London’s great morgue was not unfamiliar to us. Holmes and I had visited it more than I care to recall. It was a cool, dank foreboding place. The Chief Medical Examiner, whose name was Curray, welcomed us in his rather dour manner.
His smile was on the grim side, but it was welcoming, even if it was not noticeably warm.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes! I assume you are to here to examine the remains of Mr. Nathan Chalmers.”
“And Mr. Arthur Chambers. Would you be so good as to lay them out side by side for us?”
The medical examiner looked momentarily nonplussed.
I intruded by saying, “Evidently, you were not informed that the late Mr. Chalmers was discovered with a discolored tongue.”
“I will speak to my associates about the oversight,” he replied shortly. “But first I will make the arrangements you request. Be so good as to wait here.”
While we waited, I asked Holmes, “Do you imagine that Chalmers and Chambers were acquainted in any way?”
“I imagine nothing of the kind. I prefer to leave such a rash conclusion unjumped upon, as it were.”
Holmes appeared irritated. I suspected he had put so much effort into mentally masticating the problem of the first dead blue tongue that when I arrived with a second example, he was having difficulty tearing his mind away from his original train of thought. I had no doubt that I’d brought unwelcome tidings, but Holmes is a man who likes to reason out his own problems by himself in the austere solitude of his brain.
When the two corpses had been arranged on dissection tables side-by-side, we were called in.
Having already familiarized himself with the tongue of the late Arthur Chambers, Holmes went immediately to Mr. Chalmers and used a steel implement to examine the tongue, as well as the interior of the mouth. He was at this some time.
When he straightened, Holmes said, “You are correct, Watson. My apologies for doubting you. This is an Egyptian Blue.”
I nodded my head in recognition of the apology.
Then Holmes went to the other dead man and, using a forceps, pulled out the flaccid tongue and showed that it was clearly a richer shade of blue.
“What would you call this hue, Watson?”
“Indigo.”
“What does Indigo suggest to you?”
“Various subtropical plants yield Indigo, such as woad and Dyer’s Knotweed.”
“And Egyptian Blue?”
“Natron, such as the ancient Egyptians employed in the course of their mummification procedures. More commonly called sodium carbonate. But what do the two distinctly different shades signify to you? Murder? Poison?”
“Without a doubt both, but there is a third element present.”
“Yes?”
“Experimentation!”
With that startling word, Sherlock Holmes fell silent. He examined the bodies for marks and other clues, but found nothing. At least, he offered up nothing.
Grim of face, Holmes turned to the medical examiner and said, “Be on the watch for more such tongues.”
The man became aghast of expression. “Do you suspect a plague of some sort?”
“A plague, most definitely. But a man-made one. A plague of poison. Exactly what motivates the author of these outrages is at this point obscure. Perhaps an examination of the Chalmers residence will unearth something interesting.”
As we left, I asked Holmes, “Had you examined Arthur Chambers’ living quarters for traces of poison?”
“Thoroughly,” replied Holmes. “Yet I found nothing. Perhaps the Chalmers domicile will yield something more tangible.
“Will you inform Lestrade of your findings?”
“I have no doubt that the medical examiner is doing exactly that at this moment. I would not be surprised if Inspector Lestrade beats us to the Chalmers house.”
It was exactly as predicted. I was not in the least bit surprised. Inspector Lestrade was already questioning the housekeeper when we arrived at the Chalmers’ modest home in Earls Court.
The woman in question answered our knock and, by all appearances, was even more flustered then she had been during the difficult morning.
“So it is you again, Dr. Watson?”
“Yes, and I have brought my friend, the esteemed Sherlock Holmes.”
From inside the dwelling came Lestrade’s sharp tones. “Mr. Holmes! Is that you? Enter, please.”
The maid permitted us to go inside and we made our reacquaintance with Inspector Lestrade of the Yard.
“I have been questioning this woman, but to no special conclusion,” he said solemnly.
“Will permit me to look around the residence?” asked Holmes.
“As you wish, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes addressed the flustered housekeeper and asked, “Take me to your late employer’s store of tobacco.”
The woman blinked. “Why sir, Mr. Chalmers did not take tobacco in any form.”
Holmes seem slightly taken aback by this declaration. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain, sir,” the woman said levelly. “Why, you have only nearly to take a turn around his study and have a sniff yourself. It is as fresh as Surrey air.”
Not being one to take a statement at face value without investigation, Holmes moved about the first floor, his sharp nose lifted like that of a sleuth hound, finally arriving at the late Chalmers’ study.
After sampling the air with twitching nostrils, Holmes examined the man’s desk and bookshelves. All seemed in order. It was exceptionally neat and tidy.
Turning to the woman, Holmes demanded, “Did Mr. Chalmers avail himself of his writing desk last night?”
“Yes, he wrote letters before he retired. He directed me to post them in the morning, but owing to his sudden demise, I did not get around to it till this afternoon. Not that that matters a jot now.”
“Had he any known enemies?”
“Not known to myself, sir,” replied the housekeeper.
Holmes frowned. “It was the same with Chambers. Only Chambers smoked a pipe. I had expected to discover the same with Chalmers. Or at least that he indulged in the odd after-dinner cigar.”
Inspector Lestrade spoke up, giving voice to the thoughts rising in my own mind. “Is it your theory that both men were done away with through tainted tobacco?”
“It was one of my theories - now discarded, I admit frankly,” replied Holmes.
I spoke next. “It is a sound theory, if I may say so myself. For a man’s tongue to be so severely discolored at the time of death suggests that the appendage came into contact with a virulent poison.”
Holmes shook his head furiously. “Not so virulent that the victims succumbed immediately after coming into contact with the agent of death. Otherwise, we would discover said agent. Instead, there is nothing.” Disgust tinged his last utterance.
I could scarcely believe my ears. “What are you saying, Holmes? That you are utterly baffled?”
“No,” said Holmes tersely. “I am stating what I know to be the facts in the matter. Had food or drink been responsible for either man’s demise, it would have stood at hand. Were tobacco the cause, the pipe or cigar would be an evidence. It is absolutely clear that Chalmers did not smoke. The fact the Chambers did is no longer of significance.”
My good friend was clearly frustrated. I could hear it in the sharp edge in his voice. He had given deep thought to the matter of Arthur Chambers during the day and now that that day was exhausting itself, his lengthy ruminations had proven futile. It was common for Sherlock Holmes to arrive at conclusions before all others. But not upon this unique occasion, it seemed.
“Well, it is back to the beginning for all of us,” commented Lestrade.
Holmes began pacing, his eyes searching the titles of the books neatly a
rrayed upon the shelves. I could not tell if he was reading their spines, or merely seeing past them. He was again deep in thought and his nervous energy suggested controlled agitation.
At length, he began speaking.
“The nature of the poison can be narrowed down through autopsy. No doubt it will be. But no poison with which I am acquainted - and I am familiar with virtually all of the devilish cornucopia of murder - fits the salutary problem of the blue tongues.”
Lestrade interjected, “I, too, am familiar with most poisons employed to do away with innocent persons,” he mused. “And I know of none that will turn the tongue a vivid blue.”
With a nearly savage ferocity, Holmes turned on Lestrade and barked, “The organ is not blue. Only the tip. This suggests a poison that acts upon contact, not upon ingestion. Hence my initial suspicion that a common tobacco product has been tampered with.”
“Sound reasoning,” I remarked.
“Not sound enough,” snapped Holmes. He resumed his pacing.
Lestrade ventured, “Could a venomous insect have bitten either man?”
Holmes laughed dismissively. “Upon the tongue? In both cases? Surely, Lestrade, you can do better than that. Why, I fancy Watson here can summon up a better theory.”
His hooded eyes turned in my direction, and I rose to the challenge as best I could.
“Let me think,” I mused. “A man’s tongue comes into contact with his food, his drink, and anything else that he dares to put in his mouth-”
“False!”
I started. Holmes’s tone was extreme. I stared at him.
“You disappoint me, Watson. Have you forgotten that tongues also protrude?”
“I have not, for I had not completed my catalog,” I countered. “Of course tongues protrude from the mouth, but a sane individual is fastidious about what he brings into contact with the organ of taste.”
“Some examples?”
“Perhaps sweets,” I suggested. “A man may touch his tongue to some form of dessert before eating, if he fears it to be too sweet.”
“Few would,” returned Holmes dismissively. “If cherry pie is set before him in, he will either eat it or not, according to his lights.”
“What if the food was unfamiliar to him? Say, a candy confection or an exotic fruit.”
“If you are suggesting that either man was poisoned by lychee nuts or some foreign berry, I reject your suggestion out of hand.” Catching himself, Holmes added, “But I thank you for that suggestion nevertheless.”
With that, he lapsed into silence.
Inspector Lestrade and I exchanged glances, and neither one of us had anything to offer.
Suddenly, Holmes asked, “Do you recall the addresses of those letters you posted earlier today?” His eyes were fixed on the hovering housekeeper.
“I may have glanced at them, sir, but I paid the addresses no special heed. I am not the prying sort. Mr. Chalmers’ correspondence was his own affair, not any business of mine. I simply posted them as he asked.”
Holmes went to the late occupant’s desk, and examined the ink blotter minutely.
“Was it Chalmers’ habit to write directly upon his desk?”
“Yes, but not upon the blotter’s surface. He preferred to stack papers and write upon the top sheets.”
Holmes barked, “Show me that stack - what remains of it.”
“I put it away, sir. Let me fetch it.”
Forthwith, the housekeeper brought forth a sheaf of stationery from the right-hand top drawer, and set it down upon the ink blotter.
Holmes lifted the top sheet and held it up to the light. Eyes narrowing, he shifted the blank sheet of paper this way and that, as if attempting to divine something written in invisible ink.
“May I borrow this?” he asked the housekeeper.
“You may keep it, sir, if you think it will be of use in your investigation. You are welcome to it.”
Very carefully, Holmes bent the sheet without folding it and kept it firmly in hand rather than place it in a pocket.
“I believe we are done here,” he announced abruptly.
“I have some further questions of this good woman,” Lestrade said.
“Carry on then, Inspector. I will inform you of my findings, if any.”
As we departed, we turned up the street in search of a hansom cab, and I asked of Holmes, “Do you see any significance in the similarity between the last names of both individuals?”
Sherlock Holmes it was so deep in thought I had to repeat my query.
“I have noticed the similarity, Watson. As to its significance, there may be none. I defer judgment on that score. This is an oddly confounding situation. From my study, I am unable to identify the poison or the means by which it was delivered, not to mention the killer’s motives.”
“What do you imagine that blank sheet of paper will give up?”
“Impressions of the last piece of correspondence Nathan Chalmers wrote in this world.”
“Well, let us hope than that it was more significant than a note to the greengrocer.”
We failed to find a hansom cab, and Holmes abruptly announced, “I believe, Watson, that I will walk home. I suggest that you do the same.”
“Very well. I imagine that you will be working on this matter through the night and wish no company, nor any evening meal.”
“You imagine correctly,” said Holmes with a trace of coldness that I ascribed to his mood and not any fracture in our friendship.
I went my way, and Sherlock Holmes went his.
* * *
“Watson, I am an imbecile!”
“I would hardly agree,” I replied civilly.
It was the next morning, and I had dropped around to visit with my friend. Curiosity, as much as solicitousness for his state of mind, motivated me.
Holmes was at his briar again. “I have been racking my brain, seeking among the appointments of the victims the source of the poison. In vain. Conceivably because the instrument of murder had been in both cases disposed of in the most clever and I daresay elegant manner.”
“I fail to follow, Holmes.”
“Come, come, the absence of poison should have proclaimed the truth. I was too focused on uncovering the hidden, to consider the absent.”
“Now I am thoroughly confused.”
“No poison, nor instrument of delivery, was found because it had been disposed of in a unique manner. The killer is no doubt a fiend in human form. But a fiend who devised a method of murder so ingenious that it nearly caused me brain strain.”
I held my tongue. Holmes continued.
“By the careful application of emery dust, I brought out the impressions made upon the blank sheet of paper inscribed by the late Nathan Chalmers. I present them to you, Watson, for analysis.”
I took the sheet, and studied it carefully. The method by which my friend had brought out the writing was not unique, but it was certainly novel. Certain words were very clear while others somewhat obscure. I read carefully, but to little profit.
“These appear to be merely scattered, disconnected words,” I decided. “I can construct no sense, nor discover any train of thought in these rambling jottings.”
“That is because there is none. Mr. Chambers was not writing a letter. But answering questions with unusual brevity.”
“I see the word ‘yes’ several times. One ‘no’. And another word I might assume to be ‘perhaps’.”
“There are also circles and checkmarks,” pointed out Holmes.
“What do you make of it?”
“An unknown person or business entity sent Chalmers an unsolicited questionnaire. Chalmers duly obliged by filling it out. More than that we do not know, since we can safely assume that the questionnaire was promptly ma
iled by the housekeeper.”
“So it is a dead end then?”
Holmes responded thoughtfully. “A blind alley, perhaps. For motive remains elusive and the perpetrator unknown.”
“And the method of murder as well, I daresay.”
Holmes’s eyes grew bright. Well did I know that look. It told that he had broken through the impenetrable cobwebs that had hitherto constrained his investigation.
“I fell victim to a simple assumption,” he related, “That the tongue is used primarily to taste. But in that I overlooked something so elementary that I hesitate to confess my failure.”
“Go on, Holmes,” I entreated. “I am eager to hear more.”
His bright eyes glanced up and seized my own. “Surely, Watson, you can deduce the truth from the point to which I have led you.”
“I confess that I cannot. I remain baffled.”
“Well, reason it out, my good man.”
“From what point? There are so many.”
He puffed at his pipe. “Very well, I will take hold of your restraining intellectual leash and drag you to a conclusion. That it is obvious to me does not necessarily mean that it is obvious. Only that it should be. Consider the questionnaire, Watson. If you had received one from a medical association, what would you do?”
“Why, fill it out, of course.”
“Of course, of course,” Holmes said impatiently. “Follow the necessary train of actions. What would you do next?”
“Post it, I imagine.”
“And in between?”
I hesitated. Holmes’s impatience grew apace.
“Visualize it, my dear friend.” There was an edge in his voice, but I did not take it personally. “It might assist your efforts if you close your eyes and imagine that you were doing it in fact. Leave out nothing, no matter how routine.”
I did exactly as bid. I imagined myself filling out the document, folding it, and inserting it into an envelope, addressing the latter and applying a stamp.
After I had related all of this to Sherlock Holmes, he asked, “Would you lick the stamp?”
“I would have to, unless I applied a moist sponge, which would seem to me to be an excessive tool for such a modest task.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 44