The mastiff dropped his haunches and laid down on the floor in a most placid manner, his huge brown eyes peering at his mistress and awaiting her next order.
I nodded to Lestrade, indicating our visit should come to an end, then returned to the royal couple. “Thank you both for your helpful information and suggestions.”
With Nelson escorting us to the door, the inspector and I departed the Belgravia mansion and walked out into a gray day, with darkening clouds and a chilled wind that threatened yet more unpleasant weather.
“Nothing much there, eh?” said Lestrade, turning up the collar of his topcoat.
“A little, perhaps,” I replied, deciding to downplay the obvious fact that it was Lady Katherine who ruled the household, who was an expert in the world of Italian Renaissance art and restoration, and who would know all the hidden secrets of Simon Hawke. It was she, and not the earl, who Joanna should both talk with and investigate. Something deep within told me that Lady Katherine, the Countess of Wessex, held the key to unraveling the mystery of the art vandal.
9Strange Symptoms
I returned to 221b Baker Street and found the mood lighter than when I departed. Johnny’s explosive outbursts had diminished, giving us some hope that the dreaded disease was remitting. But my father warned that such apparent remissions were often temporary and could be again followed by violent discharge. We tried to remain optimistic as we gathered around a three-log fire in our comfortable overstuffed chairs and ignored the wind and rain outside that seemed to be gaining force.
Joanna was pouring tea when a loud knock sounded on the door to Johnny’s bedroom. We stopped our chatter and pricked our ears, for such a rap was usually accompanied by a disturbing report.
“The replenishing liquid is becoming most difficult to swallow,” Johnny called out.
My father quickly looked to the bedroom. “Have you become nauseated?”
“A bit, sir.”
“Are you throwing up?”
“I just have the nausea, sir, which I believe is caused by the high sugar content of the liquid.”
“The sugar is important, for it represents your only source of nutrition which is required for your recovery.”
In a low voice, Joanna suggested, “Perhaps we should lower the sugar concentration to make the fluid more palatable.”
My father nodded his approval.
“Johnny, listen carefully,” Joanna instructed loudly. “I want you to empty the bottle by a third, then replace it with water from the basin. This will lessen the sugar content and make the taste more agreeable. I would like you to do this with all the remaining bottles.”
“Yes, Mother,” Johnny replied and we heard the sound of water running.
Joanna came back to my father and said, “Of course when we decrease the sugar we also diminish the salt content which is critically important for hydration. Thus I propose we reconstitute our mixture to contain the same amount of salt, but half as much sugar. I would rather sacrifice calories than salt, for it is dehydration which kills in cholera, not nutrient deprivation.”
The worry on Joanna’s face and in her voice was obvious, for every aspect of the disease brought back a nightmarish memory. I injected a note of optimism by saying, “Perhaps the zenith of the disorder has passed.”
Joanna turned to the bedroom door and called out, “Should we attend to your bucket?”
“Not as yet, Mother.”
The three of us nodded to one another, for it was another good sign that indicated the lad’s discharge was lessening. But a moment later we heard distressing sounds coming through the door to Johnny’s bedroom and our confidence dipped.
“This is to be expected,” my father said, unconcerned. “There will be ups and downs for a while yet, so do not become discouraged, for this is the usual course of cholera.”
“But I still worry,” Joanna admitted. “And will not rest until my son is well.”
“That is understandable,” said my father. “But if good fortune is with us, our Johnny will be on the road to recovery before the laboratory confirms the diagnosis of cholera.” He glanced over to me and asked, “Were there any difficulties in arranging for the culture to be done by the bacteriologists at St. Bartholomew’s?”
“None,” I replied. “Although I thought it best they be warned that the infecting microorganism might be Vibrio cholera.”
“I trust that you did not reveal that Johnny was the source,” my father inquired.
I shook my head. “I told them it came from a colleague at Eton who did not have confidence in the local laboratory.”
“Good show,” my father approved. “No need to alarm the entire city of London, for the true source would have certainly become a topic of conversation at St. Bartholomew’s and quickly spread outside its walls.”
“I took the liberty of giving them our phone number, so they could call in the results, then hurried to the meeting with the Earl of Wessex, for I was behind time.”
Joanna went back to pouring tea, with milk added beforehand, her mind now focusing on the mystery of the art vandal. “Was Lestrade there?”
“He was,” I replied. “But I must say he did not seem overly eager to participate in the questioning.”
“It was not his participation, but his presence that was of importance,” said Joanna. “Even the royalty takes notice when Scotland Yard is actively involved, and they are more likely to pay attention and answer honestly.”
“I believe their answers were indeed honest and then some, particularly so for the Countess of Wessex, who was quite forthright and provided information I think you will find most interesting.”
“Was there a reason you directed your questioning to the countess?” asked Joanna.
“It was through no effort of mine,” I responded. “For you see she rules the roost at the Wessex home.”
Joanna’s eyebrows went up. “In a stern voice?”
“By exhibition,” I answered. “She simply took over the conversation in a smooth and easy fashion which indicated she was accustomed to such a role. And then there was the manner in which their dog responded to her commands, but not
