Jimsonweed, devil’s weed, hell’s bells, thornapple, and many more. It’s rather like Shakespeare said in Romeo and Juliet... a rose by any other name.”
“You’ve read Romeo and Juliet?” I gasped.
“My mother forced it upon me,” he grunted. “I believe the swans were drugged with thornapple.”
“Are you sure? Thornapple here? In England?’
“Granted, it is rarely found here. It originates in South and Central America, but it will grow in any open, sunny situation. It flourishes in moderately good soil, but it does best in rich calcareus soil or good sandy loam with leaf mould added. But it has shown up in southern England in rich, waste ground usually near gardens. Sometimes it is planted here in private gardens as an ornamental plant, and it does have a history here, Poppy. It was cultivated in London towards the close of the sixteenth century. In fact,” he said, tapping his head while he paused to think, “King Henry VIII was well-known for his medicinal concoctions. This plant may have grown in his herbal gardens. Some may be lurking near the royal household itself. It was often present in gardens devoted to plants used in medieval magic.”
“Magic?”
“Yes. As you said, it occurs more rarely herein England. It was first imported from Central America to Italy and then to southwestern Europe. In early times, the thornapple was considered an aid to the incantation of witches, and during the time of the witch and wizard mania here, it was unlucky for anyone to grow it in his garden.
“To some, it can be very appealing, I suppose,” he admitted.”The buds are a pale, luminous yellow and pure white trumpet flowers when it’s in full bloom. The flowers open in the evening and they emit a powerful fragrance.”
“Hence, the term deadly nightshade. But wouldn’t animals be repelled by the disagreeable odour?”
“Moths are attracted to it but yes, browsing animals would turn away and refuse to eat it. Accidents do occur, however. Children have become deathly ill when they eat the half-ripe seeds, which have a sweet taste. So, if the seeds were mixed with something else or dipped into something... what do swans eat?”
“Aquatic vegetation, which they eat while swimming... like underwater plants and algae,” I explained. “Grasses found along the banks. They will eat small insects and cultivated grains in open fields. People sometimes feed them bread, corn, grain, oats. They like brown rice, lentils, split peas and smallish seeds.”
“Seeds,” he repeated. “And what would be toxic to them?”
“Chocolate. That can be fatal to a swan. Also salt. Apple seeds because apple seeds contain trace amounts of cyanide. Let’s see, what else? Uncooked beans. Mushrooms cause digestive upset, and even liver failure. Caffeine and alcohol. And some stems and vines and leaves are highly toxic. Like the leaves of the nightshade variety. Even tomato leaves are toxic to them.”
“So,” Sherlock said, rubbing his chin, “if one fed swans the leaves of the thornapple... or seeds...”He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “I read one case... a child, a toddler, swallowed a hundred seeds. He started to act like an intoxicated person. Then he started to vomit, his pupils dilated, and then he lost his voice and the ability to swallow. He died within twenty-four hours. Another person, an adult, consumed a similar amount and died within seven hours. Another ingested an alcoholic decoction of the seeds and rapidly fell into a coma. So now imagine a very large dose fed to a swan.”
“But it’s poison. How is that merciful, Sherlock?”
“Because a swan that ingested a large amount of such a concoction would lapse into a coma and die very, very quickly. I found seeds and leaves throughout the entire length of the intestines.”
“Dear God.”
“So you see how I have reached my conclusion. I believe that the swan... likely all of the swans were poisoned prior to the mutilation. I think first off, the person knows a great deal about the creature. Second, he has access or knows how to gain access; and, third, he does care about them. But he has a grievous dispute with Her Majesty.”
“What do we do now?”
“We?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and turning his lips into a gentle smile. “I thought you didn’t care about the swans.”
“I never said that, Sherlock. The swans are lovely creatures. But I do care more about people.”
“I must talk to everyone in Her Majesty’s Royal Household,” he said. “To the Keeper of the Swans, of course, but everyone else I can interview, everyone from the Master of the Barge to the Paymaster at Buckingham.”
“The Paymaster?”
“One Mr. T. C. March, so Mycroft tells me. Who knows? Perhaps someone was shorted his compensation.”
“Sherlock, hundreds of people serve in Her Majesty’s royal household. You cannot possibly speak to all of them.”
“Poppy, I can leave no stone unturned.”
“I thought you did not care about the swans.”
“I do not - per se. But it’s not about the swans. It is about the case, dear Poppy, the case.”
Chapter 7
Over the next several weeks, more dead swans appeared and Sherlock continued to interrogate half the Queen’s household. The pernicious effects of the fog lingered still longer, so I continued to treat patients, including the mystery lady who said her name was Penelope Potash, a name I was certain was false because of the way she’d stumbled over it. She came only for the ‘female treatments,’ as she called them, and claimed her bronchial issues were better, but she was still reed thin and coughed a great deal. I spoke to her about going to a sanitorium or seeking a specialist’s help, but she would have none of it. “I don’t have Her Majesty’s income,” she would always reply.
Often as I made my way to and from my office to home, Regent’s Park was enshrouded, as if fixed by some supernatural influence. The prodigiously large volume of the deathly mist that floated from every chimney and factory in
