Sherlock Holmes 
and The Case of   Christmas Poisonings
by Barrie Roberts
 
 I had always been aware that my friend Sherlock Holmes harboured deep religious beliefs, though they were not of what might be called the conventional type. I have never seen him in a church unless his visit was connected with some enquiry and as to Christmas—he is no more aware of it than he is of Hare Pie and Bottle Kicking Day if he is not reminded.
Nevertheless, since it was at the New Year that he and I first met, and since that meeting was to change the whole course of my life, I have always tried to celebrate Christmas and the New Year with him and, apart from his three years' absence in the East and the years he spent in America in preparation for his capture of the Railway Maniac, I have been mostly successful. Many times recently I have been his guest in Sussex for the festivities, but Martha, his housekeeper there, has family in the locality, and I have long thought it a shame to keep her from sharing the season with her relations. My own housekeeper has no kin in Britain and so welcomed my suggestion that I should invite my friend to London this past Christmas.
It was a raw afternoon when I went to the station to meet him. As the Sussex local pulled in it was easy to spot my friend's tall figure among the disembarking crowd, still completely upright at the age of sixty-eight. Taxicabs were hard to come by on the rank outside and we stood in the sleet, watching the streams of passengers coming and going, heavily burdened with baskets and shopping bags, parcels and packages, and more than one with a goose tucked under the arm. At last we were on our way to Kensington. The traffic was heavy in the darkening streets and the sky had turned to that even grey which presages snow. Throughout our journey to Kensington my friend inveighed against London, its motor traffic, and the internal combustion engine in general."I tell you, Watson," he remarked at one point,"that the whole of man's ingenuity seems now to be directed to devising more costly and inefficient ways of doing what was done perfectly well before." I began to wonder if I had been right in persuading him to spend Christmas with me. If his mood did not improve, I feared that the days until the New Year might prove to be long ones.
My forebodings proved to be, however, groundless. I have never kept a large establishment, but my home is modestly comfortable, and my little staff had excelled themselves in preparing it for the first Christmas I had spent there in a good many years. The hall was warm and bright and they had decorated it with paper chains and sprigs of greenery, while the sitting room was cheered by more decorations and a roaring fire. In the corner stood a large tree, fantastically ornamented with glass balls and candles.
Holmes looked about him, then stepped to the fire, where he bent and warmed his long hands."Your writing evidently prospers," he remarked over his shoulder.
"You have surely not been reading my little efforts?" I said.
"Only occasionally," he said."It was the presence of a number of new and expensive rarities upon your bookshelves that prompted my remark."
We were soon at the table, where Holmes—whose appetite was always a clear mark of his mood—made short work of cold cuts, pudding, pastries, and I know not what else before we retired to sit each side of the sitting room fire and light our pipes. Holmes, once his meerschaum was well alight, got up and went to the window. The curtains were not yet drawn and it was possible to see that, with the coming of night, a steady fall of snow had begun. He stood for a long moment, his keen eyes staring out into the white-flecked darkness.
"The snow appears to have settled in for the night," he remarked, as he sat down again.
"I hope that all those travelling home for Christmas will not be snowbound," I said.
"Yes," he agreed,"but I cannot help thinking that there is nothing like snow to discourage criminous activities. Do you recall how many of our cases began at this time of year? I feel sure that some of them would not have been initiated if a serious snowfall had intervened.
I cast my mind back to Christmases when Holmes' services had been required. There had been the Christmas Jewel affair in '81, Mrs. Stewart's death just before Christmas of '87, and the Blue Carbuncle business just after. Holmes broke my chain of thought."Do you recall '88, Watson?"
"I recall that much of the autumn was devoted to the East End murders and that we were engaged in the Nonpareil Club scandal shortly before Christmas," I said,"but I can't say that I remember Christmas of that year. What happened?"
Holmes smiled."There we may have the exception that proves my rule, Watson. On Christmas of '88 it snowed hard, but we were summoned to Abbas Parva."
"So we were!" I exclaimed."I had forgotten that affair. I must look up my notes it."
"No need," said Holmes."It was a singular affair and my own recollection of it is clear. Perhaps it would be well to add it to your published records, if only as a warning."
While he spoke my memory ran back more than thirty years, to my last Christmas as a bachelor. Snow had, as Holmes recalled, fallen heavily on Christmas Eve. We had risen on Christmas morning to find our windowpanes heaped high and the sound of the occasional carriage or cab in Baker Street muffled by it. How the day passed I do not remember, but I do recall that neither of us had sufficient appetite for the large breakfast which Mrs. Hudson placed in front of us on Boxing Day.
"Upon my word, Watson," said Holmes,"I do not usually share your enthusiasm for exercise, but if the weather did not prevent it I believe I should take a brisk walk. If Mrs. Hudson continues to feed us so liberally my mental and physical processes will come to a standstill."
He had barely spoken these words when we heard a loud and persistent jangling of the street bell. Holmes was alert in an instant."I did not hear a cab," he said,"and that is not the ring of a visiting friend, nor of a tradesman expecting his Christmas box. We may be in luck, Watson."
Mrs. Hudson was soon with us."Mr. Holmes," she said,"there is a gentleman below who insists upon seeing you. I have reminded him that it is a holiday, but he is most insistent."
"There are no holidays in my profession, Mrs. Hudson. Please show him in."
Holmes' command was unnecessary, for a moment later the door burst open and a man entered. He was a thin, short man of about thirty, clad in an overcoat that had seen better days. A long muffler was looped about his shoulders and behind his spectacles his face was pale with cold.
"I know it is unpardonable to intrude upon you at this season, Mr. Holmes," he said,"but the matter is so very urgent, that I..."
Holmes held up a hand to bring our visitor to a halt."Pray be seated," he invited."Mrs. Hudson, perhaps you would be good enough to replenish the tea. Our visitor is cold."
The bespectacled stranger dropped into the basket chair and huddled over the fire while Holmes surveyed him silently.
"Now," said Holmes, after awhile,"once you have warmed yourself, Dr. Watson and I will listen to whatever problem brings a West Country librarian to London by the milk train on Christmas night."
The man swung away from the fire and gaped at my friend."It is true!" he exclaimed."You really can discover things without being told."
"I have merely developed the habit of observing closely and interpreting my observations carefully," said Holmes."That you are from the West Country is written in your speech, though you have had a tolerably good education. The fingers of your right hand display the distortions characteristic of those who write a great deal, so you might be a clerk, but your spectacles speak of a man whose eyesight has been damaged by reading, rather than writing. You are too well educated for a commercial clerk, and too poorly clad for a clerk in public office. Therefore I deduce that you are in private employment, probably as a librarian to some landowner who pays you inadequately for your services. Your boots and trousers betray the fact that you have walked here from Paddington in the snow, hence you most probably arrived by the milk train from the West."
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," groaned the man,"if only you will bring your great talents to the aid of my unfortunate brother."
"I cannot do so do so until you tell me in what misfortune your brother lies," said Holmes."Now, here is Mrs. Hudson with the tea. Pray take a cup and tell us your story."
Our visitor drank long and gratefully of the hot tea, and a little colour appeared in his wan cheeks.
"My name is Jonathan Newley, and I am the librarian to Colonel Pearman at Abbas Parva. The Colonel is not a literary man by inclination, so I am employed at a pittance simply to catalogue and preserve the fine library which he acquired with the estate. My brother James and I are the sons of the late owner of Abbas Parva House. Our father became embroiled in an unsuccessful speculation, which both robbed him of his funds and brought him to an early grave. It also forced the sale of my father's estate and left my brother and me without a penny."
"What does your brother do?" asked Holmes.
"He is a painter, Mr. Holmes. He is a very talented artist. He came to London on my father's death to try and make his name, but he was unsuccessful. As a result, I was forced to offer him a home at Abbas Parva, though it is only a humble cottage I occupy nowadays."
"And what is the nature of your brother's trouble?"
"He had formed a friendship—no, it was more than that. He had fallen in love with the only daughter of a local man, one Bentley, who strongly disapproved of the relationship."
"Why was that?" asked Holmes."Was it your brother's financial circumstances?"
"It was that, Mr. Holmes, but there was more," said Newley.
"The Bentleys are a dreadful family. There are—there were— a father, his brother, and three sons, apart from the young lady whom I have mentioned. Their blood has long been in the county and they believed that was all that mattered. They had money, but they chose to occupy a tumbledown old farmhouse just outside the village. All of them were obsessed with hunting, and all of them drank like fishes. Despite their old name and their money, they were a pack of drunken scoundrels, fit for any villainy."
"You speak of them in the past tense," observed Holmes.
"They are dead, Mr. Holmes. Murdered in their own home, it seems, and my brother is taken up for the crime."
"And what of the young woman?" asked my friend.
"She has disappeared," said our visitor.
"You had better continue with your narrative," suggested Holmes."This would appear to be a matter of some complexity."
I refilled Newley's teacup and he began again."Matters between Bentley and my brother came to a head a few days ago. Last Sunday morning, at the village church, we were both present and so was Alice Bentley. Needless to say, the rest of that ruffian family did not attend. After the service James took the opportunity of a word with Alice. They were standing together when a carriage drew up, carrying Alice's father and uncle. Bentley sprang from the carriage, marched up to my brother, and swung him round by the shoulder. With a flood of vulgarities, despite the presence of his daughter, he warned James not to approach Alice again and ended by striking my brother in the face with his clenched fist."
"What followed?" asked Holmes."Did your brother retaliate?"
"He had no chance, Mr. Holmes. Bentley's blow took him by surprise and knocked him to the ground. Alice's uncle had come up and Bentley snatched a whip from his brother's grasp and belaboured my brother about the head and shoulders as he attempted to rise. A number of us intervened and forced him away. Then he dragged Alice to the carriage and they took off."
"And what of your brother?" said Holmes.
"We helped him up and he stood staring after the departing carriage. Then he said something most unfortunate." The speaker paused and a pained expression crossed his face.
"What, precisely, did he say?" asked my friend.
"He said, 'That scoundrel does not deserve to see another Christmas."'
"A powerful motive and a public threat," observed Holmes."I take it his unfortunate remark was overheard by others apart from yourself."
"Oh indeed, Mr. Holmes. Even the vicar was still present."
"Did he take any steps that you know of to put his threat into effect?"
Newley shook his head."No, Mr. Holmes. We went home together that morning and he remained at home until Christmas Eve. Mr. Pearman had allowed me a few days off at Christmas and I was there throughout each day. My brother kept largely to his studio and was very withdrawn. I am sure he never left our cottage until Christmas Eve."
"And where did he go then?" asked Holmes.
"I do not know, Mr. Holmes. He left home about midday, saying that he had business in the village. I did not see him again until teatime. At the time I paid it no great mind, but I recall observing that he seemed to be in lighter spirits and began to speak cheerfully of our modest Christmas celebrations. He had recently sold two paintings in London and received a valuable commission for a set of illustrations, so he had a little money and had brought goods for our Christmas Day and a gift for me."
"What was the gift?" asked Holmes.
Newley blinked."It was a book," he said,"a volume of verse that I had admired."
"And at this point the Bentleys were still alive, I take it?" said Holmes.
Newley nodded."The police say that the Bentleys assembled for dinner on Christmas Eve. All were present with the exception of Alice. Old Bentley gave the housekeeper and the cook the evening off and they served dinner and left. When they returned on Christmas morning, it was to find all of their employers dead."
"How had they died?" asked Holmes.
"Mrs. Brown, their housekeeper, says that they were killed by witchcraft. She says that all of them were lying dead about the dining table, some on the floor, some still in their chairs, and that all of them were staring as though they were terrified."
"Witchcraft," Holmes remarked,"is a highly uncertain method of murder. What do the police believe?"
"The police say that they were poisoned, that the rabbit pie on which they dined was poisoned."
"Have they yet analysed the remains of the pie?" asked Holmes.
"No, Mr. Holmes, but they fed a piece of it to an old dog belonging to Mr. Pearman, my employer, and it died."
"And why do they think your brother poisoned the rabbit pie?"
"It started to snow early on Christmas Eve," said Newley,"and stopped about noon. It didn't snow again until last night.
In the meantime, the police found my brother's footprints in the yard of Bentley Hall Farm, showing that he came and went from the kitchen door. They say that he went there seeking revenge for Bentley's attack on him, that he entered the kitchen and put something into the pie, Mr. Holmes."
"Were there other footprints in the snow?"
"Only those of members of the household."
"And what," said my friend,"does the Bentley's cook say? In any poisoning case the cook is a reasonable suspect."
"She says that Thomas Bentley, one of Alice's brothers, brought her a brace of rabbits at midday on Christmas Eve. They were freshly shot, and she dressed them and made them into a pie. After she took it from the oven it stood for a while on the kitchen table to cool. She and the housekeeper then took tea in the housekeeper's room. The cook says that anyone might have entered by the door from the yard and tampered with the pie while it stood cooling."
"How long has she cooked for the Bentleys?"
"Above ten years, Mr. Holmes, I believe."
"Then she is probably not the perpetrator. She has had more than sufficient opportunity to exercise any ill will against the Bentleys that she might have harboured. Which leaves the missing daughter and your brother. What does he say about it all?"
"At first he said that he had not been near the Bentleys' farm, Mr. Holmes, but when the inspector told him that the tracks of his boots were in the snow in the yard, he refused to say any more. Apparently the police say that he was not seen about Abbas
Parva on Christmas Eve, when he claims to have been shopping. He absolutely refuses to give any account of his movements on Christmas Eve, nor will he answer any questions about the whereabouts of Alice Bentley."
Holmes gazed thoughtfully at the Christmas tree which, against his protests, Mrs. Hudson had placed in our room, then steepled his long fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes for several seconds. At last he said,"And you, Mr. Newley—what do you think?"
"I do not know what to think, Mr. Holmes. I cannot believe my brother guilty of any murder, let alone the killing of an entire family by poison, but what other explanation is there? I agree with you that it is most unlikely to have been the cook, but that leaves only my brother."
Holmes shook his head."You make the same mistake as the police," he said."Admittedly your brother had two powerful motives—his love for Alice Bentley and her father's assault on him. Allow also that his footprints made him a liar when he said that he was not at the farm on Christmas Eve, and there you have the entire police case against him. Now consider that at least one other had as powerful a motive and that poisoning is more often a crime of the fairer sex."
Newley looked up with eyes wide behind his spectacles."You do not mean that you suspect Alice, Mr. Holmes?"
"I suspect no one, Mr. Newley," said Holmes."I am merely pointing to an alternative hypothesis. Where was Alice on Christmas Eve? You say that she was absent when the family assembled for dinner. Where had she gone?"
"It seems that she was about the house into the afternoon, but disappeared at some later time. No one saw her leave and she has not been traced."
"Which might well be," Holmes observed mildly,"the behaviour of a vengeful woman who, having seen her lover publicly threatened and humiliated by her father, took a feminine revenge and fled before she could be discovered."
"It cannot be Alice!" Newley protested."She is such a gentle girl, completely unlike the rest of her family. That is what appealed to my brother, for he has that same streak of gentleness." He shook his head fiercely."No," he repeated,"it was not either of them."
"Then," said Holmes,"we must hope that there is some other explanation. You have the advantage of me, Mr. Newley. You know the lady and you know your brother, and I must, for the present at least, accept your judgement of them. It is an old maxim of mine, as Watson will confirm, that once the impossible has been exhausted, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. If it is not your brother or his sweetheart, then we must find another explanation that is the correct one.
Newley looked at my friend with an expression quite piteous."I do hope that you can do so, Mr. Holmes."
"I shall do my best, Mr. Newley, but first we must make our travel arrangements. You cannot travel in those boots and stockings as they are sodden through, but I observe that your feet are the same size as Watson's. While he finds you some hosiery and footwear, I shall have Mrs. Hudson prepare us a hamper. I fear we have a long, cold journey ahead of us."
By the time I had supplied Newley with fresh stockings and boots and Mrs. Hudson had announced that a hamper was ready,
Holmes was at his bookshelves, leafing through his scrapbooks.
Paddington Station was crowded with holidaymakers on their way home and all the trains were running late because of the snowfall, but we succeeded eventually in finding seats on a train for Temple Combe, where we hoped to make a connection for Abbas Parva. Our journey westward was long and uncomfortable. Swaddled in layers of rugs and warmed by the brandy-impregnated coffee which Mrs. Hudson had added to our hamper, we were at first cosy enough, but forty years ago the invaluable vacuum flask had not yet been devised, so we were forced to drink all of our coffee before it chilled. The cans of hot water that warmed our feet were soon cold and we were unable to have them refilled until we reached Swindon. Newley was fortunate, for he slept the sleep of the exhausted in a corner of our compartment for much of the journey.
At Temple Combe we found that our connection was delayed but were at least able to warm ourselves before a blazing fire in the waiting room, only to be chilled afresh once aboard the local train to Abbas Parva. Darkness had long fallen as we wound our cold and weary way through folds in the hills and tunnels, halting with a reeling shudder now and then as the engine's wheels failed to grip the icy rails.
At last we slid into a station where the porters could be heard calling "Abbas Magna! Abbas Magna!" and we knew we were close to our destination.
At Abbas Parva we descended into the cold darkness. A tall gentleman in a dark overcoat was pacing the platform, evidently waiting for our train. On catching sight of us he walked rapidly towards us.
"Newley!" exclaimed the stranger."Where have you been?"
"Why, Mr. Pearman!" said our client."I have been to London. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and his colleague, Dr. Watson."
Pearman shook each of us by the hand."I am glad to see," he said,"that young James has some assistance. Newley, you are not to worry about your brother's defence. I shall see that he has the best lawyers, and your fees, Mr. Holmes, must be charged to me also."
"You are very kind!" gasped Newley, while Holmes bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
"Nonsense!" barked Pearman."I am rid of the greatest scourge of my existence. It behooves me to show a little gratitude for my good fortune."
"You were not, then, a friend of the Bentleys?" asked Holmes.
Pearman laughed harshly."A friend? No! A neighbour, unfortunately yes. Our lands run together and that pack of decayed scoundrels were on my estate every other minute—hunting, shooting, fishing, poaching, tearing down fences, taking everything from pheasants' eggs to timber. The neighbourhood is well rid of them, whoever did it. Do you know, Tommy Bentley was in Bragg's Wood the morning before he died, poaching? I was out with a dog and heard the gun. By the time I got there, he was away, but I could see the blood where he'd had a brace of my rabbits. When we were lads they used to transport people for that, eh, Mr. Holmes?"
The train's engine emitted a snort and Pearman jumped quickly into the compartment which we had just vacated, taking a hasty farewell of us before the train pulled out.
Outside the little station a patient driver sat huddled in his trap, awaiting our late arrival, for Holmes had wired ahead to the village inn to reserve rooms. We returned Newley to his cottage at the edge of the village and were soon seated over a hot meal before a roaring fire, repairing some of the damage caused by our wretched journey.
"Pearman seems to have had a motive," I suggested to Holmes, when we had finished our meal."He as much as suggested that James Newley was guilty and that he was rewarding him for poisoning the Bentleys."
Holmes nodded."I agree that not only is the Englishman's home his castle, but that his lands are his empire. Nothing arouses so much passion as a land dispute, and they frequently end in bloodshed, but it is another resident of the Abbas Parva estate that arouses my suspicions."
"You have a suspect?" I said, hoping for some explanation, but he was not to be drawn.
"It is a capital error to theorise in advance of the facts, Watson," he reminded me."I have no intention of making that mistake. Tomorrow I shall seek new data."
He sat for a while, gazing into the glowing coals of the fire while he finished his drink, then we made our way to our beds. Holmes surprised me in the morning by lingering over his breakfast as though he had no pressing business. When our client joined us, my friend surprised me further.
"Tell me," he enquired of Newley,"where is your brother being held?"
"He is at the police station here," said Newley."The magistrate remanded him to the custody of the police for a week, to enable the analysis of the poison to be completed."
"Ah, yes, the poison," said Holmes."You are a literary man, Mr. Newley. Is there a bookshop in this vicinity?"
"Well, yes," stammered our client, unable, like as I, to see any purpose in the question."There isn't one in Abbas Parva, but Abbas Magna has a reasonable one."
"Very good," said Holmes."Then I shall take the inn's trap and go to Abbas Parva. Watson will accompany you to the police station, where he will see if he can get more sense out of your brother than the police did."
Newley and I were alike dumbfounded, but Holmes stood up, took his hat and cape from the coat-rack, and sauntered out to summon the inn's groom.
"What on earth is Mr. Holmes about, Doctor?" asked poor Newley.
A doctor has often to make assertions of which he cannot be sure."You may be certain," I said, with all the firmness I could muster,"that he has some deep purpose in connection with your brother's plight," but I am not sure that my voice carried conviction
Our interview with James Newley was frustrating in the extreme. He welcomed the news that Holmes had taken up hi: case and expressed his pleased surprise that Pearman had agreed to meet the cost of his defence, but said that the cost would be little as he was innocent. As to the whereabouts of Alice Bentley, he would vouchsafe us no word at all.
"You must realise," I said,"that the combination of your affection for the young lady, her father's public assault upon you, your threat against him, and the presence of your footprints in the farm's yard weigh heavily against you."
"So they may," he said, evenly,"but they cannot prove me guilty when I am not."
"They may persuade a jury," I warned."What is more, the disappearance of Miss Bentley leads to the supposition that you may have acted jointly with her, or that she may have done the deed and you have assisted her escape."
"Then it is even more important that no one should know her whereabouts," he said."I could not bear to see Alice taken up by the police."
In the end we gave up and left him. We were about to leave the police station when Sherlock Holmes walked in. Newley introduced him to the police inspector.
"I am sorry that you should have had the trouble of a journey down here in this weather to no purpose," said the inspector.
"Oh, I am sure that it has not been purposeless," said Holmes."Tell me, Inspector, has the analysis of the poison been completed?"
"They wired from County Headquarters not a quarter of an hour gone," said the police officer.
"And it was atropine?" enquired Holmes innocently.
"Now how on earth did you know that?" said the inspector.
"Very easily," replied my friend."I make it my business to note the details of unusual crimes, and I recalled the trial of a Dr. Sprague at Exeter, some twenty years ago or more. He was accused of poisoning his wife and his entire household with atropine. The same symptom of staring eyes was present because the drug dilates the pupils."
"Very clever, I'm sure, Mr. Holmes," admitted the police officer,"but that merely confirms the drug which James Newley used."
"I think not," said Holmes, firmly."Sprague's case interested me and led me to carry out some experiments. As a result, I am able to assure you that young Newley is innocent."
"Oh yes," said the inspector,"and who did it, then, might I ask? If it was not Newley, then it can only have been Alice Bentley."
"It was not Alice Bentley," said Holmes."Let me rehearse a
few points, Inspector." He raised one hand and struck off his points on it with a finger of the other."First, we have the powerful affection between James Newley and Alice Bentley, which was anathema to her father because of Newley's poverty and the Bentleys' pride." The Inspector nodded."Second," said Holmes,"we have the assault on James and the alleged threat which he made—though it is equally possible to regard that as a comment on Bentley's nature. I grant you that these facts would provide motive enough for some to poison Bentley. Thirdly, James Newley's footprints were found in the yard of Bentley Hall Farm, though he denied being there on Christmas Eve. Were Alice Bentley's footprints also there, Inspector?"
"Of course they were—she lived there."
"Thank you. Have I missed any point of your case, Inspector?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. You have left out the fact that James Newley says he was shopping on Christmas Eve, but no one in Abbas Parva saw him, so he must be lying about that as well."
"Not so much lying, Inspector, as being cautious with the truth. James Newley was shopping, but in Abbas Magna. A number of shops there have confirmed to me that he was served on Christmas Eve in the afternoon, including the bookshop which supplied him with a volume of verse. What is more, the stationmaster has confirmed that James Newley purchased a single ticket to London that afternoon and put a young lady on the train."
"Alice Bentley!" exclaimed the police officer."He helped her to escape!"
"Certainly," agreed Holmes,"though only from her disgraceful family. James Newley's affairs had looked up. His income and his prospects had increased, so he took the opportunity to put his sweetheart out of the way of further insult by sending her to London. That was why he was at the farm, and that was why he initially lied about his presence there."
The Inspector's eyes narrowed."You tell a plausible tale, I admit," he said,"but if it was neither of them, who did poison the pie?"
"I can give you a description of the culprit," said Holmes,"but I fear he is well beyond the arm of justice. He would have been a small fellow, long in the leg and big-footed, with bulging
dark eyes and protuberant front teeth. He was most probably clad in a greyish-brown fur coat."
"Sounds like a rabbit!" said the inspector.
"Precisely," said Holmes quietly.
There was a moment of complete silence while we all stared at him. He drew from his pocket a piece of a plant, a short section of stem with wide green leaves and a few small, blackish berries.
"Deadly nightshade!" I said.
"Indeed, Watson—Atropa Belladonna, to give it its scientific name, source of the vegetable alkaloid atropine, a deadly poison that dilates the pupils and causes staggering and convulsions. On my way back from Abbas Magna, I called at Bragg's Wood, where Thomas Bentley shot his rabbits for the pie. The ground is thick with snow, leaving little sustenance for Mr. Pearman's rabbits but this, which was growing out of the drifts."
"But if they ate that, it would kill them," I objected.
"Not so, Watson. My researches after the Sprague case established that rabbits can absorb huge quantities of the poison without harm. It will, however, poison humans who eat their meat."
"Is this really true, Mr. Holmes?" asked the inspector.
Holmes nodded."I will gladly advise your Headquarters of my experiments. They will already have seen that the atropine in the pie's remains was concentrated, not in the gravy, as one would expect if it had been added after the pie had been baked, but in the leftover fragments of meat. They should catch some of Mr. Pearman's rabbits and test them. Once they have done so, there will be no doubt remaining of James Newley's innocence."
"I remember now," said the inspector slowly."Dr. Sprague was acquitted, wasn't he?"
"He was," said Holmes,"but only because no one could explain how the poison got into the rabbit pie, not because anyone understood the singular effect of atropine on rabbit's flesh."
"I must wire Headquarters to carry out new tests," said the police officer.
He did so and, in a few days, Newley was released from custody. On the day we left Abbas Parva, James and his brother accompanied us to the station—Jonathan to bid us farewell and James to meet Alice Bentley who was returning from London. As they embraced on the platform, we saw our up train drawing in. We had boarded it when Alice ran up to our window and insisted on shaking Holmes by the hand and thanking him for his efforts.
As Holmes ended his narrative, I recalled Alice Bentley leaning up on tiptoe to plant a swift kiss on my friend's cheek, leaving him speechless and, for what I believe was the only time I ever saw it, blushing.
I chuckled at the recollection and Holmes looked at me sharply."You found the Abbas Parva tragedy amusing?" he asked.
I shook my head."No, no," I said."I was merely recalling the affectionate farewell which you took of Alice Bentley."
He snorted."You have always displayed a taste for melodramatic and sentimental irrelevancies, Watson, and I suppose it is too late now to hope that you will excise that incident from any published account of the case."
He drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it."It is nearly midnight," he observed."If you will be good enough to refill our glasses we may wish each other a merry Christmas."