The Adventure of the Poison Tea Epidemic

by Carl L. Heifetz

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in Early English charters - researches which led to results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my future narratives.

– The Adventure of the Three Students, April 1895

After the adventure that took place at the onset of the Great War in August 1914, during a quiet time over Scotch and soda, my friend Sherlock Holmes finally gave me the permission to publish the event that brought us to one of England’s great universities in a search for clues to another mystery - The Adventure of the Tea Epidemic. The name of the university and its locale must still be concealed due to the fact that some of the principals in the story, published as “The Adventure of the Three Students,” are still alive, though elderly. I pray that my readers will forgive my occasional use of spellings and references more appropriate to an American, but my language has been contaminated by my three-year sojourn in Baltimore, Maryland obtaining a fellowship in neurological diseases at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.

If I recall, the story that I will name “The Adventure of the Poison Tea Epidemic” began in the early spring of 1895. March had been particularly cold and dry that year, and we were welcoming the anticipated sunshine and warmth of April, only to experience a week of torrential rains. Being alone after the sad occasion of the death of my dear Mary, I had retaken residence in my old home on Baker Street with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Since most doctors were unavailable after surgery hours, I was often called upon during those times to render emergency medical service. In addition, I was serving two shifts in the neuroscience facility at St. Barts to keep my hand in and to provide additional income for entertainment.

I had been sitting in my favorite chair by the window, although the heavy downpour impeded the light to some extent. I had just finished Lancet, the British Medical Journal, and several treatises on experimental neurosurgery, when I noticed that Holmes had installed his large capacity curved briar into his mouth. This signaled the need to organize his papers, which were strewn into every corner of our sitting room, into his notebooks and files. Unimpeded, after a few hours work, he would have our quarters as neat as a pin. Since this was much to my liking, I thought it best to sneak off of the premises. Otherwise, seeing my presence, he might feel impelled to narrate one of his old adventures instead of completing the organizational task. I glanced at the huge grandfather clock that had been a gift from the King of Scandinavia, and noted that it was past three p.m.

I quietly tip-toed to the door and was approaching the stairs, when glancing back, I saw Holmes remove his pipe after taking a large inhalation. He said, “Have a nice evening.” He smiled briefly, as was his custom, and returned to his chores.

As I entered the street, I noticed that the rain had temporarily ceased and the sky was finally clearing. I encountered a messenger and gave him a note to deliver to my old friend Thurston, stating, “Thurston, old man, are you up to a nice dinner at our club, a few drinks, and several rounds of billiards? If so meet me at our club. I will be there in less than thirty minutes.”

After that, I beckoned a hansom cab over, and went on a short, splashy ride to my club. I climbed the flight of stairs, entered the reading room, and ordered a Scotch and soda to while away the time and read the Guardian.

After only a brief interlude, I spotted Thurston wiping his feet at the entrance to the chamber, his hat still dripping from the renewed downpour. After the servant had removed his rain gear, I noticed that my friend was still thin and well built. He looked as if he could still command his platoon as he had done in Afghanistan. His smile revealed bright teeth under his red moustache that was spotted with specks of gray. I ordered a Scotch and soda for him, and he sat next to me.

Picking up the drink from the intervening table, after we shook hands and seated ourselves, he took a sip and said, “Just the thing after a hard day of filing taxes for the lords and ladies of the kingdom. I’m happy to see you for a long savored relaxation.” He continued in his deep baritone voice, just slightly showing the deleterious effects of age on its timbre, “I hope that you are ready for a serious match. I haven’t played in two weeks, and I’m anxious to deprive you of some of your money.”

After downing our cocktails, we were notified that our table was ready for our dinner of rare prime rib with tasty potatoes and vegetables, and a bottle of Bordeaux. Afterwards, satiated, we went up the one flight of old oaken stairs to the beautiful mahogany paneled billiard room. We were enjoying a leisurely game of three cushion billiards and our second aged cognac when a melee burst out at the entrance to the portal.

Our play was interrupted by one of the servants. He made me aware of the fact that the commissionaire, whom I had known for many years, had invaded the facility. Unlike the usually staid demeanor of the former non-commissioned officer in her Majesty’s marines, the commissionaire came bursting into the billiard room. Gone was he usual military bearing and stiff upper lip. Instead, he was trembling all over. His usually stern face was red with grief and his eyes flush with tears.

He exclaimed in a loud voice, “My youngest child, Edith, is dying from pneumonia. She is burning with fever and can scarcely breathe. She is shaking all over her little body. My doctor expects her to die by morning.”

Obviously, it was my ethical duty to comply with this urgent call to service. I scooped up my bag, said a hasty farewell and apology to my opponent, and rushed down the stairs, following my old commissionaire, whom I had known for many years, and who had always provided faithful service. I dashed out the door to find a four wheeler peopled by the commissionaire, an old woman, and a tiny infant wrapped in woolen blankets. Without a second’s delay, I yelled to the cabbie, “Off to St. Barts as fast as you can go. If you make it in twenty minutes you will earn an extra sovereign.”

My stethoscope informed me that the female infant was in the last stages of pneumonia. She was barely breathing and her lungs were congested. Also, I didn’t need the assistance of a thermometer to determine that she was highly febrile. I knew there was only one chance for her: the new experimental serum being developed at the Serology Institute in the research area of St. Barts. The rabbit antiserum containing antibodies to all three strains of diplococccus was her only hope. When we had entered the new facility, I summoned the colleagues with whom I had researched for several years prior to switching to neurology. They quickly arrived, all five of them, from the areas in which they were working. My medical colleagues and I spent all night ministering to the baby with multiple intravenous injections of serum, an ice bath, and aspirin. Finally, at two in the morning, she reached the expected climax. By God’s willing answer to my prayers and the power of the new medication, the fever broke, and she was again spirited and well. Joyfully, I left her and her father in the loving care of the hospital staff. I trudged out into the deep night, after promising to return at noon to see how she was faring. Finally, finding a cab, I made my way back to Baker Street, not recalling how I made it up the stairs and into my bed.

I didn’t arise until a quarter past eleven a.m., if you can believe the old grandfather clock that was provided by the King of Scandinavia. I was in desperate need for a cup of hot coffee, and was grateful that the smell of fresh beverage filled the air. However, my ability to obtain this beverage was retarded by my colleague’s actions. Now, I may have certain character flaws, but when it comes to plucking out a thick facial hair at the breakfast table, I draw the line. Not only was Sherlock Holmes performing that less-than-elegant act that should have been restricted to the bathroom, but he was using the highly polished coffee pot as his mirror.

“Holmes, if you don’t mind, I would like to have the coffee pot. Maybe you could find a mirror in your bedroom for your preening,” I said with some asperity.

Holmes turned to me with a smile, handed me the coffee pot, and said, “I see that you made a late night of it. What did you and Thurston do after leaving the club? Did you seek female companionship? I tried to leave a message for you, but my courier could only say that you rushed out.”

“Holmes, what did you want me for? You weren’t busy when I left for supper and billiards. I’m busy now. I must eat a quick breakfast and hurry off to St. Barts. I have a pneumonia patient,” I replied. “When I return, you can tell me why you went to the trouble to summon me.”

Holmes replied, “All will be revealed. Here is a sandwich that Mrs. Hudson made for me. Take your coffee with you and eat in the cab.”

Grateful to Holmes for the thoughtfulness he occasionally showed when appropriate, I was even more grateful that my miniature patient had now recovered. However, I was shocked the commissionaire had left the facility and the child was being ministered to by the previously seen elderly woman.

“Where is Bracket?” I asked loudly, “and who are you?”

Smiling gently as she stroked the child, the gray haired woman said, “Don’t fret doctor, I am Edith’s aunt, Teresa. Mr. Bracket is my brother. He rushed off after seeing another doctor. I don’t know why or where.”

I rushed out to the nurse’s station, yelling, “What happened to the commissionaire? What has caused him to leave his daughter, who is just now recovering from pneumonia?”

A beautiful, young, blonde-haired nurse, whom I had often visited for conversation, walked over to me and said, “It’s Mr. Bracket’s wife and other two children, a boy of two and a girl of five. They seem to be suffering from a severe poisoning. You may find them in the women’s ward. Follow me.”

I walked behind her, admiring both her figure and her control of the situation. She said, pointing to the left, “Go this way. The doctors are in with them now. Perhaps you would like to take charge of the case, since the men ministering to them are only young interns.”

She turned and smiled at me, and then quickly left for her station as I reluctantly watched her go. “Well, another time would be more propitious,” I thought.

As I entered the room, I quickly sized up the situation. Bracket was sitting in a chair, his head in his hands. His wife and two children were shaking all over, in an obviously nervous state. The young interns rose to greet me, and then recognizing a senior colleague backed away as if awaiting my orders.

“These people are obviously suffering from a poisoning. Their moans indicate a state of hallucination. It appears to be some type of food poisoning, since there are no wounds on the bodies or bleeding, as I can tell from your notes. You must clear their bodies as quickly as possible. Pump their stomachs, apply enemas, flush with copious amounts of water, and then administer activated charcoal and very strong tea.”

“No tea! It’s poison!” yelled Mrs. Bracket, as she sat upright in the bed. Then she quickly fell back to her supine position.

I ordered, “Cancel the tea until further notice. Continue with the other instructions.”

Observing the patients more closely, I began to recognize their symptoms as I slowly recalled the lectures I had received many years ago. They had undergone seizures, hallucinations, tremors, and now they expressed that they were nauseous. There was no diarrhea that one would expect from typical food poisoning. I hypothesized that they were suffering from a mild case of ergotism. I turned to my youngest colleague, an Indian, and said, “Mr. Singh, please run to the chemists and bring me amyl nitrite solution. Have the woman inhale 0.3 ml. and give the children 0.1 ml.”

Turning to the other two men, I said, “Mr. Riley and Mr. Addison, please watch them carefully and keep me abreast of their progress.”

As my young colleagues were ministering to my new patients, I went over to the commissionaire. Kneeling next to him, I asked “What is happening? Why are your wife and children ill and you are not? Did you drink any tea? Did it have a strange taste?”

He responded with a tremulous voice, “We were just sitting down to tea when I had to rush Edith off to the hospital. Thus, I had no tea. When I was at Edith’s bedside, talking to my sister, a doctor took me away to see my family in this state. They were yelling and convulsing. No one knew what to do.”

“Fortunately, I have neurological training and I recognized signs of chemical poisoning. Has anyone eaten freshly baked rye bread or anything unusual?”

He replied, “No sir. We had eaten nothing until tea was served. I left with Edith and told them to continue the tea service while I rushed to find you. Fortunately, I know where you often go when you are not in Baker Street, and I knew that it was not one of your work nights.”

I said, “So it would appear that the tea was contaminated with rye bearing the ergot fungus. That is most unusual and surprising. Please stay here and watch your family. I will ask the nurse to bring you Edith on my way out. Now I must summon Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This sounds like a rare mystery that is beyond my power to discern,” I said as I turned to leave.

Running out to the busy street, I spotted my friend, the cabbie Jonathon. Handing him five shillings, I shouted, “Bring Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Tell him that Bracket’s family has been poisoned, and such a criminal act requires his immediate attention. Other people may be at risk.”

While I awaited Holmes visit, I noticed that the victims were recovering from their attack. Finally, Mrs. Bracket turned to me and said, “Dr. Watson, thank you very much for saving our lives. We must get that tea out of the house before anyone else gets sick.”

“Where did you buy the tea? We must retrieve any that they sold or still have in hand, in case there are more poisoned lots. Also, did it taste unusual?”

“Well, Doctor, I didn’t purchase the tea. It was a gift from one of my husband’s employers, John Alexander. She said that he hadn’t bought the tea, but that it was a gift from his employer’s neighbor, Sir James Green, who had given it to Mr. Alexander.”

“So the tea wasn’t originally intended for you. It was originally intended for Mr. Alexander,” I stated.

“That is correct, Dr. Watson. But the tea tasted a little like rye bread. I really didn’t like it, but you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Just then, Holmes rushed in and took over the scene. He turned to the commissionaire and said, “I have a very important job for you. Get as many men as you can and go to the shop that sells this brand of tea, locate all of the recent customers, and bring all you can find to my lodgings on Baker Street. Here are several shillings to get the necessary cooperation. Tell the proprietor that Sherlock Holmes thinks that they are selling poisoned tea.”

Relieved that he now had an important assignment, and that his entire family was recovering and in the hands of medical professionals, Bracket resumed his normal erect stature and bearing, and marched out of the room quickly with precise steps.

Holmes and I made the short carriage ride to Bracket’s abode to see if we could find any other evidence that would point to a source of poison or, as I thought, ergot contaminated rye. We arrived at the small lodging, contained on the third floor of a brown brick building in the working class neighborhood housing the workers who served the local hospital and medical offices. Holmes quickly penetrated the building entrance and the door to the apartment without requiring a key, using methods that he had acquired from his more nefarious colleagues. The only thing out of place were the turned over chairs at the kitchen table, some liquid tea drying on the wooden floor, and tea cups containing the dregs of the teas that had not yet been ingested. Otherwise, there was no evidence of foul play. We scoured the two bedrooms, the bath, sitting room, and kitchen without finding anything suspicious. It was obvious that, as good parents, anything hazardous to children was safely under lock and key. We took the used teacups back with us for further examination. Holmes poured the residue of the tea into small glass containers, and secured the opened carton of tea in a canvas bag that he had brought for that purpose.

As we were exiting, Holmes turned to face me and asked, as a teacher does to a student, “You have examined the contents of this abode. Using your powers of observation and deduction, do you think the Bracket was the kind of man that would purposely poison his wife and children?”

I replied, “Not at all, Holmes. His bed was made with military precision. One could bounce a shilling off of it. His children’s beds were covered with care and were warmly dressed. Although one wall in his sitting room was decorated with mementos of his military service, the larger bore many images of his family that far exceeded his personal effects. Also, based on my training as a neuroscientist, I would declare that his grief for his toddler’s pneumonia, and his reaction to his other family members’ illness, was genuine and palpable. Have I missed anything? Do you agree?”

“Watson,” he declared with a smile. “You are coming along nicely. You make an excellent detective’s associate. I agree with your analysis and trust the commissionaire completely.”

As soon as we had arrived at our lodgings, Holmes quickly got to work. First he smelled the package of tea and invited me to do the same.

“It smells like rye bread,” I said. “I never have experienced that odor in tea before.”

Then he cleared his chemical apparatus from the deal topped table and installed a high powered microscope on its surface. Using a forceps, he carefully teased a portion of the solid dregs onto a glass slide. Then he applied a thin cover slip. He slowly lowered the objective to the top of the cover slip, and then raised it until he had what he wanted to see in focus. He smiled and said, “I think that your diagnosis was correct. Take a look.”

I carefully repeated his actions until the material was brought into sharp focus. It didn’t take me long to recall the lessons that I had learned many years ago. There were tea leaves and what could only be stands of rye stipules.

“Holmes, what I find most revealing are fruiting bodies of the ergot fungus Claviceps purpurea. I never thought that I would ever need this knowledge.” I said, “My physical diagnosis was correct. I’m pleased that I was able to predict the appropriate therapy.”

Holmes replied, “Yes, Watson, you are to be congratulated for medical acumen. Tomorrow I will need to visit the purveyors of this tea for a conversation. I’m certain that they have closed their facility for the night, but I will visit them early in the morning. Meanwhile, you must tell your assistants not to alert the police. If they want to publish this account in a house medical proceedings and report it in Grand Rounds, where it will disappear from public sight but serve to further their careers, that would be fine.”

I responded, “Why not bring in the police? They can help us gather evidence.”

Holmes retorted, “If my supposition is correct, Bracket will benefit financially from my solution to the crime. If the perpetrators are jailed, which may be unlikely unless we can find more direct evidence tying them to the actual crime, no one will benefit from the misfortunes suffered by his wife and children.”

Having accomplished all that we could, Holmes and I had our own high tea, being careful to inspect the label, sniff the contents, and to settle down for a rest. I was pleased by our conversation and in a relaxed frame of mind during the entire evening. As we sat, I asked Holmes why we didn’t go to the tea merchant ourselves to get the information. He replied, “Everyone likes Commissionaire Bracket. They all use his services and trust him. Had we shown up, we might have encountered suspicion and resistance. Also, I think that I would like to light a pipe and cogitate upon the issues. Why would someone give John Alexander poisoned tea? Or if we are to believe his wife, why would someone give it to Sir James, or if we want to take it a step further, was the commissionaire’s family the ultimate target? Then, is there a large supply of poisoned tea in the market? I’m certain that Bracket and his cohorts will round up all of the supplies. Then, we will need to scour the papers that I asked Billy to pick up for us as we enjoyed our tea and crumpets. And finally, why did the tea have a rye taste? I have a monograph on two-hundred-twenty-six blends of tea, including the appearance of cooked and raw leaves, and a description of each flavor. I have never encountered a tea that is flavored with rye, and I can’t see why anyone would want it. Tomorrow, we will have accumulated enough data to guarantee a meaningful conversation.”

Holmes’s last act for the evening was to send our buttons out to acquire copies of all of the newspapers before he allowed the lad to leave for the evening.

I awoke at my usual late hour to find Holmes deeply studying the newspapers that were piled up next to his ham, eggs, and coffee mug. He had a glint in his deep gray eyes and a devilish smile in his face that predicted a bad ending to the perpetrators of this mischief. I quickly ingested my breakfast and left for my morning shift at St. Barts. Also, I needed to see to my four patients and handle any financial issues. Sherlock Holmes guaranteed that he would add this expense to whoever would end up paying for his investigative services.

As I left, Holmes said, “Are you up to a trip? I need to do a search of ancient British charters and you might enjoy the environs. We leave this afternoon from Baker Street Station.”

I replied, “I will be packed quickly, a skill I learned in the army medical service.” Then I rushed down to the street to get the cab that our buttons had reserved for me.

I arrived on time at St. Barts and met with my staff. I congratulated my students for a job well done and warned them about avoiding publicity. I brought a sample of the tea dregs for them to evaluate as background for their report, but told them that the source of the materials was still under investigation and could not be revealed. Then, with my interns in tow, I examined my patients, saw that they were now recovered from their travails, and released them from their involuntary hospital confinement. I informed Bracket and his wife that the poisoning incident must be kept secret so that Mr. Holmes is able to adjudicate the issue and obtain remuneration for them.

After two hours of patient rounds, I bid farewell to my staff, wished them a good day, and returned to my Baker Street lodgings for a well-deserved lunch and nap. However, the nap was not to be. As I arrived, my nose was overwhelmed by the strong odor of tea that masked the pungent smell of his vile pipe tobacco. Holmes’s chemical table bore five opened cartons of Paladinium Tea, the same brand that was the source of the ergot poisoning the previous day. The entire surface of his work table was covered with microscope slides and cover slips.

Holmes said, “Ah Watson, you are just in time for our next pieces of evidence. All five cartons of tea that were recently delivered are free of rye particles and fungal spores. Only the box delivered to Sir James Green, who had later given it to Mr. Alexander, was so contaminated. It was not a random event. So, the source of the poisoned tea goes at least as far back as Sir James Green. Although it’s possible that the servants despoiled the samples, I suggest that that is not the case. I sent the buttons to question Mrs. Bracket, and she said that the box did not look as if it had been opened, or if it had been, it was very well done.

Then he showed me the papers. In the interior pages of the Guardian, in the section devoted to agriculture, there was a brief account of cattle poisoning in a rye field near his famous university.

He cried out, “Quick, eat your lunch! A cab awaits our voyage of discovery.”

And off we went on a journey that I found out would take us to the city where resides one of England’s great universities, and former scholastic residence of Sherlock Holmes before he left to complete his degree at London University and St. Barts.

As we dashed onto the train and entered the last available first class smoking carriage, I asked Holmes, “Where are we going? What is the purpose of this journey?”

He replied, “We are traveling to the area where I first encountered my university training. Therein is a library replete with official land charters, and a nearby field in which some poor cattle died from eating rye contaminated with the fungus of ergotism. These documents, and ownership of the land, may provide further information on the motive for the ergot poisoning that we discovered by accident, and the possible source of the deleterious material.”

I immediately understood his objective, but I couldn’t understand how this data would apply to a criminal event in far-off London. As usual, I was forced to stay on the sidelines, exploring the buildings and town of a university that was foreign to me, while my friend spent hours on the diligent search through dry records that may date back to the formation of the English nation itself. My perambulations and isolation, except for mealtimes, was only interrupted by the brief adventure concerning the copying of the Greek scholarship exam. After only two more days, Sherlock Holmes grabbed me off of the street. In his right hand he held a plethora of documents that were rolled in a bright blue ribbon.

“Come Watson, we must pack our belongings. I now have the solution to the mystery of the devious ergotism event!” he cried. “We must return to London before the trail turns cold!”

We ran for the train just as the whistle was blowing and the conductor yelled, “All aboard.”

We hurried into a first class smoker and settled down for the long journey to Baker Street. Holmes busied himself with several newspapers that he had acquired from Professor Soames, and then began studying the documents that had been carried under his long, thin arms.

Knowing that my companion would not permit any conversation as he studied the papers in his hands, I sought out the dining car, had two glasses of dry white wine, and fell into a stupor. The gentle monotonous chug of the locomotive and the delightful view out of the window, after I had returned to my carriage, must have lulled me to sleep. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder as the conductor cried out, “All off!”

I noticed that Holmes had now unfolded all of the documents and tied them into a neat pile. The newspapers were shoved under his seat. The edges revealed that several pages had been sampled with a pair of scissors. A smile on Holmes’s face indicated that someone was not going to be happy in a day or two. The look of concentration thwarted my attempts to converse with him, and I quietly followed him to a hansom cab and our final ride to our quarters.

After we strode up the seventeen steps to our suite, Holmes immediately went to his desk and began writing telegrams. I noted that he was also withdrawing his special expensive formal stationery and writing notes with his neat hand. He then called out, “Billy, drop these telegrams at the post office and pay for a reply to each. Then take a cab and hand deliver these to the addresses on the linen envelopes.”

With that, Holmes looked at me and said, “Watson, as you see, I have been very busy. Please forgive me for ignoring you, but time was of the essence. Please get together your best set of city clothes. We will be entertaining tomorrow at high tea at five p.m. at the Paladinium Tea Room, in their special tasting room. I expect that we will make the acquaintance of two leaders of our society who, unbeknownst to our friends, have some dark dealings in their past.”

“Should I call Gregson or Lestrade?” I asked.

“No, Watson, I think that justice will be served better without the intervention of the constabulary. Just be prepared to leave tomorrow at four-forty p.m.”

Then, opening his violin case, he continued; “Now, it is time for sweetness and light. Please fix each of us Scotch and soda while I supply some music before we order our supper from Mrs. Hudson.”

The following day, I arose a trifle late, even for me, full of a desire to question Holmes about our coming adventure, but alas, he had already stepped out. I was required to fill the day as best I could, walking to Marble Arch and listening to the orators, and then returning for a solitary lunch of fish and chips, and a bitter ale.

Holmes arrived at four p.m. already attired in his conservative business dress. He glanced at my selection of dark frock coat, silk tie, and grey striped pants. He nodded in affirmation of my attire. We each picked up our most ornate walking sticks, walked down to the street, and retrieved a four-wheeler that our servant had secured for us.

Holmes winked at me and said, “We will make a stop along the way.”

Then, we stopped at the residence of Bracket, who was now very elegantly attired in his military dress uniform. Our threesome pulled up at the chic entry to the most expensive tea room in the West End. A liveried footman emerged, opened our carriage door, and guided us past the little old ladies who populated the front room of the shop. We then were escorted up the stairs to the palatial rooms reserved for the special guests. The fashionable décor indicated that we appropriately dressed for the surroundings. The tables were set with glistening silver spoons and stylish imported tea cups and saucers, with matching pitchers and lemon service. The walls were adorned with masterworks of art, among which were several oil paintings by Holmes’s great uncle, M. Vernet.

The heralded proprietor of the Paladinium Tea Room, Mr. Brooks, was garbed in afternoon formal attire. He greeted each of us individually as an honored guest. His thin moustache accented a very narrow nose on a slight well-shaven face that matched his slim build and tiny feet. He carried himself with the grace expected of a doyen of such a fine establishment.

When he approached Sherlock Holmes and shook his hand, he said, “Mr. Holmes, I have always wanted to meet you. I have been following your exploits closely.”

Turning in my direction, he extended his hand and gave me a firm shake. “Doctor Watson, I’m extremely pleased to meet the famous author and biographer of Mr. Holmes.”

He also greeted the Commissionaire with the respect usually afforded an aristocrat, shaking his hand and thanking him for his courage and service to our Queen. He then motioned to a tray of small glasses and invited us to join him in a sherry as we awaited our other visitors.

The two additional men arrived about five minutes later, separately, and each was accompanied by his man servant. After the valets removed the top hats and light overcoats of our visitors, they took away the walking sticks and went down the stairs to the servants’ area. Sir James Green and Mr. John Alexander were men of a type who could be considered aristocrats and men of affairs. In many ways, they resembled Holmes’s former school mate, Musgrave. Their attire was in the latest fashion from the best tailors. Their shoes were glistening in the light of the tea room. They were both very pale of skin, and had fair hair. They held their noses up as if to avoid any foul odors, and their faces bore the obvious signs of disdain. As they approached the earlier residents of the room, they bowed formally as a sign of recognition. However, they did not offer their hands. They especially looked askance at the uniformed military figure of Commissionaire Bracket, who gave each a military salute.

The man identified as Sir James Green said, “Mr. Brooks, I thought that this was to be a private showing. What are the other men doing here?”

Brooks responded as courteously as well as he could under the circumstances saying, “I thought that you would enjoy the company of other noted gentlemen at this event.”

Mr. Alexander said, “Let’s get this over with. As long as we are here, I can stand the company of Sir James Green for this short time. Next time, please make certain that you meet us separately. The other men are welcome to join us.”

With that, Mr. Brooks clapped his hands and a waiter appeared, pushing in a large carboy sloshing hot water. The men were invited to take seats of their choice, and were each provided with a dollop of tea in a strainer. He then poured hot water through each.

Immediately, Sir James burst out, “Are you trying to kill us? This tea is poisoned!”

Shocked by this outburst, the other men pushed their chairs back. Sherlock Holmes asked, “How do you know this tea is poisoned? Is it the smell of rye?”

Sir James shouted, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No,” retorted Sherlock Holmes, “You are accusing yourself.” And with that, Holmes finished preparing his cup of tea and began to drink. “Is it the smell of rye? I thought that this was a very pleasant taste.”

At Holmes’s signal, Bracket and I also drank our tea. Seeing that there was no danger, Mr. Alexander also consumed his tea. Chagrined by this, Sir James followed suit, but with some degree of trepidation.

“What is this about?” asked Sir James angrily. “You tricked me!”

“You tricked yourself,” replied Holmes. “Now please seat yourself. I have a story to tell you.”

Sir James stood up and attempted to leave. “I have no interest in your tales, you busybody. I’m leaving.”

“We three will hold you in here until we have concluded the business of the evening. Mr. Brooks, I think that the Scotch and soda that I brought would be better suited to what follows. Thank you very much for your courtesy. Please sit and listen, since what follows many also be of interest to you.”

Mr. Alexander said, “Yes, stay. I want to know what this is about.”

After each man had been supplied with their alcoholic beverage, Sherlock Holmes began his recitation. “I received a desperate call from Dr. Watson that Sergeant Major Bracket’s wife and children were stricken with ergot poisoning. Now, Dr. Watson is an expert in nervous system disorders. He was able to save the lives of the three individuals, all of whom had ingested tea smelling of rye. Neither Mr. Bracket nor his daughter was affected because they went to the hospital before they could drink any tea, due to an attack of pneumonia suffered by the youngest child. When Dr. Watson and I inspected Mr. Bracket’s domicile, we noted a strong smell of rye. Subsequently, we examined the tea dregs in my laboratory and saw, in the microscope, fragments of rye wheat and Claviceps purpurea therein.”

“What has that to do with me,” yelled Sir James. “I don’t even know this man or his family.”

As he started again to leave, Holmes, Bracket, and even Alexander threw him back in his chair saying, “Somehow, I think that tea was meant for me. My cook told me that it was sent over and I refused it, telling her to destroy it.”

“You have been after me all of the years as well. But you can’t prove that I’m the source of the poisoned tea.”

Sherlock Holmes resumed his professorial manner and continued. “According to Mrs. Bracket, she received the tea from Mrs. Alexander, who thought that she was doing a kindness. But the tea, which wreaked havoc with the Bracket family, was clearly intended for Mr. Alexander.”

“Then where did the ergot in the tea come from?” asked Sir James belligerently.

“Thank you for the next entry to my story. It seems as if land belonging to you is infested with rye wheat contaminated with ergot.”

With that, Sherlock Holmes passed around material clipped from the Guardian, and more detailed accounts of cattle poisoning from the local press in Holmes’s university town. Holmes said, “I also visited the area with Dr. Watson, and looked at all of the land holdings in the area. You, Sir James, had access to the ergot-contaminated rye.”

“If you think that is the case, why don’t you turn this over to the police?”

“Because, I do not plan to besmirch your name or that of Mr. Alexander in the press. The society pages would have a field day. Also, it would harm the excellent and hard-earned reputation of the Paladinium Tea Room and its proprietor Mr. Brooks. I have another story that you may find interesting as well.” went on Sherlock Holmes.

He continued, “I researched ancient English charters, almost to the beginning of our nation from the Norman conquest. There was a brave and ferocious knight who served William the Conqueror. As a reward for his service, the man was first made a baron of the realm, and later was awarded the position of Earl. This gentleman had a succession of heirs, each bearing the noble title and serving the kings of England. Unexpectedly, one of the men had twin sons. He died before the land could be officially awarded to the appropriate heir. After that time, descendants of both have quarreled over the ownership of the estates. Gentlemen, those men were your ancestors. Your quarrel dates back to that time. You gentlemen are of the same blood, first cousins several generations removed from the great Earl, who is your ancestor. I now have the copies of all of the documents and land grants. I suggest that you join together in a court action and split the properties equitably, and to cease these useless attempts to murder each other.”

“That is good news, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea that we were kin. I only knew that we each were told that the entire tract of land was ours to fight over,” said Mr. Alexander. “It does not behoove us to fight each other when, in tandem, we can join our forces and reap the harvest that we deserve. James, I forgive your attempt to harm me if you can see it in your heart to do the same for my past actions.”

Sir James stood up, held out his hand and said, “Cousin, it is time that we were partners. We are both very clever at affairs and could reap a great harvest. By now, the value of the land itself is far less valuable that our holdings in properties, money, and investments. “

To everyone’s surprise, the two cousins shook hands in friendship and said, in unison, “To making our fortunes.” Then, they embraced each other and started to leave arm in arm.

Sherlock Holmes ordered, “Just a minute, gentlemen. I’m satisfied that you have made a friendly alliance, but there is still the matter of Mr. Bracket and his family, who were the innocent victims of your rivalry. Mr. Bracket, thank you for your attendance. Now I wish to speak to the cousins in private, with only Doctor Watson as a witness. Mr. Brooks, would you please see the Commissionaire to a cab and pay his fare? I will reimburse you soon.”

As they left, Mr. Brooks said, “It is the least I could do for saving my reputation.”

After they left, Sherlock Holmes took some very formal looking documents from his pocket. He handed a copy to each gentleman, saying, “Here are contracts that I have had formatted by my attorney, binding you to an agreement to provide financial remuneration to Mr. Bracket’s family. Please read them carefully. You may have a solicitor read over them, but I am firm on the requirements. You will collectively provide money to support a suitable home for Mr. Bracket and his family, and scholarships to excellent schools and a university education for his children.”

Both gentlemen carefully read the short document, nodded their agreements, and quickly signed both copies.

Sherlock Holmes said, “Thank you gentlemen for your cooperation. I’m happy that everyone will benefit by this day’s events. I will have my solicitor finalize these contracts for my signature, along with Dr. Watson, as witnesses.”

Both men smiled broadly. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You are truly a miracle worker,” said Sir James.

“Yes,” added Mr. Alexander. “The words of Dr. Watson’s narratives ring true. If ever I am troubled with a serious problem, I will contact you. Expect a check for one-thousand pounds for your expenses.”

“I will add the same amount to that.” Said Mr. Alexander, as he two aristocrats strolled off arm in arm.

Sherlock Holmes turned to me and said, “Now for some great food, wine, and repartee. We have both been invited by brother Mycroft to join him at his club for dinner.”

I turned to Holmes and asked, “How does he know about this?”

Holmes replied, “Brother Mycroft seems to always know what is going on, sometimes before it takes place.”

Then off we went seeking transportation to the guest dining room at the Diogenes Club.