Upon cataloguing the various intriguing experiences that my fellow lodger and I have collectively encountered these past few years do I ascertain that for every one that bears narrating are two more that defy the attempt and have, for one reason or another, thus far avoided mention in my ongoing memoirs. While a good number have been summarily omitted with the aim of preserving the privacy of client or colleague, there are on occasion some that prove esoteric or perplexing enough to be excluded as anything but a case study for the avid student of forensics. The discovery of the Flying Dutchman adrift just offshore with its crew nowhere to be found, the unexplained disappearance of one Peter Banning who was last seen turning into an unremarkable alleyway before vanishing entirely and the misadventure at Hill House - these merely but a few of our less successful experiences. Among such august company it would have to be an unusual example indeed that might stand out from the whole, yet I am reasonably certain of nominating one that could claim this distinction.
Adventure found us on an otherwise quiet morning in midsummer, her seasonal warmth a welcome respite from the city's usual fog. It was with some surprise that I encountered my colleague still at the table when I descended to brunch, pouring over the day's mail with an unusual fervor far too at odds for the subject of tradesman's dues. So intent was he on the post that it scarce seemed to occur to him that the act of manipulating a teapot; while mundane, is one that requires some attention - lack of which was evident in the pool of hot tea threatening to spill over its saucer. ``Honestly -''
``Hold! Come no closer, doctor. Not if you value your life!''
The urgency in his tone arrested my actions and I froze just shy of touching the offending envelope. Further observation suggested that my friend was not in jest, for he had forgone his usual tweed for an ensemble that would not have looked out of place in the local charnel house: clad in apron and elbow length gloves. It was with some trepidation therefore that I took a seat at the table, placing as great a distance between us as was expedient and polite to do so. ``Has the Black Death resurfaced then?''
``I see the earliness of the hour has not dulled your wit,'' said he, gingerly divesting himself of his protective wear. ``No indeed, but it is a curious problem that has captured my interest,''
``Do tell,''
``Crime; doctor, is a many-faced multi-headed beast. It always fascinates me how it seems to evolve, like a seed sown upon our particularly fertile London soil. There was a time when I in my hubris had thought I knew everything about every way a person might do harm to another, only to be sorely mistaken. Allow us the benefit of your medical insight, doctor: can a person be killed by words alone?''
``It would indeed seem unlikely,''
``And yet,'' here my friend produced the morning's paper. ``It is what it is. Police are stymied by the unexpected death of a Claude Wilson; who was found locked in his study holding the very same envelope you see before us now. A search was made of the house and his chambers, turning up nothing out of the ordinary. Of the original letter itself there is no trace, other than scattered shreds found in the fist of the corpse. No violence has been done to the victim and no articles of value have been removed from the premises.''
``Can we be so certain that it is murder then? Could the man have had a weak heart? Some misadventure brought on by the stress of bad news...''
``And there we have it, doctor! You hit the nail directly on the head. That is indeed the conclusions that have been drawn - what your contemporaries in the medical field have likely surmised it to be,''
``Sometimes the most likely explanation can be the correct one,''
``The findings do seem to point in that direction. I have exhausted most of the known avenues. There is no trace of poison on the envelope or its contents. The room was ventilated, so that rules out any airborne contagion or suffocation...'' still muttering under his breath, he bade me farewell.
That was the last time I saw my friend alive.
The landlady's scream drew me from my quarters to the sitting room where we beheld a grim sight: the rapidly cooling carcass of my fellow lodger and friend, sprawled at the table in his dressing gown with an open envelope on the table before him.
Misadventure; the inquest called it. Evidently my friend had been running himself ragged on the last few cases, with the lack of sleep and proper meals finally taking their toll. Knowing what I knew of the deceased's habits, I could not bring myself to disagree. It was with surprise that I found myself the sole inheritor of his estate, a role in which I would soon find myself cataloguing his various notes and possessions.
There we have it: the story of my old friend's final case. I'm sure you see why I never bothered to include it in the written collection of his memoirs, as it was hardly a case at all really. No client, no impetus aside from his own restless mind and vague suspicions. Clearly of no interest to any but the most ardent fans of his detecting exploits. I never would have bothered setting pen to paper in this record at all, if not for one small discovery that I have chanced upon to make while sorting through his effects.
His was not the only envelope to be delivered that fateful day.
I look at the flat rectangle in front of me now: innocuous and creased from being tossed into a box with the rest of the papers and forgotten, seal still intact. My name, written in an elegant flourish across the front. A single sheet of paper inside, rattling quietly when I shake it and yielding slightly to the touch... No return address.
So here I sit, finishing off the last of this closing anecdote; which feels like a suicide note more than anything as I deliberate in front of the fireplace with a letter opener in one hand and letter in the other.
Can words truly kill a person? Do I really want to know?
We'll see
