The Adventure of the Manufactured Miracle (The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) by Craig Janacek Page B

advice.”
    Lestrade rose from his seat, shaking his head in confusion. “Alright, Pollock,” he said to his constable, “you may remove the restraints from Dr. Lowe. Then go home to your family.” He turned back to Holmes. “A strange business, Holmes.” He shrugged, tipped his hat at me, and departed, leaving us alone with Mr. Vaughan, Miss Hopton, and Dr. Lowe.
    The latter rose from his seat, still rubbing his sore wrists, but plainly desirous of seeing his wife and home again after two days in the Bow Street Cells. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
    “A minute, doctor,” Holmes forestalled him. “Are you not curious to learn why Mr. Vaughan sought to frame you for the poisoning?”
    “What?” the doctor exclaimed.
    We turned to where sat Vaughan, whose face had once more taken on a bloodless appearance. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he stammered.
    Holmes frowned at him. “Take care, Mr. Vaughan. I will give you one chance to be honest with us. I have almost every link in my hands, and with one untruth from you, I will swiftly call Lestrade back here. I am certain the inspector will be more than happy to find you a permanent berth at Newgate,” said he, sternly.
    Vaughan nodded, a look of despair in his eyes. “If you knew, why did you tell the inspector that I was delirious when I poured the arsenic?”
    “Because I suspected that there was more to the story.”
    “What do you wish to know?”
    “Tell me about Miss Miriam Pearl,” Holmes commanded.
    At the sound of this name, Vaughan’s face sank into his hands and his body was wracked with sobs. I was surprised to note that Dr. Lowe also visibly startled and paled, sinking back into his chair. Miss Pearl’s name seemed familiar to me, though I could not place it.
    “Why torture me so, Mr. Holmes?” cried Vaughan in anguish. “You know all!”
    “Indeed,” said Holmes grimly. “I suspected the presence of another individual in this mystery when I saw the framed picture at your bedside.”
    “Queen Victoria?” I asked, mystified.
    “Indeed, Watson. Though it was not always our glorious majesty. I could tell that her picture was not intended for that frame, for it was a fraction of an inch too small. And it is a rare man so patriotic as to have such a picture at his bedside. It is much more common to have the picture of someone you care for deeply, so that theirs is the last gaze you look upon when you turn out the lights.”
    I frowned. “But why suddenly replace the picture?”
    “Because Miss Pearl is the real key to the whole mystery, which spans almost two decades. She was the young lady who was accused by Mrs. Molyneux of stealing from the Marylebone Crippled Children’s Fund. Reverend Arden supported this denunciation, and she was cast out of the community and threatened with arrest. I imagine she felt a great despair, and at what should have been the happiest time of year, the very eve of Christmas, she took her own life by jumping from Waterloo Bridge into the frozen Thames.”
    I gasped in horror. “That is terrible, Holmes!”
    “Indeed,” he nodded grimly. “Over the years, the good folk at Marylebone Chapel began to wonder if she had been falsely accused.”
    “Of course she was falsely accused by that foul harridan!” Vaughan exclaimed. “Miriam’s great joy was administering that fund and seeing it put to good use. She was the one who discovered the theft, which was carried out by none other than Berenice Molyneux. However, before Miriam could report it, Berenice made it appear that Miriam had stolen the funds herself. It probably would not have been sufficient to convince the police, if it had not been for the Reverend, who verbally attacked Miriam with bitter venom. To this day, I wonder if he knew that Berenice was guilty, or if his lust simply blinded him. But in either case, he was as guilty as her for causing Miriam’s death.”
    “And your relation to Miss Pearl?” Holmes