The Parting Glass – Part 3

Harriet:

It took a few minutes for me to collect myself before spluttering: "You speak of Charles Atwell, son of the late Sir Robert Atwell?"

"Yes. Do you know him?" Mrs Summerly asked, looking somewhat alarmed.

"I do know him indeed," I answered truthfully thinking of the man I had been all too happy to escape earlier this day.

Suddenly it occurred to me, that perhaps the younger Atwell might have been the intended target and not his father.

"For the moment I cannot give you any advice," I admitted, biting my lip in contemplation. "But if you leave me your card I will contact you as soon as something comes to mind which might help your situation. However, I will not participate in an abortion and that is final!"

"Then I doubt you can be of any help, Doctor." the older of the two sisters remarked archly but left her card nonetheless.

As soon as the ladies were gone, I scribbled a note to my husband and sent Tom to dispatch a telegram. This was a strange coincidence but perhaps also a lucky one.

xxx

Sherlock:

The train ride was a quiet one as none of us spoke very much. Atwell was staring morosely out of the window watching the country fly past, showing the first hint of mourning for his father I had thus far detected. Cedric busied himself with a paper as did I. Halfway through the journey Atwell excused himself to get a cup of tea which once more left me with my brother in law and a few minutes of unrestrained conversation with him.

"You would not know by chance if there had been any tensions within the family?" I enquired.

Folding his paper neatly Sir Cedric pondered on the answer for a moment before replying: "I know that Sir Robert had some issues with his son."

"Regarding what?"

"His general lifestyle. Charles Atwell is not inclined to work for his upkeep but rather likes to spend his father's fortune – well, I suppose it is his now anyway. He has a taste for expensive clothing and as you can see is quite a dandy. He also likes to bet on horses and has a habit of playing heavily at cards, but as far as I know never to an extent that would ruin him or his family. Sir Robert would have liked to see him marry and settle down in the near future, but while he likes to flirt with the ladies he has not really any interest in settling down yet and take a wife."

"Aside from Harriet," I remarked dryly.

"Yes." Cedric rolled his eyes but looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"I take it these habits kept you from giving your consent?"

My brother in law nodded: "That and the fact that I know Hattie cannot stand him."

"Yes, that is certainly true - and I have to admit the more I see of the man the more I agree with her. But being unpopular does not make one a criminal and I have often found that the unpolished ones often are the more precious gems than those who appear shiny and sparkly at first glance."

"Nicely put, Holmes. Very poetic." Cedric remarked chuckling lightly. "But somehow I think with Charles Atwell it is pretty much that what you see is what you get. - Which still would not make him a murderer, I know."

As Atwell himself joined us again only moments later we once again fell silent. Not that the conversation had been overly illuminating at any rate.

xxx

It was close to five in the afternoon when we arrived in the small Hampshire town on the border to Sussex where the Atwell's estate was situated. The wind was chilly and the snow lay much higher than it had in London, but it was also a great deal whiter than in the metropolis where it had turned into a grimy blackish brown sludge. It was dark already when we de-boarded the train and huddled ourselves into a well kept Landau, it's top closed to keep the frosty breeze out, though with little success and even the provided blankets were rather futile in the face of the heavy frost. The drive was a long one – not in distance but time due to the icy roads, and when we, at last, glimpsed the yellow lights from between a group of trees surrounding the house I was close to breathing a sigh of relief.

Upon entering we were greeted by none other than Reginald Musgrave, who seemed to have wandered impatiently up and down the entrance hall awaiting us. He looked strained and tired but aside from that had changed little since I had last seen him some fifteen years ago.

"Holmes, I am so glad you could come!" he cried out, rushing towards me with an outstretched hand. "Sir Cedric kindly offered to travel to London to apply to you, of course, I would have come if it were not for my wife – she is a little nervous and I thought it better not to leave her in a strange place where she hardly knows anyone. Well, you know how women can be. But I told Sir Cedric to mention my name and told him you would surely not let down an old friend."

I had to smile, raising my eyebrows questioningly at Sir Cedric as here was obviously another person who had not been informed about my kinship with the Stephrey's.

"How are you faring, Atwell?" Musgrave carried on, turning towards the man who still looked astonishingly composed considering the situation.

"I am fine, thank you." was his off hand reply as he handed his hat and coat to the approaching butler, rubbing his frostbitten and numb hands together in an attempt to get them warm. There was something odd about his behaviour and for the first time, it occurred to me that his seemingly composed attitude was due to a severe shock yet to set in.

"I am glad to hear it. By the way, the police have been here. They came with a court order to have your father's body viewed on the morrow."

Atwell stiffened visibly at the news, though he certainly must have expected them.

"Has he been taken away yet?" I asked, hoping this would not be the case.

And indeed luck was on my side.

"No, he is still here, lying in his room. There is a guard, however, keeping watch."

All the better.

"Very good. Could you please bring me to him then? I would like to examine the body myself before he is removed."

While Sir Reginald and Sir Cedric offered to guide me, Charles Atwell excused himself in quest of comforting his mother. As he walked away his back was ramrod straight like a soldier's facing battle.

xxx

Sir Robert Atwell had been a sturdy man, not too tall but also not short in appearance. His dark hair had begun to grizzle at the sides while his hairline had receded considerably which he had tried to hide by combing it across his skull. His features were unremarkable close to unassuming, aside from his imposing moustache which, with the help of beeswax- pomade, was twirled intricately at the ends. Aside from that he had been lied out in the usual formal manner he had neither been changed nor yet washed and thus still wore the dress suit in which he had found his death, the bright red stain which the punch had left clearly visible on the front of his white waistcoat, shirt, his collar and cuffs, the latter of which were only dotted by drops of the spilling liquid.

Otherwise, there was no mark or injury on him, not even such an unassuming thing as a paper cut or a graze from shaving. Last I examined the dead man's face and upon inspecting the mouth cavity found something – though certainly not what I had been looking for. His throat was raw as if he had lately suffered a severe inflammation of it. But both my companions testified he had not had suffered any such symptoms. Only when I brought the candle, which I had lit to give me even better visibility than only the gas jets, closer did I see something reflect the flame lodged right behind the uvula and taking out my pincers pried out a tiny shard of glass.

"What did Sir Robert do all evening long? Was he quiet? Or…?" I could not finish my sentence when Cedric spoke up, staring curiously at the glinting shard in the palm of my hand.

"Not at all. He was chatting away merrily all night long and even was persuaded to sing for us. - You must know he was a horrible singer, but he liked to joke about it and thus frequently treated his guests to the one or other aria so off key that it was quite a challenge to guess what he was actually singing."

Sir Reginald chuckled in remembrance till his eyes fell on the dead man and he instantly turned serious again.

If that was the case, then the glass which seemed to have cut into his throat and oesophagus till it was raw could not have led to his death. The wounds were simply not severe enough. But what if the glass had been applied to make some kind of poison work quicker? The murderer of Sir Robert Atwell would not be the first to resort to this trick. So, after having eliminated all other factors, poison it was – unless of course, he had suffered from a medical condition after all. But why then were tiny shards of broken glass inside his mouth? No, a natural death did not make sense, this was a murder and I would find the person who had committed the crime.

I was about to ask to be brought to the suffering maid when there was a knock on the door and the butler stepped into the chamber carrying a silver tray with a telegram on it.

"For Mr Sherlock Holmes," he said.

I was surprised. Who knew I was here? Apart from Harriet of course. But if it was from my wife… I glanced up at her brother who fortunately looked nothing but curious. Reaching for the epistle I opened the envelope and unfolded the telegram finding it indeed was from Hattie. But had I first feared she had suddenly been taken ill or the like, what I read opened up many more possibilities on who might have killed the man and why – and then there was the issue that if Charles Atwell had been the intended target and not his father, that he might still be in danger now. Was that perhaps why he acted so strange for a man who had just lost his father? So almost unfeeling and vague?

"What is it?" Reginald Musgrave asked, lighting a cigar and offering one to Sir Cedric and me as well.

"Nothing, just something I need to think over. It seems there is the chance that Sir Robert was not the intended victim. Cedric, can you remember who served the drinks last night? Who gave Sir Robert his – well, parting glass?"

My brother in law shook his head but Sir Reginald could answer: "I gave him the glass."

For a moment I stared at him before it dawned on me that this did not necessarily mean he had poured it. And indeed, Musgrave had only passed on the glass as it was handed down the table, from the butler, who filled the glasses, to Professor Peverell, Mrs Summerly, Charles Atwell, Mrs Coward, Mr Whitshaw, Miss Wilson, Sir James de Clency, Lady Imogen over to Reginald Musgrave and then to Sir Robert. As Sir Robert celebrated his birthday he, of course, was to be served first, so there was little risk involved someone else might take the poisoned glass. So, the murderer could be any of those people. Two names especially caught my attention – the names Summerly and Whishaw, both of which were mentioned in Harriet's telegram, and while Mr Whitshaw sat further down the table at least Mrs Summerly could have tried to kill the younger Atwell. It was definitely worth looking into it.

Still, something bothered me about my wife's information. If Charles Atwell had seduced a young woman who was now pregnant with his child, there was little sense in killing him. What would make sense was to force him into marriage to save her from certain ruin, while if he was dead there was no way out for the girl. Then again, this could as well be a brutal revenge for destroying the lady's chances with a member of the high aristocracy. According to Harriet her parents certainly had high expectations and high strung plans with their younger daughter.

"Do you have a reply, Sir?" the butler asked quietly.

I had completely forgotten about his presence but at this point was glad to have been woken from my trail of thought in case I got lost on a completely wrong track. There was still a lot of information to be gathered and at this point, it would not do to focus on one thing in particular. Especially not as everything was still so very vague, so incredibly elusive. There were too many unknown factors as yet and as I was certain that none of the guests planned to stay much longer in the house, especially as the family was in mourning and any intrusion would be considered impolite, to interview them would be the next step to take.

"Yes, I have a reply," I answered the servant's question and reaching for the provided telegram form scribbled a quick note to my wife before enquiring after the passed out maid while at the same time requesting a room to be set up where I could talk to all the visitors, one after another.