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could also detect a slight slackness about the mouth.

      “Oh, Smythe, you have brought me company, and a handsome pair they are,” she said, touching Holmes’s arm.

      He did not attempt to hide his distaste and quickly brushed it away. “Mrs Benson, I would like to ask you some questions about Lord Morris.”

      “He is dead and gone; at his head a grass green turf, at his heels a stone,” she rambled.

      “I take it, then, that you know what has happened. Do you have any idea why?”

      “As if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors, he comes before me,” she said as she turned to me and placed her hand on my leg. Like Holmes, I deflected it but, admittedly, with a greater reluctance.

      “Mrs Benson,” resumed Holmes, “can you tell me anything of your husband?”

      “I was the more deceived,” she said sadly. “There’s fennel for you, and columbine; there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me.”

      “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown,” said Holmes in frustration while turning to leave.

      “You are a good chorus, my lord,” replied Mrs Benson, and as we left, she began to sing:

      “For to see mad Tom of Bedlam

      “Ten thousand miles I traveled

      “Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes

      “To save her shoes from gravel.”

      Once outside the door, I made my diagnosis, “Dr Smythe, it appears Mrs Benson is suffering from syphilis.”

      “That is correct, Dr Watson. She admitted herself on Tuesday and has very rapidly deteriorated.”

      “You say she admitted herself? There was no one with her?”

      “No, Mr Holmes. She mentioned that her physician had referred her to us but, upon questioning, could not seem to recall his name.”

      “Thank you for all of your help, Dr Smythe.”

      While we were walking back to our cab, Holmes began to speak.

      “Watson, we must have the name of that doctor.”

      “The one who gave the referral.”

      “Yes, if you could call it that. Would it be possible for you to find out the identity of Lord Morris’s physician?”

      “I imagine I could make a quick stop over at Barts and see if any of my colleagues know anything.”

      “Excellent, Watson. We shall drop you off there. First, I have some business to attend to back in the West End. Remember, get as much information as possible, and meet me back in Baker Street before supper.”

      As we agreed, late that afternoon, I returned triumphantly to Baker Street. Holmes was already seated in his armchair with his feet propped up on the fender before the fireplace.

      “Good afternoon, Watson. How did you fare?”

      “Holmes, Lord Morris’s doctor’s name is Edmund Samuels. He has offices in Wimpole Street and was in a riding accident two years ago, causing him to walk with a pronounced limp! Here is his address.”

      “Brilliant, Watson! You have outdone yourself!”

      “It is just as you have said, Holmes: ‘When a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.’ It now looks to me like this is all simply a failed attempt at blackmail. But Holmes, where are you going?”

      “I have to send one more telegram, Watson. I expect developments. Go ahead and have supper without me. There is no need to wait on my account.”

      Indeed, Holmes ate nothing that night and shunned sleep, as well.

      The next morning, I perceived him dimly through a fog of tobacco smoke. He was smoking impatiently, obviously awaiting a reply to the telegram he had sent the previous evening. It arrived shortly after breakfast

      “Watson, I must leave to notify Nicholson and Lady Morris that we shall meet them at Sherrinsthorpe Manor this afternoon. It is at that time I will clear up this matter for them. You will accompany me, I presume.”

      “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But really, Holmes, you must eat something.”

      My entreaty fell on deaf ears, however, and I was left to finish my breakfast in solitude. Later, that afternoon, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, Lady Morris, Perkins, and I once again found ourselves in the sitting room of Sherrinsthorpe Manor, and everyone but Holmes took a seat.

      “Mr Holmes, am I to understand that you have, in fact, solved this case?” asked the inspector.

      “There are but two points which I need to clarify. The first and most pressing of which is how you managed to procure the second derringer round so soon after discovering the body, Perkins.”

      The butler practically leaped out of his chair and exclaimed, “Surely, Mr Holmes, you don’t think I killed Lord Morris?”

      “Nothing of the sort, Perkins, and please, resume your seat. Why don’t I reconstruct the events of the evening, as I believe they occurred, and you can fill in the gaps for me when I have finished.

      “After you heard the shot, it could have taken you no more than forty-five seconds to reach the room. This event could not have been totally unexpected by you, and you will also have to explain to me how you knew what had driven Lord Morris to suicide. It is obvious to me, however, that you did know, because you managed to rearrange the room so quickly, obscuring what had really happened. You entered the room and closed the door behind you, for if the wind had been strong enough to blow that door shut, it would have also created a larger mess within than what was there when we examined it.

      “Somehow, you found a second round for the gun, and with that came your idea. You reloaded the weapon and replaced it, wiping the powder marks from the lord’s hand. To minimize the chance of anyone’s noticing the odour of the discharged weapon, you opened the French doors which also made it look as though an imaginary intruder had used them. From the appointment book, you quickly removed the pages which would have scandalized Lord Morris, and it was this which prompted you to create the illusion of the room’s being rifled by the imaginary killer. After scattering a few papers from that cabinet, you reopened the door and waited for Lady Morris to appear, which would have been moments later. Am I correct so far?”

      Perkins nodded in bewilderment, while Lady Morris sobbed.

      “But, Perkins, why?” she cried.

      “Madam,” Holmes interjected, “Perkins was acting out of a misguided sense of loyalty. However, I am afraid I must point out that Lord Morris’s present behaviour deserved no such fidelity or respect. In truth, Lady Morris, he has used you horribly. Of late, Lord Morris had become romantically involved with an actress. Unfortunately, as I found out yesterday, she, too, had been the victim of a husband with a roving eye, and from him, she had contracted a morbus venerius. She, in turn, passed this disease on to your husband who, unable to cope with the shame, decided to take his own life.”

      “He’s right, Lady Morris. I came upon the lord, weeping in his study on Thursday. He tried to compose himself and mentioned an ailing friend, but when I observed the doctor’s bill upon his desk, he broke down and confessed everything to me.

      “Essentially, he and I grew up together, and I suppose, at that moment, he had to confide in someone. It was also at that time that I noticed the derringer in a drawer of his desk. I had never seen it before, so naturally I thought the worst.

      “Later that evening, I returned to the study and removed the bullet from the breech of the gun, putting it in a pocket of my frock-coat. I knew it wasn’t my place to do so, but I hoped that if Lord Morris knew that I had figured out his intention, somehow, it might deter him.

      “The following night, when I heard the shot, I knew immediately what

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