The Hudson Diaries Read Online Free PDF Page B

to work.
    “No,” he replied, his forehead creasing. “It would take time that we do not have to process, analyze and confirm a fingerprint. Besides, we know that Martha touched the bottle. That would only make the search more difficult.”
    For a time there was no sound save the crackling of the fire in the grate. Then I had an idea.
    “What about the note?” I asked.
    “I already have—” he said, then stopped. He turned to me slowly; then, as if an idea was forming in his mind, became suddenly excited. “Watson, sometimes you do have strokes of genius within you! Why didn’t I see it before?”
    Note in hand, he began pacing, tapping his pipe against his jaw. Examining it closely, Holmes held it up to the light and told me to join him. “See how the words slant slightly more to the right and some of the words are smudged where a new line begins? This man is left-handed.”
    Next he scrutinized the letters minutely under the microscope, licked his finger and deliberately attempted to smear the ink.
    “Holmes,” I said, but too late. “That’s substantial evidence!”
    “Yes, but it may also lead us to our assassin. He probably mixed the poison and wrote the note at the same time. That is the most practical course. He might have even made his own ink.”
    Working anxiously now, he rubbed at the ink vigorously, but nothing happened. Staring hard at the unharmed note, he sniffed it, then quickly licked the ink and coughed.
    “Holmes!” I shouted out, prepared to run for my medical kit.
    “Turpentine,” he gasped, still coughing. “This ink is made with turpentine.”
    “But where would someone ever find enough turpentine to use it in ink?”
    “I’ve heard that painters use it when they paint houses,” Holmes suggested. “But painters do not generally have the disposition to be murderers.”
    “Or in medical practice,” I whispered. We stared at each other for a long moment. “We would use it to help cure rheumatism and bronchitis.”
    * * *
    When at last the fever abated and I was able to remain awake for several hours at a time, Mr. Holmes came in to see me. We sat in silence for a while until I finally asked if there was anything I could do for him.
    “Under no circumstances are you ever allowed to eat or drink anything that passes this doorstep excepting what Watson or myself shall give you or what you make yourself,” he said angrily. “Is that understood?”
    Taken aback by this speech, I was fortunately fortified by an anger of my own. “I could not very well let you die by a weakness for drink, Mr. Holmes. You know better than I that you have enemies—people who would kill you to save themselves.”
    “I know it,” he said sadly. “I should have been more vigilant in my observance.” He looked at me steadily, a deep sorrow in his eyes, and hung his head.
    It took some time for me to collect my thoughts, for I was still weak from the ordeal, and I did not know how to relieve him. “It was my first thought to keep you from danger. I did not want…” I could not finish, but I believe he divined its meaning from the silence.
    “How did you know that the drink was poisoned?”
    “My father and I made wine in our cellars at home,” I answered. “I knew not that it was poisoned, only that something was not right.”
    “It was enough to save a life,” Mr. Holmes smiled slightly and then sighed, resting his head in his hands.
    Wishing to console him, I whispered, “If you are worried for me, Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that I am out of danger now. Dr. Watson did well in the application of his expertise, and would do any medical ward proud. Do not suffer needlessly for what has happened.”
    “But it should not have happened at all!” he cried out.
    “You should learn to forgive yourself.”
    “And under my watch it shall never happen again,” Mr. Holmes continued as if he had not heard me. “I bought us a dog,” he went on cheerfully.
    “A dog?” I asked, confused.