As previously noted, this is a take on ACD's story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot". All the best lines are his and are in italics.
000
After 24 hours of nonstop Sherlock, if I didn't admire your patience and fortitude before, I certainly do now, Captain. MW
How are things going? JW
We're on our way to a second murder scene, so, you know, it's Christmas! MW
I miss all the good murders. This conference is unbearably dull. JW
We'll have to start taking turns after this. I kind of like being you. MW
We'll see about that, if you come home safely. JW
000
Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, drove them in his car to the cottage in Mullion Cove, and Sherlock and Mary stepped out into the sunshine of a lovely, airy garden. In contrast, the atmosphere of the sitting room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. Inspector Parker and Dr Richards were already there and had opened a window, or the air would have been completely intolerable. The dead man was sitting in a chair still wearing the same clothes from the day before. An empty bottle of whiskey was on the floor at his feet, an empty glass on the table at his side, along with an ashtray heaped with ashes and the stub of a cigar.
Mary examined Mortimer Tregannis' face and hands carefully. "It's the same as the others. Asphyxiation with no apparent cause. And how he could just sit there, unmoving, as he slowly smothered I just can't fathom. It's almost like carbon monoxide poisoning, but there would have to be—oh, over 10,000 parts per million in this room to have this kind of effect so quickly."
"I agree," Dr Richards said. "I'm sure the autopsy will show the same amount of nothing that his sister's did—no drugs in the system, except the alcohol, of course."
"Perhaps he had already passed out from drink, before he smothered from whatever it is that killed him," the Inspector suggested.
"And, why, oh, why did he start drinking again?" Mr. Roundhay mourned. "He was doing so well! I checked here every day to make sure he didn't have any bottles hidden away. I should not have let him come home alone last night. I knew he was in a bad state."
Sherlock was listening, but at the same time was roaming all over the room. He quickly finished his examination of the sitting room and dashed into other parts of the house, out into the garden, and back inside again. Then he pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and put the cigar end inside.
"Mr. Roundhay, did Tregannis smoke cigars?" he spoke at last.
"No, he was never a smoker. Not cigars, nor cigarettes, nor pipe."
"Inspector, I assume you have thoroughly checked Mr. Sterndale's alibi and are satisfied that he was actually in London on the night of wife's death?" he demanded abruptly.
"Of course," Inspector Parker nodded.
"Well, he was HERE, last night, by the footprints in the garden. He was also in MY garden last night, and the prints are the same. You can compare them for yourself if you like. You should bring him in for questioning immediately, before he decides to go on to South Africa after all. You should also have the ashes in this tray sent out to a lab for analysis, as well as the ashes in the fireplace in the cottage at Tredannick Wollas."
No one moved. Finally, Dr Richards said, "But why? We know Leon Sterndale was nowhere near here during the other . . . incident."
"You people invited me here because you needed my expertise! Are you going to argue with me while a murderer escapes, or do as I suggest?" Sherlock exclaimed, indignant and rather outraged at being questioned. He intended to go on, but then Mary cleared her throat quietly. She was across the room from Sherlock and could not speak to him without the others hearing, but she held up that insidious right index finger and he found himself suddenly rendered mute.
"What Sherlock means to say," Mary spoke gently into the silence that had followed Sherlock's tirade, "is that he's had a lot of experience in cases like this and he is certain he is correct in his assessment. It would be easier to find Mr. Sterndale now and ask him a few questions than it would be to wait and try to find him later, when he's had a chance to disappear."
Inspector Parker shook his head as if trying to shake off a sudden headache. "As you say, we did invite you here because you have a reputation of being right. And I admit, Sterndale has a motive—all the family's property will come to him now. We'll do as you ask, but if you can't explain how he could be in two places at once, I can't hold him."
Sherlock dismissed trivial explanations with a regal wave of his hand. "Fine, fine. Now we'll need a ride back to our cottage immediately. And send someone to get us when you've brought Sterndale in," Sherlock commanded sharply, and rushed towards the door.
"Erm, he meant, 'thank you', Inspector," Mary sighed. "I apologize for his manners, gentleman. I'm trying to house-train him, but I'm afraid he needs more work."
"Your charm more than makes up for it, Dr Watson," Dr Richards smiled. "I can give you two a ride back. The vicar here needs to stay with his parishioner."
000
What will you do to me if I kill him myself? MW
I'll help you build a case for self-defence. It shouldn't be a problem. JW
I've changed my mind. After this, he's all yours. MW
If you kill him, he won't be anybody's. Stick with him, it'll get better. JW
I miss you, Captain. MW
I miss you, too. JW
While Mary texted her husband, Sherlock spent his time on the ride back to their cottage looking up African tribal rituals on the internet. "Ah! This could be it. Of course, I'll have to try it out to be sure."
"Try what out?" Mary asked. They had arrived, and she thanked Dr Richards profusely as she got out of the car. Sherlock said nothing as he unfolded himself from the back seat and wandered into the cottage.
"Try what out?" Mary repeated, following him inside.
"What do you think, Mary? What do both crime scenes have in common? Something was burned, each time. Remember what that housekeeper woman said happened when she arrived at the cottage that morning?"
"Mrs. Porter? She said she fainted with shock when she discovered the family."
"What if it wasn't shock? The windows and the door were shut until she arrived and opened them. Whatever was in the air in that room had lingered, no longer potent enough to harm her, but enough to make her pass out."
"Mortimer Tregannis' room was very stuffy and close. I wonder if we would have all passed out if the windows hadn't been opened immediately." Mary mused. "What does the stuff do, Sherlock? Do you know what it is?"
"I have an idea, but I need to be certain. Sending this to a lab to be analysed could take days. I need to test this theory out now." Sherlock produced the cigar stub from his pocket. "Go outside, Mary. You can watch through the window."
"Are you mad? You don't know what's in that cigar that killed Mortimer Tregannis or what it might do to you! Don't you dare light that, Sherlock, I mean it!"
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You heard the inspector. They can't hold Sterndale without evidence. I can prove he killed his wife and brother-in-law in a few minutes; or I can sit around twiddling my thumbs and let a murderer leave the country while we wait for a lab to provide the proof we need."
Mary sank into a chair wearily. "We need to take safety precautions, then," she groaned. "I can't believe I'm going along with this. I'm as mad as you are."
"Go outside, Mary. What would John say to me if I let you stay while I test this?" Sherlock insisted.
"If John were here instead of me, would he go cower outside?" Mary demanded. "Here, I'll open all the windows and the door. Whatever this stuff is, it won't be as potent with fresh air flowing through the room." She began to open the windows as Sherlock found a bowl in the kitchen, set it on an end table in the middle of the room, and put the cigar stub in it. He pulled out a lighter.
"Ready?" he asked. Mary nodded, and he touched the lighter's flame to the cigar end. Mary was standing by one of the open windows, while he remained in the chair by the end table beside the now smoking bowl. Immediately the oddest sensation seized him. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. He tried desperately to pull air into his lungs, but it was as if his diaphragm was paralyzed. He couldn't move. Distantly, he could hear Mary call his name, but she seemed miles and miles away. His vision reduced to a spot, then was altogether gone.
Suddenly he felt hands jerk him out of his chair. He could not find his feet, but the insistent hands pulled him by the arms across the floor and out the open door. An eternity later, he found he was lying on the grass in the garden, gasping and wheezing, with Mary collapsed by his side panting. Slowly the hellish cloud lifted from his mind and rose like the mists from a landscape, until peace and reason had returned.
"Are you all right?" he demanded hoarsely of Mary when he was able to speak again.
She nodded, unable to sit up. "Good lord, Sherlock, next time you need rescuing, have the consideration to shrink to a manageable size first, won't you?"
"That did not go quite as I had planned. I'm sorry, Mary, that was . . . unjustifiable. I never imagined the effect would be so sudden and so severe. I'd never have risked your life if I'd known what would happen."
"I'd never have let you risk yours, if I'd known," she returned.
"You saved my life. How did you do it? I must weigh twice what you do."
Mary sat up and snorted a rueful laugh. "It's the Watson family business, saving your life. I just did my job. Anyway, I'm stronger than I look." She smiled at him. "You do know, don't you, that John and I consider it a privilege to help you in The Work?"
Sherlock smiled uncomfortably back. He rose to his feet, feeling unsteady and weak. "Thank you," he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.
Mary stood and brushed herself off. "Well, no harm done after all. Did we learn what we needed to learn? Are we done experimenting with deadly whatevers?"
Sherlock nodded. "As soon as the police bring Sterndale in, we'll be ready for him."
000
It was not long before PC Alec Gates arrived in his patrol car to take them to the county police headquarters, where Leon Sterndale awaited them. Sterndale was a very unhappy man.
"I am at a loss to know what you can possibly have to say that could in any way involve me in this affair," he said, aggrieved.
"Then I will tell you," Sherlock replied. "You are a hunter of rare and curious oddities which you import and sell."
"Yes, yes, that is no secret," Sterndale huffed.
"After you came to talk with me yesterday, you returned to the scene of your wife's murder and investigated the fireplace."
"How do you know that?"
"I followed you."
Sterndale started. "I saw no one!"
Sherlock smirked. "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. Now, why would you be interested in the fireplace? Perhaps something was burned in that fireplace that produced a toxic atmosphere. It would be simple enough to place a foreign substance into the hollow of a log, and place that log in a log carrier which you knew was to be used at the cottage that night. Were you concerned that some of the poison remained in the ashes, unburned?"
"He pulled all the air out of the room, just like I said," Alec whispered gleefully. He was beside himself with joy.
"You are inventing fairy tales, Mr. Holmes," Sterndale snapped, red-faced. "Inspector, must I sit here and listen to this nonsense?"
But Inspector Parker was intrigued. "Go on, Mr. Holmes," he encouraged.
"Unfortunately for you, Mr. Sterndale, one of the brothers left the house before the affected log was placed in the fire. He escaped your machinations. You went to his home last night, took advantage of his emotional state by encouraging him to give in to his great weakness, and once he was drunk, you lit your cigar and left it burning by his chair, with the smoke rising directly into his face. You had filled your cigar with your toxin, of course. You needn't deny it, we have tested the stub that was left."
"I don't know what you are talking about," Sterndale growled. "What possible motive could I have for trying to kill off my wife and her family?"
Inspector Parker laughed shortly. "Mr. Sterndale, everyone knows your wife was talking about divorcing you. The gossip's all over the Peninsula. She'd put up with your philandering long enough. With her dead, you stand to inherit all her properties, and those of her brothers if George and Owen don't recover."
Sherlock held up his mobile, the information he'd obtained on the screen. "Radix pedis diaboli. Devil's-foot root. An ordeal poison used by medicine men in West Africa. You discovered it on one of your hunting trips and smuggled it into the country. Inspector, if you search his house, I'm certain you will discover more of it."
But Leon Sterndale was defeated. He confessed all, a broken man.
000
"One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes' phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered that fatal apartment. In an instant, he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover."
Mary stopped reading and cast an admiring look at her husband. "This is good stuff, Captain. How you wrote this up out of my poor scribbles I can't imagine. It's as if you'd been there yourself."
"Rubbish!" Sherlock fairly shouted. "What does any of that have to do with the case? And I do NOT run about like a foxhound."
Mary chuckled. "A dashing foxhound," she reminded him.
"It's what the public likes. It's called 'description'," said John with dignity. "It draws the readers in, makes them feel they are right there with you."
"I think it's lovely," Mary said loyally. She continued reading, "Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry."
Sherlock made a sound of disgust and stomped out of the room. "Description," he muttered under his breath. Then suddenly he stomped back in.
"Wait. Has she told you what happened after that?"
John kept his face carefully blank. "Why? Is there a certain incident you'd like to keep from me? An experiment gone awry, perhaps? A near-death experience, maybe?"
Sherlock looked chagrined. "You did tell him," he groaned.
Mary sparkled cheerily. "Did I brag that I singlehandedly dragged you out of a place of certain death? Why yes, I did. Did I want John to know how incredibly awesome I am? Quite right, I did!"
"For the record, I was already thoroughly convinced of your amazing awesomeness," John smiled. "And I already knew Sherlock was reckless and completely mad. No surprises here."
"No reprisals for nearly killing your wife, then?" Sherlock hedged.
"I didn't say that," John grinned wickedly. "When you least expect it—well, you just watch out!"
