not look so threatening in broad daylight, and, as we stood in front of Wiggins’ door, I looked about me and saw that some of the other establishments on the street were quite respectable: Facing onto the alley were the back entrances of a cobbler’sshop, a saddler, and a silversmith. We stepped over a small pile of rotting vegetables and knocked on the door. There was no answer to our knocks, however, and when Holmes pushed lightly on the door it opened. Holmes looked at me, his face grim.
“Be careful, Watson,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll find inside.”
Upon entering the shop I felt at once that something was horribly wrong. We were greeted by a piteous, high-pitched keening, much like the wailing of a small child. The sound came from Bandu the parrot, who was at his usual place behind the counter. However, as soon as we closed the door behind us, the noise abruptly ceased. The silence was as startling as the wailing had been. The perfume bottles sat upon their shelves, their rich colors reflecting in the gas light, and Bandu sat upon his perch, gazing at us with his bright orange eyes, but there was no sign of Wiggins.
Holmes turned to me, his face rigid.
“There has been foul play here, Watson, foul play indeed.”
I followed Holmes through an ocher brocade curtain that separated the front room from a narrow hallway which led to the rear of the building: Wiggins’ laboratory. As we walked down the hallway I inhaled the smell of a hundred different scents, some sharp and clear as a mountain stream, some musky, others flowery and sweet. I felt quite dizzy by the time we entered the room.
When we entered the laboratory, we found the pitiful sight which we so dreaded. Wiggins was seated at his laboratory desk, clad in a white lab coat, his body slumped over in the chair. It was immediately clear to me that he was dead.
Holmes stood for several moments, still as a statue, then he turned to me. His normally impassive face was suffused with such fury that I took a step backwards, startled in spite of myself.
“By God, Watson, whoever did this to Wiggins will pay! I swear toyou I will avenge his death with my own hands!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
I said nothing, afraid to interrupt Holmes in this mood. I looked around the room: It was a well-stocked laboratory, with shining modern equipment set out upon two large tables. Another set of specially constructed shelves held small vials of fragrance samples as well as spare equipment: beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and Petri dishes. Wiggins had been justifiably proud of his laboratory, and I remembered sadly his promise to show it to us upon our next visit. I turned to Holmes, who was examining Wiggins’ body.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.
I examined Wiggins’ body. There were no visible wounds, but redness around the neck area and the purplish cast to his face indicated strangulation. I told Holmes this, and he nodded grimly.
“Damn that storm! We never should have stayed in Cornwall last night,” he said bitterly. “I was right when I suspected they wanted me out of London.”
“Yes, but even if you were in London, I doubt that you would have prevented this,” I said gently.
“Perhaps not, but now the trail is cold.”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill him, you know. The condition he suffers from frequently makes it difficult for the sufferer to breathe normally anyway...” I looked at his poor, pathetic form. If ever a man had not deserved what fate had dealt him, it was Wiggins. “But who would want Wiggins dead?” I wondered out loud.
“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Holmes replied, his face set, jaw clenched.
“We shall have to inform the police, you know,” I said.
“Yes, yes, but first we must see what clues we can find before they come along and spoil everything,” Holmes replied impatiently,inspecting the floor around Wiggins’ desk. “Here’s a little
“Be careful, Watson,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll find inside.”
Upon entering the shop I felt at once that something was horribly wrong. We were greeted by a piteous, high-pitched keening, much like the wailing of a small child. The sound came from Bandu the parrot, who was at his usual place behind the counter. However, as soon as we closed the door behind us, the noise abruptly ceased. The silence was as startling as the wailing had been. The perfume bottles sat upon their shelves, their rich colors reflecting in the gas light, and Bandu sat upon his perch, gazing at us with his bright orange eyes, but there was no sign of Wiggins.
Holmes turned to me, his face rigid.
“There has been foul play here, Watson, foul play indeed.”
I followed Holmes through an ocher brocade curtain that separated the front room from a narrow hallway which led to the rear of the building: Wiggins’ laboratory. As we walked down the hallway I inhaled the smell of a hundred different scents, some sharp and clear as a mountain stream, some musky, others flowery and sweet. I felt quite dizzy by the time we entered the room.
When we entered the laboratory, we found the pitiful sight which we so dreaded. Wiggins was seated at his laboratory desk, clad in a white lab coat, his body slumped over in the chair. It was immediately clear to me that he was dead.
Holmes stood for several moments, still as a statue, then he turned to me. His normally impassive face was suffused with such fury that I took a step backwards, startled in spite of myself.
“By God, Watson, whoever did this to Wiggins will pay! I swear toyou I will avenge his death with my own hands!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
I said nothing, afraid to interrupt Holmes in this mood. I looked around the room: It was a well-stocked laboratory, with shining modern equipment set out upon two large tables. Another set of specially constructed shelves held small vials of fragrance samples as well as spare equipment: beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and Petri dishes. Wiggins had been justifiably proud of his laboratory, and I remembered sadly his promise to show it to us upon our next visit. I turned to Holmes, who was examining Wiggins’ body.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.
I examined Wiggins’ body. There were no visible wounds, but redness around the neck area and the purplish cast to his face indicated strangulation. I told Holmes this, and he nodded grimly.
“Damn that storm! We never should have stayed in Cornwall last night,” he said bitterly. “I was right when I suspected they wanted me out of London.”
“Yes, but even if you were in London, I doubt that you would have prevented this,” I said gently.
“Perhaps not, but now the trail is cold.”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill him, you know. The condition he suffers from frequently makes it difficult for the sufferer to breathe normally anyway...” I looked at his poor, pathetic form. If ever a man had not deserved what fate had dealt him, it was Wiggins. “But who would want Wiggins dead?” I wondered out loud.
“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Holmes replied, his face set, jaw clenched.
“We shall have to inform the police, you know,” I said.
“Yes, yes, but first we must see what clues we can find before they come along and spoil everything,” Holmes replied impatiently,inspecting the floor around Wiggins’ desk. “Here’s a little
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