by Maryann Boyle Murray

(as appeared in the Journal of the Wigmore Street Post Office, Winter 1995)

We sat in our Baker Street rooms, Sherlock Holmes and I, one icy, blustery day. Morning became afternoon as I failed to glean one bit of wisdom from the latest issue of the Lancet; Holmes, curled up in his chair, smoked pipe after pipe and stared fixedly at the wall. Although the fire blazed and crackled, there was an uncomfortable chill in the air and in my bones.

"...I imagine your leg suffers most as the mercury dips," spoke my companion, suddenly. I was beginning to become accustomed—though not necessarily amenable—to his habit of addressing my inner thoughts as others might my spoken ones.

"You imagine correctly, of course," I replied a bit testily. "I suppose a series of raised eyebrows, glances about the room, and other seemingly insignificant movements betrayed my discomfort?"

Holmes chuckled dryly. "On the contrary, dear fellow," he said. "I assure you that I have spent the past hour oblivious to the goings on in this sitting room, considering a little problem about which I will be consulted. Upon the reunion of mind and body, I became aware of the draft and wondered how your wound might be fairing in this deep freeze. The situation is as grim as I suspected, given your petulant response to my inquiry."

"Yes," I admitted, a bit chagrined. "This continued frost aches my leg and leaves me a bit on edge. But you say you have a case?"

"A case, Watson! A case!" Holmes leaped from his chair and fairly danced across the room to refill his pipe—a very different man from the one who had languished in his armchair the past week, cocaine syringe at the ready. "My kingdom for a case! Furthermore, you are correct in your deduction that I no longer require a seven-per-cent solution. Here, your eyes do betray you; your relief is unmistakable as you glance at the drawer housing the evil narcotic."

"Are you at liberty to discuss the situation?" I asked, passing by the reference to my distaste for his destructive habit. I had a keen interest in my fellow lodger's detective work, and discussing the case at hand would surely help take my mind off a throbbing war wound.

Sherlock Holmes smiled wanly, accepting an unspoken apology for my bad humour; it was a rare reversal of roles, he knew. "The telegram delivered this morning was from Lestrade. Our Scotland Yard associate requests my assistance; not blatantly, mind you, but it will come to that. It seems there's been a bit of murder at the consulting rooms of Dr. Scheldon Bellors; the unfortunate doctor himself, I am afraid."

"Of course!" I exclaimed. "I read the details this very morning in the papers. There were few facts available, but certainly no mention of murder. It seems Bellors had a weak heart that finally gave out."

"A history of heart disease is mere speculation on the part of London journalists," said Holmes, gazing up into the clouds of smoke he had produced throughout the morning. "‘Few facts available’ is a more accurate assessment of our predicament; Lestrade seems to be in possession of more than we, however, for he is somehow convinced there is foul play involved. We shall soon be enlightened; I believe I hear his tread upon the stair."

Indeed, the little policeman was just then being shown in by our landlady. As Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, Holmes indicated a chair and pushed a box of cigars toward our visitor. "Now then, Inspector Lestrade, let's hear it. Have a smoke and tell us your tale."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said Lestrade, as he and Holmes settled into armchairs opposite each other before the fire. "Don't mind if I do contribute to this poisonous atmosphere." He made a show of lighting his cigar and, after sending a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, prepared to deliver his narrative. "Now, I'd just as soon write this Bellors case down as ‘death by natural causes’ myself; however, I cannot ignore evidence pointing toward a quite different conclusion."

At this, Sherlock Holmes sank deeper into his chair, placed his fingertips together, and closed his eyes. Lestrade paused in uncertainty. The hoods over Holmes' eyes lifted slightly and the gray slits flashed in annoyance. "Pray, proceed!" The inspector shrugged and began his story.

"You can imagine the scene," said the policeman. "Wailing servants, staff members... and even a patient, all standing around the dead man. He was in his consulting rooms to make a last-minute appointment with a Mrs. Winston Bellamy before heading out to dinner."

"Mrs. Bellamy's complaint?" interrupted Holmes.

"Unknown," sighed Lestrade. "She has no record of treatment in the doctor's files and refuses to discuss her reason for seeing the physician last night."

"And she needn't, at this point," said Holmes. "Go on."

"Well, it was Mrs. Bellamy who raised the alarm," continued the inspector. "She had been in consultation with Bellors mere moments when she called for assistance. By the time the household arrived, the doctor was dead, lying on the floor as we found him. Mrs. Bellamy said he looked in a great deal of pain when she arrived and before she could settle herself in, he just up and collapsed without a sound. We found no weapon, no mark on the body, no clue of any sort to refute the coroner’s conclusion of heart failure. That is...until..."

Sherlock Holmes' eyes shot open. He moved not a muscle, but I could tell his every nerve and brain cell were poised and alert for the "evidence" that compelled Lestrade to consult him.

"Well...." began the inspector a bit sheepishly, "during a search of his personal belongings at the mortuary, they discovered the remains of a hard biscuit in the pocket of the doctor’s dressing gown. This morning I was informed that an analysis of the crumbs shows a substance not ordinarily used in baking..."

The gray eyes flashed again; the detective leaned forward in his chair. "That unusual ingredient...?"

"Arsenic."

Sherlock Holmes sat back and gave a low whistle; he rubbed his hands together in delight. "Now that would hardly be the chemical a physician would take, thinking his heart was failing! Does anyone other than the coroner know about this development?" As Lestrade shook his head no, Holmes bounced up and snatched his coat. "Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Anything of interest at the scene has surely been obliterated, but an expedition to Harley Street will at least get me out of my chair and away from that drawer, eh Watson?"

Although the contents of the drawer had no hold over me, the chair with its warmth and comfort did; therefore, I did not accompany Holmes to the scene of the untimely death of Dr. Scheldon Bellors. Rather, I fell into the much-needed deep sleep that my aches and pains prohibited me from realizing the night before. A delicious supper of cold pheasant, brought up by Mrs. Hudson, awoke me early that evening. I had almost completed my meal when Holmes returned, all aflush from his day's activities, the cold weather, and the promise of a mystery unfolding.

"Ah, yes, friend Watson," said Holmes as he pounced upon what remained of my dish. "The gears grind productively once again!"

"You’ve come to agree with Lestrade’s assessment of murder!" I exclaimed.

"One can hardly ignore poison-laced bakery goods, man!" he cried. Then, a bit somberly, "I admit to being a bit disturbed by this matter, Watson...but it certainly involves a worthy adversary."

"What of Mrs. Bellamy?" I asked. The last person to see Bellors alive must have shed some light on the problem. "Did you question her?"

"Most obstinate," said Holmes, "at least at the start; but after sharing with her my lifelong battle with mental illness, she told me all I wanted to know."

"Your lifelong battle...?" I looked up and saw Holmes chuckling silently. "I see. You posed as an empathetic fellow patient."

"I posed as nothing," he said, feigning offense. "I merely responded to her reticence with some slight embellishments of my own medical history. ‘Needing to consult a physician specializing in disorders of the mind myself, I could perfectly understand...’ and so on."

"What did you learn?"

"I learned that you should consider yourself fortunate for not specializing in disorders of the mind, doctor," he said with a scowl. "Odd, quite odd. Lestrade could do worse than keep an eye on Mrs. Winston Bellamy."

After a moment’s thought, Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, shaking his head; but, on the subject of Dr. Bellors, he would say no more. Once he had finished my supper and the food Mrs. Hudson brought for him, he donned his dressing gown, settled himself among a pile of pillows on the floor, and took his violin in hand. Drawing the bow across the strings, he produced—not the morose or strident chords I had come to expect as he contemplated a puzzle—but a tender, soothing melody of Vivaldi that he knew I favored. "I believe I shall have to truly put myself out for this case," I heard him sigh as I drifted once more into the comfortable arms of slumber.

The next day brought an early-morning telegram from a member of the late Dr. Bellors’ household. Holmes read the message and tossed it to me over my eggs. "What are your thoughts, Watson?" he asked, returning to devour his own breakfast.

"Dear Mr. Holmes [it read],

Please forgive my unacceptable behavior. May I make amends? Will call at Baker Street if appropriate.

Miss Grace McCormick"

"Who is Miss McCormick, when and where did she behave unacceptably, and why does she feel the need to ‘make amends’?" I asked, having no thoughts whatsoever on the telegram—or anything else for that matter—before completing my morning meal.

"Capital, Watson!" cried Holmes. "Do not theorize without complete data...your possibilities stagger me!" He scribbled a return and handed the sheet to the waiting messenger.

"This woman...?" I asked, ignoring his platitudes.

"...was in the employ of Dr. Scheldon Bellors, as a clerk or typewriter girl," Holmes replied. "She was hired several months ago to organize his growing practice. Apparently they had become friends as well as business associates for she was quite distraught as I tried to question her yesterday. I am afraid my patience runs thin when confronted with weeping and wailing, Watson; I could hear nothing through the ever-present handkerchief to the eye." More eggs were shoveled onto his plate as he frowned at the recollection.

I imagined Holmes trying to conduct an investigation and being waylaid by a lady in tears. As I have noted in the past, the attraction of the female species never seemed to turn his head or sidetrack his thoughts. Although occasionally employing great chivalry and charm with the fair sex to further his purposes, I could not fathom his tolerating an unceasingly sobbing woman. My tablemate noticed the smug look that appeared, however briefly, upon my face.

"I got the information I needed," retorted Holmes, eyeing me over his tea. "Moreover, the young Miss McCormick, feeling abashed by her recent performance, might prove to be of some assistance. We will know more this afternoon."

"We? You have invited her here to ‘make amends.’"

"I have."

"I am intrigued...and look forward to meeting the young lady." It was not my imagination: I surely saw a smirk, similar to the one I had just displayed, flash across my companion’s face. I rang for Mrs. Hudson to clear the table; the early morning I thought it to be had left us long ago. Surely Holmes had noticed the time, for he was eating his breakfast and mid-day meal at once, snatching the one remaining piece of ham from the tray passing his head.

At precisely the hour for which Holmes had extended the invitation, there was a pull at the bell; immediately thereafter, Mrs. Hudson introduced the beautiful figure of a young woman encased in black mourning attire. When Miss Grace McCormick lifted her veil, I saw how truly striking was her youthful face, despite a pale complexion and tear-swollen eyes. Her golden blond hair was piled under a black bonnet cocked fashionably to the side; sad eyes of the deepest blue looked out at us from under its brim. The offending handkerchief was tucked into her sleeve.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, extending her black gloved hand gracefully, "Thank you for permitting me to redeem myself. I felt quite foolish after you left yesterday. Perhaps giving you another opportunity to question me will tell if I might have contributed to your inquiry."

Astonished, I saw that Holmes, too, was dazzled. Without taking his eyes from her face, he accepted the lady’s hand and bowed over it graciously. "And I, Miss McCormick, value your assistance in completing this routine investigation; I realize how difficult it was for you to come here. Now, allow me to present my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson...."

Grace McCormick stepped toward me and extended her elegant hand. The lady’s entire demeanor bespoke such grief, I was moved by her attempt at a weak smile. In that brief moment, she somehow instilled in me a great sense of admiration. "Miss McCormick, I am sorry for your loss."

"...Doctor," was all she could reply; but I felt a gentle squeeze of my hand that told what my words had meant. I lead her to the chair Holmes preferred for his clients—across from him by the fire—then took my own seat when she declined refreshment.

"Now, if you are quite ready to begin," began Holmes, slowly. As she nodded assent, he picked up his Common Book—where he had catalogued every fact regarding every evil done and every evil-doer in this century—and began to page through it. "Tell me about your relations with Dr. Bellors." Miss McCormick shifted in her chair, confused by the question and disturbed by his apparent lack of attention. "How you came into his employ, your responsibilities, your knowledge of the household," Holmes elaborated in a soothing voice, surprising me by noticing and attempting to allay her discomfort. He returned to his book, becoming absolutely consumed by entries somewhere about the letter "R."

"I came from the United States more than a year ago," began Grace McCormick. "My family there have all passed away and I can no longer call it home; I decided to make a change in my life. A trip abroad seemed the ideal approach to determining what course that change might take. As weeks become months with no clear path presenting itself, I found myself in London, requiring additional funds to finance this longer-than-expected journey. I interviewed for a job with Scheldon—Dr. Bellors—and it was a perfect match." At the mention of his name, the sky blue eyes began to well up; I admired her resolve as the handkerchief remained in place and she struggled to continue her story.

"The advertised position was for an office clerk, someone to help with the doctor’s files and to organize his patients’ appointments. I have no medical training, Mr. Holmes, but being able to work a typewriting machine put me ahead of the other ladies who applied. Dr. Bellors offered me the post and I accepted." She took a deep breath, rearranged her skirts, and went on. "With the many hours required to introduce some organization into his neglected affairs, the doctor and I found ourselves spending a great deal of time together. We became close, friends. Mrs. Bellors passed away several years ago, so the doctor had little family life to tend to; I myself had no one in the world...have no one." At this point in her tale she faltered; the handkerchief was called into service. "I’m so sorry...."

I instinctively tensed for the intolerant reaction to come from her interrogator. Quite contrary to my expectations, this man of thin patience had put down his book and was leaning toward Miss McCormick, touching her hand. "It’s quite all right," he murmured softly. "Please take your time; I understand how difficult this must be."

Grace McCormick took comfort in what must have been a change in my friend’s demeanor from the day before and went on. "As for the rest of the household, Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you can image that I have few acquaintances there. I must admit to understanding their positions, however. To a woman, I believe, they each had plans to be the next Mrs. Scheldon Bellors. My...developing relations...with the doctor was not viewed with approval. The housemaid, the cook: each saw me as taking an opportunity from her. If Dr. Bellors’ valet wasn’t a man I believe I would have him as an enemy as well."

"What unpleasant conditions to live under!" I exclaimed from my seat at the table.

"So very unpleasant, Dr. Watson," she said bitterly, turning to me an exquisite face masked in pain. My heart went out to this young woman who had lost her family, her home, and now a man she had cared for.

"But they are simple, hard-working people; I’m sure this is as difficult for them as for me," she paused, thinking about the people who had been so unkind to her. "Where they will find other positions, particularly Molly, I have no idea."

"Molly is the cook," said Holmes.

"After a fashion," replied Miss McCormick. "Her culinary skills were never much to brag about, but she surely has deteriorated in her work of late."

"How so?" asked Holmes, eyeing her intently.

"Oh, only that in recent weeks nothing has ever tasted just right," Miss McCormick said with a thoughtful, faraway look; then she smiled sheepishly. "Why, we even joked that she had killed the house cat. The poor thing got sick and died soon after having gotten into a bag of her scraps."

"Hmm," mumbled Holmes to himself. "That is significant."

Holmes stood up and replaced his Common book on the shelf. "What of Mrs. Winston Bellamy?" he asked, "the woman who was consulting the doctor when he had his attack?"

"I know nothing of her," said Miss McCormick, sadly. "Although it is my responsibility to arrange patients’ visits, I was unaware of this appointment. In fact, I was preparing for a dinner engagement when she came. It was quite after visiting hours. If only I had known...." Although her eyes glistened, Miss McCormick raised her chin and kept her composure.

"You suspect Mrs. Bellamy of contributing to the doctor’s attack." Holmes did not ask the question; he made the statement.

"I do," she replied, "if only indirectly. Dr. Bellors had been unwell lately and was seeing fewer patients over the past several weeks. I would not have scheduled such a late-evening consultation."

"Of what nature was his illness?" asked Holmes.

"I have no idea, he was just not himself," she answered brusquely.

"Thank you, Miss McCormick. You have been most helpful, " said Holmes as he stood and took her arm, almost tenderly, and directed her toward the door. "I am truly sorry if our talk caused you further distress."

"Not at all," she replied. Suddenly, she turned and took both of Holmes’ hands in hers. "Please, Mr. Holmes, bring this nightmare to a conclusion. I am alone again and must begin all over, searching for new directions; extended inquiries will only prolong my heartache. If you do only this to help me go on with my life, I shall be ever grateful." She literally clutched at him, much as a woman drowning might seize a life ring.

The detective stared for a long moment into those lovely, deep blue eyes. Could even Sherlock Holmes, cold reasoner that he was, be oblivious to their allure? How could any man not be moved to help this young woman who had lost so much?

"I vow to do everything in my power to that end," he said at last. Although abruptly disengaging himself from her grasp, he bowed a warm farewell and I saw his lips brush her ungloved hand.

"A remarkable woman," Holmes said pensively after Miss McCormick had departed. "I must admire her conviction and determination; she faces a great challenge."

Rare praise from a man who seldom exhibited compassion for another’s change of fortune. While my thoughts remained my own, his words led me to hope there might be more mention of Miss Grace McCormick at Baker Street.

Weeks passed, however, without reference to either Grace McCormick or the Bellors case; as the newspapers had no suspicion of foul play, they too were silent on the subject. Sherlock Holmes himself was engaged in other matters and was seldom in residence. On one rare occasion when we did dine together, I asked about the progress made on the doctor’s murder.

"Ah, Watson," Holmes sighed, picking disinterestedly at the food before him. "It is always the proof of a crime that holds us up. We cannot put someone in the dock without evidence...."

"You suspect someone?" I asked incredulously.

"Not only do I suspect," my companion replied irritably, "I know who poisoned the man. Obtaining proof, however, has taken longer than expected."

I looked at my friend’s haggard face and saw that the hours he was away, however spent, were difficult ones. His skin had an unhealthy color to it and his already gaunt features evidenced further loss of weight. The uneaten food before him signaled the typical inattention to his physical well-being that accompanied total absorption in his work. He was not well.

"No, I am not well," he responded, annoyed by my inquiry, "and I would thank you to leave me to enjoy my ill-health in peace."

He pushed himself weakly from the table and retired to his bedroom; he was not to leave it for almost three days. Although my instincts as a medical man poised me to intervene, I was aware that any action to introduce my assistance would be in vain. Indeed, barring himself in his room for days at a time was not a reaction with which I was unfamiliar; when my friend had pushed his body too far, this was his method of regenerating himself. I felt sure the incident would pass. Someone else, however, was troubled: Grace McCormick. On the morning of the third day of Holmes’ self-imposed quarantine, Mrs. Hudson brought up an unexpected visitor.

"Dr. Watson," said Miss McCormick, somewhat hesitantly, "please forgive my calling so impulsively. I knew Mr. Holmes wasn’t feeling himself, however, and became worried when days passed without his visiting. Perhaps something in my basket will help cheer him and speed his recovery."

Thoroughly baffled, I offered Miss McCormick a seat. "Well, yes," I admitted. "Mr. Holmes is feeling a bit ill; but I had no idea that you were aware...."

"Oh, yes!" she virtually beamed. This was not the same woman who had so tearfully spoken to us of her loss only a few weeks ago. Although she averted her eyes, I could see a bright sparkle from out of the blue. "Mr. Holmes has been...calling on me...to see how I have been faring. It has been a difficult time and he has been a great comfort."

I stared blankly at her as I took in this last. Sherlock Holmes "calling on" a lady was certainly not something I pictured easily; the image of him offering Miss McCormick comfort in her time of grief did not present itself at all. Yet, here was a most beautiful woman, claiming to have been the object of such a series of calls. I could not deny the change I saw in her: roses in her cheeks, lights in her eyes; it was her implied reason for that change that struck me dumb.

"Indeed." I finally managed to say. "I am glad Mr. Holmes...has been able to help."

"Might I see him?" I was shocked to hear her ask. An unannounced visit was somewhat understandable, given her concern for my friend’s health; however, to ask admittance to his sickroom was completely inappropriate. Just as I prepared to convey my objections, Holmes himself entered the sitting room; he looked as death-like as anyone would, having locked himself in darkness and abstaining from food for three days. I was relieved to see he had the clarity of mind to draw on his dressing gown before joining us.

"Watson," he said feebly, squinting in my direction. "Has Lestrade happened by? Days ago I agreed to see him... Miss McCormick?" His eyes rested at last on our visitor. "Then I did hear your voice."

"My dear Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed, jumping up in distress; she guided the weakened man into the room and helped him sink into the folds of the sofa. "I had no idea how ill you were." He did look absolutely ghastly, much more drained than I expected. Finally, I found my tongue.

"Holmes, you’ve really abused yourself beyond reason," I said sternly. "You must stop...."

"Watson..." he whined. "Please humour me: Lestrade was quite anxious to see me some days ago; he must be beside himself by now, and deep in trouble. Now that I am up and about, I feel somewhat able to listen to his prattle."

"Shall I send for him?" I asked, knowing it would certainly be improper to leave Miss McCormick alone with a gentleman in his bedclothes.

"Send for him; go for him," groaned Holmes. "Just get the man here before I lose interest in seeing him."

As Holmes suggested to Miss McCormick that she might have more interesting pursuits than lingering about an overworked friend, I decided that calling for Inspector Lestrade myself might be the most expedient means of dispatching my task. It was to be more so than I expected. Leaving behind an unfathomable scene—Miss McCormick attempting to entice Holmes with the contents of her basket—I left 221B and started down Baker Street in search of a cab. Before I could raise my arm, however, Inspector Lestrade himself sidled up next to me.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Holmes is ready to see you now," I replied, suddenly aware of playing a part for which I had no script. The inspector followed me back up the street and we ascended the steps to the sitting room. There we found Miss McCormick smiling in approval as her patient bit into a scone she had produced from her basket. Suddenly, the picture became clear.

"Holmes!" I cried, as he swallowed a piece of the biscuit.

"Miss Grace McCormick, I place you under arrest for the murder of Dr. Scheldon Bellors," intoned Lestrade.

"...and of Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" I exclaimed as my friend toppled onto the floor.

* * *

"He deserved to die," spat Grace McCormick, indicating the lifeless—although not dead—form of Sherlock Holmes on the settee. She had remained silent and still as Lestrade and I rushed to Holmes’ aid. With relief, I found him breathing evenly, his pulse rapid and weak but regular—signs that told me he would soon be right. The inspector confronted his prisoner.

"And did Dr. Scheldon Bellors, too, deserve to die?" he asked her.

"No," she whispered softly. "That was an accident, a terrible mistake." Once again she became the fragile, grief-stricken girl who had first walked into these rooms, seeming to ask Holmes’ help. Gone was the evil woman who had poisoned her employer and then tried, moments before, to do the same to my closest friend, a man she barely knew.

"You should be aware that your words can be used against you by the Inspector," croaked a voice from the sofa.

"Holmes, my dear fellow!" I rushed to his side. His breath and pulse were much stronger now, I determined with satisfaction. "We thought she had poisoned you, too."

"She had," he admitted ruefully, pulling himself up to a sitting position. "I merely underestimated the effects of trace amounts of arsenic in the stomach of one who has been without food for days. You needn’t have entered so dramatically."

"You knew?!" cried Miss McCormick from her station near the door. Lestrade had quietly slipped out, leaving her in our custody, to obtain proper transport to Scotland Yard. "And yet you let me go on, playing along so I would implicate myself. She was right: you are not to be outwitted."

"From your mother," replied Holmes, bowing his head solemnly, "that is the highest of compliments."

"I am sorry I did not complete my objective, Sherlock Holmes," Grace McCormick said indifferently. "You could have expressed your gratitude in person."

"No," replied Holmes. "I am not prepared to renew our acquaintance just yet. Sadly, it may be you who will speak with her first."

Miss McCormick turned her face away from him.

"When Lestrade spoke of arsenic poisoning, biscuits in the pocket, my thoughts turned to several cases I was aware of involving that particular substance," began Sherlock Holmes, placing his fingertips together and embarking on the much-needed explanation to this puzzle. My professional concern for his health told me he should rest, but my overwhelming curiosity overpowered the instinct; I let him go on. "One such case in which I was peripherally involved took place several years ago during a visit to the United States. I then had the occasion to meet Mrs. Sarah Jane Robinson, a woman responsible for housekeeping at a particular theater in the New England region of the country."

My ears perked up at this. I managed to hold my tongue, however, leaving unasked the many questions that clamored in my head. My friend’s unwillingness to reveal himself, demonstrated over the years we had shared rooms, told me the most I could expect was a reasonable explanation of what had happened here today. Hoping for disclosures about experiences during years past would be fruitless.

"Although of no exceptional means, this woman was of an exceptional intellect," Holmes continued. "There was no subject upon which she wasn’t conversant: music, the arts, sciences. One particular conversation I still ponder to this day addressed her absolute assertion that man would fly before the end of the century; today, the work being done with mechanized gliders seems to bear her out. Frankly, I can say without hesitation that she was the most winning woman I ever knew." My friend paused in thought. Perhaps his mind wandered back to those fascinating discussions; perhaps he considered whether to speak of this friendship further. If he contemplated sharing additional reflections about the woman, he decided against it. "We all have our shortcomings and she was no exception. Despite her incredible base of knowledge, it was basic happiness she lacked: Mrs. Robinson was bitter for her station in life and the menial tasks she was required to perform for a pittance. Tragically, she chose to put her knowledge of poisons to use, raising her income by collecting on certain life insurance policies. Sarah Jane Robinson helped several family members into the next world with gradual, cumulative arsenic poisoning. She murdered her husband, her brother-in-law, her sister, her nieces, nephews...even her own children."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"You lie!" cried Miss McCormick. "She thought you a friend and you betrayed her."

"I had to stop her," he said, looking at Grace McCormick, mystified by her anger; then, to me: "She was tried and sentenced to death."

Miss McCormick spoke up, much calmer now. "Prior to my mother’s death, we spent hours together talking about the terrible misfortune that had befallen us...and the man responsible." She eyed Holmes with disdain. "She died a sad, broken woman thanks to you, Mr. Holmes. I had only hoped to return the tribute."

"It comes as no surprise, your not accepting her as a murderer and blaming me for her sentence. The confounding aspect of it all is that revenge would drive you to such lengths—and so pointlessly." Holmes’ arm had been hunting around under the sofa; he finally found his cigarette case and, surprisingly, offered the choice of its contents to Miss McCormick. Without hesitation she made her selection and, leaning toward the detective, placed her hand on his as he lit it. Her still-beautiful blue eyes softened a bit as she gazed into his of cold gray. I wondered if Sarah Jane Robinson’s daughter had also spent time about the theater, so easily had Grace McCormick fallen back into her character. Oblivious to her coquetry, Holmes continued his narrative.

"With Mrs. Robinson’s activities among the arsenic cases I considered, it was quite a thrill to come upon a member of Dr. Bellors’ household who so resembled the woman," he smiled slightly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. "Odd that you would think to conceal your features from me, Miss McCormick, with the handkerchiefs and mourning veils, yet use your own Christian name and your uncle’s family name. You see," he said to me, "I knew Mrs. Robinson had a treasured daughter: Grace."

"I had no notion you would have known or retained any information about my family," returned Miss McCormick, "given your poor treatment of my mother."

"But why kill Dr. Bellors?" I asked her. "Was your mourning for him also a sham?"

"Oh no, doctor," she said sadly, "I cared for Dr. Bellors most deeply. Initially, I took the position with him to gain access to his chemicals, to learn of something I might use to achieve my purpose as I located Mr. Holmes. But as time progressed, I came to know Dr. Bellors as a warm, kind gentleman. In fact, the respect he had for human life all but convinced me to abandon my mission; then, he was dead. Devastated, I began to consider what to do with my yet again shattered life, where to go. The next day, Mr. Holmes came upon the scene: the very man who had filled my thoughts and inspired my actions for so long. Of course, I became suspicious; the celebrated Sherlock Holmes would not have been called in to conduct a routine investigation—however slipshod the local constabulary. I was then convinced the doctor did not die from the heart attack officials had suggested the night before.

"After your departure, Mr. Holmes, my mind turned to the previous weeks and how the doctor’s health seemed to be deteriorating: the headaches, the nausea. I was suddenly panicked by the thought that he might have been a victim of my preparations for you. Tearing apart his consulting rooms I found, to my absolute horror, an empty tin I had used to hold my biscuits of arsenic. Then, I knew it was true: I had killed this wonderful, loving man." Miss McCormick covered her face with her hands; after some moments she was able to continue. "I had baked several batches of biscuits weeks ago; but without help from the kitchen, they were not a success. I decided to add the poison to the bakers’ scones and disposed of my own—or so I thought. Dr. Bellors may very well have snatched that smallest tin from my sitting room before I could destroy them. While most of the cakes had the smallest traces of the poison, there must have been a lethal dose in the biscuit he saved for last—the one he ate while waiting for Mrs. Bellamy. It was all a terrible, terrible mistake."

We three sat in silence; I could not help feeling some sympathy for this woman, seeing the devastation she felt at what she had done. Yet, I reminded myself, realizing her atrocity only compelled her to try to kill again.

"And so, your determination to seek revenge was doubled," spoke up Holmes at last. "Now you held me responsible for two deaths."

"Yes," replied Grace McCormick quietly. "Perhaps it was unwise to confront you so openly, as I did. But I needed to direct your suspicions away from me; hence the tales about poor Molly’s cooking. She did kill the cat, by the way," Miss McCormick finished, blowing cigarette smoke softly into the air.

"No doubt!" cried Holmes in earnest. "I’ve eaten at this woman’s table, Watson; Molly’s untainted fare was little improvement over Miss McCormick’s poisoned!"

I laughed out loud at the preposterousness of the situation. Holmes calling on a woman he knew was trying to kill him, with the only food safe to eat being ill-prepared enough to off a pet. He was right: my colleague truly had to put himself out to solve this case.

"But it was all quite necessary," said Holmes. "I suspected Miss McCormick had come to London to take her revenge on me, and that Dr. Bellors’ death was either a mistake or for practice. Giving her the opportunity to strike again was the way to find out for sure; what a stroke of luck—her offering to come here the very next day." He smiled, tamping out his cigarette . "Arsenic does nothing for the appetite, but I still crave the tobacco.... Although I knew who she was, Watson, I must admit that seeing Miss McCormick here, without the props to hide her face, caught me by surprise; she is the very image of her mother. An interesting line of study, the heredity of physical characteristics." He gazed toward the window, as though he might engage in such an undertaking at that very moment. "She played to the cheap seats, eh Watson?" he said at last with a snigger, "asking for help in ‘getting on with her life.’" I cringed as he coldly mimicked the words that had touched me so deeply. "I had only to take advantage of the opening and let her go as far as she would."

"She went farther than you expected," I admonished, welcoming the opportunity to focus on something other than how I had been duped by this gifted actress and murderer.

"Not so far," Holmes said, with a grin. "You forget: I knew what she planned for me—a decided advantage since she knew not what Sherlock Holmes planned for her." After flashing a sinister grin, and he continued. "I paid several visits to Miss McCormick over the past weeks, partaking of enough tea and cake for her to believe she was gradually introducing arsenic into my system." He sighed deeply, as though at the memory of a most tiresome chore. "She was poisoning me—she and Molly both, in their separate ways—but not nearly to the extent she thought. I managed to ditch most of their teatime fare." I shook my head at this characteristic abuse of his body. "I had to be sure." he answered my expression.

"You are remarkable," said Grace McCormick with grudging admiration. "While I thought I had you completely taken in, it was you who outwitted me."

Holmes bowed his head in acknowledgment and went on. "The last time we met, I saw to it that you observed in me the symptoms of an advanced level of arsenic poisoning. No great performance was necessary, I can tell you. I had only to exaggerate my actual discomfort, for even the smallest dose of that poison is incredibly unkind to the human system. Suspecting you might come to admire your work if I failed to make contact for a few days, I holed myself up here and caught up on my indexing. Your impatience to—‘bring this nightmare to a conclusion’ is how I think you put it—lead me to further expect your attempt to finish the job." He indicated the basket Lestrade, who had just returned, was handing to his Constable. The police carriage had arrived and the Inspector prepared to take his murder suspect to Scotland Yard. "And of course," he continued with a dramatic flourish, "the entire case rested on Lestrade’s keeping watch and following you to my door to catch you in the act."

"My pleasure, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade as he guided Miss McCormick toward the door. "As always, we at the Yard are most appreciative of the little bit of help you’ve been able to provide over the years and welcome any chance to come bail you out. One good turn deserves another, and all that!"

Holmes laughed quietly to himself as he plucked another cigarette from his case. Miss Grace McCormick turned to him before departing.

"I enjoyed your pursuit, Mr. Holmes," she said, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

"It was a pleasure passing the hours," replied my friend with an enigmatic smile of his own. "If I may say, you are as winning a lady as your late mother; I only regret how literally you follow in her footsteps."

Miss McCormick bowed her head as Lestrade reached around her and closed the door.

"Well, this case surely compels me to put pen to paper!" I exclaimed as I brushed ashes from the chair Miss McCormick had occupied. "No finer tale could be told: murder, mystery, and unlikely romance as Sherlock Holmes courts a young lady. Then, perhaps not so unlikely, under the circumstances...."

"My dear Watson!" Holmes cried, feigning dismay. "You wound me. Do you mean to say I could not capture a lady’s attention unless she had motives of ill will toward me?"

"By no means!" I exclaimed. "I merely wonder whether Miss Grace McCormick would have succeeded in holding your notice unless she had motives of ill will."

"Touché, old fellow," said my friend, smiling as he lit his cigarette and shuffled to his room. "Touché."

© 1995 Maryann Boyle Murray