand boy! What brings you here? How dare you set foot in my house uninvited!'

'I invited Mr Holmes, Father', Gloria Morgan spoke coolly and looked even more radiant in her moment of defiance.

'Leave my house at once!' The gun barrels swung round and came to a halt, trained upon Holmes, 'or I shall summon the local constabulary and have you arrested. Nobody sets foot in Winchcombe Hall except at my invitation!'

'I rather think that it will snow again before nightfall,' Sherlock Holmes remarked as though he was totally unaware of the gun which threatened him.

'Get out!'

'Perhaps,' Holmes continued, undeterred, 'you would be good enough to summon your local constabulary, after all, Squire Morgan, so that I may present my recent findings to them. I am now able to reveal the manner in which you murdered your wife two nights ago.'

Morgan might have been a statue, frozen into immobility, the gun extended, one-handed, forefinger curled around the front trigger. My own hand crept into the pocket of my overcoat, gripped the butt of my revolver, my thumb easing back the hammer slowly so that the cocking action would not click and reveal that I was armed. Indeed, I would have shot Royston Morgan through my pocket except that I feared that the impact of the striking bullet might cause the shotgun to detonate and

blast Holmes at point blank range. That was the only reason why I did not shoot this fiend down in cold blood.

'This is preposterous!' Morgan's lips moved at last, his denial an unconvincing whine. 'My dear wife died of lockjaw, caused, doubtless, by some wound whilst going about her horticultural interests.'

'No.' Holmes's gaze never wavered, not so much as a hint of fear did he show in the face of that scattergun. 'There is no such wound upon your wife's body, my medical colleague has already checked and informs me, with authority, that she did not die from tetanus. Rather, she died from strychnine poisoning, which is both sudden and terrible, a tiny amount of the substance, which is odourless, proving fatal. You procured the poison from Randall, your gamekeeper, for the supposed purpose of poisoning moles but instead you used it to murder your unsuspecting wife.'

'I… I used the strychine to poison the moles in the grounds.' I was heartily relieved to see those gun barrels lowered and pointing to the floor.

'Some of it, perhaps.' Sherlock Holmes gave a short laugh. 'But it only required a minute quantity to bring about a terrible end for your wife and free you to marry into considerable wealth, thereby fulfilling your lifelong ambition of owning the Longparish estate. It was a foul and cunning plan, aided by the fact that an ageing medical practitioner would not even consider the possibility that the local squire might have committed murder.'

'It's a lie, Mister Holmes, spawned by my daughter who has hated me since childhood, and who sees a means whereby to inherit Winchcombe Hall before her time.'