Prompt from Emma Lynch - Mistletoe is a parasitic plant - discuss
The Case of the Mislaid Exam Paper
I had been in Kent for several days visiting an old friend from my days as an army surgeon and had returned on the 4:50, unaware and unsuspecting. Having shared lodgings with Mr. Sherlock Holmes for more than two years, perhaps I should have been more ready for what occurred. I came through our front door that cold December evening in 1883 to find Mrs. Hudson sitting upon the second step leading up to our flat. The poor woman looked exceedingly distressed and slightly disheveled. Uncharacteristically she held a small brandy snifter in trembling fingers. Fearing some tragedy had befallen her I at once sprang to her aid.
"Mrs. Hudson," said I. "Are you ill? What has happened?"
Her eyes flashed open and she clutched at my wrist.
"Oh, Dr. Watson!" she gasped. "Thank goodness you've returned!"
"What is it? What's happened?" I asked, very concerned.
"It's Mr. Holmes!" she said and drank the last of her brandy.
"Has been injured?" I demanded.
"Oh no, sir," said Mrs. Hudson. "If he were any other man I might think him mad, but he is not injured."
"Mad? I don't understand," said I.
"He's been in the attic since shortly after you left, Doctor," she said and pointed up the stairs. "Rummaging and rummaging and not a bite to eat in three days. I am so worried, Doctor!"
I patted her hand and reassured her, "I'll see what it's about, Mrs. Hudson. You should go and settle yourself. I'll see to him. Don't worry."
After helping the dear old woman to her door I climbed the steps up to the attic landing, pausing at our flat only long enough to deposit my bag and divest myself of coat and bowler. I found the door to the attic ajar and from inside shone the flickering light of an oil lamp, there being no gas laid on in the attic rooms. From within I heard the rustling of papers and knew Holmes was at least awake, if not sane.
"Holmes?" I called. "It's Watson."
"Yes. I recognized your tread upon the boards," Holmes called back from deep in the attic. "Come in and bring another lamp if there is one to hand. This one is low on oil."
There was another lamp sitting on the floor, apparently freshly filled, so I picked it up and lit it from a box of matches I had in my pocket. Entering, I found the cramped spaces of the attic in disarray. Piles of ancient folders stood stacked precariously on one another. Many loose pages were strewn upon the floor. Near the far end of the attic crouched my friend like a gangly, besmudged spider atop a pile of cardboard boxes. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves and his collar was off. I saw no sign of his waistcoat or jacket. I knew Holmes could tend towards clutter, but his personal grooming had, up until that point, always been impeccable.
"Mrs. Hudson says you have not eaten in three days," I said, edging between piles of boxes.
"Three days?" he snorted. "Ha! I ate just this morning."
"This morning?" I asked, wondering if the good woman had exaggerated.
"Two biscuits and a cup of milk," he confirmed. "Quite enough to keep me on my feet, I assure you, Doctor."
"Holmes! Really…" I began, but he waved a preemptive hand.
"No time for that, Watson. I must find it!"
"It?" I asked, finally reaching him. "Find what, Holmes?"
"Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss," he replied and tossed a handful of papers on the floor. "I must find it, Watson. Therein lies the case!"
His explanation did not seem to explain anything. I leaned down and picked up the papers he had just discarded, reading through a few lines. They were clearly notes penned by a student of history. The name at the top of the first page was Sherlock Holmes. I was baffled.
"It isn't in those, Doctor," he said and pulled out another sheaf of old papers. "It is in here somewhere, though. I know it is. I remember it. Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss."
"These are your old school papers, Holmes," I observed and picked up more loose sheets from the floor. "Mathematics, chemistry, literature, Latin…"
"I know what is in them, Doctor!" he said and began rifling through the papers in his hand. "I wrote them, after all."
"If you need some information on mistletoe, Holmes, I'm sure one of my medical books would have been of use," I said. "And it would have been quicker than sorting through all of this."
"Yes, yes!" Holmes fairly snapped. "Your book would tell me that the plant possesses certain properties that make it efficacious in the treatment of rheumatism and glaucoma. I also know the Druids believed it was a magical plant and fools believe it will bring happiness to young lovers who kiss beneath a sprig of it!"
"It does bring happiness, Holmes," I replied, not thinking. "At least, for as long as the kiss lasts."
"Trust you, Doctor, to make romance out of nonsense," he scoffed.
I was slightly offended, but could see my friend was in earnest about this manic search.
"Very well, Holmes," I said, setting aside the papers I had picked up. "What should I be looking for?"
"It was an exam, Watson," he said, peering intently at a folder he had just drawn from yet another box. "I took it while attending Caius College in Cambridge. Why I did not properly catalogue my files when I stored them up here, I do not know. This isn't it either!"
"How on earth did you get your exams back, Holmes?" I asked, pulling a large box from the top shelf and dropping it on the floor between my feet.
"I stole them, Watson," he said, absently. "Do try to focus on the search, old man. This is important."
"Why is it important?" I asked.
"Because I need to see the handwriting on the page," he said.
"Your handwriting?"
"No." Holmes flicked the folder on the floor and dug in the box for another. "Professor Lynch's assistant graded the exams and made notes regarding wrong or questionable answers."
"Wrong answers? You, Holmes?"
"In botany? Really, Watson!" Holmes sounded perturbed. "My answer was questionable and so was referred to Professor Lynch. I suspect the assistant was a little out of his depth, though, I believe Ronald Sidney Morgan has learned a thing or two since that time."
"Ronald Sidney Morgan?" I mused. "Why does that name sound so familiar, Holmes?"
"It has been in every newspaper in the country, Watson," he replied. "And on the lips of every gossip."
"Is he the Morgan betrothed to that American heiress?" I asked, astonished that Holmes had been at school with the man.
"Genevieve Winslow," he intoned dramatically. "Daughter of the recently deceased Alan Harcourt Winslow III."
"I see," said I. "What has this to do with you and why are we looking for this old exam paper?"
"It seems Mr. Winslow's widow is convinced her husband was murdered," Holmes explained, pulling out another folder. "Scotland Yard made a cursory investigation and found insufficient reason to dig any deeper."
"I can understand that, Holmes," I told him. "The man had a history of heart disease. He died in his bath at the Brown Hotel. The door to the family's suite was locked from the inside."
"The very reasons Lestrade gave for not looking any deeper," he murmured. I thought I detected a hint of disapproval in his tone.
"You said Caius College, didn't you, Holmes?" I asked, trying not to show I was ruffled.
"Yes," he said and looked over my shoulder.
"Seventy-five and seventy-six?"
"Yes, yes!" Holmes' voice grew more excited.
"Botany," I said and handed him the folder.
"Watson!" said he and snatched the folder eagerly. "This is it! Come, Watson! Good man! Well done! Follow me!"
With the agility of a monkey Holmes sprang between the teetering boxes, out the attic door and down the stairs before I could do more than take a step. I found him on hands and knees, spreading the pages in ordered rows over our floor when I entered the flat. So animated was he that I dared not step closer for fear of upsetting his system.
"It's all here, Watson," he said without looking up. "Everything I need. The proof is here. Here! All here, Watson. And that bounder used my data! Oh the gall of it!"
"Your data?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"Mistletoe is a parasitic plant. Discuss," he said and handed me the pages he had searched three days for. "It's all right there. I have him. I have him and he does not even know it."
I read through Holmes' answer to the question, impressed with its thoroughness and clarity. I confess, it read more like a monogram in a professional journal than the musings of a student. He placed special emphasis on the medicinal applications of mistletoe and the ailments it might be used to treat and by the end of his answer I was tempted to get pad and pen to make a few notes. However, Holmes was clearly interested in something else. I read the notes Morgan had made and the note Professor Lynch had written below them. What Holmes hoped to glean from these, I did not know.
"Holmes," I said. "This is most impressive work, but what does it have to do with the death of Mr. Winslow?"
"As you said, he had a history of heart disease, Watson," said Holmes, lighting his pipe and dropping into his chair by the fire. "When Mrs. Winslow asked me to investigate I was given full access to their suite at the Brown Hotel. I discovered unusual flakes of a dark brown material I took for tobacco, at first. Closer inspection revealed these flakes came from mistletoe bark. There was considerably less than a gram, but sufficient to suggest there had been much more. I found all of them on the carpet near the leg of one chair at the small dining table.
"Mrs. Winslow recounted to me the events of the day her husband died. The family left the hotel early that morning to visit several stores and the museum where they met Morgan. After the museum they attended an early concert and then returned to their suite. When I inquired more closely, Mrs. Winslow recalled that she had persuaded her husband to stop at a jeweler's as there was a bracelet she was interested in purchasing for one of their nieces. Morgan and Genevieve proceeded to the hotel and returned to the suite. Genevieve, being a proper lady, retired to her room with her maid while Morgan remained in the sitting room waiting for room service to bring up the luncheon which Mr. Winslow had ordered before leaving that morning. Better for him had he been less organized on that day, Watson."
"Less organized, Holmes?" I wondered.
"As is the habit of most Americans, the Winslows had coffee with their lunch," Holmes went on without explaining. "Mrs. Winslow recalled her husband saying his had a very strong flavor, though he did not complain of it. Because she had not been able to decide on the bracelet before lunch, Mrs. Winslow asked her daughter and Morgan to go with her to the jeweler's shop and help make up her mind. When they returned Mr. Winslow was dead in his bath."
"So you believe Morgan put mistletoe in Winslow's coffee?" I asked, thinking hard. "According to what I have just read from your exam, Holmes, mistletoe could be used to treat certain heart conditions."
"If an infusion were properly diluted and ingested, yes," he said and puffed out a great cloud of smoke. "I believe Morgan used a tea infuser loaded with dried mistletoe bark to poison Mr. Winslow's coffee. Grams of mistletoe bark to a gallon of water would be sufficient to treat certain ailments. The dosage Morgan used might have been enough to kill Winslow at the table. It would not have mattered. The police would have come to the same conclusion no matter where he died."
"How will you prove Morgan poisoned him, Holmes?" I asked and took my pipe down from the rack.
"Mrs. Winslow has a few friends here in London, Watson," he said with a slight smile. "And, as you know, money talks. Morgan, my dear fellow, is doomed."
A.N. – From: THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE "My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night."