And so early Monday morning, I found myself sat in the corner of a first class carriage opposite Sherlock aboard a train destined for Hampshire.
Once we arrived at the station Holmes quickly summoned a handsome carriage and in no time at all we found ourselves at the small cottage belonging to the late Mr Taylor and his wife.
It was a small granite building with roses climbing up the walls with the vivid scarlet flowers contrasting with the cold, sombre grey stone. A few houses were dotted nearby but the air was still and aside from a few birds singing cheerfully to one another it was silent.
We followed Mrs Taylor through her hallway and into the room where her husband spent his final few moments.
The living room was larger than I expected with wallpaper covered in a floral design pasted on the walls. A huge fireplace was placed in the centre of the north facing wall with a china vase on the mantelpiece containing slightly withering daffodils. Their usually golden colour was muted due to age and lack of water. A couple of armchairs and a sofa were placed around the fire with a small wooden table between them all. The floor was a light brown oak with a cream rug over it. I noticed Holmes bent over a corner of the rug brandishing a magnifying glass. He seemed to be examining large brown stain that I could only assume was the brandy Mr Taylor had spilt when he collapsed and died.
"I assume that there was no wound on your husband's body?" Sherlock inquired from the floor.
"No, but he wasn't poisoned." the small woman beside me informed him. "No poison was found in the body."
"How could that be? He had no wound from a weapon but there was no poison used?"
"The police told me that the most likely cause of death was alcohol poisoning."
"When you entered the room was the windows and door locked?" asked Sherlock as he stood up in order to examine the window above and inspect the catch that.
"Of course and the windows can only be opened from the inside."
"So your husband came home from the pub, locked the windows and door before sitting in front of the fire with a glass of brandy. Approximately half an hour later you awoke to the sound of your husband choking. You rushed downstairs, unlocked the door and ran to your husband's side. There was no one inside?" I questioned.
"No, he was alone."
"Then how did he die?"
"That is why I need Mr Holmes." she admitted.
Sherlock moved to investigate the fireplace. At first he was only scrutinising the front but suddenly he crawled forward to where the wood would have been and stuck his head up the chimney. I heard him cough once or twice and his face reappeared covered in a thin coating of soot. Holmes gave another glance around the room before swiftly departing with me following not far behind.
"I think it is high time you and I visited the pub, John." he ordered striding confidently down the street.
"Despite what the police believe, I am sure that Mr Taylor was poisoned." Holmes declared, "Notice the footprints going to the cottage in the mud." I studied the footprints of a man's boots in the dried mud.
"I am certain that those are Mr Taylor's from the night that he met his terrible fate."
"Surely it must've rained since Thursday?"
"Luckily for us, the last time it rained was Thursday night and since then the weather has been unseasonably warm, so the mud has dried up preserving the impression made by his boot."
"If this is his boot print how on earth does it prove that he was poisoned?"
"I would've thought that would be obvious, even to someone of your intellect Watson!" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.
"The footprints are straight. These aren't the footprints of a drunken man, they are too evenly spaced apart and it looks as if he wasn't stumbling at all. It couldn't possibly have been alcohol poisoning because I doubt Mr Taylor had drunk much alcohol, if any. In fact, I believe that he never even entered the pub that faithful night." Sherlock grinned like a mad man and hurried forward down the street.
"In fact, I believe that there is a young woman in the house atop that hill that is the key to the solution of this case."
He pointed upwards at the minute house stood at the summit of a vast hill with yellow gorse cropping up aside the thin, winding country lane that snaked up to the peak of the mound.
Pink blossom fluttered down to the ground and left a thick blanket of petals beneath the gnarled, twisted branches of the cherry tree.
"What evidence do you have connecting the inhabitants of this house to the death of Mr Taylor?" I queried as we finally reached the pinnacle of the tor.
"I observed that the rather unmistakable blossom on that tree is the only one within walking distance of Mr Taylor's house. That particularly striking bloom happens to be the same as the ones I noticed crushed into the boot prints we saw earlier. Therefore it is only logical to assume that Mr Taylor had visited this particular house upon the night of his tragic death."
"Perhaps a relative of his occupies this charming house?" I wondered aloud.
"I believe that there is only one way to find out for certain." Sherlock grinned and rushed forward before hammering the golden knocker on the front enthusiastically. It had barely been a few seconds when a short woman threw the door open. She looked about thirty years of age with golden hair pulled tightly into a bun.
"Good day sirs how may I be of assistance this fine day?" she questioned smiling widely.
"We wish to talk to you about the late Charles Taylor," announced Sherlock.
"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea who you are talking about.," she lied smoothly.
"Perhaps we can jog your memory."
"I don't see the harm in trying," she nodded and stepped aside to allow us entrance.
"Have you your revolver Watson?" Sherlock whispered as we entered her living room.
"Of course."
"Keep it handy. This woman is not all she appears to be," he ordered in a low voice. The woman positioned herself opposite us on a sofa parallel to ours.
"Oh! Where are my manners? I have not yet introduced myself. I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr John Watson."
"My name is Miss Jane Wilson."
"How long have you lived here Miss Wilson?" Sherlock was glancing around the room in a suspicious manner as he spoke.
"Not long. Approximately six months."
"And in that time you had no contact with Mr Taylor?"
"I'm afraid I had none. I wasn't even aware of him till you two mentioned his name."
"Well you have been most helpful but Dr Watson and I really should be leaving now. It has been lovely to meet you though. Come along John time is of the essence."
He hastily rushed out of the room so fast I could barely keep up.
"I confess I do not understand how that small woman is connected to Charles Taylor's death." I admitted to Sherlock as we descended down the hill.
"Don't you see my good fellow that she is in fact at the centre of all this?"
"I am afraid I cannot though it is evidently obvious to you."
"Miss Wilson is a liar. When I asked her if she had heard of Mr Taylor prior to our meeting she claimed that she had not but, in a town as small as this surely if she hadn't encountered Mr Taylor before his death she must've known about his death."
"So you're suggesting that she had indeed had known him?"
"She didn't just know him John. He was having an affair with her," he informed me triumphantly.
"By Jove! How could you possibly know that?"
"For starters there was a pocket watch that was just visible underneath a newspaper beside her on the sofa. The casing bore the initials C.T which one can only assume stood for Charles Taylor. He must've left it the night he visited her for the last time. The second thing I observed made me sure that my idea was correct, her necklace."
"Her necklace?"
"Indeed, a necklace with a fine silver chain and a small ruby heart hanging from it. Far too expensive for a working class woman such as her to purchase. "
"Perhaps it was a gift from a friend or family?"
"Highly improbable," he disagreed, "No one's friends give them a heart shaped necklace. A heart is a romantic gesture therefore I doubt it was a gift from a friend. I must admit the thought that it was from a family member did cross my mind but that woman didn't seem to have any close family, at least none she was in contact with. So we are only left with the possibility she has a lover that presented her with it. I was certain she was Mr Taylor's mistress once she refused to admit she knew him. She wanted to have no possible way that she could be connected to him so she lied."
"Remarkable old friend!" I praised.
"I beg to differ. Those few observations and deductions were simple," he laughed. "The case is indeed beginning to wrap it's self up nicely."
"I haven't the foggiest idea how you have come to that conclusion."
"I thought as much. Come along Watson. I believe we have to speak to Mrs Taylor about her late husband's will in closer detail."
A/N: Hey beautiful people, I hope you liked this chapter. As always if you have time drop me a review but if you don't I'll still love you for reading this xxx :D