hunting breeches and one elbow of his jacket were covered with damp soil. It was obvious that he had tripped over the log and fell, the shotgun accidentally discharging.”
Holmes took the pipe out of his mouth. “One or both barrels?”
“One. Good Lord, that was enough.”
“Who found the body?”
“The old housekeeper, Essie O’Brien. Mrs. Wolkner had sent her to the shoot to fetch her husband as it was getting on tea time. Even though they were residing in the country by themselves, she insisted they continue the proper social formalities.”
“And just what did the O’Brien woman do next?”
“I gather from what Mrs. Wolkner told me that she ran, or rather hobbled, straight back to the manor house to inform her mistress of the accident.”
“And the way you saw him was the same way the housekeeper found him?”
“That’s what she told me.”
“Could there have been any other cause of death?”
“With half his head blown off? Not bloody likely. Excuse the expression, but it is rather appropriate. My dear Mr. Holmes, I hardly think so.”
“He was definitely shot then?”
“There was a spent shell in one of the barrels of the shotgun, a faint smell of gunpowder and more than a dozen pellets imbedded in what was left of his face and skull. Yes, he was definitely shot.”
“Could he have suffered a heart attack? Or perhaps there was medication in his system?”
“Perhaps, but that would not have changed my conclusions. He died of massive brain trauma and hemorrhaging. But death was instantaneous.”
“And were there no other visible injuries to his body?”
“Nary a one,” said Dr. Sedgecombe, his voice turning cold. “If there had been, I would certainly have included them in my report to the coroner. Now gentleman, if you will excuse me, I have to ready my surgery. There are patient visiting hours this afternoon.”
“Yes, doctor, we do not wish to detain you any further.” Holmes’s voice had turned quiet. “But I do have one more question. Did you conduct an autopsy?”
“Absolutely not. He had a widow in a grievous state and with the cause of death so evident, I saw no need.” The doctor’s face suddenly flushed. “Now, good day.” He angrily shut the door.
As we walked back to our carriage, Holmes asked. “What do you make of our Dr. Sedgecombe?”
“As a physician, I can understand his attitude. After all, you seemed to be questioning not only his medical conclusion but also his professional judgment.”
“Perhaps with good cause.”
I said nothing further on the matter, for I knew Holmes’s intellect and deductive reasoning in past cases had proved me wrong much too often. Nevertheless, I still felt discomfited by the assault on a medical colleague’s integrity.
When we arrived at Ogham Manor, we were greeted by an elderly woman whom I took to be the housekeeper, Essie O’Brien. Holmes handed her his card and the letter of inquiry from the insurance company and asked to see Mrs. Wolkner. She led us to the library, a large room just off the entrance hall, and whose walls were adorned with various hunting weapons as well as book cases. There was a desk and chair facing the window and a large Chesterfield sofa facing a fireplace. The housekeeper left to inform her mistress of our presence. Instead of sitting while waiting, I inspected a set of hunting rifles affixed to one wall in a crossed position, while my colleague amused himself over some books.
We did not have long to wait for Mrs. Wolkner. She soon appeared at the library door, her presence announced by the housekeeper. I turned from the gun rack to see a woman of late middle age but still somewhat attractive, with long white hair done into two thick braids that hung all the way down her back. She wore a long black dress that showed off what appeared to be a handsome figure, but what my medical experience had taught had more to do with the abilities of her undergarments and the tailoring of her clothes than the bounties of nature.
“Mr. Holmes?” Her voice had a quaver that I put down to her emotional condition, for she was twisting a handkerchief with her hands.
My colleague suddenly turned away from the bookcase and faced her. “Mrs. Wolkner.” He approached and gently seized her hand with a gallantry that was most unusual for him. “This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I am so sorry that we have to disturb you in this time of bereavement.”
She looked briefly at me and dabbed at reddened eyes with the handkerchief. “Mr. Holmes, these business matters are a terrible imposition, but if you must.... Well, let us sit then.”
Holmes led her to the large Chesterfield sofa and sat next to her, still holding her hand.
“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea my poor dear husband had ever taken out insurance on his life.”
Holmes patted her hand. “Indeed, he did not. He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates. Were you not aware?”
She shook her head. “My poor dear Bertie never discussed business matters with me.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Well, if the policy does not concern me, Mr. Holmes, cannot this matter wait until I at least place poor Bertie in his final resting place?”
“I fear not, dear lady. But it may not be necessary to disturb you much further. We would need to speak to your housekeeper, Essie O’Brien, of course, as she was the one who discovered your unfortunate husband.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll send her to you straight away.”
“And the place where this tragic event occurred. We will have to inspect that, as well.”
“He maintained a private shoot adjacent to the manor’s woods. He and some other gentlemen from his firm owned it jointly. He loved to shoot, ever since his Oxford days. He said it helped reduce his stutter.”
“Ah, yes, his stutter. I understand he acquired that due to his childhood nurse trying to ‘cure’ him of left-handedness.”
“Yes, but he still wrote left-handed although he shot with his right, and all she gave him in return was that horrible stutter. When it would reach the point that it interfered with his work, he would go off to the shoot. There’s a small hunting lodge, really just a cabin, where he could be alone. Sometimes he would even stay overnight if he wanted to hunt early in the morning.”
“May we see it?”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll get you the key. And Essie will show you the way.”
Holmes waited until she left the room and then asked, “What do you make of her?”
“An aging beauty.”
“Well, we’re all getting on in years, old boy. What I meant was, how did you assess her psychological state?”
“She seems to be keeping a stiff upper lip over the death of her husband.”
