The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the view of the passage to the kitchen. We found it after an exhaustive search,” said he with a note of pride in his voice.
    “Extraordinary,” exclaimed Holmes. “And the maid, where has she gone to?”
    “We sent her home,” Lestrade shrugged. “She was so frightened when everyone started dropping that she immediately fled the house. She didn’t even notify the police for several hours, hence our delay in arresting Dr. Lowe. But she knew nothing of any use.”
    “Hmmm,” said Holmes. “We shall see. Can you send one of your men to fetch her back?”
    “Waste of time, if you ask me, but I am a generous man. I will indulge your little fancies, Holmes.” Lestrade turned and gave instructions to one of the constables, who promptly departed the house.
    “While we wait, I would like to see the survivor. Mr. Vaughan is upstairs, I presume?”
    “Indeed. We carried him up to his bed when it was clear that he was still among the living. There is a doctor with him now.”
    The three of us filed up the stairs to Vaughan’s bedchamber, where we found a very thin and exceedingly pale man. He was no longer young, appearing closer to fifty than forty, though possibly prematurely aged as a result of his illness. His chestnut brown hair was tousled and his face stubbly with a day-old beard and shining with a febrile sweat. He was prostrate and unconscious upon his bed, with a blanket drawn up to his chin. His skin was mottled with several red lumps and purple spots, as if he was hemorrhaging internally. In the medial corners of his eyes, I noted small drops of blood.
    “That’s odd,” I remarked.
    “What is, Watson?” asked Holmes, turning his piercing stare upon me.
    “Bloody tears are not a typical symptom of an arsenic overdose.”
    “I agree,” said a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, who rose from the bedside chair. “Nor are the petechial rash and bruises, but the other symptoms are quite classic, and there is no doubt that Reverend Arden and Mrs. Molyneux expired from a massive arsenic intoxication. I examined them myself. And you gentlemen are?”
    Holmes introduced us, and returned the question. “I am Dr. Silas Braithwaite.” I was familiar with the name, of course, for he was a respected Harley Street physician. “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes, and you too, Dr. Watson. I would be happy to hear your opinion of the patient.”
    I waved him off. “I am afraid that this is a bit beyond my regular practice. Do you think Mr. Vaughan will survive?”
    Dr. Braithwaite shook his head gravely. “I am highly doubtful. I suspect that he ingested a slightly smaller amount of the poison compared to his guests, which explains why he is still alive. But he has had some unusual reaction to the arsenic, and I am afraid that the bleeding is sufficient to land him on death’s door. It would be a miracle if he survived the night.”
    Holmes, however, appeared distracted by a rather ordinary framed picture of Queen Victoria which rested on the man’s bedside table. “Fascinating,” was his only response, though the exact object of his attention was not clear to my eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Braithwaite. Please let us know if anything changes with Mr. Vaughan’s condition.”
    Returning downstairs, Holmes was pleased to find the maid awaiting us. The constable gave her name as Miss Molly Hopton. She was still quite young, little more than twenty, rather below the middle height, but slim, with blond hair and light blue eyes. Her plain bonnet and ribboned hat were lightly dusted with fresh snow. Her brow and lips were drawn with nervousness and she appeared on the verge of tears.
    Holmes drew her into the parlor, where he directed her to sit upon a plush sofa. This action was clearly something she had never before contemplated, so she perched upon the edge like a doe about to bolt into the woods. “Now, then, Molly,” said Holmes reassuringly. “You are new to the house, are you not?”
    Her