Sherlock was still unsure about this civilian companion of Travis Lestrade's. Sure, he had impressed last night, not only concluding that Travis was a left-handed, employed cop from New York travelling under duress to London and a lover of cricket and baseball equally, but also correctly stating his pal's two biggest secrets, secrets so personal he hadn't even divulged them to his brother, and definitely wouldn't let slip to a complete stranger. Sherlock decided to monitor his new charge closely at today's visit to the possible murder site. As a civilian, Patrick could not be privy to the details of the case, other than what he had heard through the media and word-of-mouth. What else he deduced from the suspected crime scene would either prove or disprove Travis' sanction of the American. For the sake of Greg's relationship with his team, Sherlock fervently prayed for the former.
Hopping out of the car, Chauffeur Patrick quickly ran over the facts of the case as they had been presented in last night's papers and television news, and then corrected in conversations he had overheard between Travis and Sherlock. Husband and wife duo Kildare and Bride Kilduff, both in their mid-forties, had suffered simultaneous fatal heart attacks. Recent Irish immigrants, a blacksmith and a midwife respectively, the couple died mid-meal at the breakfast table in their thatched cottage in Central London, and their deaths were instantaneous. Post-mortem examinations revealed both victims had no underlying medical conditions that would explain the deaths, so for now they were being treated as suspicious.
Passing the front garden of the cottage, Patrick stopped. He wheeled about, bent down, and picked up some dirt in his hands. He rubbed it in his fingers, and sniffed it. He slowly stood up and whistled softly.
"If you've got something to say, spit it out," Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, rubbing his hands together impatiently. "You have proved yourself deserving of my attention. You are unofficially on the case."
Patrick beamed, then became sombre as he remembered where he was. "You need to ask the cop inside some specific questions." He outlined his suspicions and which questions needed to be put to the guarding officer, whom Sherlock peremptorily summonsed outside.
"You have been guarding the house since the bodies were taken away?" The detective's tone was brusque.
"We have been guarding the property every second of the day since the bodies were released to the coroner 5 days ago," the young man assented.
"How many of you?" Sherlock became more insistent in his line of questioning. "We need to know if anybody has disturbed the garden in that time, and we need the answer now."
The policeman's face blanched. "Well . . .um . . . I can . . . "
"Spit it out!" Sherlock barked.
The policeman swallowed. "I was only told to make sure people stayed out of the house – nobody said anything about the rest of the property!" he protested. "The lady next door wanted to make the gardens nice for the family. I stayed with her, of course, and my partner was in the house. I didn't see the harm in it. I'm –"
Sherlock held up a hand to stop him reiterating his apology. "What was taken?"
"I've no idea!" the policeman mumbled, chagrined.
Stepping forward, Patrick put his hand on the young man's arm. "It's okay," He soothed. "I'm Patrick, Detective Holmes' chauffeur. Just take a deep breath . . . that's good . . . and another one . . . great . . . now, what did the plant that she took away look like?"
The young man's eyes went wide as he remembered. "Purple with little bell shaped flowers."
"That's great," Patrick praised. "And when I remove my hand you will think we are here for a tour of the crime scene." He squeezed the man's bicep, and then let go.
"Right!" the man saluted them jovially. "Detective Holmes, you are here to scour the crime scene for clues? Knock yourselves out." He waved them into the kitchen.
When they entered the kitchen, Patrick stopped short. "What did you say the victims' names were?"
Sherlock answered, "Kildare and Bride Kilduff."
PJ chuckled heartily. However, upon receiving a particularly annoyed glare from Sherlock, he silenced his mirth and expounded on his observations.
"There are no less than five St. Brigit's Crosses in the thatched roof of this cottage." He gestured upward. "The Cross of St. Brigit is a traditional religious icon employed to protect against fire, especially useful in a home with a thatched roof, like this. Also, they died on February 1, did they not?" Sherlock grunted an acquiescent reply. "Traditionally the first day of spring in Ireland, February 1 is Imbolc, or St. Brigit's Day. St. Brigit is also known as St. Bride, and hails from the Irish town of Kildare. It is a time-honoured ritual for the followers of St. Brigit to honour her by eating jam on this day. Extremely devout followers of St. Brigit may confirm their adulation by also consuming butter at the same time, as it is written in legend that after St. Brigit gave her mother's butter stores away to the poor, those same stores were immediately replenished by God. Bride, Kildare, crosses, jam, and butter." He pointed to each item as he listed it. "I think it highly likely we are looking for a woman who has a grudge against Ireland, St. Brigit, or God, Himself. And the first place I'd look would be next door."
Sherlock was astonished, but managed to ask the obvious, "Why?"
"The plant our young friend described sounds suspiciously like foxglove." Patrick tried hard not to sound more knowledgeable than his mentor, but he had a funny feeling he failed miserably.
"Ah, yes, Digitalis purpurea, Common Foxglove. One of the most poisonous of England's common garden plants." Sherlock was glad to get one back on his pupil.
"Precisely! An overdose of digitalis can induce a heart attack." Patrick hesitated before deciding to take the bull by the horns and make a suggestion. "I'll bet that if a pertinent toxicology screen was run on the blood, the butter, and the jam, the blood and at least one other would return positive results."