by Otto Penzler
Holmes had risen to his feet and was pacing restlessly about, puffing his brier, his hands clenched together behind his back. He shook his head in answer to my question. “No, I do not.” He stopped and faced about. “I think I see your point, Watson. You are connecting my remark on the alkaloid used, with Morrison’s somewhat hysterical outburst accusing the woman.”
I nodded. “It seems fairly conclusive, Holmes, that…oh, for any number of reasons, the woman decided to rid herself of her lover, and thereupon poisoned him.”
Holmes did not reply at once to my observation, but resumed his nervous pacings, deep in thought, and evidently turning over in his mind the data he had gathered from our recent visitor. Finally he returned to his chair.
“It is often a mistake,” he said, “to unload before one has taken on board a sufficient cargo. To theorize before our facts arrive can be misleading. I do not say that your theory is erroneous; poison is the legendary weapon of the female murderer, but that does not imply that the weaker sex retains a monopoly. Had we to contend with a common type—arsenic, antimony, strychnine—any one of a round half dozen in everyday medicinal or commercial use, I should tend to agree with you. But this was no ordinary alkaloid.”
Knowing my friend’s penchant for seeking the dramatic rather than the prosaic, I ventured a mild remonstrance, suggesting that perhaps something less fanciful might have been used.
His retort was brusque and sharp.
“The symptoms were unmistakable to the trained eye of a toxicologist. They clearly conveyed every indication of a toxic agent which, when injected into the blood stream, causes dark blemishes to appear on the skin. I do not possess all my data yet, Watson, but I shall have them! I must have them,” he went on fiercely, “for then I may learn with whom we have to deal.”
“Whom do you suspect? The husband?”
“It is still too early to reach conclusions which later discoveries may easily discount; but there is a strong balance of probability which favours such a suspicion.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “in a moment of blind, jealous rage, he might have…”
“No, Watson,” he interrupted, “whoever killed Foote did so after thought and preparation. This was not a crime committed in an outburst of savage rage, but a carefully premeditated one.”
“Nevertheless,” I persisted, “a jealous man, certain of his wife’s unfaithfulness, might well commit such a crime….” I stopped. A new thought struck a chill to my heart. “Holmes!” I exclaimed, “if your suspicions are well-founded, and the husband is the murderer, that woman may be in terrible danger. He may…”
“Perhaps he has already done so,” broke in Holmes, the same thought no doubt crossing his mind at the same moment. There could be no mistaking the ominous tone in his voice.
“You think she is already dead, then?”
“What else is there to think, man? Foote’s death took place most probably late Monday night. This is Wednesday. Why has she not come forward? Why does she choose to remain silent?”
“Perhaps she does not know that her lover is dead.”
“It is quite possible,” he replied, rising to his feet and starting to remove his robe, “but most unlikely.”
“You are going out?”
“Yes, Watson, but I should like you to remain here. I am expecting developments, and with you holding the fort, I feel safe in going off for an hour or so.”
“Where are you going, Holmes? To that Cafe-whatever-it-was?”
“The Cafe Continental? No. First I shall drop in at the British Museum. Then I intend to pay a visit to Arnold Foote’s housekeeper—what was the name? Ah, yes, Ferrucci. I may uncover a salient fact or two before the hounds from Scotland Yard go baying towards Dean Street.”
While speaking he had crossed over to his room, and I waited until he had emerged, buckling the belt of his waterproof, before asking: “What do you hope to find, Holmes?”
“In the Museum: data. In Dean Street: the woman—or at least some clue to her identity.” He paused at the door and added reflectively: “Somewhere, in the course of my omnivorous readings, I have chanced upon the slenderest of allusions to a poison which stains the skin of its victims. I must try to find that reference, Watson. A purple blemish…” He was still mechanically repeating that phrase as the door closed.
I watched from the window until my friend had vanished inside a a cab, then I turned to the early afternoon papers which Holmes’s dealer had delivered in the meantime. The first reports of the identification of Arnold Foote’s body (“thanks to the perspicacity and astuteness of Inspector Patterson and his able assistants”) were appearing for the first time. Speculations were being made as to the cause of death, motives, possible culprits, but nothing new had been unearthed and fresh developments were being awaited with every passing hour. An article in the Standard, however, revealed that the earlier verdict of death by misadventure would have to be modified in the light of recent findings. Following upon the autopsy, which would no doubt bring in a charge of wilful murder by person or persons unknown. That the case was beginning to loom large in the press was proved by later editions which were brought up after four o’clock. I read them all eagerly, hoping to uncover some fresh details which might aid my friend in his investigations. But they contained merely rehashings of earlier reports and my search was in vain.
I spent another hour browsing through my friend’s voluminous yearbooks and indexed cases, brushing up on earlier cases with an eye to future publication—subject to his approval, of course. I chatted over old times with Mrs. Hudson who, meanwhile, had very thoughtfully provided me with a pot of her excellent tea. It was not until well past five o’clock, when I was already beginning to fret and fume impatiently, that Billy came up with a telegram for me. It was from Holmes:
“View halloo. Meet me at Goldini’s at six. S.H.”
Holmes’s use of hunting terms while on a case was not new to me. This could have but one interpretation; the game was breaking cover. His researches had not been fruitless.
My friend was already seated at the table when I reached the restaurant. My eager inquiries concerning his activities during the afternoon fell on deaf ears. Waving his hand towards a chair, he contented himself by saying briefly: “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering your dinner—and a bottle of Chianti. Fall to; we shall have time enough to discuss things later on.”
I obeyed with alacrity for I was hungry and, I must confess, relieved that I could turn away even for only an hour, from the murky business on hand, to something warm and stimulating.
I have frequently had occasion to remark on one of Holmes’s peculiar characteristics which permitted him to completely disconnect his mind from the problem under investigation and turn to that inexhaustible fund of fact and anecdote with which his remarkable memory was stocked. His spirited topics that evening, as I remember, touched upon the stains of old Cremona violins, the field of ancient musical instruments, and thence to the composition of intricate cryptograms over which he occasionally spent some of his leisure time in the British Museum.
The rain had stopped when we emerged, but a chilly damp fog enshrouded the streets as we strolled slowly and silently back to Baker Street. It was nearly eight o’clock when we reached our old quarters, and the light streaming brilliantly through the mist warned us that we had a visitor.
It proved to be Inspector Patterson, and the sight of his bulky, homely figure brought vividly back to mind the tragic affair which had haunted us throughout the day.
“I’m glad to see you have not been waiting long, Inspector,” cried Sherlock Holmes cheerfully, as he tossed his damp mackintosh over a chair, and placed his cap on the mantle-piece.
“Your landlady told you?”
Holmes grinned and shook his head.
“I deduced that from the length of your cigar. However,” he went on, his face becoming serious, “let us not waste time in banter. Only important business could have brought you out on such a drear
y evening. What is it, Inspector? Have you traced the woman? Has another mysterious murder taken place?”
Patterson swayed his head in wonder and puzzlement. “There are times, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “when I’m inclined to believe you’re a mind reader.”
“Then another murder has taken place?” he asked, half rising from the chair in which he was about to sit.
Patterson nodded grimly.
“A woman?”
“Aye, sir. A pretty but foolish young woman…”
“Whose body,” broke in Sherlock Holmes, “is marked by a series of purple maculas, similar to those found on the body of Arnold Foote, late ’cellist?”
“My dear Holmes!” I gasped.
“Told you he was a mind reader,” grumbled Patterson.
“Who is this woman?” snapped Holmes quickly, impervious to our remarks. “What is her name?”
“She was known at 134 Oakley Crescent as Mrs. Henry Staunton…” began the Inspector.
“And at 14 Dean Street?” My friend’s eyes now gleamed with excitement.
“As Mrs. Arnold Foote,” replied Patterson, cocking a shrewd eye at him. “I thought we had you there, Mr. Holmes!”
“A child could have followed such a trail, after Morrison’s testimony. I suppose Foote’s housekeeper identified her?”
“Positively!”
“Then the case is closed,” said Holmes, sinking back into his chair with a sigh of disappointment. So far as he was concerned, his work was finished. I could tell by his tone and attitude that all interest in the case had evaporated.
“No, Mr. Holmes, the case is not closed,” corrected the Scotland Yarder.
“You have only to arrest the woman’s husband. Surely it is obvious that he is your man?” Holmes’s voice, dry and brittle, showed annoyance at the other’s stubbornness.
“There, I agree with you. In fact, he is being sought for questioning. But still…” He stopped, fumbled with his cigar, peering at the austere, grave face of the criminologist with anxious eyes.
“Come, Inspector, out with it!” urged my colleague in a sharp tone. “Is there any point in the case which needs clarifying?”
Patterson chewed and worried his cigar thoughtfully before speaking. Then he said, evasively: “Those were pretty neat deductions you made this morning, over at the mortuary. Hit the nail right on the head. Morrison corroborated every point you made.”
Always susceptible to flattery where his work was concerned, Holmes thawed visibly. Encouraged, the Inspector continued: “You also implied that you know something about that purple stain poison which was used by the murderer. At least, you conveyed as much when you had me take note of the splotches on the skin. Now, frankly, I admit that we’re up a tree there. The medicos don’t know what it is. And we don’t know either. As you well know, you can’t convince a British jury…”
“Inspector,” said Holmes at this moment, speaking as if he had ignored every word uttered by the good Patterson, “have you ever heard of matacalda?”
The Scotland Yarder shook his head without hesitation. “Never.”
“Have you, Watson?”
“I can’t say that I have,” I replied guardedly.
“Well, until this afternoon, neither had I, so you need not be downcast about it.” Assuming his best didactic manner, he continued: “Matacalda is a vegetable alkaloid extracted from an unknown plant by certain tribes in the Brazilian jungles. Very little is known about it. I myself only learned its name a few hours ago, although I had found obscure references to it in various books of travel. This much is known, however: it forms an important ingredient in the preparation of blow dart poison. It works swiftly once it enters the body, causing paralysis of the muscles which control the lungs, with death ensuing in a matter of minutes. Now mark this,” he went on, emphasizing his next words with his pipe stem. “Victims of matacalda poisoning are invariably marked by deep purple splotches or maculas.”
Patterson let out a cloud of smoke as Holmes ended his extraordinary statement. Then he observed:
“Sounds like a tall traveler’s tale.” But the intent expression on his face belied both his words and his scepticism.
“Nevertheless, that is the agent which destroyed both victims. Tell me, Patterson, have you any indication as to the manner in which it was administered?”
The Inspector glanced through his notebook, then looked up. “In Foote’s case, the doctors believe it was injected by means of a thin sharp instrument which pierced the scalp just below the occ…occi-something bone.” He looked over to me. “What’s that, Doctor?”
“The occipital bone,” I replied, “at the base of the skull where the spinal column…”
“Yes, yes,” snapped Holmes testily, “cut the medical frills! The woman, man! What of the woman?”
Whatever feelings of justifiable pride he may have felt at this moment on having his findings confirmed by the medical evidence, his lean, drawn features did not reveal them.
Patterson consulted his notes again.
“Police surgeon cautious about committing himself, but suspects unknown toxic agent of virulent powers, similar to that discovered by post-mortem examination of the body of Arnold Foote.” He stopped reading, then gloomily shook his head. “But we haven’t found out yet how it was done,” he concluded woefully.
Sherlock Holmes tensed in his chair.
“What do you mean?” he asked abruptly.
“I mean that, although we know, thanks to you, that some queer poison was used, there isn’t a cut or puncture anywhere to show how that poison entered the woman’s body!”
Almost at once I sensed an awakening of interest in my colleague’s manner. His face had regained the old familiar alertness, his shoulders had stiffened, his eye held the gleam I knew so well. Here, at last, was something worthy of his steel. So far, the case had not called upon the full powers of his analytical genius. The deductions praised so highly by Inspector Patterson were, in his opinion, merely a demonstration of the more superficial aspects of crime detection and identification. They had whetted his appetite without satisfying it. Here, indeed, was a unique situation, and one calculated to appeal to his love of the complex and the seemingly inexplicable.
There was an odd light (I will not say of pleasure!) shining in his eyes as he asked quickly:
“Has the body been removed?”
“No. I thought you might care to look things over, so I gave orders to leave everything in status quo.”
“Excellent!”
Holmes was already on his feet when he turned to me. “Well, Watson, one more sortie?” Then he chuckled heartily as he caught a glimpse of my expression.
As we clattered down the stairs I experienced anew that never-failing sense of exhilarating adventure which would sweep over me whenever we set off upon a new phase of one of my confrere’s cases. It was the thrilling sensation of moments such as this which urged me to abandon my humdrum, everyday pursuits, and play a willing, secondary role in the dramas in which my friend and colleague invariably performed so brilliant a part.
During our drive through the foggy streets, with the gas lamps flickering eerily over the wet and glistening pavements, Inspector Patterson gave us a brief resume of the events which had transpired that afternoon.
Mrs. Emma Grant, part-time servant of the Stauntons, reporting to work at four p.m., her usual hour, had found the dead body of her mistress on the bedroom floor. The police, whom she had notified at once, impressed by the sight of the dark blemishes which disfigured the body, had promptly called in Scotland Yard. It was quickly ascertained by the investigators that the purple marks were identical to those found on the body of Arnold Foote, and had quite evidently been caused by the same agency. According to the police surgeon, the woman had been dead approximately fifteen hours, or since early morning of this day.
The husband, Henry Staunton, having presumably taken to his heels, a warrant had been issued for his arrest on suspicion of murder. It was furthe
r learned from the maid that the Staunton household was not a happy one. The couple were childless. Their frequent and bitter quarrels had alienated the few friends they had, and visitors were rare. The disparity of ages (she being some twenty years his junior) plus his moody nature and a jealous and vindictive character, had no doubt contributed much to the incompatibility which had wrecked their married life. An importer of medicinal herbs, Staunton was often away from home for weeks at a time. According to Mrs. Grant, he had only recently returned from a ten day stay on the Continent; Paris, she believed.
Sherlock Holmes stirred for the first time since we had entered the slow-moving vehicle. He had listened silently and intently to Patterson’s succinct summary, with chin sunk low on chest, hands thrust deep in his raincoat pockets, his eyes closed. But at this moment he raised his head.
“Did the maid recall the exact day of his return?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. It was last Saturday, shortly before eight in the evening. She remembered it clearly because of the dreadful quarrel which broke out soon after his arrival. She also recalled hearing Staunton accusing his wife of infidelity, vilifying her brutally, and making ominous threats. To which Mrs. Staunton had retorted in furious rage, that all was over between them, and that she was leaving him. Thereupon, after having packed some of her more precious things, she had departed, swearing never to return.”
“And yet, strangely enough,” mused Holmes, “she was found dead in that house. What explanation did the maid offer, regarding her mistress’s return?”
“She said Mrs. Staunton might have gone to get some of her clothes.”
“She was not certain?”
“No. You see, Mrs. Grant had been told by Mr. Staunton that, since the place would be vacant for several days, she did not need to return until Wednesday—today. He was evidently going off on another of his trips.”
“Or clearing the field for his next move, most likely,” commented my friend. Then he asked: “Have you attempted to trace his movements since last Saturday?”
