Dr. Harris took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “Let me tell you a secret, Inspector: Dr. Birch is a terrible player at whist—he would be hopeless if it weren’t for his sister, who is formidable on a green baize table. But as a physician, he is thoroughly observant and exceptionally competent and would have made a successful name for himself in the city if he didn’t greatly dislike city life. So if he tells me that there was no sign the chloral got into Mr. Sackville by force or trickery, then I will gladly take his word for it.”
Treadles sighed inwardly. With every interview, Holmes’s first foray onto the public stage looked more likely to be a stumble rather than a triumph. So much for the hope that his genius would carry Treadles to widespread acclaim, thereby bolstering Alice’s social standing.
“On the other hand,” Dr. Harris went on, “as much as the most obvious explanation seems the most logical and likely, I am uneasy about accepting the theory of miscounted grains of chloral.”
Treadles sat up straighter. “Oh?”
“Years ago, while I was still a student at medical school, a good friend of mine committed suicide by ingesting chloral. His death left a lasting impression.” The physician donned his glasses again and looked meaningfully at Treadles. “In my own practice I never dispense vials with more than eight grains of chloral inside.”
Treadles’s fingertips tingled: He remembered the vial in Mr. Sackville’s nightstand, still with two grains of chloral left. “I take it eight grains do not amount to enough to kill a man.”
“Precisely. Mr. Sackville’s insomnia was sporadic rather than frequent. He sent for a vial a few times a year. If one assumed that he sent for more when he’d run out, then there wouldn’t have been enough chloral at Curry House to harm him.”
Sergeant MacDonald, who had been largely bent over his notebook, glanced at Treadles, surprise and excitement in his eyes. Treadles felt that same flutter in his stomach. “Is it reasonable to assume that he sent for more only when he ran out?”
“Reasonable enough, since I could dispatch a vial back within minutes.”
“But in the end there was more than enough chloral at Curry House,” Treadles pointed out, doing his best to keep his voice even.
Dr. Harris set his hands at the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “Which to me suggested two possibilities. One, he had been purposefully accumulating chloral. Keep in mind though, the last time he had a vial from me was shortly after I saw him six weeks ago. Is it not odd, if he planned to kill himself, to wait that six weeks? Not to mention he never struck me as a man who had the least desire to die before his time.”
Treadles exchanged another look with Sergeant MacDonald. “And the other possibility?”
Dr. Harris exhaled and clasped his hands together. “Let’s just say that I for one was not sorry that Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London took the trouble to write to the coroner.”
Treadles’s breaths came faster. He had to remind himself that he mustn’t get carried away—not yet. “You made no mention of your unease at the inquest, doctor.”
“I was never asked any question except whether I’d prescribed chloral for Mr. Sackville.”
“Given your misgivings, Dr. Harris, do you believe that it is a coincidence that Mr. Sackville happened to die on a day you were away?”
“That did give me pause.” Dr. Harris looked down for a moment at his hands. “I haven’t told anyone this, but at the inquest, had the letter from Mr. Holmes not been read, I would have said something about my suspicions, even though I was most reluctant to do so.”
“Of course. I understand that reluctance—it’s a small village and the glare of the public would immediately focus on those closest to Mr. Sackville.”
Dr. Harris nodded. “I was both baffled and relieved when Mr. Holmes connected Mr. Sackville’s passing with deaths in the wider world—since that would exonerate members of his household.”
“Would someone who isn’t from around here know that you’d be gone that day?”
Dr. Harris blinked. “I can’t be sure.”
“But people from the village would know?”
“They know that I travel to London once a month to meet with old friends from medical school, have dinner together, and talk about interesting cases we’ve come across—they more than I. Afterward, it’s usually late enough that I stay overnight and start back early in the morning.”
“Does it always happen on a fixed day?”
“Usually it falls in the middle of the month and I put a note on the church bulletin to that effect. Dr. Birch looks after my patients in my absence, as I do in his. But this isn’t the sort of place where one expects to hear frantic knocking on the door in the middle of the night. In fact, the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Mr. Sackville’s death were the first time Dr. Birch had cause to bestir himself for one of my patients when I was away in London.”
They thanked him and walk out of his house.
“I see you’ve something in mind, Inspector,” said MacDonald, after taking one look at Treadles.
“I hope you still have ink in your pen, sergeant,” replied Treadles. “We are going back to Curry House.”
Mrs. Cornish’s brows shot up as she opened the door to Inspector Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald one more time.