The Adventure of the Sunken Parsley

by Mark Alberstat

The summer heat of 1898 had somewhat abated as Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a rare morning of inactivity in early September. We had left the city on several occasions throughout the all-too-short British summer, but each of those trips had been in response to a summons for Holmes to help untangle the rat’s nest of clues and scents of some mystery laid before us. This morning, however, was a leisurely one. We sat in front of a cold fireplace, tobacco at hand, and a variety of the daily papers scattered about our intimate sitting room.

The year so far had been a busy one. My notes, however, indicate that there was only one case which I could lay before the public, and that was the affair at Wisteria Lodge. The other undertakings of my friend Sherlock Holmes were to that point either inconclusive, repetitive tropes from previous exploits, or too delicate for those involved to even consider exploring in the public press.

“Is it your eyesight or your reflexes, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“My eyesight or my reflexes? What are you getting at, Holmes?” I replied

“Is it your eyesight or your reflexes that are not quite what they used to be to allow you to be hit so hard on the knee with a cricket ball that you are not playing today?”

“Once again, I feel you are partially a warlock. How on Earth did you know I was hit yesterday? You did not see me come in after the match, and I was seated here when you came down to breakfast. And, I would like to add, it is neither my eyesight nor my reflexes. I was distracted by someone in the crowd which led to my injury,” I replied.

“Yes, someone in the crowd. I am sure that was it. As to how I know you were hit is simplicity itself. There in an account in this paper of the Players versus Gentlemen match in which you were participated yesterday at Lords. That was the second day of a three-day match. Although today’s activities do not start for another two hours, you are clearly not preparing to be there. That raises the question as to why. You are sitting in the chair a bit more stiffly then is your usual relaxed mode, and your left leg is crossed over your right, an atypical pose for you. I have to conclude an injury to your leg is keeping you home today, and being hit in the leg by a pitched ball seems the most likely injury event to a non-sportsman like myself.”

“As is often the case, Holmes, you are correct in your observations and conclusions. Although I hate to let my side down, I just can’t make it to the pitch at Lord’s today, despite it being a stone’s throw from our door. If I were there, the pull to put on my whites and have a go would be too strong and, I feel, detrimental to the Gentlemen who were kind enough to invite me to play with them,” I said.

“Your injury could not have come at a better time. I am in need of a sounding board, and you would do well with some country air and a ramble to reinvigorate your leg,”

“Sounds capital, Holmes. Where are we off to?”

“Hertford. County town for Hertfordshire. If you would be so kind as to reach for the timetable, we can plan our trip.”

My military background did me proud, as within ninety minutes Holmes and I found ourselves settling into a first-class carriage that was pulling out of London’s Liverpool Station. Holmes said it was to be a day trip, so nothing more was needed other than a Bradshaw.

The countryside often put Holmes in a philosophic mood, and today was no different. Although attached to the great metropolis by a thousand filaments, he longed for the clean air and solitude of the realms beyond. He often talked about buying a cottage somewhere, and as he gazed out the window, I was sure he was thinking about it again.

“How many pounds of honey per annum, Holmes?” I asked.

“Honey? Pounds per annum? My dear Watson, you are attempting to break into my thoughts as I have often done to you on occasion. Well done, well done indeed,” replied Holmes.

“However, I will disappoint you and inform you that I was not thinking of my retirement cottage, but the mystery at hand.”

“We have slightly over an hour in this carriage for me to give you an outline of the errand we are on. An hour to pass through the metropolis and into the pastoral setting of Hertfordshire’s farms. Sadly, Watson, we are heading into dark matters, a far cry from Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, set in this bucolic locale,” said Holmes, gazing out the window.

“And what is it that whisks us out of the city and into rural England, Holmes?”

“A summons, Watson. A summons from Inspector Neal.”

“I am not aware of that name.”

“Possibly not. Neal is still young and putting in his time away from the city. He does have promise and shows enough intelligence to call me in when he is out of his depth. This is one such incident,” said Holmes.

“Neal has a murder on his hands, Watson. A murder with no physical trauma, and the local doctor has said that his initial tests for poison have been inconclusive. This is why you are with me. You may see something medically that the local doctor has missed, and with your ever-growing knowledge of murders, thanks to my practice and our partnership, you may be considered an expert in your own right.”

These were indeed high words of praise from Holmes. However, finding fault in another professional man’s work and opinion is something I did not look forward to.

“The Thorntons have been a prominent family in the town since Elizabethan times, and their estate, Hartham House, at one time was the largest in the county. You may remember, Watson, that Queen Elizabeth spent time in Hertford when the Plague was on in London. It was the Thorntons who hosted her until Hertford Castle was ready for the Queen and her retinue. Today’s family, of course, does not host royalty, but they still have cache and sway in the town, if not the county.”

“And the murder, Holmes? Who has been murdered?”

“Always the man of action. Sir Evan Thornton is dead, Watson. He is the latest patriarch of the family and was found deceased in his bed this morning. He and his wife, Lady Elizabeth, have separate bedrooms, and it was Sir Evan’s valet who found him. From the pained expression on his face, the state of his nightclothes, and the bed itself, it was instantly believed that Sir Evan did not die peacefully,” said Holmes.

“And there are no suspects? No smoking gun?”

“No, there are no smoking guns, as you put it, Watson. After the body was found, the local doctor was immediately sent for. Neal tells me in a telegram that what this local practitioner found was so far out of the ordinary that he immediately thought of us. You for your medical background, and myself to see and find things which he cannot.”

With that brief précis, we arrived at Hertford Station. We were immediately met by Inspector Neal when we alighted the train.

“So good of you to come on such short notice, Mr. Holmes,” said Neal.

“Murder rarely finds a convenient time, Inspector.”

“Quite so, quite so. Hartham House is just at the other end of town,” said the inspector, issuing us into a carriage which was clearly marked as property of the local constabulary.

“As you instructed, Mr. Holmes, the body has not been moved. The rest of the house has also been left as it was when I arrived earlier this morning and began the investigation,” said Neal.

“Tell us about the household. Who lives there, size of staff and the property itself,” commanded Holmes.

“The primary concerns in the house are Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, of course, but also Mrs. Thornton’s brother, who arrived a couple of months ago. He is here studying horticulture, and splits his time between the estate and a rental property in London. The household staff includes Sir Evan’s valet, Michaels, who is the only staff who lives on the estate. He is much more than a valet and butler to Sir Evan. He assists in running the estate. There are a few other domestic staff who do not live in the house, as well as a full-time gardener. Lady Thornton is expecting us.”

“What can you tell us about Sir Evan and his wife?” asked Holmes.

“Well, sir, they are generally well-liked in the town. They are the benefactors for various charities and events through the year, which brings them in contact with most of the town. They received their honorary titles just last year for the work they have done with the local poor. Lady Thornton has established three charities in the town, and her husband donated land and resources for people to grow their own produce. Despite their prominence, Sir Evan has never sought public office, and seems to spend most of his time managing the various businesses the family owns, puttering in his extensive gardens which are open to the public once a year, and attending various private functions through the summer months. Sir Evan was born in this house some forty years ago. His father was a bit of a queer duck, and had the boy schooled locally and not sent away as most of their class do,” reported Neal.

“And Lady Elizabeth?”

“Almost the polar opposite, Mr. Holmes. Although also well-liked in town, she is not from here, and when I say ‘here,’ I mean to say England. Sir Evan took a two-year world-tour after his father died, and he arrived back on these shores a married man. Lady Elizabeth is actually an Elizabetta who grew up rich and privileged in Italy. She is a charming, warm woman who has captivated the local social scene and has turned more than a few heads. But here we are, and you can meet her momentarily for yourself.”

We alighted from the carriage and were standing in front of a large three-storey block of a manor house. The door we were about to enter was set into the right front façade of the home. Its curved header was mimicked in all of the long windows on this, the ground floor of the home. I glanced about as we entered the portico and saw that the house stood on a large plot of land that was probably once a much larger estate.

We were greeted at the door by Michaels, the Thornton’s valet and butler, who informed us we could wait in the library for Mrs. Thornton to come down and speak to us.

“Before we do that,” said Holmes, “I would like to examine the body.”

“Right this way, Mr. Holmes,” replied Neal, leading us up the central stairs and into a well-appointed bedroom.

Sir Evan Thornton’s body was on the bed, covered by a single sheet. Neal closed the door behind us and Holmes removed the temporary shroud.

Sir Evan’s face was contorted in a paroxysm of agony. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his hands were clenched.

“Note the rigidity and the facial expression. This was not a natural death. What do you make of it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I leaned over and looked into the corpse’s eyes and mouth. The eyes were that of any dead man, and the mouth and odour from it were also no different. Many poisons leave traces or tell-tale signs in both locations, but in this case there was nothing. From a small mark on the arm it was clear that the local doctor had drawn blood to have it tested.

Holmes watched me as I made my examination of the body. As I rose and stepped away, he asked for my opinion.

“I would have to agree with the local doctor. At this point I would say poison or poisons unknown is the cause,” I replied.

After this morbid examination, the three of us left the death room and walked downstairs and into the library.

The library was a typical one for a country estate. The room, which featured doors leading into the garden, was lined with book cases. A long table dominated one end of the room, while a large, heavy desk commanded respect at the other. As we waited, the ever-curious Holmes wandered the room, looking at the collection of rare and not-so-rare books.

“Mark my words, Neal. You can learn a lot about a man by the books he keeps, and even more by the books he reads,” said Holmes, looking over the shelves near the desk.

Shortly afterwards, Michaels opened the door and Lady Thornton, dressed in full mourning, glided into the room, aided by a man who could only be her brother.

“Gentlemen, I am Lady Elizabetta Thornton, and this is my brother, Mario Conti,” said our host as we introduced ourselves.

Lady Elizabetta was a raven-haired Italian beauty.

“I will do whatever I can to help you in your investigation. My husband’s murderer must be found. Stop at nothing, the cost is immaterial,” she said.

“Madam, I am here to find the truth, not a pay day,” replied Holmes. “Can we begin with last night?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” said Lady Elizabetta, sitting on the settee, while her brother stood resolutely behind her.

“My husband returned home late from the city. He often returns on the six p.m. train, but that night it was the 8:15. He was picked up at the station by Michaels. I saw my husband briefly and then retired for the evening. I know nothing more of his movements until the next morning when Michaels found him.”

“Do you know who he saw while in the city?” asked Holmes.

“No sir, I do not. My husband kept the various business aspects of the estate very close to himself. He once told me the firm of lawyers he uses, or I should say used, but I have no idea what took him to London yesterday,” answered Lady Elizabetta.

“Very succinct, Lady Thornton, thank you. Mr. Conti, did you see Sir Evan yesterday evening?”

“I did, indeed. In fact, I dined with him, which, no doubt, Michaels will confirm, since he served the meal. I was also in the city that day, doing some research at your British Museum. I arrived here about 7:45 and discovered that my brother-in-law had not yet returned but was expected soon, so I waited for him. We had some matters to discuss and I saw no reason to delay. I may as well tell you now, the conversation over dinner was a heated one, as I am sure the spying staff will report.”

“And what was it that you were discussing?” asked Holmes.

“None of your concern, I can assure you.”

“That is for me to decide. What matters did you discuss, heatedly, with the late Sir Evan?” repeated Holmes.

Conti glanced down at his seated sister; she looked up at him and nodded slightly, giving her permission to discuss what must have been a private subject its public airing.

“We were discussing a member of staff, and also my sister’s return to Italy. The marriage has been less than she dreamt of, and she was looking for a split. We are staunch Catholics and revere the word from Rome. We know there will be no divorce, but a separation of thousands of miles will help the situation. Sir Evan would have nothing to do with the scheme and threatened to cut her off financially should she ever even attempt to leave England,” said Conti.

“Surely your family fortune would be enough,” said Holmes.

“The fortune is not what it once was, and our father, who is a strong nationalist, was very hurt when his only daughter left Italy to be with an English knight,” replied Conti.

“You corroborate this, Lady Thornton?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, it is true, and it now looks bad for us, but it is true. I loved Evan when we met, and when we travelled together around Italy and the rest of the continent. He seemed to this young girl so worldly, so knowledgeable, I was swept off my feet. When we came to this house, he became a different person. He was so involved in the estate and the local community, he forgot about me and the life we had planned to share. He was more concerned with his house, the grounds, and the gardens, than he was with his new bride,” said Lady Thornton.

“I told myself this would change. He would, as you say, come around. He didn’t, and after five years of this marriage, I decided to leave him. By this time, my brother was here studying and I confided in him. We went to my husband as a united front, but were rebuffed and denied as if we were merely asking to redecorate a room,” continued Lady Thornton.

Holmes looked over at Inspector Neal and said, “I would like to talk to the valet now.”

“You have nothing more to ask us, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lady Thornton.

“Not at the moment. Your statements are clear and concise, and I do not want to keep you any longer than necessary. I am sure you have arrangements to make, and further questions can be asked later.”

Lady Thornton and her brother left the room and Michaels was invited in. He soon confirmed the tone and content of the dinner conversation which Conti had disclosed.

“How long have you been with the family?” asked Holmes.

“Man and boy, Mr. Holmes. I started here in the stables when I was just a lad and my father was the game keeper. I went to school with Sir Evan, and also went with him as his valet when he was on his Grand Tour. The estate and Sir Evan has changed a lot over the years,” reminisced Michaels. “The estate has gotten smaller, with outer parts being sold off or given away to the poor. Sir Evan expanded the garden and now wants to eat as much as he can from his own property. Did you know, Mr. Holmes, we grow four different types of carrots? And that’s just a start of the variety of vegetables gown right here.”

“Did Sir Evan actually do the gardening, or was that left up to staff?” asked Holmes.

“Oh no, sir. Sir Evan was in the garden most days during the season, and planning and reading about gardening through the winter. Those bookcases there,” said Michaels, pointing to three glass-fronted cases near the large desk, “are full of books on the subject and his own journals and plan books. Mr. Conti was the same. Although they didn’t agree on all topics, as you have heard, they certainly did when it came to matters of the soil and garden. I have been of assistance to both of them, although, of course, much more assistance to Sir Evan, having served him for so many years. I take some pride in being able to say there is not a bed, a tree or a plant on the grounds that I do not know, or have not had a hand in planting, pruning or shaping. “

“Thank you, Michaels. That will be all for now,” said Holmes. It was just as Michaels was leaving the room that a local constable came in and handed Neal a sealed envelope.

“This will be the coroner’s report, Mr. Holmes. I asked the office to send it to me, wherever I was.”

“Excellent. It may prove to be interesting reading,” said Holmes.

Neal sat at the desk, with Holmes and me standing over his shoulders. The report was one page and outlined Sir Evan’s general health, age and other vitals. The final paragraph was the critical part for us. However, after each of us reading, the conclusions we were no further ahead.

“Well, Mr. Holmes. Death by poison unknown. Nothing much new here, I’m afraid,” said Neal.

“On the contrary. It confirms our earlier suspicions, rules out other possibilities, and sets us on our track. Let us walk in the garden and think,” replied Holmes.

Our forty-minute walk through the famed gardens was a quiet one. Holmes had brought along his briar-root pipe, a favourite of his for country walks. The two detectives walked together while I trailed behind them. The beds ranged from showy flowers, which I have not the faintest idea of what they are, to a large vegetable and herb patch, which featured items I was more familiar with. Several times Holmes stopped at a bed, examined a plant or two, and continued.

“Like the library, Neal, a man’s hobbies can tell much about the person. In this case, I believe we can learn as much about his death as we can his life,” said Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes, I know of your queer ways and obtuse remarks, but I am completely at sea if you think I can learn about who killed Sir Evan by a stroll around the garden,” replied Neal.

“Like my friend Watson here, you see but you do not observe,” said Holmes.

By this time, we had reached the front of the house again. Michaels was standing near the police brougham, and Conti was on the top step, examining a large ornamental planter.

“I am here at the behest of my sister, Mr. Holmes. Is there anything further you need from any of us?”

“Not at the moment, thank you,” said Holmes as we approached the four-wheeler.

“I believe I have forgotten my walking stick in the garden,” added Holmes. “I will just nip round and retrieve it, I will only be a moment,” Holmes said as he hurried away.

Holmes returned a few minutes later without his stick.

“Age is a cruel master, Mr. Conti. I don’t believe I had my stick with me at all today. Tricks of the mind,” said Holmes, stepping into the brougham.

“Please let your sister know I will be in touch in a day or two. We will get to the bottom of this, be assured.”

“What now, Mr. Holmes? I don’t see that we are any further ahead in this murder investigation,” asked Neal.

“On the contrary. We are near the end, I believe. It is back to the police station for you, and back to London for Watson and me. Can you meet us in at Baker Street in London for dinner tomorrow evening? I think by then, the fog shall lift and I will provide you with a solution to this very pretty little murder,” said Holmes.

“Yes, of course. But what shall I do until then?” asked Neal.

“Whatever policemen in the country do. Except, I would advise you not to dine at Hartham House.”

With that we drove back to the station and were in our Baker Street rooms before sunset.

“Before dinner, Watson, I would like to conduct a chemical experiment. You are welcome to assist me if you care to.”

“Today’s exertions and the meandering garden walk has not helped by injured knee at all. Also, your experiments often put up such foul smells I may not be down for dinner at all. However, for now I will retire to my room and rest,” I replied, leaving our sitting room to Holmes’s machinations.

When I awoke two hours later, I was pleasantly surprised with the clearness of the air. When I made my way down to our sitting room, Holmes sat amidst a scattering of papers, a satisfied look upon his face.

“Well, Holmes, you don’t have to be a detective to see that you are pleased with something. However, from the air and lack of an acrid smell, I would suggest that you did not, after all, conduct any experiments.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Holmes. “I did, and they were a success. One cup of butter will never be the same, but this time the experiment was self-contained and proved my theory regarding the Thornton murder.”

“Clearly he was murdered with poison, Holmes. However, how you could sit here and positively discover how or with what is beyond me,” I replied.

“Not the biggest stretch for us, but a pretty little case in a pretty little corner of our country,” said Holmes. “I do hope that Neal has fathomed his way through it better than you, Watson.”

“So, you will not tell me who killed Sir Evan?”

“Not at the moment. You know my love for the dramatic. All will be revealed at dinner tomorrow when the good inspector joins us. Until then, Mrs. Hudson has prepared a full cold dinner for us, which we shouldn’t put off much longer.”

The next day was a long one for me. Not only was I anxiously awaiting Inspector Neal to arrive so we could get on with the explanation of the murder, but my knee had swollen due to the previous day’s outings, and I read in the paper that The Gentlemen had lost the match, an outcome my superior batting prowess may have been able to avoid.

Time did pass, as it always does, and we soon heard a knock on our door. Inspector Neal was led into our room by our landlady. As Mrs. Hudson was about to leave, Holmes said, “We will now take that dinner you and I had discussed, Mrs. Hudson.”

She closed the door, and the three of us stood around the cold fireplace.

“Well, Mr. Holmes. Here we are. I am no further ahead in the murder investigation, but I certainly hope you are.”

“Murder, and especially poisonings, are nothing to discuss on an empty stomach. Once our dinner is laid out, and we are sitting enjoying Mrs. Hudson’s repast, all shall be revealed,” said Holmes.

While we were waiting for our landlady to set the table for the three of us and bring out a cornucopia of cold dishes for our dinner, we discussed the latest news from Scotland Yard. The trials and tribulations of the growing force was of interest to me, while Holmes seemed, of course, most keen on the C.I.D., or Criminal Investigations Division. After mulling its existence and structure, we were ready to sit down.

“Now, Inspector. Our landlady is not renowned for her cooking, but she is certainly more than adequate. Before we partake in the cold joint, I would like to bring your attention to the long serving dish with two squares of butter on it. Squares identical to these aided me in unravelling our Hertfordshire mystery.”

“Really, Mr. Holmes? You have me at a complete loss,” replied the inspector.

“Perhaps so. Allow me to recreate a small experiment I conducted here yesterday evening.”

With that, Holmes gestured toward the long, glass-covered dish containing the two squares of butter. He then revealed two smaller glass dishes. Each of these, seemingly, had parsley in them, and I commented as much.

“You are correct, Watson. They do seem alike, and they do seem like parsley. Both of these samples I liberated from the garden at Hartham House yesterday when I returned for my mislaid walking stick.”

“The sample on the right is the type of parsley found all too often on the side of plates in restaurants throughout the city and the country. The parsley on the left is something very different indeed,” said Holmes.

Holmes then took a pair of pincers from his laboratory table and put a few springs of each in its corresponding square of butter.

“Now, gentlemen, I request from you nothing more than some patience,” said Holmes.

With five minutes, the results of the experiment were clear. The parsley on the right pad of butter was just as Holmes had placed it. The one on the left, however, had sunk three-quarters of the way through the butter and would soon be resting on the bottom of the dish. The butter around that piece of parsley was melted and oozing into a puddle.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce to you the very rare, petroselinum virdi mortem, or Green-Leafed Death, as it is known in parts of northern Italy. It is particularly insidious, in that it initially tastes and acts like any other type of parsley. Once it mixes with food and other acids in the victim’s stomach, however, death surely follows.”

“But what is it, Holmes?” I asked.

“It is a distant relative of the common parsley plant, but one that has a long and checkered past. This is what Sir Evan died from, and this is why the coroner could not find it in any toxicology books. The plant is virtually unknown outside of a small area around Lake Como, and even there it is rare and hardly ever grown in a garden. As soon as the leaves are picked, the plant excretes a very toxic, acid-like sap. The few sprigs I brought back with me almost ate through the envelope in which I placed them,” said Holmes.

“But how did you find this, Mr. Holmes?” stammered Neal.

“I found it because I was looking for it. When the coroner’s report spoke of unknown poisons, and we were at an estate known for its gardens, my mind immediately linked the two. At that point, of course, I only had a suspicion, but that would soon be proven to be true.”

“As we walked around the garden,” continued Holmes, “I noticed that many of the beds thrived with a type of planting called ‘companion gardening’. There were actually a few books on the subject in the library; the library I told you to pay attention to, Neal.”

“During the walk, I noticed that a rose bed was fringed with parsley plants. The dark green of the parsley set off the delicate roses nicely, and the companion planting helps both thrive. In the vegetable beds, I found more parsley. However, there was one bed that had a slightly neglected look about it, despite it showing some signs of care. On closer inspection, I noticed that one parsley plant had a dead patch all around it. This is the plant I returned to and took a snippet of for my experiment.”

“But who gave Sir Evan the poisonous parsley?” asked Neal.

“That we shall soon discover. If I am not mistaken, that is Mr. Conti I hear in our entrance way, coming to join us for dinner. Quickly now, Watson. Cover up the two butters and follow my lead.”

Just then, Mr. Conti entered our sitting room. The three of us rose to greet our new guest.

“I came as requested, Mr. Holmes, although I do regret leaving my sister at such a time.”

“And I thank you for your indulgence, sir. We were just about to sit down for dinner, if you would care to join us. Michaels was kind enough to send us a fresh-produce package,” said Holmes, striding back to the table.

“Here we have some fresh carrots and beets from the estate’s garden, which will go lovely with this parsley butter,” said Holmes lifting the covers off the two squares of butter.

“Won’t you join us?” asked Holmes, taking a bread roll from a heap of them on the table and slathering some of the tainted butter on it.

Conti stared at the two butters and stammered, “These items came from the Chequers Estate?”

“Indeed. In addition to the telegram I sent to you to come here this evening, I sent one to Michaels to let him know how we were progressing, and he was kind enough to send this fine selection back.”

Conti rushed over to Holmes, snatched the dinner roll out of his hand and placed the covers back on the exposed dishes.

“You mustn’t eat any of this,” he declared.

“Come, come, I am sure it is all fine, is it not?” replied Holmes.

“No, Mr. Holmes, I assure you it is not!” replied Conti. “This is poison and was meant for you,” he said, pointing to the parsley that had melted through the butter.

“Time to tell your tale, Mr. Conti. Be warned, however, Neal here will take down a complete recording of that tale, and his notes may be used in court.”

“That is quite alright. It began about eighteen months ago when I received a letter from my sister. It was clear she was no longer happy with her husband, her situation, and her future. He never raised a hand to her, Mr. Holmes, but he abused and belittled her in a hundred different ways. She wanted out and away from him.”

“I had been planning on a visit before, but that letter sealed my plans. I was in Hertfordshire within two weeks. I used my interest in horticulture and the chance to study at the British Museum and Sir Evan’s own library as a guise for the trip and extended stay. “

“My sister and I decided we would make a united front and approach her husband about a separation. We did, one Saturday morning a month ago. He did not take it lightly. He flew into a rage and railed at us. For a man who is often reserved, he yelled and went on, loud enough and long enough for there to be no doubt among any of the staff as to what we were discussing. It was clear that my wife’s husband was not going to let her leave. He said they could lead independent lives under the same roof, but that was as far as he would allow.”

“We left Sir Evan in the library. As we did, Michaels went in. He seemed to always be lurking somewhere obvious in the house.”

“After that initial discussion, if you can call it one, Sir Evan wouldn’t speak to me except on the subject of horticulture. On that point we talked often and freely. If I were to bring the subject of my sister into the conversation, he would either put an end to the conversation, or rage at me for bringing up a closed subject.”

“While I was in the garden one day, I noticed this plant,” continued Conti. “Where I come from it is a known poison, but it is far from common. Anyone with an interest in plants, however, will have come across it and know its evil legacy. I knew that neither I nor Sir Evan planted it. Sir Evan had been far too busy with other aspects of the estate, and I would never grow something so deadly in an open garden. It is not an easy plant to remove, Mr. Holmes, or I would have pulled it from the ground then and there. The leaves, as you know, are very dangerous and must be handled correctly. I made a mental note to return with proper gloves and a spade to remove it from the garden and burn it.”

“Later that day,” continued Conti “I returned to the bed, but before I got there, I saw Michaels tending it. It was he who had planted the Green Death; I knew then that I was dealing with a very serious-minded man and refrained from approaching him. A man who grows poisons in the open is not to be lightly dealt with. I approached Sir Evan about the matter that evening, and he was dead by morning. Mr. Holmes, Michaels murdered his employer and has tried to do the same to you!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Conti. I know. In addition to the telegram that I sent to yourself to join us, I took the liberty of sending another to Inspector Neal’s office with instructions to arrest Michaels. By now, he should be making himself at home in a holding cell in the Hertford police station.”

With that, Holmes removed the tainted parsley from the table and invited our guests to dine with us.

“But how did you know it was Michaels?” asked Neal.

“My first suspicions naturally fell on yourself, Mr. Conti. However, when I saw the dead patch around the suspected poison, I realized it couldn’t be you. You would be aware of what plants can co-exist with the Green Death and would have been able to hide it better.”

“I also surmised that when you and Sir Evan were discussing a member of such a small staff, it may have been Michaels. I also noticed that Michaels kept very close at hand when we were questioning Lady Elizabeth. It seemed more than usual staff curiosity. When Michaels entered and Lady Elizabeth left, the look in his eyes was unmistakable. He is in love with your sister, Mr. Conti. He was angered that Sir Evan would not allow her her freedom. I believe he had seeds for this plant from when he visited Italy with Sir Evan years ago. Why he kept it all this time is difficult to say. A look at the history of this plant does show that more than one staff member has murdered their employer with it. Maybe he found the history of it before and kept it in the back of his mind. It is not always an easy thing to plumb the depths of the mind of a murderer.”

“Another murderer brought to heel,” I said to Holmes later that evening, after our guests had departed. “Not often you bring down a villain by watching parsley sink in butter.”

“Very true, Watson. This may be a fine study for your chronicles. The parsley not only brought down a murderer, but I was also able to garnish a fine fee from Lady Elizabeth,” added Holmes with a chuckle.