THE CASE OF THE ARSENIC DINNER

“Mister Holmes, Mister Holmes!” My friend and I were approaching the front door of 221B Baker Street and turned to see who had hailed the master detective. An elderly couple was approaching us from a recess a few doors down. It was a cold March day and they were bundled up against the cold in threadbare clothing. They looked rather pale, and I judged they had been huddled there for some time.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” my friend said. “What can I do for you?” The old man looked at Holmes with a mixture of hope and despair.

“You must help us, sir. Our girl is all we have...” He trailed off.

I felt it was important to get these two into a warm climate. “Holmes, perhaps we should…” Before I could finish he took my meaning and cut me off.

“Quite right Watson, I feel a bit cold standing here.” Turning to face the pair, he said “If it would not inconvenience the both of you, I would like to go upstairs to our lodgings. I have had a bit of a chill and would not want my condition to worsen.” They smiled, obviously glad to move inside. We entered our hall, Holmes calling out for Mrs. Hudson to bring up tea for four.

The fire was laid and ready to light. As Holmes took our guests’ coats and made them comfortable, I started a roaring blaze that immediately took the brisk edge off of our rooms. Mrs. Hudson had been anticipating our arrival and came in bearing tea, which she poured for our guests. Holmes motioned for her to set the service on the table and depart. He spent a few moments lighting his pipe while I settled into the extra chair, my own normal place taken by the wife. They seemed on edge, though clearly gratified to be seated in front of a fire and drinking hot tea.

I now had a chance to look at them more closely while Holmes finished with his briar. They were older; both in their sixties, I would say. He had the worn hands and stooped shoulders of a longtime laborer. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was thinning considerably. I imagined he wore a cap much of the time. His complexion was clear, and color was returning to his face.

She also had the look of a woman who had worked all of her life, though at a softer trade than her husband, and most of it indoors. She had wispy gray hair and was short, as was her husband. Her clothes were worn but well cared for, as evidenced by some very good mending of the shawl and hem of her dress.

My examination stopped when Holmes finished tamping his pipe and cleared his throat. “I trust you are more comfortable and the tea is to your liking?” They both muttered their acknowledgement and thanks and seemed embarrassed that he would worry about their welfare.

“Sir, I see you that you served in the navy, worked as a dock laborer afterwards, arrived at Paddington and walked here. As for you madame, you are a washerwoman or laundress of some sort and your daughter is in some sort of trouble.”

They were dumfounded. It was a full five seconds before they could even utter a noise of surprise. I continued to be impressed with the effect Holmes’ observational tricks had on potential clients. Before they had even started to reveal their problems, he had impressed them with his powers. It gave them a sense of hope and confidence from the outset. I guessed that he had judged the woman’s occupation from her hands and wrists, as the effects of cold and hot water had discolored her skin. The mud on his boots looked ordinary to me, but probably came from the Paddington area, which Holmes would recognize. I couldn’t quite determine how he knew the man had been a dock laborer, and if it were anyone but Holmes, I’d say the navy part was pure conjecture.

“Mr. Holmes, that’s amazing. It is exactly as you say. I worked the docks after a ten-year stint in the navy. Martha here has done laundry for nigh eight years now. How could you know?”

“It is of no consequence. It is my business to see where others are blind and to know what others do not.” What brings you to seek my humble assistance?”

“The old man turned his cap over in his hands, clearly nervous. “My name is Matthew Fenning, and this is my wife.”

The name was immediately familiar. I noticed Holmes adjusted his position a little in the chair. Our reactions were not lost on the old man.

“I see you recognize the name, sir. It pains me greatly to see it vilified daily in the press at the expense of my daughter.” His wife took his hand and squeezed, which brought a small smile to his face. I was touched at the gesture. “Elizabeth Fenning is our only child. Mister Holmes, she didn’t poison that family. She just wouldn’t!” This exclamation seemed to drain him of energy and he quieted for a moment, taking a few sips of tea to steady his nerves.

Elizabeth Fenning was a cook for Robert Turner and his wife. They had been poisoned at dinner one night and were violently ill. Elizabeth was arrested a few days later and charged with attempted murder. She had protested her innocence, which seemed supported by the fact she had also eaten the poisoned food and was quite sick as well. Accounts of the matter were in the press daily, and both Holmes and I had read the reports. However, the Yard had not seen fit to consult Holmes on the matter.

“Mr Fenning, I’m sure these are very trying times for you and your wife. Perhaps you could tell me your version of what has occurred. Pray leave out no details, as any fact might prove helpful at this early stage.” With that he leaned back in his chair and puffed contentedly on his pipe.

Mr. Fenning seemed in control of himself again. “Well, Liza is 21 years of age. Martha and I were past hoping for children when the Lord sent us that little miracle. We raised her proper, and she went into service at fourteen. She’s worked for several households, and had been with the Turners for about five months. She told us she liked working for them, though Mrs. Turner seemed a bit cold towards her. There are two apprentices and another girl younger than Liza. The girl is named Sarah and she is the housemaid. My daughter never said so outright, but I don’t think she and Sarah were too fond of each other. Probably jealousy.” He took a breath.

“Pray continue.” Holmes said. Mrs. Fenning was simply watching her husband quietly. Apparently she had nothing to add.

“Here’s what Liza told us, Mister Holmes. One night she made yeast dumplings for the staff dinner. Martha here taught her that, and they are excellent.” A faint smile touched his wife’s lips at the compliment.

Mrs. Turner was displeased that Liza ordered the yeast without her permission, but she told her to make dumplings the next night for the Tuners and her father in law, who would be dining with them. That she was angry with Liza was apparent because she told her to make a beefsteak pie for the staff.

“Well, Liza made the dumplings, which didn’t turn out right. She served them anyways, and the Turners and old man Turner all became violently ill. Liza and one of the apprentices also ate them, and they too became very sick.” The elder Turner “investigated” and he and the family doctor determined there was arsenic in the dumplings.” He stopped and seemed defeated. I sensed he was overwhelmed with despair and on the verge of tears. Holmes also sensed the situation and picked up the pieces.

“As Liza is the cook, she was held accountable and blamed, thus her arrest.” He paused and slowly looked at both of them. “What do you wish me to do?”

Finally Mrs. Fenning could stay quiet no longer. “You’ve got to find out whodunit Mr. Holmes!” She leaned forward in the chair as if she were about to jump to her feet. “Liza wouldn’t poison nobody. She didn’t have no reason. And if she did so it, why would she eat the dumplings as well?” She started to sob quietly and sat back. I got her a cup of water and patted her on the shoulder.

“Now, now, dear lady. Do not give up hope. The trial has not even been held yet.”

Her husband had gained his composure again and grabbed at that thread. “Doctor, you are correct. Mister Holmes, please find out who poisoned the Turners. I suspect it was the housemaid, Sarah.”

Holmes seemed interested at this statement. “Why do you think it was she?”

“Because that same evening I visited the Turner house to see Liza. At the very moment I was at the front door, she was sick in the kitchen, having already eaten the tainted food. But Sarah, that little liar, told me Liza was out, running an errand for her mistress. What reason did she have to lie to me, I ask you? She must have been up to something.”

“Mister Holmes, we have almost no money. We are poor, hardworking citizens. We spent what we had to help Liza in her employment and to secure the services of a lawyer. But what remains we will gladly pay you. We can sell some items. Liza is our life. I would give my own to prove she did not harm the Turners. Will you please find the evidence that will save her at trial?”

Our rooms had seen many visitors over the years, from highborn nobility to low-class criminals. But I don’t believe I had ever seen such decent, compassionate, honest folk ask for Holmes’ help as these two. I looked at him as he puffed again on his pipe. I hoped he would take the case.

“Your mention of the maid lying to you interests me to this case. There is more than what the press has reported. As my friend Watson will attest, financial reward is not my purpose in investigating such cases. I shall look into this affair at no charge to you. I cannot guarantee you will be satisfied with my results, as I pursue whatever course is true.”

A genuine smile came to the face of Matthew Fenning. He was immensely relieved. “I know my Liza is innocent. If you determine what actually happened, I have no doubts that she will be vindicated.”

“Very well. Watson, would you pass him a pen and paper? Very good of you. Mister Fenning, please write down your address, as well as the address of the Turner residence. I will certainly have to visit that place, and I may need to speak to the two of you again.”

He dutifully wrote down both addresses and returned the notebook to me. They rose to leave, and I sensed this was the first time in several days they had not been carrying such a heavy burden.

As I ushered them to the door, I said: “Your fears may be eased. Sherlock Holmes shall get to the bottom of this matter.” With a look of gratitude at my reassuring words, they went down the stairs and out onto Baker Street. I called for Mrs. Hudson to remove the tea and returned to my chair in front of the fire.

“Well Watson, what do we have so far? A family is poisoned at dinner. The cook is blamed, even though she was also taken ill by the food, as is an apprentice. The other apprentice is unaccounted for. Meanwhile, for reasons unknown to us, the remaining servant, a maid, tells the cook’s father, who has come by, that his daughter is out on an errand, when she is, in fact, sick in the kitchen.”

I thought about Holmes’s recounting. “The maid’s actions certainly warrant further questions. If Eliza did poison the dumplings, it seems unlikely she would eat them herself.”

He set his pipe down and rose to his feet. I watched him walk over to the window and look down upon Baker Street. “Yes Watson, all is not quite as it appears. It is possible she ate just enough of the dumpling to make herself sick without risking death, but there is no reason yet to suspect that. The maid may be a key, though it’s possible she is just a frivolous servant who plays games for her own amusement. I think that my after-dinner time would be well spent reviewing everything the local press has reported on the case. There will certainly be more details that could be of use. I shall determine a course of action and we shall discuss it at breakfast tomorrow morning. I will also find out what inspector is on the case. And of course, a visit to the Tuner household is certainly in our future.”

With that, we rummaged through the week’s various newspapers, which we kept piled in Holmes’ bedroom until he went through them, cutting out various pieces and pasting them into his index. Mrs. Hudson always made a loud sniffing noise when she saw the piles and Holmes was in earshot. As usual, our longsuffering landlady’s gestures had no effect whatsoever on Holmes. So was our evening spent.