Chapter 4 – The Cry of the Death Adder
Watson followed Holmes out through the study door and down the stairway. The
doctor thought to himself, "All throughout history men of great intellect have
demonstrated unique and even bizarre behavior." Holmes stopped twice to study
the banister and once at the front door to examine its hinges. It seemed to
Watson that peculiar manners and odd behavior were common traits with genius
minds. Sherlock Holmes knelt down and put his nose to the carpet. He then
proceeded to crawl through the front doorway and down the steps leading outside.
Watson was accustomed to his friend's eccentric ways and to his morbid
experiments, which were performed in the pursuit of criminal knowledge. The
doctor recalled the time when Holmes wrestled the dwarf in O'Leary's pub to
satisfy his curiosity regarding a kidnapping case. Holmes' lab experiments
often took even more sinister appearances. Holmes and Watson were first
introduced to each other by a mutual acquaintance, who reported to Watson that
Holmes had once battered his dissecting room subjects with a stick.
Watson was suddenly reminded of the passage he had recently read in Moby Dick;
"For all men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. O young
ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease." Watson closed the front door
behind him as Holmes stood up and brushed himself off. Both men breathed
deeply. The damp swamp air was welcomed over that of the study.
"Well Doctor," started Holmes, "what is your opinion as to the cause of death?"
"I'm not completely sure Holmes. There are obvious signs of acute poisoning
however I have never seen such muscle distortion. If Collins was poisoned then
it must have been a highly toxic solution affecting his nervous system."
"I agree Watson that Collins was poisoned. Although, I do not know of any
poison in its pure form that causes muscle spasms to the degree in which Collins
experienced."
Holmes stopped to kneel down by the edge of the water to look over a stick
before continuing.
"Mr. Mac's story of the decayed human head surely invites speculation," said he.
"If it were not for the skull we would be sitting in front of a comfortable fire
back in our Baker Street diggings," added Watson.
"That is the beauty of it Watson. The only apparent sign of foul play is one
deliberately left behind. What a slap in the face! I say we have our hands
full with the character that killed Collins. Let's have a look around before it
gets too dark to see."
Holmes led the way as he slowly walked around the house. The distance from the
outer walls of the house to the edge of the water varied from five to fifteen
yards. The only signs Watson could see were the boot impressions that were made
earlier that morning by MacDonald and Fisher.
Once they reached the south side of the building, Holmes looked up to the window
of the study and then looked back down to the ground. There was a bramble of
mossy bushes at the edge of the house and a scrawny vine, which grew up the side
and front of the building.
Holmes took off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, removed his shoes and
stockings, and rolled up his trousers. Watson stood by silently as he watched
the detective wade out into the water up to his knees. Holmes bent over to feel
the muddy bottom with his hands. Working back up to the edge of the house, his
expression grew very serious. With his eyebrows knit, his lips pursed and his
eyes shifting from the house to the moor and back to the house, Holmes stood in
disbelief. Watson could not understand what his friend was searching for.
After wiping his hands on his handkerchief and putting his shoes back on, Holmes
proceeded to pick at the leaves and the branches of the small bushes under the
study window. He then dropped down to his knees and played with the black dirt.
"Hullo! What's this?" cried the detective as he sprang to his feet. Holding
something small between his muddy fingernails, Holmes fumbled for his magnifying
glass. After a few seconds of peering into the lens he shouted with joy as he
held up a tiny piece of wood against the dark sky.
"Our efforts are not in vain Watson! The first real piece of evidence!"
Holmes could hardly suppress his excitement as he carefully placed the sliver of
wood in his damp, muddy handkerchief. Folding the cloth neatly over, he tucked
it into his coat pocket.
The evening dusk, and along with it an ominous fog, had settled upon the moor.
After getting his clothing back in order, Holmes continued examining the
remaining grounds although it had become difficult to see. He walked around the
other side of the house with a grin on his face and a spring in his step. When
they reached the front door again, Holmes took time to write himself a note.
The front door opened and Inspector MacDonald emerged.
"Miss Hart is waiting in the sitting room."
"Excellent Inspector."
"She is still a wee bit hysterical."
"I'll be on my best behavior Mr. Mac," assured Holmes as the three men stepped
back into the house.
Mary Hart, the late doctor's full time housekeeper, was a sweet old lady with a
small frame and completely white hair. She wore an untrimmed black dress,
pale-gray shawl and a pair of high-laced, slightly muddy, black leather shoes.
Her eyes were noticeably swollen and red as she looked up to her new visitors.
MacDonald made the introductions.
"These are the gentlemen I wanted ye to meet Miss Hart. This here is Mr.
Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson."
Watson opened his gladstone bag and searched for a mild sedative. Holmes knelt
down in front of her.
"I am very glad that you would permit a word with us Miss Hart. We will try to
keep you as short a time as possible." Holmes paused to give her a consoling
smile, which seemed to help.
"Could you please tell me all that happened? I know you already told the
inspector your story but if it is not too much of a strain I would also like to
hear it from you."
"Well sir, the good doctor got a package in the post two days ago. It was on
that very table behind you that he opened it. I could not see what was inside
for he immediately closed it back up. I had to ask him several times what it
was before he would tell me."
She stopped to pull a small white-laced handkerchief from her sleeve to hold
daintily against her nose.
"He told me that it was a human head. Probably some weird practical joke from
his old friend Arthur."
"Professor Arthur Bell from Stamford University," informed Holmes to his
colleagues. Then, as an answer to their perplexed expressions he added, "The
book he was reading last night has an inscription on the inside cover signed 'A.
Bell, Stamford, 1884'. According to the inscription it was presented to Dr.
Collins upon his retirement."
Holmes turned back to the frail woman whose eyes were swelling up with tears.
"Pray, continue Miss Hart."
"He didn't seem too upset about it. Indeed, he told me not to worry and
disposed of it in the swamp. He put the whole box in a burlap bag with some
rocks and tossed it into the moor. I do not know where exactly. The doctor was
on in years but in good physical shape. He was an avid botanist and spent many
hours out in the swamp collecting specimens. He loved the moor for all the
different plants and trees… "
She seemed to drift off as if her mind could not bear to think of what came
next. Holmes persuaded her to continue with her statement.
"I know this is difficult for you Miss Hart. But please continue. It's
important that justice be done," said Holmes again in his soothing manner.
"Where was I?" she asked with a soft crackle in her voice.
"Did the doctor say if it was a man's or a woman's head?"
"No. I don't think so. He really did not want to discuss the matter as he knew
it would only upset me."
"After the doctor disposed of the box did he seem pre-occupied during the next
two days?"
"No. As a matter of fact he was quite his normal self."
"Was the doctor working on any specific experiments lately?"
"I really wouldn't know Mr. Holmes but I think not. He spent most of his time
of late reading."
"Please tell me what you remember about last night," continued Holmes.
"The doctor went up to his study after dinner as usual. We usually dine around
seven o'clock. After cleaning the dishes I retired to my room, which is here on
the ground floor next to the parlor. I wrote an entry in my diary and read
Scriptures for a while before going upstairs to check on him."
"Do you recall what time that was?" asked Holmes.
"It was a minute or two past eleven o'clock. I wound the clock on the
mantelpiece as I do every evening. As usual the doctor was reading by the
fireplace. It was a nice evening and he had the window open. How he could put
up with the bugs and noises from the moor I never could understand... I asked
him to close the window before retiring and bade him a good night."
The poor woman dropped her head into her lap and started sobbing. MacDonald
shook his head at Holmes to stop. The detective leaned in and put his hand on
her shoulder.
"Did you hear anything last night?" asked Holmes.
The woman looked up at Holmes with tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes.
"Why yes, I forgot, it was very strange... as you might imagine, I hear all
kinds of weird noises come from the moor... especially at night. But last night
was a singular experience. I heard a loud hideous cry come from somewhere in
the swamp. It wasn't like anything I have ever heard before... as if some poor
animal was being mutilated. It was more horrifying than any animal's normal
screech… it was more a painful cry for help."
"Do ye remember when this was?" asked MacDonald.
"No… I can't recall if I was asleep or just dozing off," replied the
housekeeper.
"How many times did you hear this scream?" asked Holmes.
"Six or seven times, maybe more. The first time it was very loud, but the rest
were softer. It was the same awful cry, but only higher pitched and farther
away. The higher pitched cries were about 10 minutes apart. It seemed that
every time I was about to fall asleep I would hear one of those horrible
shrieks..."
"I sincerely thank you for your time Miss Hart," said Holmes as he rubbed her
quivering shoulder.
"I'm sorry I can't be of any more help Mr. Holmes."
"You have been very helpful Miss Hart. Please permit me one more question. Was
the window open when you went up to the study this morning?"
"I don't recall... When I saw the doctor lying on the floor all twisted... I
just ran out..."
"It's quite alright Miss Hart. Do you have a place to stay for a while?" asked
Holmes.
"Yes, I can board with my sister in Middlesex. The kind inspector sent her a
telegram this morning. She and her husband should be here soon."
"Do let me know if I can ever be of service to you. Here is my card."
Holmes handed her his calling card. She read it and wrinkled her brow.
"What is this written on it, adder something?" she asked innocently.
"Oh, my mistake here is a fresh one. Thank you again."
Watson administered a sedative and told her to rest in bed for a few days. Then
they pardoned themselves and left the grieving woman in the sitting room. Once
they were outside, the three men sat on the bridge to talk. As soon as they had
lit their smokes MacDonald started.
"What in the name of all that is wonderful was that stunt with the calling card
Mr. Holmes?"
"Just a test Mr. Mac. I didn't think she was play acting however I am not so
vain to think I can not be fooled."
"Really Mr. Holmes. I don't think ye would trust ye'r own mother."
Watson came to his friend's defense.
"I think Holmes acted in a most courteous way Inspector. I think you could take
lessons in discrete questioning from him."
"It's quite alright Watson. Inspector Mac and I speak freely with each other.
It was a sneaky trick but I had to be sure she is as innocent as she seems,"
explained Holmes as he patted Watson on the back. MacDonald was still not
pleased with the line of questioning.
"What about all that nonsense about animals screamin in the night? Did ye
really have to pursue that?"
"Absolutely. It is what I am basing my case on. What are your views of the
matter friend MacDonald?"
"I have me theories but I am not sayin much until the Yard determines what the
cause of death was."
"I can tell you now Dr. Collins died from acute poisoning... most likely a
chemical compound based on snake venom."
"Well then Mr. Holmes that narrows it down to one of two possibilities. Either
the man committed suicide or the poor sweet woman we just spoke with isn't as
sweet as she appears."
"What about the decapitated head Collins received two days ago?" asked Watson.
"In me first theory if Collins committed suicide it may have been because of the
head. Possibly the man had a darker past than we know. Maybe he knew who sent
it and was so afraid that he took his own life rather than meet with an even
more horrible fate," explained MacDonald.
"I can not agree with your suicide theory Inspector," retorted Watson. "If
Collins administered the poison himself then there must be either traces in his
drink or another container in the study, neither of which were found," argued
the doctor.
"Excellent Watson. Crime has truly sharpened your brain. But couldn't Collins
drink the stuff and toss it out of the window into the swamp?"
"Why yes, I didn't think of that," admitted Watson.
"Very good Mr. Holmes. I say that should do very well," added the inspector.
"Except for the fact that the late Dr. Collins didn't take his own life. He was
murdered gentlemen," remarked Holmes.
"Just a minute Mr. Holmes. First ye theorize that Collins took the poison and
then threw the bottle out of the window and then ye tell us he didn't kill
himself at all," grieved the inspector.
"I merely stated he could have tossed it out of the window to disprove Watson's
theory that a means of administration must have been left in the room. I don't
think he took his own life based on the story we heard from Miss Hart and the
state in which we found the room. If you recall Mr. Mac, a book on the
reproduction systems of sporophytes was carefully set down on a cluttered table
beside a half-full glass of good brandy. Does a suicidal man drink only half a
glass when he knows it is his last? Or carefully set down a book in the middle
of a chapter only to walk over to the window, swallow a quantity of extremely
toxic poison and fling the bottle out into the swamp? No, Collins was
murdered," explained Holmes.
"Then just maybe I should hold onto our not-so-innocent Miss Hart!" exclaimed
the inspector supporting his second theory.
"I wouldn't go arresting anyone yet Mr. Mac."
"Man, there is no one else. Just look at the facts. Collins died of poisoning
so ye said yerself. No one else was near the house or some kind of traces would
have been left on the ground. I don't know of any poisonous birds that may have
flown in through the window, bitten the good doctor in the neck, and then flown
back out of the window without leavin a trace!"
"Especially a poisonous bird who sends a decayed human head by way of the post
and screams into the night every ten minutes," smiled Holmes.
"I just can't believe," interjected Watson, "that such a sweet old lady could
have possibly committed such a crime."
Watson paused to take a draw on his cigarette. Then he turned to MacDonald.
"How do you account for the severed head?"
"She probably sent it to Dr. Collins just to throw us off our tracks," explained
the inspector.
"Very clever," remarked Holmes with a chuckle.
"Laugh as ye may mister, but it is a plausible explanation."
"If the poor Miss Hart is actually a ruthless killer behind those bloodshot eyes
and white hair then she could have made up the story of the head," Holmes
conjectured.
"It could be as ye say. There is no evidence that the bloody head actually
existed!" ejaculated the inspector as his theory took shape.
"You have a good case against her Mr. Mac… a very damaging case indeed. But
tell me, honestly, that you think that poor old suffering woman methodically and
viciously planned and executed such a horrifying murder. And then to possess
such a vivid imagination to make up such a story as she told us, not to mention
her acting ability!"
"Well..."
"If she was lying she would have shown her guilt when I presented my card which
I had prepared with the name of the poison I suspect flows through the twisted
veins of Doctor Collins," remarked Holmes as he knocked out the ashes from his
pipe on the side of the stone bridge.
"Ye seem pretty good at puttin away me theories Mr. Holmes but I haven't heard
any of ye'rs."
"You know my methods. Theorizing before the facts can prove misleading. I do
not have enough facts to fully develop any theory. I may know more after I look
over some maps of the area."
"Ye'll be wasting ye'r time. The closest dry ground to the house other than the
road is probably a hundred yards away. This is the most gruesome area of
Dartmoor Mr. Holmes. I would say most positively that it would be impossible to
cross this mire. Ye can't walk across it, swim it, or even manage a small boat
in it. And on a cloudy night it would be next to impossible to navigate.
Believe me Mr. Holmes the sole access to the house is by the road ye came,"
insisted MacDonald to disprove Holmes' silent theories.
Watson was in agreement with MacDonald and jokingly added that a man would need
very long legs to cross the swamp. Holmes, still gazing out into the darkness
of the moor, turned to his friends as he stood up.
"We will see gentlemen. All I ask," addressing MacDonald, "is that you not
arrest Miss Hart. She has been through quite an ordeal and her nerves would not
stand any additional strain."
"I'll agree to that Mr. Holmes. Now if ye would be so kind to give me a lift
back to Grimpen, I could use a hot meal. Fisher took me wagon."
The men climbed onto the rented four-wheeler and headed for town. Holmes and
Watson would eventually catch the evening train to London. The wagon ride back
to town was uneventful except for once Holmes stopped and examined the ground
and even went for a short walk. A moonlit darkness had set in and Watson and
MacDonald were getting cold. Watson remembered Holmes didn't tell the inspector
about the sliver of wood found under the study window. He thought about
mentioning it when Holmes returned from his walk but decided professional
discretion was in order. MacDonald's teeth were beginning to chatter.
"Another five minutes Mr. Holmes and we were going to give ye up for lost,"
kidded the inspector.
As Holmes climbed back onto the wagon, MacDonald and Watson noticed that the
detective's right-leg, side and right arm were completely covered with greasy
mud and he was sopping wet. Holmes must have stepped into a deep bog-hole as he
negotiated his way through the mire in the darkness. The detective's scowling
expression suppressed the inspector's laughter to a teeth-chattering chuckle.
Watson also tried not to laugh at his friend.
"Where did you go Holmes?" smirked Watson.
"To the ends of the earth gentlemen," said he.
For the rest of the trip Watson could not get a response from Holmes for any
questions put to him. His only communication was a pointed finger at an
evil-looking vulture sitting in a lifeless tree to his left. The dreary bird
sat silently on a decayed branch and watched the three men slowly pass by.
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Chapter 5
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