The Case of the "Poor Darling""Watson, go unlock the door. I believe we should be expecting a visitor," said Sherlock Holmes as he carefully put his violin back in its case.
"What makes you think that," I asked as I hurried to unlock the door.
"Oh, I suppose it's the shrill voice that's wailing 'My poor little darling baby' as its owner makes her way to the door," said Holmes.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! ---
"My dear lady, please stop making all this confounded noise!" said a very irritated Holmes as he opened the door.
"Oh Sherlock!" exclaimed the "dear lady" as she collapsed in Holmes's arms, or more correctly on him.
"Watson! Get her off me! Oxygen! I need Oxygen!" croaked Holmes from beneath the woman who seemed to be doing her best to flatten him.
After a few good heaves I managed to peel the woman off Sherlock and offer her a chair.
Sherlock immediately leaped up and dusted himself off. Then he sat in the armchair opposite the distraught woman.
"What tragedy has brought you here at such a late hour?" I inquired.
"Watson, it is quite obvious that this lady has lost someone dear to her and wishes that we investigate. Isn't that right?" Holmes deduced in his omniscient manner.
"Oh NoÉ. I didn't lose her sh-she died," stammered the bewildered woman.
"That's what I&endash;" began Sherlock, then thought better of it, "Please state your name and describe your situation in detail."
"My name is Kathryn, Kathryn Robinson. My problem is that my little darling died," said Mrs. Robinson.
"Yes I know that. Your 'little darling' is your daughter, I assume," said Sherlock.
"She was like a daughter to me," said Mrs. Robinson sadly.
"Mrs. Richardson please provide us with the information my companion and I need to solve your case. Tell us exactly who died, their relationship to you, and how you suspect the victim died," I said, surprising myself with my unusual assertiveness.
"My poor poodle, Fifi, died. I don't know why. I had just come home from my sister's house. Her landlord doesn't allow any animals so I had my husband watch my poor little baby. When I returned he was asleep and my poor little Fifi was lying on the floor next to her food bowl. I reached down to pick her up and she was cold. The concept that she was dead was so dreadful that I ran out of the house screaming. Then I remembered you, Sherlock Holmes. I don't think that my poor Fifi just died. I think some conniving cold-blooded crook murdered her!" exclaimed Mrs. Robinson vehemently.
"Yes. Well, we need to gather evidence before we can decide if it was a natural death or a murder. I suggest that we investigate now, before the scene is disturbed," said Sherlock calmly as he put on his coat and hat. Then indicating that Mrs. Robinson and I should follow he strode out the door.
"Kindly direct us to your house," said Sherlock, addressing Mrs. Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson took off, leading the way to her residence until Holmes tired of walking so slowly. "Please tell me how to get to your house and I will begin investigating ahead of time," said Holmes. After receiving the directions he set off at an inhuman pace. After a sluggish 20-minute walk Mrs. Robinson and I arrived. We stopped outside of a rather drab abode where Holmes was impatiently tapping his foot on the stoop. Mrs. Robinson attempted to unlock the door, but it was soon apparent that she was still suffering from the shock of the death of her dear pet, as she was shaking like a leaf and quite unable to open the door.
Holmes knocked sharply on the door and we all stood waiting for the woman's husband to answer the door. After there was no reply he rang the bell.
"Coming! I'm coming!" yelled a gruff voice from inside. A short heavy-set man opened the door muttering about how lazy the maid was. Sherlock announced that he was there to inspect the death of Fifi.
"You don't need to barge in and look into the pooch's death. It just died. It was old and sick. She collapsed the other day as well," declared the grumpy man.
"Is this true, Mrs. Robinson?" inquired Sherlock.
"No, not at all. She was only three years old and she had never been ill except for that one time last week," contradicted Mrs. Robinson.
"That's because you pampered her to no end. Instead of buying premium dog food, you should have worked on cooking decent food for me! You shouldn't have knitted sweaters with lace for that wretched dog. You should have mended my trousers and sewed the buttons onto my shirts," said the disgruntled man.
Mrs. Robinson burst into tears all over again. Sherlock swept past the bickering couple and motioned for me to follow. As we strode down the hallway we caught sight of the maid. She was a small mousy slip of a thing.
"Would you be so kind as to lead us to the kitchen," asked Sherlock. She nodded her head mutely and then took off down the hallway. We soon found ourselves in the kitchen. It was dark and dreary, but in one corner there was a bright placemat with a very elaborate teacup filled with water and a matching saucer next to it. Nearby lay the poor dog. Sherlock began analyzing the scene with utmost care. Then he peered at the maid and asked her to tell him what had taken place earlier that evening.
"Well sir, nothing unusual 'appened. After Mrs. Robinson left I took care of things like I always do," she said softly, her eyes lowered respectfully.
"What sort of things did you do, did you feed the dog?" Sherlock asked pointedly.
"Most assuredly, Mr. Robinson certainly wouldn't bother feeding the poor thing, he'd rather let it starve," she replied.
"Did you notice anything strange about the dog or its meal?" asked Sherlock.
"No sir, nothing odd. The kitchen had a queer smell 'anging about it, but after I opened the window it went away," said the girl demurely.
"How did Mrs. Robinson react to Fifi's death?" questioned Sherlock.
"It shook her up terribly; she ran outside screaming something frightful. The neighbors even came and complained after she left."
"I see," said Sherlock as he knelt down once again and studied the kitchen. At length he stood up and announced that he suspected that the dog had been poisoned.
"With what?" I asked.
"With this," said Sherlock revealing a bottle of rat poison he had found in a nearby cupboard, " a poison containing arsenic."
"Arsenic?" I inquired.
"An element, dear Watson. It is extremely toxic and is found in many pesticides common in households. It attacks the brain and many organs, including the heart, liver, and kidneys. If it had been pure arsenic I could not be sure that it was the cause of death because it is colorless and odorless. Lab tests would have to be done, but since the killer applied rat poison, which has a terrible stench, to the food and since the most of the food has been eaten we can assume that the dog was poisoned with the rat killer," said Sherlock.
"Brill-" I began, but was interrupted by my friend.
"We can also reason that the killer isÉ Mr. Robinson!" he shouted as the Robinsons entered the room.
"Hogwash! Why would I kill the little beast?" asked an outraged Mr. Robinson.
"Because," I said as I realized why, "You have a motive, no one else did. You were jealous of the poodle weren't you? Your wife spent all of her energies on the dog. She paid very little attention to you. All you needed to do was mix some poison into its food before your maid fed the dog."
"Precisely Watson," exclaimed Holmes, "Well done."
The maid then escorted us to the door as the Robinsons "discussed" their personal matters rather heatedly.