Holmes regarded me in silence.
A sudden thought flared up in my brain. I gave it voice. “Do you mean to say, Holmes, that the stamp was in some manner poisoned?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he said dryly. “But I dismissed it almost immediately.”
“Why is that?”
“Do you realize that you left out a step in your mental reenactment?”
“If I did not know you better, Holmes,” I returned. “I would insist that I had not.”
“Well said. You know me too well.” The briar came into play briefly. “To answer your first question: No, the stamp was not poisoned. Why would it be? There is little doubt that the questionnaire arrived with a folded envelope addressed to the originating party, and doubtless a stamp for convenience already affixed to the envelope.”
“I struggle to glean the step you claim I have left out.”
Holmes’s tone became almost mockingly thin. “You would have had to seal the envelope, Watson.”
“A minor trifle,” I scoffed.
“Men have lost their lives over trifles,” he retorted. Holmes’s enunciation turned flat and emotionless. “The envelope flap,” he said simply, “was unquestionably poisoned.”
When this theory sank in. I fairly shouted, “Upon my word! Why, this has the makings of the perfect crime!”
“And there you have it, Watson. At last you have wrenched a successful conclusion from the morass of facts. The gum in the envelope flap was in some way impregnated with a poison that, when it came into contact with the tip of the tongue, turned the moist tissue blue, and set into motion the onset of death, however long delayed. There was sufficient time for the letter to be posted to the sender, taking with it all clues to the killer’s identity, along with the method of murder and instrument of death, which were one. And all for the price of a stamp.”
“Then we have no way forward?”
“The fact that two separate shades of blue bloomed upon the tongues of two victims suggests a man experimenting with a poison. Such experimentation further suggests someone with the knowledge of a chemist, if not a chemist by trade.”
“A slim enough clue, given the number of chemists in greater London.”
“Greater London and beyond,” snapped Holmes.
“Have you any notion as to the nature of the poison?”
“Again I feel rather stupid, Watson. The discoloration of the victim’s tongues caused me to grope in exotic directions. In fact, I have little doubt that the autopsies will show that the agent of doom was a salt of ferrocyanic and carbonate. But such pharmacological knowledge gets us only a little further along the path to the truth.”
“Perhaps the housekeeper who mailed the sheaf of letters might be interviewed again. Her memory might be subject to jarring in the matter of the addresses of the fatal envelope.”
“Sorry to disappoint. But I hardly think that would be a profitable endeavor, Watson. Such a clever schemer could hardly be expected to use his true address, in the event that the expected order of events went awry.”
“So where did the return envelopes end up?”
To my mild astonishment, Sherlock Holmes seemed not to have followed his thinking to its logical point. He rose from his chair, suddenly innervated.
“In the dead letter office, of course!” he cried. “Let us go there at once.”
It was not far, so we walked briskly.
Holmes paid a visit to the postmaster’s office, laid out as much of his concerns as practical, and received an encouraging reply.
“Two envelopes have been brought to my attention which are outside the normal range of stray mail. In most cases, an improperly addressed envelope is missing a digit, or two or more numerals are transposed. In this case, neither the address nor the addressee can be found in any directory.”
“May I see these letters?” Holmes requested.
The items in question with swiftly produced, and laid out on the postmaster’s desk for Holmes to inspect. They were ordinary envelopes, and the addresses had been tapped out on a machine. Holmes’s black brows crowded together when he saw that there would be no handwriting to analyze.
The addresses were identical.
Institute of Hermetical Science
55 Greenlawn Way
Brixton
“There is no such institute!” snapped Holmes. “Of that, I am certain.”
The postmaster concurred, saying, “We have been unable to locate any such enterprise.”
“May I borrow these?” asked Holmes.
“How are they of interest to you?”
“If I am not mistaken,” Holmes said gravely, “they are instruments of murder. I would like to analyze one and offer the other to Inspector Lestrade for his good opinion.”
The postmaster became shockingly pale of countenance, as would anyone coming into contact with cold-blooded murder. “In that case, Mr. Holmes,” he said crisply, “I will dutifully commend them to your good care, asking only a letter of receipt in return.”
“And you shall have it,” returned Holmes, accepting pen and paper from the postal official.
Once we were out on the street, Holmes remarked, “Let us visit Lestrade and compare notes.”
“Do you think the inspector has made progress in the intervening hours?”
“Unlikely,” said Holmes. “But it would be more politic to suggest otherwise when we encounter Lestrade.”
“I will keep that injunction in mind,” I said dryly.
* * *
We were fated never to reach Inspector Lestrade’s office.
Upon turning a corner, a hansom cab trundled by and out poked the police official’s head. “Mr. Holmes!” he cried. “There has been another!”
It was pointless to ask another what. The inspector urged the cab to a halt and threw open the door. Holmes climbed in, leaving me to call for another.
I was soon bringing up the rear in my own cab.
Both conveyances pulled up before a neat and respectable-seeming house in Kensington. The name of the mailbox was “Gideon Chandler.”
Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade had already entered. I naturally hastened to follow.
The door has been left ajar for me and, when I slipped in, two men were engaging another individual earnestly.
“She seemed perfectly healthy,” this man was insisting in an agitated manner. “On awakening, I found her as cold as a stone.”
Lestrade asked, “Did she have any complaints in recent days?”
“None, none! Mrs. Chandler was the picture of health.”
I took this man to be Mr. Gideon Chandler.
Lestrade continued his interrogation. “Were you aware of the fact that her tongue was discolored prior to the arrival of the family physician?”
“Well, no sir, I was not. In fact, I was not aware of this fact until Dr. Allgood brought it to my attention.”
Lestrade asked several other questions which seemed pertinent, and Sherlock Holmes appeared content to observe and take silent note of the answers.
When at last the inspector had exhausted his questioning, Holmes spoke up. His first question brought all eyebrows into highest elevation.
“What, may I ask, what was your wife’s maiden name?”
The bereaved husband was so taken aback that he was momentarily speechless. In fact his inability to answer dragged on for more than a minute. Eventually, he got his tongue untangled and operating in correct gear.
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do you hesitate to reply?” countered Holmes. “Certainly you know the answer full well. Do you not?”
The fellow continued to hesitate, but finally he gave forth. “Mrs. Chandler was known as Virginia Dowling when we first met. But I
do not see where that fact has any bearing on what has transpired this morning.”
“No doubt you are correct, but the query came to mind, so I gave it voice,” returned Holmes smoothly. He next asked, “Was your wife recently engaged in answering correspondence?”
At this, Inspector Lestrade’s eyes grew baffled. But he held his tongue.
“That is a peculiar question, if I may be so bold as to put it plainly.”
“The question stands, sir,” said Holmes calmly.
“As is a matter of routine, she invariably attended to any correspondence in the hour before taking to her bed. It was no different last night. I believe there are several letters on the kitchen table that have yet to be posted.”
Something in the unfortunate fellow’s eyes seem to catch fire like a bit of coal set to smoldering. It was resentment there. Resentment, and a dash of anger.
With his wife lying dead one floor above, no doubt he was feeling helpless and besieged.
Holmes said, “I would like to see them, as would, I am sure, the inspector.” This last was evidently calculated to mollify the widowed man. And it seemed to work to that end. Whereupon, Mr. Chandler immediately launched into the kitchen and came back clutching a sheath of envelopes, his features a sullen brick-red.
Chandler handed them to Inspector Lestrade, who rippled through the lot and remarked, “I see nothing out of the usual here.”
“Allow me,” interposed Holmes. After accepting the envelopes, he examined them quickly and, without asking permission, he tore one end off the sealed envelope.
“Oh, I say!” thundered Chandler. “Of all the nerve!”
“Mr. Holmes no doubt has his reasons,” Lestrade reassured the man.
Shaking out the contents, Holmes unfolded a single sheet of stationery, handing it to Inspector Lestrade after the briefest of the perusals.
Lestrade took a full minute to read what was on the sheet. I had already formed an opinion. The inspector announced it for me.
“This is a printed survey of some sort.”
Holmes showed the address on the envelope and remarked coolly, “I have already ascertained that the address on this envelope is imaginary. A falsification. There is no such institute, nor any address corresponding to it.”
“How the devil did you determine that?” demanded Lestrade.
“The postmaster can vouch for my assertions,” said Holmes. “I have in my pocket two envelopes just like it. And if you take them both back to Scotland Yard, your forensic scientists will swiftly confirm that the glue on both flaps are impregnated with a salt of ferrocyanic and carbonate, as well other substances, including one which reacts with the saliva coating the human tongue to produce vivid colorations.”
Inspector Lestrade seemed at a loss for coherent words. “This smacks of black magic, Holmes!” he cried.
“The only black art involved in this grisly matter,” corrected Holmes firmly, “is the dark art of cold-blooded murder.”
Mr. Chandler intruded at that point. Evidently, his brain had assembled the facts floating about the room into something sensible.
“Are you saying that my wife was murdered? And by a poisoned envelope flap?”
“She was not the first,” supplied Holmes.
The man staggered backwards, leaning his back against the fireplace mantel. I thought he might swoon. Certainly, he blanched noticeably.
“But who would do such a dastardly deed? My wife is - was a commonplace but good soul.”
“Whoever engineered such perfidy,” assured Sherlock Holmes, “will be brought to book in short order.”
Lestrade demanded, “If what you say is true, Holmes, and this address is a false one, how may we track backwards to the perpetrator? We do not even have a motive.”
“It may be that a madman is at work,” said Holmes carefully. “Yet it is my experience in these matters that most pre-meditated murders have in back of them a cold, logical brain. Something connects the death of this woman with the other two victims. It will be brought to light, one way or the other.”
In a stiff voice that was seething with repressed anger, Mr. Chandler said, “I am certain my late wife would find cold comfort in your words, sir.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, taking no visible umbrage. “What is your occupation, Mr. Chandler?”
This time there was no hesitation. “I am a chemist by trade.”
“Ah, a chemist. Very good. Did you happen to notice the discoloration of your late wife’s tongue?”
“Did I not already say so?”
“I believe you did,” said Holmes calmly. His grey eyes appraised the man who had stepped back from the mantel and was visibly reasserting his self-control.
“What color was it?”
“Blue. A particularly livid blue.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“If I could, I would judge the hue to be Prussian Blue.”
“And what substance would produce such a specific shade of blue?”
“I - I am not quite certain, sir. Nor do I see the point of your question. In fact, if I am not mistaken, you have no true standing in a murder investigation, except by leave of Inspector Lestrade. So if you do not mind, I will entertain any further questions from the lawful authority present and bid you a good day.”
Having finished his speech, Mr. Chandler turned his attention to Lestrade. But at the next pronouncement from Sherlock Holmes, his face fell like a brick wall under the wrecking ball.
“Inspector Lestrade, I suggest you arrest that man in the murder of his wife.”
“Are you mad, Mr. Holmes? Upon what evidence?”
“Upon no direct evidence, but I point out to you that a common housewife is unlikely to receive a survey from a scientific institution. Nor is she in the same class as the other two victims. Therefore, she was singled out by someone close to her.”
“That is rather thin,” Lestrade said flatly.
Undaunted, Sherlock Holmes went on. “Consider then that it would be a very poor chemist who did not know that Prussian Blue is produced by the reaction of salts of iron with potassium ferrocyanide, from which the pigment was first derived. Looking at Mr. Chandler, I judge him to have been in his trade for several years. So elementary a fact could not possibly have escaped him. Therefore, he is temporizing, as well as prevaricating. I have no doubt that if you search this dwelling, you may find certain pernicious poisons. If not here, then in his place of work. Either way, I guarantee his guilt. Place him in handcuffs now, or risk his flight before your investigation is over.”
I tore my eyes from Sherlock Holmes and studied the accused.
Various expressions crawled across his wide, meaty face. His features flushed, and his yellowish teeth were bared as if he were a human cur. Fire was in his eyes, but it was not the flame of anger now - instead, it was the red rage of thwarted ambition. The transformation of his countenance was swift and unsettling.
“Sherlock Holmes, is it?” he snarled. No man ever voiced a snarl that was so bestial, so charged with malicious passion. “The consummate sleuth. The master investigator. I do not know how you stumbled upon your facts, sir, but I congratulate you. Yes, I congratulate you - but I would rather rip your throat out with my naked teeth.”
“Mr. Chandler!” cried Lestrade. “What has come over you?”
By a visible effort, the man took hold of his nerve and his passion, and heaved a prodigious sigh. Reaching into a vest pocket, he produced a hunter-case pocket watch. Clicking open the cover, he consulted the dial.
“I see that I have been awake less than an hour. Less than one hour of my final day on earth has already elapsed...”
Hearing these ominous words, Sherlock Holmes launched forward - but, alas, too late.
Gideon Chandler brought the timepie
ce up to his mouth, and swiftly touched his tongue to the concave inner surface of the watch cover. It came away turning a vivid blue.
Holmes wrenched the pocket watch from the men’s grasp, spilling the contents upon the floor. It proved to be a pale powder having the semblance of dry snow.
“The telltale poison, Lestrade!” he crowed. “There is your definite proof.”
As if his legs had turned into water, Mr. Chandler sank to the floor, his broad back to the mantelpiece. His expression was that of a defeated man, and his eyes were dazed.
“It is done,” he croaked out. “I am poisoned. In less than six hours, I shall be dead. And no one will know my motives. For they no longer matter in this world. Whether or not they will matter in the next one, I will shortly learn.” He gave out a dry little cackle of a laugh. It struck me as a trifle demented. “I daresay you gentlemen will have to await your own passing before you can uncover the truth. For I have interred it rather deeply.”
With that, he closed his eyes.
Turning to Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes said, “Summon an ambulance, Inspector, although I doubt the physicians at the hospital can do much good. But perhaps it is worth a try. And while you are at it, kindly alert the postal authorities to be on the lookout for any other letters emanating from the sinister Institute of Hermetical Science.”
Hearing this, Mr. Chandler laughed anew. This chortle was ghoulish in a way that made my skin crawl. I shall never forget it, although I would like to.
* * *
We forthwith repaired to Holmes’s quarters, where he produced an envelope from his pocket and laid it on a side table.
I could not fail to notice that it was addressed to him in a flourishing hand.
“Wherever the devil did you find that?” I exclaimed.
“It was among the last letters written by the late Mrs. Chandler.”
“It was among those found on the kitchen table?”
“Fortunately, no. It arrived only this morning, having been posted the day the deaths of Chalmers and Chambers were reported in the newspapers. The timing is unfortunate,” Holmes added dryly.
“Did Mr. Chandler not realize this astonishing fact?”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 45