The Leaden Adventure
The rain poured down outside the parlor of 221b Baker Street, as if in accompaniment to Holmes' violin. I sat in the comfortable armchair by the fire, reading a recent book called Pride and Prejudice. Suddenly, despite the added noise, Holmes and I both heard a clear yet nervous rap on the door.
“My dear Watson, kindly go let in the poor soul stuck in the rain and seeking shelter,” Holmes told me as he slid the violin in its case. Obediently and marveling that Holmes had guessed so, I pulled myself out of the chair and opened the door to reveal a young woman in a black maid's uniform standing in the rain. Thick wisps of golden hair had escaped the tight plait, framing her pale features and her soft gray eyes. She was sopping wet, water dripping off the hem of her dress and running in rivulets down her face as she shivered.
“Would you like to stay a bit until the rain passes?” Holmes asked kindly. The girl nodded nervously, glancing all around the room.
“Well, my dear, how about you sit down in that armchair over there, and warm up by the fire?” Holmes gallantly suggested. “Please make yourself at home. You do want to. And what is your name, my dear?”
“M-my name's Annie, sir. I-I work for Mrs. Diana Dawson, and I-I was delivering somethin' to her,” she stuttered as she settled into the large crimson armchair, gazing studiously at her small hands. Holmes attempted feebly to begin a conversation, but to no avail. Annie answered in few words and remained quiet. If she hadn't been a wet maidservant, I would've been suspicious of her obvious wish for quiet. Eventually, the entire room was completely silent, except for the ticking of the enormous clock, the crackling of the fire, and the mad beat of the rain outside. Before long, Annie slumbered deeply, and suddenly the clock began to loudly stir us all out of our reverie.
“Why, look, Watson,” Holmes observed. “The rain has stopped.” He nodded at the gently stirring Annie.
“I believe we should wake her, Watson, while the weather has resigned itself to a mere drizzle and we can take her home while we can. I'll call for a carriage.”
I nodded in agreement as Holmes left.
“Wake up, miss,” I turned to the armchair and gently shook her. “The rain's stopped, and it's time to go home.”
Unfortunately, Annie simply refused to wake up. So I ended up scooping her up and carrying her into the horse and buggy.
“Not awake, eh?” Holmes glanced at the sleeping bundle and then at the driver. “Do you know where Mrs. Diana Dawson lives?”
The driver nodded and shouted at the horses to move. Clip clop, clip clop. About ten minutes into the drive, Annie began to wake up, but not in the way we had expected.
“AAAHHH!!!” Annie shrieked as if she were being tortured to death over fire. She thrashed about screaming random words such as pain, death, hurt, and others. The driver instantly stopped the carriage, as Holmes and I tried to hold her still.
“Release me, I beg you. Pain, oh, pain!” The girl screamed. Her leg lashed out, kicking Holmes in the face. “Oh, pain! Pain!”
The driver looked back, an expression of naked fear on his dirty face.
“Cor, she be's a wild 'un. I'd say she'd'a been possessed by the Devil, that's what I'd say. Ain't never seen anyone normal act such. Best call a priest or sommat,” the wretched man remarked.
“Be quiet, and take us instantly to Mrs. Dawson's house!” I snapped at him. “We have no time for your superstitions!”
“'Hush yer whinging, mister. We're there and take the crazy miss out o' my carriage and never take 'er in there agin!” The driver retorted sharply. “Out!”
Holmes and I carefully lifted the kicking, screaming woman and carried her precariously across the dirty street dotted with numerous puddles, up the doorstep, and into the house just as a plump old woman opened the door for us.
“What is she doin' 'ere?” the woman demanded. “She's sposed to be getting gloves fer the missus!”
“Please call for the lady of the house,” Holmes commanded her firmly, as we held the woman over the wine-colored carpet. “She IS your mistress so call her now, ma'am!”
“M'name's Faith Doherty and don't ye ferget it, mister!” she snapped as she traveled up the ornate staircase. Holmes shook his head in disbelief as the two of us deposited Annie on a crimson couch. Miraculously, Annie had stopped screaming, but was still thrashing about as if in pain. Suddenly, an elegant woman with chestnut hair and a smart blue jacket swept down the stairs to discover what was occurring in her parlor and a protesting Faith closely followed her.
"Mrs. Dawson, it ain't nothin' to worry about. It's just Annie-"
"Faith, I don't particularly care! If Annie's in trouble, I'm going to help her and thank those who already helped her!" The woman in blue interrupted. She turned toward Annie on the couch and stroked a stray gold wisp off her forehead.
"Oh, poor dear," she exclaimed sadly. She turned back to Holmes and I, tears in her big brown eyes. "Thank you for bringing her home. She is like this at times, but Hill takes excellent care of her. She isn't a very good worker, and isn't very respectful, but I hate to see her this way. Meanwhile, Faith, go fix so fix some tea for myself and my guests."
Before Faith could answer, Annie ceased thrashing and sat up, apparently perfectly sane.
"Did you say fix a bit of coffee, m-m-ma'am? I'll go m-myself!" Annie proclaimed. Mrs. Dawson's countenance seemed slightly worried.
"Annie, go with Faith, or better yet, go find a spot of sugar or milk, off you go, girl!" Mrs. Dawson conceded. Faith and Annie both bobbed their own respective curtsies and left to the kitchen. Holmes immediately began to tell the tale of how Annie came to meet, and I was left to admire the richly furnished room. Every item in the room seemed to be red. From the scarlet frames of the paintings dotting the wall to the wine-red carpet I had first seen upon coming in the house. Even the armchairs were blood colored.
"There you are, m-ma'am, your coffee," Annie bobbed yet another curtsy to Mrs. Dawson while still managing to balance a tray with both a kettle and three tea cups. "Faith Doherty let m-me bring it in, since I couldn't find the sugar."
A moment later, Faith came in and promptly sat in the cherry wood rocking chair as I attempted to reach for the china cup with the pretty pink flowers. However, Mrs. Dawson stopped me, telling me that this was her cup, since her mother had painted it. She sipped delicately and frowned instantly.
"Faith, this is coffee, not tea. Turkish coffee, too. I told you to get tea!" She shouted angrily.
"Ain't my fault," Faith retorted. "Blame Crazy Annie! She didn't listen to nothing!"
The explanation served nothing except to reduce Mrs. Dawson to rage as she quickly scolded her maid, telling her that her wages were down, and if something like this ever happened again, she'd be finding a new job. She was driving herself into a right tirade until Holmes diverted her attention.
"So, Mrs. Dawson, your husband's an artist, isn't he?" Holmes inquired politely.
"Henry, you mean? Why, yes. How did you guess?" Mrs. Dawson replied in wonder as people usually were at Holmes' deductive skills.
"Elementary, Mrs. Dawson. First, you have a great deal too many paintings on your wall, whether they match the theme of your room or not. This means that either you're a radical art collector or married to an artist. Second, there's a distinct smell of paint that drifts around the house. Third, there's a jar of paint sitting on the counter right over there. He's an artist. And a scatterbrained one at that. From what I see, he keeps putting all his paints in the cupboards instead of where they belong. Before you ask, Mrs. Dawson, there's a thin crack down the paint jar from probably being slammed on a table in an argument. And then, it's also been recently opened, and the lid has been put on rather badly." Holmes told her coolly.
"Indeed." Mrs. Dawson looked so surprised to the point of near anger and swiftly changed the subject.
The conversation carried on much this way, with Holmes and I making polite questions or comments, and Mrs. Dawson answering us with equally polite replies.
"Holmes," I told him an hour later after we had left. "I should be glad if I never saw neither that uncannily polite woman, nor her rude employees again!"
"I'll say," Holmes replied. "I was glad to get out of that encounter!"
And that seemed to be that.
~Five days later~
A knock sounded for the first time in five days on the door of 221b Baker Street. Holmes answered the door to find Inspector Lestrade standing on the doorstep.
"Goodness, Inspector, what could've prompted to leave for my home while it was still raining?" Holmes remarked in a shocked manner. "You've got fresh mud all over those shoes!"
"Never mind that, Holmes, we've got an attempted murder case on our hands!" The inspector burst out. "Mrs. Dawson was poisoned, about five days ago, and you two were there!"
"Calm down," Holmes urged. "What type of poisoning?"
"We don't know yet," The inspector told him. "Mrs. Dawson, well, we don't know how much longer she's going to live. So you need to come quickly!"
Holmes didn't say another word, but simply snatched his coat, hat and magnifying glass, and I followed suit. Off we went to 42 Gracechurch Street, where Mrs. Dawson lived. As soon as we arrived into that room adorned with red, a stocky man sporting a shower of blonde curls rose and greeted us.
"Oh my, thank goodness you've come! I'd nearly given up hope!" He enthused.
"Don't worry, Mr. Dawson, we'll find who poisoned your wife."
Mr. Dawson looked rather confused, but very wisely let it pass as he showed me up to Mrs. Dawson's bedroom and left Holmes to do what he did best. Investigate. Meanwhile, I took a look at Mrs. Dawson. She seemed to be tired and nauseous, in addition to having a metal taste in her mouth.
"Do you feel pain anywhere, Mrs. Dawson?" I asked her.
"Yes, my wife complains constantly of a pain in her stomach and in her head. Most of the doctors are puzzled." Mr. Dawson answered for her. I didn't blame them. I was puzzled. There was nothing left to do but go down and compare notes with Holmes. As it turned out, Holmes had discovered a great deal more than I had, but he insisted that I tell him Mrs. Dawson's symptoms first.
"Nausea, lethargy, stomach and head pain, and a metal taste in her mouth. Hmmm. Her husband's a painter…I wonder…" Holmes got that look he usually did when he was on the verge of solving a mystery.
"It's lead poisoning!" He cried. "I'm sure of it! It has all the symptoms. Also, when I looked through the dirty dishes, I came upon the pink flowery teacup that Mrs. Dawson always drinks from. It had traces of a thick white substance in it and it was the white paint. And the paint contains lead. Lead is very hard to get out of the human body since the body mistakes it as carbon, which it is quite close to on the periodic table. Someone has been placing white paint in her drink!"
"Really? Then I believe I have the culprit!" Exclaimed Inspector Lestrade who had overheard Holmes' revelation. "I've asked Faith Doherty about it, and she says that Annie, one of the maids, is mad. Here's the picture: Annie gives her mistress paint in the tea instead of milk because she doesn't know what she's doing. She keeps giving Mrs. Dawson tea. It's a deal!"
"No deal, I'm afraid," was Holmes' disappointing interruption. "The facts don't seem to match up. Firstly, most of the time, Annie is kept with Mrs. Hill, her nurse who cares for her during her fits. Secondly, the white paint was in the cupboard. She would have had to taken it down intentionally and not just used whatever was at home. Someone meant to take down the jar and use the paint to poison Mrs. Dawson."
"You're mad, Holmes!" I told him. "All the evidence points to Annie!"
"I'm afraid it doesn't, my dear Watson," Holmes replied. "You see, Miss Annie has been with Mrs. Hill, out of this house, for the entire five days!"
How did he know this? I was completely baffled by this fact. There was no way my companion could know such a thing!
"I will explain," Holmes explained. "Firstly, if Miss Annie were present and working, she would undoubtedly greet us at the door, being rather easier on the eyes than Faith Doherty. It's only logical. Second, Faith Doherty has been out in the rain recently from the wet footprints you see on the rug here. Plus they are large footprints. If you remember, Watson, Miss Annie had very small feet. Miss Annie is not the culprit. Am I correct, Mr. Dawson?"
"Perfectly correct. When Mrs. Hill found out that Annie had had a fit on Monday, she took her to her home and she's been there ever since."
"Never fear, gentlemen," Holmes hastily put in, seeing Inspector Lestrade about to protest. "I believe I know who the murder attempter is. Just follow my lead."
Faith Doherty strode in carrying a small tray consisting of warm potato broth and a china cup of Turkish coffee.
"Ms. Doherty?" Holmes called.
She turned.
"Aye?"
"I should like a spot of Turkish coffee, you know. Come back and I'll drink the cupful and you can make another batch."
"Sorry, Mr. 'Olmes, can't do so. This is for me missus." Faith told Holmes as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. Holmes wasn't perturbed but simply looked toward Mr. Dawson and nodded.
"Ms. Doherty, I order you to give Mr. Holmes that cup of coffee," Mr. Dawson commanded.
The plump woman fearfully looked down.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because…because…I've poisoned it with lead paint! If you drink it, you'll end up like Missus. Don't drink it, Mr. 'Olmes, I don't want to go ter jail, I don't!"
"I'm afraid, Ms. Doherty, you're going to jail anyway for attempted murder," Inspector Lestrade told her as he grabbed her arm and began escorting her out the door as she wailed that she had only wanted better pay, and that Mrs. Dawson was so stingy. I turned to Holmes in amazement.
"How did you know, Holmes?" I asked, knowing I'd receive the same answer I had received for all our cases when Holmes solved them. He didn't disappoint me.
"Elementary, dear Watson," Holmes replied, a secret smile sparkling in his eyes.