Prompt from KnightFury - A meal in Simpson's.
A meal in Simpson's
"Holmes!" I called jubilantly upon entering our flat. Though it was quite cold that December I was warm through and through. "They published it!"
"Watson, really!" Holmes snapped. "I knew something was up when I heard you storming up the stairs in that way, but to burst in on a man while he's conducting a chemical test is quite uncalled for."
"They published the story!" I said, ignoring my flat mate's ill humor. It had been some time since his last case and his temper had gradually grown shorter and his mood darker. "The Strand, Holmes!"
He snatched the magazine I'd been waving in his face and scowled at me. I subsided, though, I'm certain I had the most foolish grin on my face.
"I do not understand your excitement, Doctor," Holmes said sternly. "You knew they were going to publish... What did you call it, again?"
"A Study in Scarlet, Holmes," I said and began pacing, unable to contain myself.
"Yes," he frowned and paged through the magazine. "Overly romanticized the title, I dare say. You were paid for it months ago, Watson. Why this show of glee?"
"Because it's my first story in print, Holmes!" I said, still grinning like a fool.
"Who is this Paget fellow?" Holmes demanded.
"The illustrator," I told him.
"Your likeness is quite good," he said and peered more closely at the open page. "Mine is satisfactorily obscure. Congratulations on that, at least, Watson."
"Holmes, you will not damp me," I said proudly. "Come. Celebrate with me, dear fellow."
"How?" he snorted. "By going to the local public house and drinking draughts until neither of us can stand?"
"No," I said, ignoring the slight. "I was thinking lunch at Simpson's. What do you say? I'm paying."
Simpson's was my friend's favorite restaurant and I felt sure that a meal there would not only tempt him out of the house, but might also lighten his mood. It would give him an opportunity to observe people in their natural environment.
"Very well, Watson," said Holmes finally. "If it will curb your ebullience, I will accompany you."
He said it as if he felt it a chore, but the change in his demeanor told me he was not so much resigned to going as he wanted me to think he was.
We were greeted by Wilson, Simpson's maître d', and escorted to one of Holmes' preferred tables. We placed our orders and were enjoying a serving of fresh tea when we heard a cry and commotion from the far side of the dining room.
"Ho, ho. What's this?" Holmes wondered aloud.
We both craned our necks to see what was the matter. I could see only a trio of figures moving around a table near the windows. One was a young woman. The other two were men and for a moment I thought they were in some sort of scuffle. Other patrons were quickly clearing away from the table and thereby blocking our view.
"Watson!" Holmes hissed. "Your skills are needed unless I am much mistaken!"
Instantly I was on my feet and with Holmes close behind I plunged through the crowd.
"I'm a doctor!" I called loudly, exhorting people to clear the way.
Holmes and I emerged on a scene of chaos. Two waiters were attempting to restrain an older gentleman who was prone on the floor. The gentleman shook violently and frothed at the mouth, then suddenly settled and lay still. I knelt at his side and felt for a pulse.
"It's his heart," the young woman said. "Poor father!"
"There, there, Delia," said the young man putting a comforting arm around her. "Let the doctor work. It may not be what you fear. Father has had episodes before."
"Watson?" Holmes asked, kneeling next to me.
"I'm afraid I am too late, Holmes," I said. "The man has no pulse. It looks to be cardiac arrest."
"He's had a bad heart for years, Doctor," said the young man. "His physician warned him to take things easy. Not to over work and the like. He was on a strict diet."
"Yes," I said rising to my feet and looking sympathetically at the young people. "I'm sorry to say, it seems his physician was correct. His heart appears to have given out on him. I am sorry."
The girl was stricken. She turned her face to her brother's shoulder and began to weep. He comforted her as best he could, but there really is little to do in such a situation.
Wilson, the consummate professional in his field, led a party of waiters carrying privacy screens across the dining area and began ushering the displaced customers to new tables or out of the door, depending on their preferences. The screens went up quickly, giving us all the privacy an open room could provide. Holmes had remained kneeling next to the deceased for a few minutes before rising to stand by me.
"What was this gentleman's name?" he asked the young man.
"Douglass Ward," the young man replied. "Why do you ask, sir?"
"My friend will need it for the death certificate," Holmes said easily. "An unfortunate necessity."
"I'm afraid I will also need your names, Mr. Ward," said I, taking my pad and a pencil from my pocket.
"Oh," the young man replied a little uncomfortably. "My name is Donaldson, Robert Donaldson and this is my sister, Delia. Mr. Ward is… was our stepfather."
"I see," I said. "What is your mother's name? I need to include next of kin on the certificate."
"We are the next of kin, Doctor," Mr. Donaldson said. "Our mother died two years ago in August."
"I understand," I said and wrote down their names. "I really am very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, Doctor," Mr. Donaldson said.
Miss Donaldson soon recovered her composure and sank limply down into one of the chairs. She wiped tears from her eyes with a lace trimmed kerchief and stared at nothing.
"Forgive me for asking, Mr. Donaldson," said Holmes. "Are you the same Robert Donaldson who wrote the monograph on bee culturing?"
"Why, yes I am," said the young man with the slightest of smiles. I thought it quite brave of him under the circumstances.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my friend. "You may remember our brief correspondence."
"Holmes?" Donaldson said and then brightened. "I do remember you, Mr. Holmes. You seemed quite well informed for a man who admitted to having no hives."
"I studied the creatures in their wild state," Holmes said. "I wish we were meeting on a more auspicious occasion."
"Of course, sir," Donaldson agreed.
I glanced at Holmes surreptitiously. There had been something about his tone and his manner that alerted me more was going on than I had been aware of. He looked my way and then down to the table. My eyes roamed over the plates and dishes set out as Holmes turned and stepped beyond the screens. What I saw were the remains of an interrupted meal. The young lady had been served a filet of some sort of fish. Mr. Donaldson's meal was roast beef with a baked potato. Mr. Ward's meal, now scattered over the table and the floor, looked to also have been fish. There were a number of round rolls on a small silver tray and an upset cruet of honey along with the usual salt and pepper. It looked as though all three diners had been drinking tea from the same pot. I made no mention of these facts to the young people, waiting upon Holmes to make the next move.
"I have arranged for an ambulance to conduct your father to hospital," said Holmes, stepping back between the screens.
I noticed when Holmes used the word 'father' Mr. Donaldson shot him the briefest of looks. Holmes, I knew, had seen it. What it meant, I could not be sure.
"I know this is a bad time for my curiosity, Mr. Donaldson," said Holmes, "but was part of your stepfather's diet honey?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Donaldson replied. "His physician had warned him to avoid certain things. He was forced to refrain from eating beef or pork except on special occasions. Any rich foods were also banned to him. No cream for his tea or coffee. No butter. Things like that."
"I see," Holmes said. "In place of the butter he used honey, then?"
"Just so," Donaldson confirmed.
"I see this was not a special occasion," Holmes said, indicating the remains of the fish.
"No," Donaldson replied. "We were here to discuss his planned wedding."
"Wedding?" I asked, somewhat surprised. Mr. Ward had been in his fifties and closer to sixty years than fifty.
"Indeed," Donaldson said. "I suppose I will need to tell Miss Albrecht."
"A young woman, then," mused Holmes.
I thought it was rather unseemly to discuss the age of the dead man's fiancé while his corpse lay at our very feet, but held my tongue. Mr. Donaldson appeared not to have taken offense, so it was not actually my place to speak.
"More of a spinster, Mr. Holmes," Donaldson said. "She is, I believe, thirty. They met while he was on a business trip to Prussia."
"She is still on the continent?" asked my friend.
"No," Donaldson said. "Here in London. She arrived in June and has resided in the Brown Hotel so that they could be closer to one another while planning the event. I don't know how she will receive the news. Badly, I fear."
"I imagine so," replied Holmes and then fell silent.
We had only a few more minutes to wait before a constable and a pair of hospital attendants arrived to take away the mortal remains of Mr. Ward. Mr. Donaldson and his sister accompanied them out the door.
As soon as the sad party departed Wilson came on the scene with two of his waiters. The waiters began policing up the plates and dishes. Holmes asked them to stop.
"But why, Mr. Holmes?" asked the maître d', clearly as confused as I was.
"I'm sorry to upset you, Wilson," said Holmes softly. "This is a crime scene and you will need to send for a representative of Scotland Yard."
"A crime scene, sir?" Wilson asked, his eyes wide with shock. Crimes simply did not happen in Simpson's. It was not possible.
"Murder, to be exact," Holmes told him. "Keep this quiet. You don't want more notice taken of these events than is inevitable."
"Right you are, Mr. Holmes." Wilson motioned to his waiters to come closer to him. "Albert, you go fetch a constable and ask him to send to… Well tell him we need and inspector, I suppose. David, go back to your tables. Send young Michael to me here."
The waiters gave quick nods and smoothly departed on their errands. Wilson looked to Holmes for instructions.
"There is nothing more that you can do, Wilson," Holmes told him. "Only be on hand when the Yard's man arrives. I'll need you to confirm a fact for me."
"Very well, sir," said the maître d. "I'll have Michael stand watch just outside the screen. He'll keep the other guests from intruding, sir."
"Very good." Holmes gave an approving nod and Wilson departed.
"How do you know it is murder, Holmes?" I asked sotto voce.
"I cannot yet confirm it, Watson," he replied just as softly. "Note the cruet on the table."
"With the honey? Yes," I said.
"Do you see anything different about it?" Holmes asked in that way that suggested I should.
I looked closely. It was a clear glass cruet like many you might find in any restaurant. Its stopper was in, though I did note a thin trickle of honey descending from the spout. The honey appeared no different than any other sample of the sweet substance I had ever seen. And then it struck me. The cruet did not quite match the salt and pepper shakers. It was very close to the same pattern, but it had two more lines ground into its design than the shakers had. I told Holmes of my observation.
"My, Watson, you have greatly improved," he fairly purred.
"How does that indicate murder has been done?" I asked.
"That alone does not," he said. "I believe a chemical analysis of the contents will show the honey is quite deadly."
"Poisoned?" I asked.
"Not precisely," he said with a thin smile. "I have to admire the cunning and preparation this crime took, Watson. The subtlety! The patience!"
"Will you please explain, Holmes?"
"The honey, Watson, has not been poisoned," said he. "It is poison."
I frowned my confusion at him.
"Bees, Watson," Holmes said seriously. "It is all about bees. Think back to your classic history."
Now that he said it there was something I remembered. A vague memory to be sure, but as a schoolboy I had studied Greece and Rome as part of the curriculum.
"I remember something about the legions under Pompey," I said. "It's a little vague in my mind, but didn't they get poisoned by honey?"
"Excellent, Watson," Holmes said pleased. "You surpass yourself tonight. You really do. What would you think of honey derived from the pollen of a plant such as rhododendron or bog-rosemary?"
"Bog-rosemary?" I whispered, my thoughts racing. Rhododendron was a very dangerous plant if consumed. Bog-rosemary was not as familiar to me, but I recalled its other name and my jaw fell open. "Andromeda? It can be processed to distill a potent medicine for the treatment of high blood pressure, Holmes."
"And if it were ingested by a patient who was suffering from chronic heart disease?" he asked leadingly.
"Near certain death," I breathed, horrified. "We must go after Donaldson! Holmes, you've let him get away!"
"Calm yourself, Watson!" said Holmes, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I had a word with that constable who entered with the ambulance attendants. I told him to keep an eye on Mr. Donaldson. All will be well."
"But why did you not have Donaldson arrested immediately?" I demanded.
"I must perform a test of the honey," said Holmes, pointing to the cruet. "Without it, I have only supposition to present. It would not stand up even in a coroner's inquest."
"Mr. Holmes?" as familiar voice called from beyond the screen and an instant later our friend Lestrade popped his head between the panels. "I'm told you've concluded a murder has occurred."
Holmes detailed the situation, recounting the events as we had witnessed them. Wilson was called in to confirm that the cruet of honey was not the property of Simpson's. I supported Holmes' statement with my own, and I must say, Lestrade took all of it in with few interruptions. He seemed skeptical of Holmes' theory about the honey, but was willing to allow my friend to take a sample and also to deliver the remainder to one of the laboratories approved by Scotland Yard.
"This is all well and good, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, making notes in his leather bound pad. "What led you to suspect Mr. Donaldson?"
"He is quite well known in the rather eccentric community of bee culturists," Holmes explained. "I corresponded with him a few years ago after he published a monograph detailing the proper diet of bees and the harvesting of their honey. One of his methods was to confine the hive inside a conservatory where flowers of various sorts would be planted. By growing only one particular kind of flower during a season, he hoped to find the best tasting honey. His experiments, conducted under such controlled conditions, were admirable."
"And this Roman fellow, Pliny, he wrote down how a legion had been poisoned," Lestrade said, still making notes.
"Quite right, Inspector," said Holmes.
"And Mr. Donaldson would have known about that event?" asked Lestrade.
"Correct," said Holmes nodding. "Any bee fancier would know about that historic event and the results."
"What were Donaldson's motives?" I asked.
"I've had no time to look into the background of this family, Watson," said Holmes, "but I am fairly sure there is an inheritance involved. This woman Mr. Ward was engaged to wed was described as a spinster, yet she is only thirty. Miss Albrecht would not be too old to bear children. A natural heir to the family fortune would have a stronger claim than a stepson. Even a childless wife could expect a portion of the inheritance. That is the avenue I believe needs to be investigated."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I thank you," Lestrade said, scratching his head. "This all depends on the results of our lab's tests, but if it proves to be a fact, we'll need you to present your evidence."
In the end, Holmes was proven correct and our testimony was the linchpin in the trial that sent Mr. Robert Donaldson to the gallows. His sister was not charged and Holmes was able to clear her of any suspicion. I felt quite sorry for the young woman. In some measure, though, she came out well from the affair. Her late stepfather's fiancé took the girl under her wing and they retired to Prussia with Miss Donaldson's sizeable inheritance to support them comfortably.
Several weeks after the trial Holmes and I returned to Simpson's. This time it was for dinner. Wilson welcomed us warmly and we were waited upon, hand and foot. Nothing that night was too good for either Holmes or myself. At the end of the evening I asked for our bill.
"Bill, sir?" Wilson asked in return. He seemed confused.
"Yes, Wilson," I chuckled. "Our repast is complete. Our brandy is finished. We will retire from the field if only you will tell me how much I owe."
"Ah!" he said brightly and produced the usual slip.
"You forgot the total, Wilson," said I, frowning at the paper.
"Then the meal must be free, sir," replied Wilson with a smile. "May I get your coats?"
The End