The Oedipus Manuscripts
Chapter One—Poison
December 31, 1889
It must be said that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was rarely off a case, even during the holiday season, having just finished the singularly amusing case of "The Blue Carbuncle," as Watson would later dub it, four days prior.
The man in question was standing uncomfortably outside the tall, sweeping marble archway of the Angelus Estate Mansion, waiting in the line of people who would enter for tonight's ball. His long, skeletal-thin, yellow fingers gripped a cigarette tightly as he puffed away on it in such a nervous manor that the woman beside him could not help but feel a tinge of pity for the fellow.
"Mr. Holmes, you need not be so tentative about this evening. I am sure it will go marvellously smooth and uneventful. "Right, John?" the blonde woman nudged her husband, who was staring vacantly at the beautiful twin ice sculptures that adorned the entrance to the Angelus Estate.
"Hmm?" he turned to face her. "O, yes Mary, I am sure it will be perfectly wonderful," Dr. Watson recovered, looking abashed at the wanderings of his mind.
"That is what I am afraid of," admitted Holmes wryly. Watson cleared his throat loudly to keep from laughing at his companion.
"I am sure there will be something for you to get yourself into, old chap," assured the older gentleman.
Holmes nodded slightly, his mind quickly forgetting his discomfort in the prospect of his latest case. He had not bothered to tell Dr. Watson about it, for he had no doubt in his mind that the missing daughter of Lord Emeraldé would return to her late father's home when her acting friends ran out of money.
The honey blonde Mary Morrison Watson pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "I certainly hope that nothing of the kind will keep you from entertaining the friends I want to introduce you to tonight," she said with a low amorous voice. Dr. Watson wrapped an arm affectionately around his wife.
Holmes shrugged in defeat. Helpless romantics, the pair, he thought. The line had advanced as far as to place Dr. and Mrs. Watson as well as Mr. Holmes in the front of the queue, and just inside the blue marble hallway.
"Name?" inquired the laconic dry voice of the man holding the guest book.
"Dr. and Mrs. John Watson," declared Watson.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," interjected the other impatiently.
The man was a bit surprised, and raised his eyes from the book for the first time all evening. "Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes! It is truly a pleasure to finally meet people of such célèbre," he said, his smooth French slipping through his bitter English.
"Île de City, mais pas Paris," commented Holmes on the origin of the accent, his French as dry as the gentleman's English as he gestured for John and Mary to enter the main hall of the dance.
His offhand and relaxed countenance completely changed as he sprang into action and thrust a miniature portrait under the bridge of his nose. "Have you seen this woman tonight?" he asked firmly. The man shook his head "no" and lamented that he could not recall faces of the guests. Holmes gave a portentous sniff of disgust at the man's incompetence, and then followed Dr. and Mrs. Watson into the hall.
The Angelus Estate was a vast domain of woods and gardens just south of Guildford, Surrey. Baron and Baroness Ashterhead, as inherited owners of the estate, were obliged to throw the famous Angelus New Year's Ball on the last day of December. The hall itself, having been designated the location of the event for over fifty years, was a marvellous place of terrific proportions. Already it was filled with ladies in silk evening gowns and men in silk hats. Watson and Mary were embroiled in babbling away with two couples that seemed as stiff as the detective. But surely none in the room were more uncomfortable.
Holmes found himself inexplicably attracted to a bare grey wall; fingers, moins the cigarette, were drumming impatiently on the lustre finish of the miniature in his trouser pocket.
"Holmes?" said Watson, turning to find his friend noticeably absent. "Really Holmes, you must at least pretend to look interested," chided the good doctor.
Mary, in a rose taffeta, swept between them. "Mr. Holmes, I have two ladies that I wish you to meet." Holmes groaned privately, but his face failed to show any trace of emotion.
"Certainly, Mrs. Watson," nodded the detective, shooting a pleading look at Dr. Watson that Mary could not help but catch.
Mary guided him towards two Mademoiselles that had already drawn a small crowd if infatuated gentlemen. The first was a tall, willowy woman in a forest green velvet gown. Her hair was ebony black in limp curls and her eyes of cat green gave the impression of an energetic feline. The second female in a silk gown of cranberry was clearly not from Britannica, but rather India. Her complexion was dark; her doe eyes were copper brown.
"Mr. Holmes, may I introduce Miss Emma Galveston," Mary said of the former, "and Miss Kathryn Robinson," of the latter. Holmes was rather intrigued by the mysterious Miss Robinson, an Indian with a very English name and mannerisms.
"Good evening Mr. Holmes," chimed the women, reminiscent of schoolgirls greeting the headmaster. Miss Galveston looked quite bored immediately, now that the attention was not on her personage, but Miss Robinson looked eager to pursue a conversation with the famed detective of London.
"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I have been so pleasured to read some of the accounts of your most daring sleuthing skills," praised Miss Robinson with a smile.
"Indeed? I—" began Holmes stiffly when he was interrupted.
"—I found them dry, fabricated, and overly romanticised," scorned Miss Galveston quietly. There were murmurs of agreement and approval from the empty headed gentlemen that surrounded the cat eyed woman like a barrier of admiration.
Watson was silent, turning an exploring eye towards his companion. "As I was about to say to Miss Robinson, Miss Galveston, I found the works to be an overly dramatic interpretation of the simple, precise facts that I interpret every day."
"Interpret? Is that just a polite way of saying guess?" challenged Miss Galveston haughtily.
"Oh, no Miss Galveston. By interpreting the facts I construe clues and logical facts into a series of rational events. Logic is never guesswork, Miss Galveston," retorted Holmes smugly, in the way that only he could.
The woman stiffened, knowing that she had been defeated. Was the room getting larger and more hostile? Her green eyes shifted back and forth nervously like a pendulum, looking for a means of escape from the intolerable smug stare of the grey eyed detective.
She turned to her auburn haired male companion and asked quite loudly for him to bring them, meaning Miss Robinson and herself, some punch. Holmes, sensing her backing away from the argument, cast a sly smile at the good doctor, who reflected the same. It was a matter of pride- logic was not guesswork. Holmes spoke quietly in the ear of his companion as he made his way around the ring of couples: "The sharp tongue of a female is just as ruinous, if not deadly, as the poison of a cobra."
Watson, having no time to reply, only could watch his friend slip away into the crowd as the red headed fellow returned with the ladies' drinks. Miss Robinson too noted the direction of his disappearance; she drained the red liquid from the glass and followed Sherlock.
"Miss Robinson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Holmes, curious.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I just followed you to escape from those insufferable people. They make me positively miserable and Emma… I mean, Miss Galveston, insists that I come an 'be sociable' with them."
"Them?"
"Actors," scowled the pretty Indian woman. "Dirt, the lot of them, if you will forgive me for saying so," corrected Miss Robinson, afraid that he would be offended.
"An honest mind. Not the usual sort of thing one finds in a woman, if you do not mind me saying. No, I am glad that I am not the only one who gets that impression from those… eh, gentlemen. You say that they are actors?" said Holmes abruptly, his mind suddenly reeling with certain possibilities.
"Yes, they are all high class actors. Shakespeare, so they say. But such filth as they does not disserve to speak the words of such a well versed playwright."
Holmes could not help laughing aloud at her naivety. "Is there something amusing, Mr. Holmes?" questioned Miss Robinson bitterly.
He straightened and mumbled an apology. "I am sorry, Miss Robinson. In my line of work I have come across many such characters in that line. In truth, I was once a Shakespearian actor myself."
Her mouth flew open in shock, and her slender brown hands flew to it. "Oh no, oh my! I am ever so sorry Mr. Holmes. It never crossed my mind that you would be an actor."
"Hamlet, in my youth. My troupe performed in America. But those days have come and passed, Miss Robinson. Miss Robinson?" he inquired, taking note of the greenish pallor that swept her dark face.
Her eyes felt welded open by some terrible burning force. Bursts of bright light and tightness of lung sent her spinning. She took off in an unladylike run, heading for the next room as purple waves of nausea hit her from all sides. And all at once her hands were to her throat as it sealed shut, clamped like a vice. The world went a horrid shade of black…
Holmes, who had been following her as quickly as inconspicuous etiquette would allow him, discovered the Indian woman face down on the cold marble floor. With a cry of shock he dropped to his knees and flipped her over; her red skirt twisted by this movement like a rosebud around her legs. The large brown doe eyes were not closed- rather they were glassy and half open, like a doll. His long, yellowed fingers moved to her neck, feeling for a pulse. He retracted them with a sigh of defeat.
Holmes' cry attracted the good doctor, as well as a few of the actor-gentlemen from Miss Galveston's circle dashed into the small parlour in which he occupied.
"Holmes? What the devil is the matter?" asked Watson, half worried, half cross. Mr. Holmes stood up slowly, his limbs feeling heavy with the weight of this new burden on his shoulders. "Oh, please do not tell me that—" tried Watson, but his voice caught in his throat.
The men had long since by now seen the prostrate woman on the floor and they were making dashes for "brandy, water, and smelling salts."
"It will be of no use to her," said Holmes in a hoarse voice. They stared expectantly at him. "Miss Kathryn Robinson is dead." There were collective murmurs of horror from the gathering crowd of part attendees.
"Holmes!" shouted Dr. Watson, struggling to push through the dumbfounded mob. "Is she really… dead?" he asked mournfully, finding no more delicate way to put it.
"Very much so, Watson. It is an alarming development indeed."
"Development?" asked Watson. Before Holmes could answer, a female shriek pierced the heavy air, like the call of a banshee.
Miss Galveston stood in the doorway, hands to her bare neck in her shock. Her white face had taken on a grey-green pallor; her eyes alight with fear. "Someone catch her!" barked Holmes brusquely as the woman swooned.
No, he thought. This is all wrong! They would never be targeting an Indian woman; she does not fit the profile! Unless… he considered Kathryn Robinson's untimely death: frightened eyes, greened face… hands clutching her throat…
"Watson! Quickly! She has been poisoned," shouted Holmes as he tore across the room to the beige parlour sofa that held the unconscious Miss Galveston. Watson followed suit, standing at the shoulder of his now crouching friend. "She?"
Unceremoniously, Holmes drew a needle and vial from his suit pocket. In his ever constant terror of being poisoned, Holmes carried a medley of antidotes to common poisons.
"Holmes, certainly you do not intend to—"
"Save her? There is no time for ethics when a woman's life is at stake," scolded Holmes. "Now stop clucking like a peahen and help me!"
Still, the good doctor had his doubts. "Poison? Really Holmes, we—" He stopped. Sherlock pressed the plunger into her neck like an expert, and then began frantically massaging the soft tissue to circulate the medicine. The room waited, dead silent. The ballroom played a delicious waltz as midnight approached.
Watson felt his palms beginning to perspire as he searched for a pulse on her limp wrist. He sighed, and stood up. The doctor spotted the Baron Ashterhead in the corner of his eye. "Good news, doctor?" inquired the heavily bearded lord of Angelus Estate.
Watson cleared his throat. Such a crowd in so small a room! he thought. He noted that all had stayed clear of Miss Robinson's body. "She… survived," he whispered loudly, finding no more voice. "She would have died if it was not for the actions of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he admitted.
Congratulatory whispers were thrown at the detective as the baron indicated that they should return to the dance until the police arrived. The Baron had one more thing to say: "Excellent work, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. I shall strive to keep this incident under lock and key. For the reputation of the estate, of course."
"But—" began Watson, but stopped when he felt Mary give a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. He let the baron leave, secretly seething. The death of a young lady would remain a secret from the unsuspecting attendees, just because she was an Indian!
"An unusual poison. Administered in their drinks. I would wager that it was some sort of respiratory toxin; it triggered the swelling of their throats and lungs. Observe," he commented softly, forcing open the jaw of the dead woman. The inside of her mouth was black and purple; soft tissues swollen to such an extreme that her throat was no longer visible. John tried to shift Mary away from the gruesome sight, but she refused, wishing to know more about the odd poison.
"Should we stop everyone from drinking?" she asked quickly, wishing to prevent another occurrence.
"Not to worry, Mrs. Watson. It was the glass itself that was doctored. We have ourselves a very clever criminal, Watson. In order to throw suspicion off himself, he poisoned our guest from India. Then no one would be able to tell who his real target was."
"But why would anyone want to murder Miss Galveston?" asked Mary, still finding it hard to believe that anyone would want to target a lively, beautiful girl.
"Besides the fact that she belittles all men she comes in contact with? I have my suspicions, but the true answer must come from her own lips."
"Why tonight?" asked Dr. Watson.
"Plenty of witnesses to prove innocence, to start with; not an amateur killer, but an amateur with poisons…"
"How so Holmes?"
"He expected Miss Emma to die first."
"When Miss Kathryn gulped down her punch, she was exposed to the poison faster!" realized Watson.
"Precisely Watson. And this was her downfall. Had Emma collapsed first, it would have been Kathryn that I saved tonight."
January 3, 1890
It was Thursday afternoon, around four o' clock, when a slender hooded figure stepped out of a black hansom carriage and knocked on the door of 221-B Baker Street. The black haired female brushed a few curls back into the tight bun and smiled at the landlady. "Is Mr. Holmes in?" inquired the woman.
"Yes, he has just returned from Scotland Yard. May I tell him a name?" she said, long used to the peculiar desire of anonymousness that Holmes' clients bore.
"Why yes. Tell him that Emma Galveston is calling."
A spark of recollection shone in the older woman's eyes. "Galveston… the young woman from the New Year's Eve murder? Oh, I am so glad to see that you are well, Miss Galveston."
The younger woman laughed hollowly. "I am getting that from quite a few people, due to the Times, Mrs… eh…"
"Mrs. Hudson," said the benevolent lady, showing Emma inside.
"Mr. Holmes, a Miss Emma Galveston to see you," whispered Mrs. Hudson, peering into the room that had once been her husband's private study.
"Excellent!" shouted Holmes, rising to his feet to greet the girl, who suddenly found herself a little timid. "I have been waiting for days now for news on your health. There were no negative repercussions?" Holmes asked anxiously, like a boy eager to see his mother's appreciation of some humble handcrafted prize. In truth, he had had no time to test the drug, and was almost fretful over any negative effects.
"None at all, Mr. Holmes," said Emma stiffly, feeling rather uncomfortable in the messy room. She too a hesitant step towards a chair and nearly tripped over a pile of fibre that must have at one point resembled a pair of slippers. "My, what a… unique place, Mr. Holmes…" she tried.
"I find it useful to keep records of all my work, Miss Galveston," Holmes said stiffly, feeling that she was insulting his "filing system."
"Really?" she looked up from picking at a thread at her dress. "What sort of cases?"
"I thought they were, to quote… 'dry, fabricated, and overly romanticised'?"
Holmes smiled, taking pleasure in watching the sharp tongued woman squirm at the sound of her own words. The lady in the black dress retreated into a leather armchair, seeking consolation before she could speak again.
She blushed furiously and spoke truthfully, "Dr. Watson's stories were vague and idealistic, making you out to be some sort of white knight— oh, I have done it again, have I not, Mr. Holmes?" she said, blushing again.
"Don't worry Miss Galveston. I'm no white knight."
Authoress' Note:
I would like to make credit at this time to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the canon works. In particular, his The Case of the Blue Carbuncle is mentioned in this piece. I do not own this work or any of the canon characters found in this piece.
The Oedipus Manuscripts is a story, written by GreyEyedDetective, for the purpose of fanfiction entertainment. Constructive criticism and positive reviewing is encouraged.