The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye
There are patient visiting hours this afternoon.”
“Yes, doctor, we do not wish to detain you any further.” Holmes’s voice had turned quiet. “But I do have one more question. Did you conduct an autopsy?”
“Absolutely not. He had a widow in a grievous state and with the cause of death so evident, I saw no need.” The doctor’s face suddenly flushed. “Now, good day.” He angrily shut the door.
As we walked back to our carriage, Holmes asked. “What do you make of our Dr. Sedgecombe?”
“As a physician, I can understand his attitude. After all, you seemed to be questioning not only his medical conclusion but also his professional judgment.”
“Perhaps with good cause.”
I said nothing further on the matter, for I knew Holmes’s intellect and deductive reasoning in past cases had proved me wrong much too often. Nevertheless, I still felt discomfited by the assault on a medical colleague’s integrity.
When we arrived at Ogham Manor, we were greeted by an elderly woman whom I took to be the housekeeper, Essie O’Brien. Holmes handed her his card and the letter of inquiry from the insurance company and asked to see Mrs. Wolkner. She led us to the library, a large room just off the entrance hall, and whose walls were adorned with various hunting weapons as well as book cases. There was a desk and chair facing the window and a large Chesterfield sofa facing a fireplace. The housekeeper left to inform her mistress of our presence. Instead of sitting while waiting, I inspected a set of hunting rifles affixed to one wall in a crossed position, while my colleague amused himself over some books.
We did not have long to wait for Mrs. Wolkner. She soon appeared at the library door, her presence announced by the housekeeper. I turned from the gun rack to see a woman of late middle age but still somewhat attractive, with long white hair done into two thick braids that hung all the way down her back. She wore a long black dress that showed off what appeared to be a handsome figure, but what my medical experience had taught had more to do with the abilities of her undergarments and the tailoring of her clothes than the bounties of nature.
“Mr. Holmes?” Her voice had a quaver that I put down to her emotional condition, for she was twisting a handkerchief with her hands.
My colleague suddenly turned away from the bookcase and faced her. “Mrs. Wolkner.” He approached and gently seized her hand with a gallantry that was most unusual for him. “This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I am so sorry that we have to disturb you in this time of bereavement.”
She looked briefly at me and dabbed at reddened eyes with the handkerchief. “Mr. Holmes, these business matters are a terrible imposition, but if you must.... Well, let us sit then.”
Holmes led her to the large Chesterfield sofa and sat next to her, still holding her hand.
“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea my poor dear husband had ever taken out insurance on his life.”
Holmes patted her hand. “Indeed, he did not. He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates. Were you not aware?”
She shook her head. “My poor dear Bertie never discussed business matters with me.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Well, if the policy does not concern me, Mr. Holmes, cannot this matter wait until I at least place poor Bertie in his final resting place?”
“I fear not, dear lady. But it may not be necessary to disturb you much further. We would need to speak to your housekeeper, Essie O’Brien, of course, as she was the one who discovered your unfortunate husband.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll send her to you straight away.”
“And the place where this tragic event occurred. We will have to inspect that, as well.”
“He maintained a private shoot adjacent to the manor’s woods. He and some other gentlemen from his firm owned it jointly. He loved to shoot, ever since his Oxford days. He said it helped reduce his stutter.”
“Ah, yes, his stutter. I understand he acquired that due to his childhood nurse trying to ‘cure’ him of left-handedness.”
“Yes, but he still wrote left-handed although he shot with his right, and all she gave him in return was that horrible stutter. When it would reach the point that it interfered with his work, he would go off to the shoot. There’s a small hunting lodge, really just a cabin, where he could be alone. Sometimes he would even stay overnight if he wanted to hunt early in the morning.”
“May we see it?”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll get you the key. And Essie will show you the way.”
Holmes waited until she left the room and then asked, “What do you make of her?”
“An aging beauty.”
“Well, we’re all getting on in years, old boy. What I meant was, how did you assess her psychological state?”
“She seems to be keeping a stiff upper lip over the death of her husband.”
“Yes, she does seem so.”
Our conversation was interrupted when the old lady appeared at the library door. “You wanted to see me, sir?” Her question was directed at Holmes.
“Ah, Mrs. O’Brien. Your mistress said you would direct us to the shooting cabin. And I would like to ask you a few questions on the way.”
“It’s Miss O’Brien, sir, I’ve never married.” Despite her age, the housekeeper spoke with a firmness of voice that indicated that she was still not only of sound mind but of body.
“Tell me, good woman, other than yourself who else is in service at the manor?”
“Only Throbble, the gardener. He’s a little dimwitted, but he manages to muddle through his chores.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen him here.”
“You won’t, it’s his day off. Is there anything else?”
Holmes smiled at her. “No, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Please follow me then.”
Outside, Holmes went over to our driver and spoke a few words, and then scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the man. He rejoined us and the old woman led the way. She moved at such a brisk pace that I, with my war wound still aggravating my leg, had some difficulty keeping up. As we passed out through the main gate, she pointed at the stone columns that stood on each side of the drive, silent and sturdy as if they were sentinels. Strange markings that appeared to be horizontal and angular slashes were cut into them.
“Ogham stones, sir,” she said, quickly blessing herself. “You will see another, a larger one, by the cabin. I believe Mr. Wolkner understood them; that was why he had the cabin built there.”
“And you, Miss O’Brien? Can you make anything out of them?”
“I fear not, sir. They may have something to do with ancient Erse, that’s all I know.” She started walking through the fields and we followed. After about a quarter mile, she stopped and pointed at a spinney in the distance. “You’ll find the cabin there, Mr. Holmes. At the edge of the spinney. I’ll return to my duties now.”
“Your duties can wait. I need you to show me exactly where you found the body.” Holmes gripped her elbow and gently urged her forward but she shrugged him off and retreated a few steps.
“I can’t, sir, it’s too horrible. Please don’t make me.”
“I’m afraid I must. You found the body and your presence at the scene is absolutely necessary.” His voice had turned cold as ice and hard as steel.
“Heavens, Holmes,” I said. “She has already described all this to the Dorset constables.”
“That would be like you describing Isaac Newton’s laws of motion to a cat.”