Returning to Holmes’ room and with the word “How?” ringing in my ears, it was perfectly clear to me that in his present condition, Holmes was unable to be part of finding the answer.
I leant close to my friend. “Holmes, old man. I am going downstairs for some breakfast but will be back shortly.” Holmes nodded weakly and I left him so nature could take its course and cleanse his body. There was little more that I could do.
Finding the landlord behind the bar, I ordered my breakfast and I also had a mind to question him about the prawns. As far as I could ascertain, this was the only thing different in our meal of the previous night. “Tell me, landlord. The prawns my friend ate last night, they were fresh?”
The landlord looked most hurt! “Indeed they were, sir. I bought them fresh from the quayside yesterday afternoon, they had just come off the boat and been cooked there and then. Me and the wife both had them last night and we are as right as rain!” I nodded and thanked him, although I could see that he was a still a little rattled by my question.
“Forgive me, landlord. I am a doctor and I have a duty to make these enquiries in order to seek the best treatment for my patient.” The landlord was somewhat placated by this and nodded in understanding.
After breakfast I returned to Holmes’ room and saw that he was sound asleep, the Laudanum was still at work. Returning downstairs, I decided that the best course of action for me was to let Holmes rest. Rather than waste the morning watching a sleeping man, I would seek out my aunt who lived but a mile or so outside Lymington.
Gathering my hat, I gave instructions that a small hand bell be placed at Holmes’ bedside and that the maid should look in on him at least every hour. Feeling that I had done all that I could, I left the inn in search of my aunt.
I found a pony and trap for hire close by and, on consulting my notebook, I found my aunt's address. Giving this to the driver we were soon off at a fair pace towards the outlying village.
August in England is a magical time and I marvelled at the colours and scents of the blossoms of the countryside, something I sorely missed as a city dweller. Soon the driver was pulling up outside a small cottage with a lawned front garden and beds filled with flowers. Climbing down from the trap I tossed the driver a shilling and asked him to return in two hours.
As I approached the cottage gate I waved to my aunt as she looked up from her weeding.
“John! How wonderful to see you!” Aunt Rachel dropped her hoe and hurried to the front gate to give me an embracing hug. “My, you look well. Come in, come in.” Aunt Rachel held my hand as she had done when I was a small child and led me to her cottage.
The cottage, whilst small, was beautifully kept and furnished in a simple, rustic style in keeping with its setting. I had been so carried along by Aunt Rachel's enthusiasm that I had not yet said a word!
“You are looking well aunt, the cottage is a picture!” As we reached the front door, I looked around, drinking in the sights and smells of a fine English summer. As a boy, I had always enjoyed going to Aunt Rachel's as she was renowned within the family for providing fine, country fare. Whether it be game pie, scones or her unforgettable, honey cake. I had always found her cooking delicious!
Aunt Rachel took me through to the kitchen. This was dominated by a large, cast iron cooking range which was immaculately clean and displayed a fine patina of black lead. Upon it, a large copper kettle was gently producing a small cloud of steam and aunt pushed it a little more towards the centre of the stove to encourage it to boil a little faster.
We sat on a bench at the large, wooden kitchen table. Sitting there, I felt I had to ask a rather more serious question. “Tell me, Aunt. How are you coping after the death of Uncle Jim?” This was a question that needed to be asked but one that I didn't relish.
Aunt Rachel's face clouded. She had been married to my uncle for well over 40 years and they had been devoted to each other. “It is hard, John. There is a lot of work involved in keeping the garden tended and then there are the repairs to the house. Jim left me a small amount of money and I'll supplement that with the money I will hopefully make from selling fruit and vegetables from the garden. I will, perhaps, be able to sell a few jars of honey from the hives too.”
For a moment I had forgotten that my aunt and uncle kept bees. As a child, I had lost my fear of bees after helping my aunt and uncle with their hives. I thoroughly enjoyed collecting and processing the honeycomb to produce superb, golden, country honey. The kettle had now boiled and steam surged from the teapot as the scalding water from the kettle fell into the pot.
“Would you care for a slice of honey cake, John?” asked my aunt. It took me barely a moment to say yes. Aunt Rachel went to the larder at the side of the kitchen and brought forth a large round biscuit tin. Opening it, she withdrew a golden brown, almost burnished, cake. Taking up a knife, she cut me a sizeable slice.
I was in heaven and instantly transported back to my childhood days. The smell was intoxicating. It was a sweet, cloying odour that coated the nostrils with pleasure. I took a bite....it was, as always, delicious!
Between bites, I endeavoured to say, “Aunt, you must give me the recipe for this cake so that I might give it to Mrs Hudson.”
Aunt Rachel gave me a strange look. I wondered if I had transgressed by asking her for the recipe.
“Even if I give it to you, John, she will be unable to make the cake.”
I was taken aback. “Is it a secret recipe, Aunt?” I asked.
“No, but I fear that she will still be unable to make it... without this.” Getting up from the table, she went back to her pantry and returned with a gleaming jar of her honey. We both laughed heartily. Of course, I remembered that Aunt Rachel always substituted honey for the sugar that would be found in a traditional cake recipe.