"The Beekeeper's Apprentice" - читать интересную книгу автора (King Laurie R.)

THREE: Mistress of the hounds

It was, I suppose, inevitable that Holmes and I would collaborate eventually on one of his cases. Although ostensibly retired, he would, as I said, occasionally show all the signs of his former life: strange visitors, erratic hours, a refusal to eat, long periods at the pipe, and endless hours producing peculiar noises from his violin. Twice I had come to the cottage unannounced and found him gone. I did not enquire into his affairs, as I knew that he accepted only the most unusual or delicate of cases these days, leaving the investigation of more conventional crimes to the various police agencies (who had come to adopt his methods over the years).

I was immediately curious as to what Holmes might see in this case. Although Mrs. Barker was a neighbour, and a wealthy one, that would hardly keep him from referring her to the local police if he thought her problem was of the common or garden variety, yet far from rebuffing her, I could see that he was more than a bit interested. Mrs. Barker, however, seemed puzzled at his vague manner, and as he spent the better part of the interview slouched down in his chair with his fingers steepled, staring at the ceiling, she talked at me. I knew him well enough to see that this apparent lack of interest was actually the opposite, the first stirrings of mental excitement. I listened carefully to her story.

"You may know," she began, "that my husband and I bought the manor house four years ago. We had been living in America before the war, but Richard — my husband — had always wanted to come home. He was very fortunate with several of his investments, and we came to England in 1913 to look for a house. We saw the manor house here, fell in love with its possibilities, and bought it just before the war started. Of course, with all the shortages and the men off in Europe it has been slow work doing the renovations, but one wing is now quite liveable.

"At any rate, about a year ago my husband became ill for a few days. At first it seemed nothing serious, merely an upset stomach, but it progressed until he was curled up in his bed, bathed in sweat, and groaning horribly. The doctors could find no cause, and I could see they were beginning to despair, when the fever finally broke and he went to sleep. In a week he had fully recovered, or so we thought.

"Since then he has had ten episodes similar to the first, though none as bad. Each one begins with a chill sweat, and proceeds through cramps and delirium, and finally a pitch of fever and a deep sleep. On the first night he cannot bear to have me with him, but a few days later he is restored to himself, until the next time. The doctors were baffled, and suggested poison, but we always eat the same foods. I watch it being cooked. It is not poison but an illness.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, Mr. Holmes." Holmes raised an eyebrow at this statement. "You're wondering why I'm asking you about a medical problem. Mr. Holmes, I have come to believe it is not a medical problem. We have consulted specialists here and on the Continent. We even made an appointment with Dr. Freud, thinking it might be of mental origin. They all throw up their hands, with the exception of Dr. Freud, who seemed to think that it was the physical manifestation of my husband's guilt over marrying a woman twenty years younger than himself. I ask you, have you ever heard such twaddle?" she asked indignantly. We seriously shook our heads in sympathy.

Holmes spoke from the depths of his chair.

"Mrs. Barker, please tell us why you do not believe your husband's illness to be simply a medical problem."

"Mr. Holmes, Miss Russell, I will not insult you by making you swear that what I next say goes no further than this room. I decided before I came here that you would have to know, and that your discretion in the matter was a certain thing. My husband is an advisor to the government of England, Mr. Holmes. He does not inform me of the details of his work, but I could hardly miss such activities when they are under my nose. It is also the reason why the telephone line runs such a distance from the village exchange. Your own telephone, Mr. Holmes, is available because the Prime Minister needs to be able to reach my husband at any time. Everyone assumes the line comes this way because we were willing to spend the money for it, I know, but it was not our idea, I assure you."

"Mrs. Barker, the fact that your husband is a government advisor and the fact that he periodically becomes ill are not necessarily related."

"Perhaps not, but I have noticed a very odd thing. My husband's illnesses always correspond with a particular weather phenomenon: It is always during a period of considerable clarity, never during fog or rain. It came to my attention six weeks ago, in the first week of March, I believe it was, following that long period of rain and snow we had. It finally cleared, and was a sparkling clear night, and my husband became ill for the first time in more than two months. That was when I realised, looking back, that it had always been so."

"Mrs. Barker, when you consulted the European doctors, did your husband become ill during that time? How long were you there, and what were the weather conditions?"

"We were there for seven weeks, with a number of clear nights, and his health was fine."

"I think this is not all you have to tell us, Mrs. Barker," said Holmes. "Pray finish your story."

The lady sighed deeply, and I was astonished to notice that her beautifully manicured hands were trembling.

"You are correct, Mr. Holmes. There are two other things. The first is this: He became ill again two weeks ago, one month after I began to wonder about the coincidence of the air's clarity. The night his illness began he asked me to leave him alone, as usual. I left his sickroom and went outside for some air. I walked around the gardens for a time, until it was quite late, and when I turned back towards the house I happened to look up at my husband's room. I saw a light, winking on and off from the roof over his room."

"And you think it might be your husband, secretly passing on government secrets to the Kaiser," Holmes interrupted with an impatient edge to his voice.

Mrs. Barker's face went dead white and she swayed in her chair. I leapt to my feet and held her upright while Holmes went for the brandy. She never fainted completely, and the spirits revived her, but she was still pale and shaken when we sat back down in our chairs.

"Mr. Holmes, how could you have known that?" "My good lady, you told me yourself." Seeing her bewilderment, he said with exaggerated patience, "You told me that his illnesses correspond with clear nights when signals can be seen for miles, and you told me that he is invariably alone at those times. In addition, I have seen his distinctly Germanic features in the car. Your emotions make it obvious that you are torn between finding the truth and discovering that your husband is a traitor. If you suspected someone else you would not be so upset. Now, tell us about your household."

She took a shaky sip of brandy and continued.

"We have five full-time servants who live in the house. The others are day help from the village. There is Terrence Howell, my husband's man, and Sylvia Jacobs, my maid; Sally and Ronald Woods, the cook and chief gardener; and lastly Ron Athens, who keeps the stable and the two cars. Terrence has been with my husband for years; Sylvia I hired eight years ago; the others came when we opened the house."

Holmes sat staring off at a corner for some minutes, then leapt suddenly to his feet.

"Madam, if you would be so good as to go home now, I think it very likely that a couple of your neighbours may be around to your door later this afternoon. Shall we say, around three o'clock? An unexpected visit, you understand?"

The lady rose, clutching her bag.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I hope — " She looked down. "If my fears are correct, I have married a traitor. If I am wrong, I am myself guilty of traitorous thoughts against my husband. There is no win here, only duty."

Holmes touched her hand and she looked up at him. He smiled with extraordinary kindness into her eyes.

"Madam, there is no treachery in the truth. There may be pain, but to face honestly all possible conclusions formed by a set of facts is the noblest route possible for a human being." Holmes could be surprisingly empathetic at times, and his words now had a gentling effect on the lady. She smiled wanly, patted his hand, and left.

Holmes and I proceeded with our odoriferous experiment and at two o'clock left the cottage, leaving the windows and doors full open, to walk to the manor house. We approached it casually, from cross-country rather than along the road, and studied the setting as we walked up the hill towards it.

The three-storey house dominated the area, built as it was atop one of the tallest hills. Moreover, at one end was a tall, square tower that had all the earmarks of a folly added on to imitate some spurious Norman original. It served to unbalance the rest of the building, which apart from the excrescence had a comfortable, sturdy appearance. I said as much to Holmes.

"Yes, the builder may have had some desire to view the sea," he replied. "I believe that a close examination of the topographical maps would show a correlation between that tower and the gap in the hills over there."

"They do."

"Ah, so that was where you went while I was lacing on my boots."

"To look at your maps, yes. I don't know this part of the downs as well as you do, so I thought I would take a glance at how the land lies."

"I think we may assume that the upper rooms in the tower are those of Richard Barker. Put on a casual, happen to be in the neighbourhood face, now, Russell, here's the gentleman himself."

He raised his voice, calling "Hello, the house!"

His hail had two immediate and astonishing results. The old gentleman shot from his sunlit chair, turned his back to us and waved his hands in the air, shouting unintelligibly. Holmes and I looked at each other curiously, but the reason for his extraordinary behaviour was apparent in another instant, as a pack of what looked like forty dogs came baying and scrabbling across the terrace towards us. The multicoloured sea parted around the old gentleman, ignoring his frantic waves entirely. Holmes and I stepped slightly apart and readied the heavy walking sticks we always carried for such occasions, but the canine mob was not out for blood and simply encircled us, baying, yapping, and barking madly. The old man came up, his mouth moving, but his presence made absolutely no impact. However, another man came running around the corner of the house, followed shortly by a third, and waded into the sea, seizing scruffs, tails, and fistfuls of fur. Their voices gradually prevailed, and order was slowly restored. Having done their jobs, the dogs sat and stood merrily awaiting further fun, tongues lolling, tails wagging. At this point Mrs. Barker came from the house, and the dogs and her husband all turned to her.

"My dear," said he in a thin voice, "something really must be done about these dogs."

She looked sternly at the dogs and spoke to them.

"Shame on you. Is this how you act when neighbours come to visit? You should know better than that."

The effect of her words on the crowd was instantaneous. Jaws snapped shut, heads went down, tails were tucked in. Looking totally abashed and glancing at us guiltily, the dogs tiptoed silently away. There were only seventeen of them, I noticed, ranging from two tiny Yorkshire terriers to a massive wolfhound who could easily have weighed eleven stone. Mrs. Barker stood with her hands on her hips as the last of them disappeared into the shrubbery, then turned to us, shaking her head.

"I am very sorry for that. We have so few visitors, I'm afraid they become overly excited."

"Let dogs delight to bark and bite, for God hath made them so," Holmes commented politely, if unexpectedly. "We ought not to have come here unannounced, for their sakes if not yours. My name is Holmes; this is Mary Russell. We were out for a walk and wished for a closer view of your handsome home. We'll not bother you further."

"No, no," said Mrs. Barker before her husband could speak. "You must come in for refreshment. A glass of sherry, or is it not too early for tea? Tea it is, then. We are neighbours, I believe. I've seen you from the road. I am Mrs. Barker; this is my husband." She turned to the other two men. "Thank you, Ron, they'll be quiet now. Terrence, could you please tell Mrs. Woods that we will take tea now, and there will be four. We'll be in the conservatory in a few minutes. Thank you."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Barker. I am sure Miss Russell is as in need of refreshment as I am after our walk." He turned to the older man, who had stood watching his wife affectionately as she dealt with dogs, guests, and men. "Mr. Barker, this is a most interesting building. Portland stone, is it not? From the early eighteenth century? And when was the folly added?"

The obvious interest Holmes had in the structure led to a deep conversation concerning cracking foundations, wood beetles, leaded windows, the cost of coal, and the drawbacks of the British tradesman. After a hearty tea we were offered a tour, and Holmes, the amateur architectural enthusiast, talked his way into the tower as well. We climbed up the narrow, open wooden steps while Mr. Barker rode in the tiny lift he had installed. He met us at the top.

"I've always wanted an ivory tower." He smiled. "It was the main reason I bought the place, this tower. The lift was an extravagance, but I have problems with climbing the stairs. These are my rooms here. I'd like you to see my view."

The view was indeed panoramic, a northerly outlook up to the beginnings of the dark weald. Having admired it and the rooms, we set off again for the stairs, but before we reached them Holmes abruptly turned and made for a ladder leaning against a wall at the end of the hallway.

"I do hope you don't mind, Mr. Barker, but I must see the top of this magnificent tower. I'll just be an instant, Russell. Note this clever trapdoor here." His voice faded and echoed as his feet disappeared.

"But it's not safe up there, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Barker protested. He turned to me. "I can't think why that door is unlocked. I told Ron to fix a padlock to it. I was up there three years ago, and I didn't like the look of it at all."

"He'll be quite careful, Mr. Barker, and I'm sure he'll be just a moment. Ah, see, here he comes now." Holmes' long legs reappeared down the ladder, and his eyes seemed darker as he turned happily towards us.

"Thank you, Mr. Barker, you have a most interesting tower. Now, tell me about the primitive art you have in your hall downstairs. New Guinean, isn't it? The Sepik River, I believe?"

Mr. Barker was successfully distracted and walked slowly down the stairs on Holmes' arm, talking about his travels in the wilder places of the world. By the time we left an hour later, we had admired several magnificent African bronzes, an Australian aboriginal didgeridoo, three Esquimaux carved walrus tusks, and an exquisite golden figure from Incan Peru. The Barkers saw us to the door and we said good-bye, but suddenly Holmes pushed back past them.

"I must thank the cook personally for that superb tea she produced. Do you think she would give Miss Russell the recipe for those little pink cakes? The kitchen is down here, I believe?"

I answered the Barkers' startled looks with an expressive shrug, to tell them that I was not to be held responsible for his behavioural oddities, and ducked down the hallway after him. I found him shaking the hand of a bewildered little woman with grey hair and ruddy cheeks, thanking her profusely. Another woman, younger and prettier, had been sitting at the table with a cup of tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Woods is it? Miss Russell and I so appreciated your revivifying tea, it helped restore us after those dreadful dogs set upon us. Amazing number of them — do you have to care for them? Oh good, yes, it is a better task for a man. Still, they must eat a lot, and I suppose you have to prepare their food?"

Mrs. Woods had responded to his banter with an oddly girlish giggle.

"Oh yes, sir, they fairly keep the town butcher in business. This morning it took all three of us to carry the order from the butcher's — there must've been twenty pounds of bones alone."

"Dogs eat a lot of bones, don't they?" I wondered what this was all leading up to, but it appeared that he had what he was after.

"Well, thank you again, Mrs. Woods, and don't forget that Miss Russell wants that recipe."

She waved us merrily out the kitchen door. The dogs were there, lying about on a struggling patch of much-dug- up lawn, and ignored us completely. We circled the house and strode off down the road.

"Holmes, what was that about the cakes? You know I don't know a thing about baking. Or do you think the poisonous things are the cause of Mr. Barker's illness?"

"Merely a ruse, Russell. Is it not nice of the government to arrange this telephone line for the use of the Barkers and myself? To say nothing of the birds." The line overhead was dotted with singing black bodies, and a poin tillist line of white defined one edge of the road. I looked at the face of my companion and read satisfaction and not a little mischief.

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but what are we looking for? Did you see something on the roof?"

"Oh, Russell, it is I who should apologise. Of course, you did not see the roof. Had you, you would have found this," he said, holding out a tiny splinter of black wood, "and half a dozen cigarette ends, which we shall analyse when we get back to the cottage."

I examined the tiny sliver of wood, but it said nothing. "May I have a hint, please, Holmes?"

"Russell, I am most disappointed. It is really quite simple."

"Elementary, in fact?"

"Precisely. Consider, then, the following: a chip of treated wood atop an unused tower; market day; bones; Sepik River art; an absence of poison; and the woods that the road cuts through up ahead."

I stopped dead, my mind working furiously while Holmes leant on his stick and watched with interest. A chip of wood — someone on the tower — we knew that, why should — market day — a set market day — with bones to feed the dogs while the telephone line that lay along the road — I looked up, affronted.

"Are you telling me the butler did it?"

"I'm afraid it does happen. Shall we search the woods for the d#233;bris?"

It took us about ten minutes to find a small clearing strewn with bones. The butcher had been contributing to the dogs' diet for some months, judging by the age of some of the dry brown knucklebones.

"Do you feel like a spot of climbing, Russell? Or shall I?"

"If I might borrow your belt for safety, I should be happy to." We examined the nearby telephone poles until Holmes gave a low exclamation.

"This one, Russell." I went over to where he stood and saw the unmistakable signs of frequent, and recent, climbing spikes.

"I saw no sign of spikes or climbing on his shoes, did you?" I asked as I bent to unlace my own heavy boots.

"No, but I am certain that a search through his room would give us a pair with suggestive scuffs and scratches."

"Right, I'm ready. Catch me if I fall." Leaning back against the circle of our combined belts I planted my bare feet firmly onto the rough wood and began slowly to inch my way up: step, step, shift the belt; step, step, shift. I made the top without mishap, hooked myself into greater security, and set to an examination of the wires that were attached to the pole. The marks were clear.

"There are signs of a line being tapped in here," I called down to Holmes. "Someone has been here within the last few days, from the lack of dust at the contact point. Shall we come back with a fingerprint kit?" I climbed down and returned to Holmes his belt. He looked dubiously at the bent buckle. "Perhaps a stronger climbing tether would be advised," I added.

"I think, if the weather holds, we will be able to catch the ringers themselves in action, if not tonight, then certainly tomorrow. Remind me to telephone our good hostess when we get back, to thank her and to enquire as to her husband's state of health."

The sun was low when we walked into the cottage, where the air was sweeter now than it had been at midday.

Holmes went off to the laboratory with the cigarette ends while I found the cold food Mrs. Hudson had left for us and made coffee. We ate hunched over microscopes, though our greasy fingerprints on the slides helped not at all. Finally, Holmes sat back.

"The cigarettes are from a small tobacconist in Portsmouth. I trust the police there could make a few enquiries for us. First, however, Mrs. Barker."

The telephone was answered by the lady herself. Holmes thanked her again for her hospitality, and I could tell by his subtle reaction to her words that she was not alone.

"Mrs. Barker, I wanted to thank your husband as well. Is he there? No? Oh, I am sorry to hear that, but you know, he didn't seem well this afternoon. Tell me, does your husband smoke cigarettes? No, I thought not. Oh, it's nothing. Mrs. Barker, listen to me. I believe your husband will be fine, do you understand? Just fine. Yes. Good night, Madam, and thank you again."

His eyes positively glowed as he hung up.

"It's tonight then, Holmes?"

"So it appears. Mr. Barker has retreated to his room, to the gentle ministrations of his manservant. Why don't you have a rest, Russell? I will make a telephone call to the people in charge of this sort of thing, but I am certain we have at least two hours before anything will happen."

I did as he suggested, and despite my excitement I drifted off to the mutter of his voice in the next room. I was awakened some time later by wheels in the drive and came down to find Holmes in the sitting room with two men.

"Good, Russell, get yourself ready. Your warmest coat, now, we may be some time. Russell, this is Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith, who have come from London for our little affair. Gentlemen, Miss Russell, my right hand. Shall we go?" Holmes shouldered a small knapsack and shoved his cloth cap on his head, and we crunched off down the drive.

The manor house was three miles away by road, and we walked silently along the grass verge. Where the trees came up we left the road, following the woods down to the base of the main gardens. There we stood together and whispered quietly. A slight breeze had come up, covering our noises and carrying our scent away from the noses of the pack that inhabited the house.

"We can see the top of the tower from here, I believe. Your colleagues should be in place by now at the hill gap and the sea?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. We agreed to be settled in by eleven o'clock. It's ten past now. We're ready."

The lights went off one by one in the house above us, and we entered that particular state of boredom and excitement that accompanies a long wait. And long it was. At one o'clock I bent to whisper in Holmes' ear.

"Surely it was not so late when Mrs. Barker saw the lights from the garden? Perhaps it will not be tonight."

Holmes sat silent and unseen beside me, tense with thought.

"Russell, do your eyes pick up anything from that tower?"

I looked so hard at the black tower rising against the black night that my eyes began to quiver. I looked away slightly, and my eyes caught the faintest of changes in the air above the darkness. I let out a soft exclamation, and Holmes was up at once.

"Quick, Russell, up in the tree. Here we sit, blind as moles, while he's so far back from the edge we can't see him. Up, Russell. What do you see?"

As I climbed in the dark I watched the tower, and fifteen feet up the beam suddenly appeared — an intermittent flash from the back corner of the folly, pointing over our heads at the low hills and the sea beyond.

"It's there!" I scrambled down the branches, losing flesh. "He's up there with a light — " but they were already off up the hill, their hand torches waving wildly in the darkness. I went after them, plunging across flower beds and around a fountain, and suddenly ahead of me the night exploded. Seventeen throats opened at the invaders, yaps and bays and blood-chilling snarls split the air, and the shouts of men, and then a tinkle of glass. I heard Holmes shouting to his companions, dogs began to yelp and howl, two voices coughed and cursed, a larger breakage of glass, and the sound of a door flung open. Electrical lights began to go on in the house, and I could see dogs fleeing in every direction. The first whiff of stink made me hold my breath until I got inside the door. Inside was all lights now, the main kitchen switches all on, the tower next to me blazing with light. I ran in that direction, hearing heavy feet above me on the stairs. They and the voices faded suddenly, and I pictured them on the roof.

A sudden thought occurred to me. There had been a good twenty seconds between the first alarm of the dogs and the time Holmes hit the steps. What if — 1 On the first-floor landing I ducked silently under the open stairway and waited, just in case. Suddenly a noise came from above, hushed, silent footsteps, hurrying down. I put my hand ready between the treads, caught sight of an unfamiliar shoe, and, praying it did not belong to Smith, Jones, or Barker, grabbed at it. A scream and a crashing fall that continued down the next flight of stairs were followed by shouts and steps from above. I unfolded myself slowly from my hiding place and went to see what I had done.

I stood at the top of the flight, looking down at the crumpled figure of Terrence Howell and feeling my stomach wanting to rise up our of my throat. Then Holmes stood beside me, and I turned to him, and his arm wentaround my shoulders as the two men pushed past us. I was shaking.

"Oh God, Holmes, I killed him. I didn't think he'd fall that hard, oh God, how could I have done it?" I could feel the texture of the shoe leather impressed on my fingertips and see the tumble of limbs glimpsed through the steps. A voice came up to us.

"Ring for a doctor, would you please, Mrs. Barker? He's got a bad bang on his head and a few broken bones, but he's alive."

Sweet, sweet relief flooded in, and my head suddenly felt light.

"I need to sit down for a minute, Holmes."

He pushed me onto the top step and shoved my head down to my knees. His rucksack plopped down next to me, and I vaguely saw him pull a little bottle out of it. There was the pop of a small cork, and the concentrated reek of the morning's experiment exploded into my nasal passages. I jerked back, and my head smacked hard onto the stone wall. Tears came to my eyes and my vision swam. When it cleared I saw Holmes, a stricken expression on his face.

"Are you all right, Russell?"

I felt my head delicately.

"Yes, no thanks to your smelling salts, Holmes. I can't see much point in reviving someone quite so dramatically, though it does make a fine weapon against a pack of dogs." Relief edged into his eyes, and his normal sardonic expression reappeared.

"When you're up to it, Russell, we should see to Mr. Barker."

I reached for his hand and pulled myself up, and we walked slowly up to the old man's room. A fug of sweat and illness met us at his door, and the light revealed the pale, wet skin and unfocussed eyes of high fever.

"You sponge his face for a bit, Russell, until Mrs.

Barker comes. I'm going to see what I can find in Howell's room. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Barker. Your husband needs you. Come, Russell." He swept past her anxious questions.

"What are we looking for?" I asked in his wake.

"A packet of powder or a bottle of liquid, one or the other. I'll start with the wardrobe, you take the bathroom." The bedroom was soon filled with mutters and flying articles of clothing, and the bathroom was awash with odours as I opened one after another of the multitude of scents, after-shave lotions, and bath soaps I found in the drawers. My poor nose was a bit numb, but I eventually found a bottle that did not smell right. I took it into the next room, where Holmes stood calf-deep in clothing, upended drawers, and bedclothes.

"Have you found anything, Holmes?"

"Cigarettes from Fraser's of Portsmouth, boots with scratches over the arches. What have you there?"

"I don't know, I can't smell a thing anymore. Does this smell like Eau d'Arabe to you?" A quick sniff and he waded out of the room, the bottle held high.

"You've found it, Russell. Now to figure how much to give him." He went to the stairs and poked his head over. "I say, Jones, is he awake yet?"

"Not a chance. It'll be hours."

"Ah well," he said to me, "we'll just have to experiment. Mrs. Barker." She looked up as we came into the room, wet cloth in her hand. "Mrs. Barker, have you a small spoon? Yes, that will do. Russell, you pour, your hands are steady. Two drops to begin with. We'll repeat it every twenty minutes until we see some results. Just slip it in between his teeth, that's right. Will he take some water? Good. Now we wait."

"Mr. Holmes, what was that?"

"It was the antidote to the poison which is affecting your husband, Madam. It is sure to be quite concentrated, and I don't want to harm him by giving too much, too fast. He will have to take it for the rest of his life, but with it he will never be ill like this again."

"But, I told you he's not being poisoned. I should be ill too, if he were."

"Oh no, he's not received any poison for over a year. He receives the antidote regularly, as do you, without harm. You told me that his manservant had been with him for many years. Did that include his time in New Guinea?"

"Yes, I believe so. Why do you ask?"

"Madam, one of my hobbies is poisons. There is a small number of very rare poisons that, once administered, reside permanently in the nervous system. They are never got rid of, but can be effectively blocked by the regular ingestion of the antidote. One of these poisons is popular with a tribe in the Sepik River area of New Guinea. It is manufactured from a very odd variety of shellfish native to the area. In an interesting serendipity, the antidote comes from a plant which is also found only in that area. Obviously, while your husband was there, his servant conducted his own research on the side. I suppose he will tell us eventually why he chose to turn traitor, but turn traitor he did, and made use of the poison last year. Your husband made telephone calls generally on market day, did he not?"

"Why, yes, how did you know? The Woodses were always driven to town by Ron, and I would either walk or go for a drive. And Howell — "

"Howell would take the dogs for a walk, would he not?"

"Why, yes. How — "

"They would go down to the woods; he would climb up to the telephone line and listen in on your husband's conversations while the dogs gnawed bones. On the next clear night he would fail to administer the antidote, cloister himself up with his master, and slip up to the roof to signal the results of his spying to a confederate on the coast. Ah, I think it is beginning to work already."

Two dazed eyes looked out of a pale face and fastened onto those of Mrs. Barker.

"My dear," he whispered, "what are these people doing here?"

"Russell," Holmes said quietly, "I believe we should see if we can help with moving Mr. Howell and leave these two good people. Mrs. Barker, I suggest that you guard this bottle most carefully until it can be analysed and duplicated. Good evening."

We found the ambulance attendants working their way awkwardly down the narrow steps. At the front door Jones waited to let them out. A familiar cacophony came from the other side. Holmes reached into his rucksack for the small bottle, but I laid a hand on his arm.

"Let me try first," I said. I cleared my throat, drew myself up to my full height (over six feet in those boots), and opened the door to face the pack. I put my hands on my hips and glared at them.

"Shame on you!" Seventeen jaws slowly shut, thirty-four eyes were glued to my face. "Shame on you, all of you! Is this any way to treat agents of His Majesty? Whatever are you thinking?" Seventeen faces looked at each other, at me, at the men in the doorway. The wolfhound was the first to turn tail and skulk away into the dark, the Yorkie with the blue bow the last, but they all went.

"Russell, there are unexplored depths to you," murmured Holmes at my elbow. "Remind me to call you when ever there is a savage beast to be overcome."

We saw the traitorous butler and his guards off through the gates and walked off down the dark road beneath the telephone line, and talked of various matters all the way home.