A Study in Sherlock

A carriage had been provided by the theatre management and upon our arrival, I saw Elizabeth draw from her pocket a small lozenge and discreetly put it in her mouth. Before we parted in the vestibule of the theatre, I managed to question her privately about it.

“When I first began to accompany singers back at La Fenice, my grandfather warned me to take extra care that my breath would never offend. As a result, I always take a piece of peppermint before a performance.”

The odour of mint was quite distinct as I bent my ear to her lips. “Could that—?”

“No, dear Aunt, I threw away the drops I brought with me from Italy and purchased fresh ones here which I keep very close. They are much stronger than I prefer but they serve their purpose.”

When I slipped into my seat beside Dr Watson, I told him all that I had seen and observed. “Did you learn anything in your search of Mr Holmes’s notes?”

“Indeed I did. From her symptoms—giddiness, headaches, and difficulty in breathing—I suspected cyanide poisoning and Holmes’s notebook entries confirm it. Whatever the source, your niece must be ingesting very tiny amounts. A large dose would kill her instantly and would be quickly detected. It may be that the poisoner wishes to make it appear a natural illness.”

As the lights went down, I drew his attention to a box overlooking the stage. “Sir Anthony and Lady Anne,” I whispered. “I fear she has designs on Elizabeth’s husband.”

The first half of the program was devoted to a Beethoven string quartet. We remained in our seats during the interval and watched while Mrs Manning, in a charming yellow gown with a bouquet of primroses at her bosom, raised the piano lid, adjusted the bench, and placed sheets of music on the rack. A few minutes later, I saw her enter Sir Anthony’s box and take a seat beside Lady Anne. According to the programme, the evening was to end with Schubert’s “Trout” quintet.

I’m sure it was delightful. Certainly the audience applauded enthusiastically, as did Dr Watson, but all my attention was for Elizabeth, who sat in a straight chair behind and to the left of her husband and followed the notes on the pages before him. At regular intervals, she rose unobtrusively and, using her left hand so as not to obstruct his sight, she quickly turned a page, then sat down again.

Halfway through the music, I touched Dr Watson’s sleeve and whispered, “Watch my niece.”

A moment later, his eyes widened and I heard an almost inaudible “By Jove!”

It seemed to both of us that she grew steadily weaker through the playing of the concerto and after turning the last page, she quitted the stage with unsteady steps. As soon as the lights came up again, we hurried to the dressing room where we found Elizabeth lying back in a chair, her eyes closed and her mouth open as she laboured to breathe. Mr Breckenridge knelt beside her with a cold cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Distraught, he looked up at me and said, “She’s had another attack.”

I quickly introduced Dr Watson, who took her pulse and said, “Can you hear me, Miss Elizabeth?”

She nodded weakly.

“Do you feel as if ice water is running through your veins?”

Her eyes flew open. “Yes! And my chest! It feels as if it’s bound by iron bands.”

“She needs fresh air,” Dr Watson said. “Now.”

My nephew gathered her up in his strong arms and strode down the hall through an outer door into an enclosed courtyard with a stone bench. He held her until her breathing slowed to normal and she could sit unaided.

William seemed more worried than ever and asked if Dr Watson could diagnose Elizabeth’s illness.

Before he could answer, Sir Anthony, followed by Lady Anne and Mrs Manning, pushed through the small group of musicians and their friends who had gathered in concern. “I know an excellent doctor in Harley Street, Breckenridge. Allow me to send for him.”

Elizabeth tried to protest, but even Dr Watson urged her to submit to a thorough examination. It was agreed that he would come to their rooms next morning and join Sir Anthony’s doctor for a consultation.

With the immediate crisis past, we went back inside and talk turned to the mundane. William was warmly complimented on his performance and Dr Watson asked if he might borrow the score that Mrs Manning had collected from the piano rack. “I am no musician but there’s a passage in the first movement that I should like to examine, if I may.”

“Let me give you a fresh copy, sir,” said Mrs Manning, who started to open a leather portfolio.

“No need,” he assured her.

Despite her protests, he insisted. “This one will do nicely for my purpose. I’ll return it when I come tomorrow morning.”

Carriages were called for and Dr Watson escorted me back to Baker Street, where he retired to Mr Holmes’s old rooms. I had the maid put fresh linens on one of the beds and sent up a supper tray. It was almost like old times.