The Adventure of the Dog in the Knight

In glancing through my notebook delineating the many odd adventures which I was fortunate enough to share with my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes in the early months of the year ’68, I find it difficult to select any single one as being truly indicative of his profound ability to apply his personal type of analytical Verwirrung which, taken at its ebb, so often led him on to success.

There was, of course, the case of the nefarious card-cheat whom Homes so cleverly unmasked in a young men’s health organization in the small village of Downtree in Harts—a case I find noted in my journal as The Adventure of the Y-Bridge. It is also true that during this period he was of particular assistance to the British Association of Morticians in a case whose details are buried somewhere in my files but which resulted, as I recall, in a National Day being set aside in their honor. While it remains a relatively unimportant matter, the tale still is recorded in my case-book as The Boxing-Day Affair.

However, in general those early months were fruitless, and it was not until the second quarter of the year that a case of truly significant merit drew his attention. In my entry for the period of 15/16 April, ’68, I find the case listed as The Adventure of the Dog in the Knight.

It had been an unpleasantly damp day with a drizzle compounded by a miasmic fog that kept us sequestered in our quarters at 221B Bagel Street; but evening brought relief in the form of a brisk breeze that quickly cleared the heavy air. “We have been in too long,” Homes said, eyeing me queryingly. “I suggest a walk to clear away the cobwebs.”

I was more than willing. Homes had spent his day at the laboratory bench, and between the stench of his chemicals and the acrid odor of the Pakistanis, the room fairly reeked. For several hours we roamed the by-ways of our beloved London, our coat-collars high against the evening chill, stopping on occasion at various pubs to ascertain the hour. It was eight o’clock exactly when we arrived back at our rooms, and it was to find a hansom cab standing at the kerb before our door.

“Ah,” Homes observed, eyeing the conveyance sharply. “A visitor from Scotland Yard, I see!”

I was sufficiently conversant with Homes’s methods by this time to readily follow his reasoning; for the crest of the Yard—three feet rampant on a field of corn—was emblazoned both on the door and on the rear panel of the coach, clearly visible under the gas-lamp before our house, and the jehu sitting patiently on the box was both uniformed and helmeted. With some curiosity as to the reason for this late visit I followed Homes up the stairs and into our quarters.

A familiar figure rose from a chair beside the unlit fireplace and turned to face us. It was none other than Inspector Balustrade, an old antagonist whose overbearing manner and pompous posturing had long grated upon both Homes’s nerves and my own. Before we could even discard our outer garments he was speaking in his usual truculent manner.

“My advice to you, Homes,” he said a bit threateningly, “is to keep your hands off the Caudal Hall affair. We have an open-and-shut case, and any interference on your part can only cause the luckless miscreant unwarranted and futile hope. In fact,” he continued, looking fiercer than ever, “I believe I shall go so far as to demand that you leave the matter alone!”

Schlock Homes was quite the wrong person to address in such words and tones. “Inspector Balustrade, do not rail at me!” said he sharply. He doffed his coat and deerstalker, tossing them carelessly upon a chair, striding forward to face the Inspector. “I take those cases that interest me, and it is my decision alone that determines which they shall be.”

“Ah!” Inspector Balustrade’s tiny eyes lit up in self-congratulation. “I knew it—I knew it! I merely wished to confirm my suspicions. So they’ve been at you, eh? And, by the look of things, bought you! Lock, Stock, and Barrel!”

“Eh?”

“The lawyer chappies, that is,” Balustrade continued. “Well, you’re wasting your time listening to them, Mr. Homes. There is no doubt of the culprit’s guilt.” He smiled, a sneering smile. “Or do you honestly believe you have sufficient evidence to contradict that statement?”

“What I think is my affair,” Homes said, eyeing the man distastefully. “You have delivered your message, Inspector, so I see little to be gained by your continued presence here.”

“As you wish, Mr. Homes,” Balustrade said with mock servility. He picked up his ulster, clamped his bowler firmly to his head, and moved to the door. “But Dr. Watney here can bear witness that I did my best to save you from making a fool of yourself!” And with a chuckle he disappeared down the stairs.

“Homes!” I said chidingly. “A new case and you did not inform me?”

“Believe me,” he said sincerely, “I know nothing of this. I have no idea what the Inspector was talking of.” He contemplated me with a frown. “Is it possible, Watney, that we have inadvertently missed some item of importance in the morning journal?”

“It would be most unusual, Homes,” I began, and then suddenly remembered something. “I do recall, now, Mrs. Essex borrowing the front page of the Globe to wrap some boots for the cobbler’s boy to pick up, but if I’m not mistaken, the lad failed to appear. Let me get it and see if it can cast any light on this mystery.”

I hurried into the scullery, returning in moments with the missing sheet. I spread it open upon the table, pressing out the creases, while Homes came to stand at my side.

“Ah,” said he, pointing triumphantly. “There it is!” He bent closer, reading the words half-aloud. “Tragic Affair at Caudal Manor. But where is the—? Ah, here it is just beneath the headline.” He smiled in satisfaction at his discovery, and read on:

“‘Late last evening an unfortunate incident occurred at Caudal Manor, the country estate in Kent of Sir Francis Gibbon, the 62-year-old Knight of the Realm. A small dinner party was in progress, at which the only guests were Sir Francis’ sister-in-law, Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon, who is married to Sir Francis’ younger and only brother and who has often acted as hostess for her bachelor brother-in-law; and a Mr. John Wain, a young visitor from the Colony of California, a chemist by trade, who is staying with Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon as a house-guest. Mr. Gabriel, two years younger than his illustrious brother, was absent, having claimed he preferred to see his romance at the theatre rather than at home, and for this reason was spending his evening at the latest Boucicault offering in Piccadilly. Readers of the society news may recall that the beauteous Mrs. Gibbon, like Mr. Wain, was also a colonial from California at the time of her marriage two years ago.

“‘The main course, chosen out of deference to their foreign guest, was frankfurters—called “hot-dogs” abroad—which was also a favorite dish of his Lordship, Sir Francis. This course had already been consumed, washed down with ale, and a bitter-almond tart had also been eaten, when Sir Francis suddenly gasped, turned pale, and seemed to be having difficulty in his breathing and his speech; then, in a high nasal voice, he apologized to his guests for suffering from a stomach indisposition and stumbled out of the room. As quickly as the other two could finish their dessert, coffee, and brandy, and avail themselves of the fingerbowls, they hurried into the drawing-room to offer succor; but Sir Francis was sprawled on the rug in a comatose state and died before medical assistance could be summoned.

“‘Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon was extremely distraught, and exclaimed, “I didn’t think my brother-in-law looked well for some time, and I often warned him that bolting down hot-dogs was bad for his heart condition, so I really cannot claim to be surprised by this sudden cardiac seizure, although I am, of course, quite heart-broken.”

“‘Her physician was called and offered her a sedative, but Mrs. Gibbon bravely insisted upon completing her duties as hostess, even demonstrating sufficient control to supervise the maids in the clearing and thorough washing and drying of the dishes, as well as the incineration of all the left-overs.

“‘Students of Debrett will recall that the Gibbon family seat, Caudal Hall, was entailed for a period of ten generations by King George III, at the time the land, titles, and rights were bestowed on the first Gibbon to be knighted. The entailing of an estate, as we are sure our readers know, means that during this period the property must be passed on and cannot be sold or otherwise disposed of. With the death of Sir Francis, this condition has now ceased to be in effect, and Mr. Gabriel is now free to dispose of the estate as he chooses, or pass it on to his heirs in legal manner. Under the conditions of the original knighthood conferred on the first Gibbon, the title also continued for this period of ten generations, so Mr. Gabriel will only be entitled to be called Sir by his servants and those friends who dislike informality.’”

Homes paused a moment to remove a boot that blocked our vision of the balance of the article, and then leaned over further, staring in utter amazement at the portion of the column that had been revealed. In a startled tone of voice, he continued:

“‘STOP PRESS: The police officials have just announced an arrest in the Caudal Hall affair, claiming that Sir Francis was the victim of none other than his guest, Mr. Wain, age 26, the American colonial. They point out that a chemist would have the necessary knowledge to administer a fatal potion in Sir Francis’ food, and that despite the knight’s known heart condition as testified to by his sister-in-law, they believe there is more to the matter than meets the eye, and that the heart condition was at most only a contributory factor.

“‘They note that Mr. Wain is left-handed and sat on Sir Francis’ right, permitting his operative hand to constantly hover over his Lordship’s food. They believe he took advantage of the fortuitous circumstance of a bitter-almond tart being served to pour oil of nutmeg, a highly toxic abortifacient, either onto the tart itself, or more likely onto the “hot-dog” itself, in a dosage sufficient to cause Sir Francis his severe abdominal pain, and eventually his death. The police base their conclusion on the faint odor of nutmeg they discerned upon the lips of the deceased, although they admit it was difficult to detect because of the almost overpowering odor of the bitter-almond tart.

“‘Whether Mr. Wain intended the dose to be fatal, the police say, is unimportant; he is nonetheless guilty of his victim’s demise and shall pay the full penalty for his crime. They claim to have evidence that Mr. Wain is a revolutionary, propounding the theory that the American colonies are now independent, a viewpoint certain to have aroused the righteous wrath of so fine a patriot as Sir Francis Gibbon. Bad feelings could only have resulted, and it is the theory of the police that the dinner party developed into an argument which culminated in the tragic death of Sir Francis. Mrs. Gibbon’s failure to remember any such quarrel is attributed to absent-mindedness, added to her concern over the success of the meal, which undoubtedly caused her to be inattentive. (Artist’s sketches on Page 3).’

“Fools!” Homes exclaimed in disgust, replacing the boot and rewrapping the package. “Balustrade is an idiot!” He flung himself into a chair, looking up at me broodingly. “We must help this poor fellow Wat, Wainey—I mean, Wain, Watney!”

“But, Womes—I mean Homes,” I said remonstratingly, “it appears to me that they have a strong case against the young man. As a medical practitioner I admit that stomach pain is often found to be related to heart seizure, but still, one cannot rule out the possibility of other agencies.”

“Nonsense!” said Homes half-angrily. “I can understand a young man’s reason for harming a complete stranger, and I can even understand a chemist carrying about a vial of oil of nutmeg on the offhand chance he might meet someone to whom he wished to give stomach indisposition. But what I cannot lead myself to believe is that a University graduate would be so ill-informed as to honestly believe the American colonies are independent!” He shook his head. “No, no, Watney, it is here that the police case falls down!”

He tented his fingers, staring fiercely and unseeingly over them through half-lidded eyes, his long legs sprawled before him. Minutes passed while I quietly sat down, remaining silent, respecting his concentration; then, of a sudden, our reveries were interrupted by the sound of footsteps running lightly up the stairs, and a moment later the door burst open to reveal a lovely young girl in her mid-twenties. She might have been truly beautiful had it not been for the tears in her eyes and the tortured expression on her face. Scarcely pausing for breath, she hurried across the room and knelt at Homes’s side, grasping his two hands in hers.

“Oh, Mr. Homes,” she cried beseechingly, “only you can save John Wain! In the first place, the scandal would be ruinous were a house-guest of mine to be found guilty of a crime; and besides, it would play havoc with the entire scheme!”

“You are Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon?”

“Yes. I will pay—” She paused, thunderstruck. “But how could you have possibly known my identity?”

Homes waved the question aside with his accustomed modesty, preferring to return to the problem at hand. “Pray be seated,” said he, and waited until she was ensconced across from him. “I have read the account in the journal and I am also convinced that the police have made a grave error. Tell me,” he continued, quite as if he were not changing the subject, “would I be correct in assuming that the cook at Caudal Manor is a fairly youngish woman? And unmarried, I should judge?”

“Indeed she is, but how you knew this I cannot imagine!”

“And did she recently have a quarrel with her fiancé?”

The young lady could only nod her head in stunned fashion.

“And one final question,” Homes went on, eyeing her steadily. “By any chance did Mr. Wain complain at table because his ale was not iced, as he was accustomed to drinking it?”

“He did, but—” The girl stopped speaking, coming to her feet and staring down at Homes almost in fear. “Mr. Homes, your ability is more than uncanny—it borders on the supernatural!” Her eyes were wide. “How could you possibly have known—?”

“There is nothing mystical in it,” Homes assured her gravely. “In any event, you may return home with an untroubled mind. I assure you that Mr. Wain will join you—a free man—before many hours.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Homes! Everything I have heard and read about you is the truth!” Her lovely eyes welled with tears of gratitude as she left the room.

“Really, Homes,” I said shortly, “I fail to understand any of this. What is this business of the unmarried cook and the warm ale?”

“Later, Watney!” Homes said, and picked up his greatcoat and deerstalker. “At the moment I must go out and verify a few facts, and then see to it that poor Mr. Wain is freed. These colonials suffer sufficiently from a feeling of inferiority; incarceration can only serve to aggravate it.”

It was well past midnight before I heard Homes’s key in the door below, but I had remained awake, a warmed kippered toddy prepared against my friend’s return, my curiosity also waiting to be assuaged. He clumped up the stairs wearily, doffed his coat and hat, and fell into a chair, accepting the toddy with a nod. Then, after quaffing a goodly portion, he put the glass aside, leaned forward, and burst into loud laughter.

“It would have done you good, Watney, to see Balustrade’s stare when he was forced to unlock Wain’s cell and usher the young man to the street,” he said with a grin. “I swear for a moment there I thought the Inspector was going to physically engage me in fisticuffs!” He chuckled at the memory and finished his kippered toddy, visibly relaxing. “And thank you, by the way, for your thoughtfulness in preparing this toddy for me. It was delicious.”

“You can demonstrate your gratitude in far better manner,” I said possibly a trifle tartly, for it was well past my usual bedtime, “by explaining this entire complex, incomprehensible case to me, for none of it makes the slightest sense!”

“No?” he asked incredulously. “I am rather surprised. I should have thought the medical evidence would have pointed you in the right direction. However,” he continued, seeing the look on my face and, as ever, properly interpreting it, “let us begin at the beginning.” He lit a Pakistani.

“First, as you well know, Watney, I respect you quite highly as a medical man, but I have also made a study in depth of toxicology. You may recall my monograph on the Buster Ketones and the Hal-loids which had such a profound effect on early Hollywood comedies—but I digress. To me the evidence presented by the article in the morning journal was quite conclusive.”

His fine eyes studied my face, as if testing me. “Tell me, Watney, what precise toxicity results in the symptoms so accurately described by the writer in the journal?” He listed them on his fingers as he continued, “One: stomach disorder. Two: dimness of vision—for you will remember that Sir Francis stumbled as he left the room, and yet, after living in Caudal Manor for all his sixty-two years, one must assume he could normally have made his way about blindfolded. Three: difficulty in speaking and breathing. And four: a nasal quality to his voice.”

Homes looked at me inquiringly. “Well?”

“Botulism!” I said instantly, now wide-awake.

“Exactly! True, the symptoms are similar for hydrocyanic poisoning, but with the knight consuming the frankfurter, botulism was clearly indicated. My questions to young Mrs. Gibbon regarding the ale and the cook merely confirmed it.”

“I beg your pardon, Homes?” I asked, completely lost once again.

“Let us take the ale first,” said he, his kindly glance forgiving my obtuseness. “Certainly Mrs. Gabriel Gibbon, herself a colonial, would be aware that icing of ale is almost compulsory in the colonies, and would therefore be expected by her compatriot. The failure to do so on the part of a dedicated hostess, therefore, could only have been caused by one thing—”

“The absent-mindedness which the reporter mentioned?” I asked, eager to be of help.

“No, Watney! The lack of ice! Now, in a household the size of Caudal Manor, who has the responsibility for seeing that the supply of ice is adequate? Naturally, the cook. But an elderly cook with years of experience would never forget a matter as important as ice, particularly with a foreign guest expected. Therefore, the conclusion is inevitable that the cook was not elderly, but rather, on the contrary, young. Still, even young cooks who manage to secure employment in an establishment as noted as Caudal Manor are not chosen unless they are well-qualified; therefore some problem must have been preying on the young cook’s mind to make her forget the ice. Now, Watney, what problem could bother a young lady to this extent? Only one concerning a male friend; hence my conclusion that she had had a quarrel with her fiancé.” He spread his hands.

“But, Homes,” I asked, bewildered, “what made you think of ice in the first place? Or rather, the lack of it? Merely the floe of ideas?”

“The botulism, of course, Watney! Lack of proper refrigeration is one of the greatest causes for the rapid growth of the fatal bacteria, and both Mrs. Gibbon and her friend Mr. Wain may count themselves fortunate that the organism attacked only the one frankfurter, or they might well have both joined Sir Francis in death!”

For several moments I could only gaze at my friend Mr. Schlock Homes with the greatest admiration for his brilliant analysis and masterful deductions.

“Homes!” I cried. “You have done it again! Had it not been for your brilliant analysis and masterful deductions, an innocent colonial might have gone to the gallows for a crime due, in its entirety, to a hot-dog in the knight!” Then I paused as another thought struck me. “But one thing, Homes,” I added, puzzled. “What of the oil of nutmeg that the police made such a matter of?”

Homes chuckled. “Oh, that? That was the easiest part of the entire problem, Watney. I stopped at the mortuary while I was out to-night and had a look at Sit Francis’ cadaver. As I had anticipated, he had taken up a new after-shave lotion with a nutmeg bouquet, and as soon as I can determine its name, I believe I shall purchase it as well.”

Due to the late hour when we finally retired that night, it was well past noon when I arose and made my way to the breakfast table. Homes had not arrived as yet, but I had no more than seated myself and reached for my first spoonful of chutneyed curry when he came into the room.

He greeted me genially and seated himself, drawing his napkin into his lap. In deference to his habits I put aside my spoon for the moment and picked up the morning journal, preparing to leaf through it in search of some tidbit of news that might serve Homes as a means to ward off ennui. But I did not need to turn the page. There, staring at me from scare headlines, was an announcement that made me catch my breath.

“Homes!” I cried, shocked to the core. “A terrible thing has happened!”

He paused in the act of buttering a kipper. “Oh?”

“Yes,” I said sadly. “Tragedy seems to have struck poor Mrs. Gibbon again!”

He eyed me sharply, his fishknife poised. “You mean—?”

“Yes,” I said unhappily, reading further into the article. “It seems that early this morning, while taking his constitutional along Edgeware Road, Gabriel Gibbon was struck and killed by a car recklessly driving on the wrong side of the road. The police surmise the culprit may have been from the Continent, where drivers are known to use the wrong side of the road; but this is mere theory and unsupported by fact, particularly since the driver escaped and the description of the few witnesses is considered useless.”

“That poor girl!” said Homes, and sighed deeply.

“Yes,” I agreed. “True, she will now inherit the Gibbon fortune, but this can scarcely compensate her for the loss of her loved one!”

“True,” Homes said thoughtfully. Then a possible solution came to him and he nodded. “We can only hope that her friend Mr. Wain will stand by her in her hour of need, even as she stood by him in his! In fact, I believe he is enough in my debt for me to suggest it. A telegram form, if you please, Watney—”