cheer. In an armchair by the hearth sat a man who I knew to be in his mid fifties, but looked much older. His spare figure was wrapped in a dressing-gown of dark velvet. His features were bloodless, the skin stretched tightly over cheekbones, and his eyes were large and restless. On the small table beside him lay a thermometer, a bottle of smelling-salts, and a stack of medical pamphlets. “Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” he said in a thin, precise voice. “I have read of your deeds. Please be seated, though I trust you will forgive me if I refrain from shaking hands. One must be so careful of infection.” Holmes inclined his head gravely. “I entirely understand. Mr. Harrowgate, you will be aware that I have been asked to look into the recent deaths of two members of your tontine.” Harrowgate’s eyes darted to the closed door, as though to assure himself that it was shut. “Indeed, indeed. I am grateful to you for coming. I live, as you see, in a certain seclusion. The streets, the air, the constant exposure to the germs and miasmas of the city are perilous to one of my constitution. But lately, Mr. Holmes, I have had cause to believe that dangers more deliberate may be directed against me.” Holmes’s gaze sharpened. “You have received threats?” The man leaned forward, lowering his voice. “On two occasions within the past month, I have detected a suspicious odour in my drinking-water. On one of these, I tasted the water, merely touched it to my lips, and was seized within the hour by violent cramps and nausea. I summoned my physician, who could not account for my illness. I have since taken the precaution of boiling all my water.” “Have you retained any of the suspected water?” Holmes asked. “I have, sir, I have!” Harrowgate rose with surprising agility and crossed to a cabinet, from which he produced a small glass-stoppered bottle containing a clear liquid. Holmes took it, held it to the light, and slipped it into his pocket without comment. “You will, I hope, allow me to have this analysed,” he said. “In the meantime, have you any suspicion as to who might wish you harm?” Harrowgate’s lips compressed. “I will speak plainly, Mr. Holmes. We four survivors of the tontine are, in a sense, rivals for a considerable sum. I make no accusations,I merely observe the facts. Major Blackwood I scarcely know anymore; Mr Allardice I have not seen in years; but Sir Reginald Poynter…” “Yes?” Holmes prompted. The recluse’s voice dropped still lower. “Sir Reginald has always been a man of, how shall I put it, expensive tastes. His family fortune was impaired long ago. I have heard rumours, I do not say I believe them of gambling debts, racing ventures gone wrong. Such a man might be tempted to anticipate his inheritance.” Holmes listened without comment, then inquired, “You have not been in Sir Reginald’s company recently?” “Not for twenty years. We corresponded briefly when Winthrop died, and he came to visit me here, but that is all.” Holmes rose. “I am obliged to you for your frankness, Mr. Harrowgate. I shall take every precaution to see that no further attempt, if there has been, succeeds. May I examine your kitchen before I go?” The request seemed to startle the man, but he assented. We were conducted by the maid down a narrow back stair to a basement kitchen whose shelves were stocked with tins and jars in admirable order. The water supply entered by a lead pipe over the sink. Holmes examined the pipe minutely, running his long fingers along its length and tapping it at intervals. Presently he knelt and peered at a joint near the floor. “You will observe, Watson,” he said quietly, “that this joint has been disturbed within the last few weeks. The lead is bright where the screw has been turned.” “Tampering?” I asked. “Possibly.” We took our leave of the anxious Mr. Harrowgate, who pressed upon Holmes a folded sheet of notes he had made concerning his symptoms on the day of his illness. Once in the cab, Holmes sat silent for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. “This is more serious than I anticipated,” he said at last. “We have now a clear indication that at least one member of the tontine has been the target of an attempt at subtle poisoning. The tampered waterpipe is significant. But mark this, Watson, the method is not that of an impetuous or violent man. It suggests patience, planning, and a certain cool detachment.” “You do not think it was Harrowgate himself who imagined it?” “I think,” said Holmes slowly, “that his fears are only too well founded.”
Our next call took us to Duke Street, where Mr Frederick Allardice conducted his wine business. The shop was a small but elegant establishment with bottles displayed in neat pyramids, their labels turned outward like ranks of soldiers on parade. Allardice himself came forward from the rear. He was stocky to the point of fat, but with a sallow complexion and deep lines about his face. His eyes, however, were lively, and his manner brisk.