The Case of the Stiffening
Stiffer
It was a cold December evening. Holmes sat in his usual red armchair, situated directly in front of the crackling fire. He was silent, gazing deep into the flames, his pipe sending up faint wisps of smoke. I sat at the old mahogany desk in the corner, writing a paper about the debilitating effects of eating too much celery. All seemed peaceful and quiet, with only the faint whisper of the fire and the scratch of pen and paper to break the silence.
Suddenly, Homes' tenor voice rose from the armchair. "Watson, someone's at the door. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!"
I smiled. "Fabulous quotation, isn't it? Shakespeare seems to have a quote for every occasion. But are you sure that someone is there?"
"Indeed," Holmes cried, "Though I know not what is keeping them from knocking."
As I sat back uneasily in my chair, a heavy knock thumped once, twice, and was silent.
"Let me answer it, dear Watson." Holmes rose silently and strode briskly to the heavy door. He reached for the gold knob and slowly opened the door. I could hear the murmur of low voices outside.
"Ah, I see. Do come in, gentlemen!" Holmes ushered two tall men cloaked in black into the room. "This is my dear colleague, Dr. Watson."
I rose and bowed.
"Now, what seems to be the problem?"
The thinner of the two began to speak. "Mr. Holmes, a good friend of ours recently died. The officials have said he must have died from alcohol poisoning, but," here he glanced at his companion, "we have our reasons to believe otherwise."
Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? And what would these reasons be?"
The previously silent other man suddenly spoke. "Let's just say he had accumulated a large debt that he could and would not pay. Certain individuals may have wanted revenge."
Holmes nodded. "Where is the body now?"
"At the coroner's office," the second man said, "We'll show you where it is."
Holmes went to a suitcase standing in the corner and picked it up. Then we gathered our coats from the rack standing by the door and hurried out into the chilly night.
After a long journey through the rough streets of London, we finally arrived at the coroner's office, a small drab building situated on a street corner. We followed our cloaked customers into the building, down a white hallway, and into a room. Inside, a body lay on a table under a gray sheet. A man in a white coat stood near a counter that was covered in many odd-looking instruments.
"I see you have returned, John, Earnest. And you have been successful in procuring the aid of the distinguished Sherlock Holmes! Good evening, Mr. Holmes. You may examine the body all you like, though I doubt you shall find anything I haven't already."
Holmes smiled. "We shall see, Mr...?"
"Lockner."
"We shall see, Mr. Lockner." Holmes then turned to me. "Watson, will you please remove the sheet covering the man while I prepare my instruments?"
I nodded and walked to the body. I disliked pulling sheets off of dead people, but what must be done must be done. Holmes busied himself in the corner, laying instruments and strange chemicals out on a table. The coroner and the two men stood back, gazing in awe at the various materials.
Holmes turned toward the body on the table. In his right hand was a small spray bottle, in his left, an odd-looking lamp. I watched in fascination as Holmes studied the man's face.
"Here we are!" Holmes shouted in delight, gazing intently at the man's mouth.
"What have you found, Mr. Holmes?" asked the taller man, presumably the one named John.
"It could be of little importance, or of great importance. Let me finish my testing." John stepped back, apologizing for his intrusion.
Holmes carefully sprayed whatever was in the bottle onto the man's mouth, then turned the odd-looking lamp on, bathing the room in strange violet-like light, and held it over the area he had sprayed.
"Ah ha!" he exclaimed, then turned triumphantly. "Gentlemen, I believe I may have solved your mystery. This man has, indeed, been poisoned."
All present in the room gasped out loud.
Mr. Lockner stared in disbelief. "And how, precisely, can you determine this merely by shining a light over his mouth?" he stammered, looking rather ashamed that he hadn't discovered the poisoning himself.
"A case like this merely requires a firm knowledge of science and chemicals, Mr. Lockner. You see, this man died of cyanide poisoning." John and Earnest gaped in disbelief. "I deduced that he must have been killed by a fast-acting poison, as he was at the bar earlier this night. One of the more obvious, and deadly, poisons is cyanide. If you will study his mouth," Holmes continued, "you will see a certain bluish tint. This is one of the effects of cyanide intake." We clustered around the table. Gazing at the dead man's mouth, I was taken aback by the amazing powers of observation Holmes possessed. I would never have noticed such a small clue.
"Go on!" cried Earnest.
"I shall, Mr. Earnest. Also, you will notice a few trickles of fluid at the edges of his lips. They are clear, as is cyanide. These are most likely traces of the drink he had before he died. I have knowledge of how to detect cyanide, so I sprayed this chemical, 2,3-naphthalenedialdehyde, onto his lips. If the liquid truly had cyanide in it, the mixture of this chemical and the cyanide would glow under a light such as the one I am holding. This light is referred to as a "black light." I will switch it on again, and you yourselves can see that his lips do, indeed, glow."
To my astonishment, Holmes was correct. The man's lips were glowing.
Holmes continued, "Thus, the logical explanation, based on concrete evidence, is that this man has ingested cyanide, presumably from the drink he had."
"Now, who would have had motive to poison him?" I queried.
Earnest stepped forward. "He had a love of drinking. He went to the bar every night and charged each drink to his tab. However, he had no money to pay the tab, so his debt grew larger and larger. I believe someone may have discovered that he could not pay, and that person may have wanted revenge."
"Then I assume our most likely suspect would be the bartender?" Holmes asked.
Yes, I believe so," replied John.
After Holmes had called the police, we took our leave of Mr. Lockner. The four of us rushed through the city streets yet again, only this time we were headed for the bar where the dead man had taken his last drink. John and Earnest guided us, until we stood in the entryway of the Peregrine Tavern.
"Just how are we going to discover if the bartender is the murderer?" I whispered.
"Using the same method I used to analyze the man, of course. You shall see, Watson."
Holmes entered first, with me close on his heels and John and Earnest following after. Inside, the tavern was noisy, its customers gathered in small groups glancing nervously at an empty stool at the counter.
"Our friend's usual seat," murmured Earnest.
Holmes moved towards the counter, as silence slowly fell on the bar.
"It's Sherlock Holmes, it is!" cried a voice from a table in the corner. At this all remaining chatter stopped.
The bartender stopped in the middle of pouring a drink. "May I help you?" he rasped, glancing at Holmes' face, then at the floor.
"Yes. A man was found dead here just a few hours ago, correct?"
The bartender nodded. "And what is it to you?"
"We are here to find the murderer," Holmes stated calmly.
"The coroner already examined the body. He said he died from alcohol poisoning, not from murder." The bartender looked resentful.
"Even so, if you don't mind, I need to perform some examinations. Hold out your left arm, sir."
The bartender jerked away. "Ain't no way I'm doing that!"
Holmes drew closer. "You're only making yourself look guilty. I suggest you comply before I have you arrested."
The man growled and stuck out his left arm. Holmes quickly took out his spray bottle and sprayed the chemical on the man's arm and shirtsleeve.
"What're you doing?!" the man yelled.
Ignoring him, Holmes pulled out the black light and switched it on. Gazing intently at the man's arm, I jumped to see several small spots on his shirtsleeve glowing.
"Well, there's our proof!" cried Holmes, "Officer Pontley?"
A short, thick man stepped out from the corner, flanked by several officers.
"Sir, you are under the arrest for the murder of a Mr. Cresler..." Officer Pontley spoke on as Holmes and I exited the bar.
"Holmes," I said, "There's something I don't understand. How could you know to check the bartender's left arm?"
"Simple deduction, Watson. You see, I observed when we entered that the bartender was right-handed. If he was pouring a substance into a drink, he would be doing so with his right hand. If he spilled the liquid, it would most likely fall onto the arm holding the cup, his left arm."
"Brilliant," I whispered.
Holmes and I continued back to dear old 221b Baker Street in silence.
I stopped at the door. "Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
"Have I ever mentioned how absolutely, positively brilliant you are?"
Holmes smiled. "Yes, Watson, I believe you have...