“My intent was not to pacify him, but to keep his lips sealed,” said Joanna. “He is the talkative type who needs to prove his importance to all who will listen. He no doubt would take great delight in spreading the word of the murdered man in the fireplace and the role he, as head of pathology, will play in the investigation. In that regard, he is much like Lestrade, both of whom yearn for the spotlight.”
“They are cut from the same cloth,” my father noted.
“And of course the newspapers would gladly print their stories,” I predicted. “Which would no doubt reach our murderer’s eyes and give him fair warning we are in pursuit and closing in.”
“Which would surely work to our disadvantage,” my father grumbled.
“I do not trust Willoughby to remain silent,” said I.
“Nor do I,” Joanna concurred. “But we may have further need of him as well, so it is best we have him on our side. For example, if there is any evidence to indicate the victim was poisoned, we would wish to identify the agent immediately. The chemists at St. Bartholomew’s would give such studies their urgent and utmost attention if demanded by Willoughby, who wields considerable power despite his most disagreeable nature.”
“Unfortunately true,” said I, then smiled at my lovely wife and asked, “How in the world did you know it was his birthday?”
“His shoes.”
“But new shoes on a middle-aged man does not necessarily signify a birthday.”
“It does in this instance, for those shoes come from Northampton, the cobbler capital of all England,” Joanna disclosed. “They are unique and easily recognized by their Goodyear Welt, which is a process of stretching thin strips of leather across the shoe in its middle area for added comfort and durability. They are considered to be high-end and very expensive indeed. Willoughby would never purchase these shoes on his own.”
I nodded firmly at Joanna’s conclusion. The man was a miser to the nth degree, who dressed accordingly in ill-fitting suits and threadbare shirts. “For a person who pinches every farthing, purchasing such costly shoes would be out of the question. Thus, they must have been a gift.”
“But why a birthday gift?” asked my father.
“Because it is not yet Christmas, and the only other occasion that would merit gift-giving in a middle-aged man would be his birthday,” Joanna replied. “However, you must remember that men in general place no value on their birthday, while women keep a close eye on such dates. For this reason, men neither expect nor receive gifts on their birthday except perhaps from someone dear to him.”
“Then it was given by a loving wife,” my father surmised.
“He does not have a loving wife,” Joanna said. “A wife such as that would never allow her husband to appear in public so poorly dressed. His attire is so unseemly it caused me to wince. There is no love between the two.”
“Are you implying a girlfriend was responsible for that gift?” I asked.
“Never,” Joanna replied at once. “Most girlfriends or mistresses could not afford Northampton shoes and, even if they could, Willoughby could not wear them. His wife would surely notice and demand to know their origin.”
“So, neither the wife nor a girlfriend could be the givers of such shoes,” I concluded. “Where then did they come from?”
“The wife.”
“But you just said—”
“I said they could not come from a loving wife,” Joanna corrected. “In all likelihood, she gave him the shoes as a wonderful surprise, but not for love.”
“For what then?”
“Here, I would be guessing,” Joanna said, with a mischievous smile. “But an extraordinary gift is a clever way to atone for a guilty indiscretion.”
“Oh, come now, Joanna,” my father rebuked mildly. “Such a remark is surely beneath you.”
I lowered my voice and said, “Father, there has been a rumor floating around St. Bart’s suggesting a liaison of that sort does exist.”
“Rumor, you say?” my father asked.
“Backed up by a sighting, I should add.”
My father groaned at the unpleasant revelation.
“Which is a reminder, Watson, that all in this world is not what it appears to be,” said Joanna, as the smile left her face. “Now let us return to our mummified corpse and determine what else is not what it appears to be.”
The body of James Blackstone remained curled up on the autopsy table, so with force I straightened the extremities, although some degree of flexion persisted. I began my inspection at the head and planned to slowly work my way down. The skull itself was entirely skeletonized except for a few sparse areas still covered with leatherlike skin. The absence of skin was important here, in that it removed any cutaneous evidence of trauma. Without dermal tissue, important signs such as abrasions, lacerations, and ecchymotic bruises would have disappeared. I proceeded to the skull bones and found all intact, with no fractures or indentations. A full set of teeth was present, with none being cracked or out of place. As I moved to the neck, I tested the mobility of the cervical spine and found it surprisingly lax. After turning the body on its side, I began a careful countdown of the seven cervical vertebrae. But midway through, I encountered a strand of thin wire that encircled the entire neck. Bits of leatherlike skin were embedded into the delicate garotte.
“They strangled him,” I pronounced and stepped back for others to see.
“The wire sliced through the skin,” Joanna noted. “And probably through the trachea as well.”
“But not through the cervical spine itself,” said I. “There is a looseness of the spine, however, which I cannot explain.”
“Perhaps a broken neck,” Joanna suggested.
“A good thought, but there is no evidence for such,” I informed. “As you can see, all the cervical vertebrae are intact and nicely aligned.”
“Would the decomposition process allow for cervical laxity?” my father asked.
I shook my head. “The supporting ligaments are still very much intact.”
“Could they have become stretched over time?” my father proposed.
“Not to this
