Chapter I | The Singapore Post
“Murder, Watson?”
“No, suicide,” I responded, without thinking.
“Are you quite sure? The two so often blend together. The gradations are infinite. When does the lady arrive?”
The expression in my eyes must have revealed some measure of the exasperation I felt at his remarks. I dropped the letter I had been reading and sat back in my chair without speaking.
“My apologies, Watson. Forgive me for treating such personal news as a mere puzzle. Sad news coming from your poor wife’s cousin in Singapore must be painful for you. It is her husband who is dead, is it not?”
For a moment I was silent. I poured myself a cup of coffee with an unsteady hand and wiped a suspicion of a tear from my eye.
“How do you know all this?”
In answer he picked up the torn envelope that lay on the table before me.
“The black border proclaims its message. The weave of the paper is distinctly non-European—rice paper, I should imagine—which points me towards the Orient. The amount of postage indicates a source beyond India, yet not so far as China. The handwriting is of an Englishwoman, and there are few Englishwomen beyond Singapore. I would also note that this stationery is in the best of taste. Bond Street would not offer better. Where in Asia beyond India but Singapore has our race so established itself that such refinements are available? Notice, too, that this is not official stationery. Of course, now that I examine it closely, the stamp of the Singapore post is plainly visible.
“The hand, I say, is that of a woman. An acquaintance or relative of yours? Not likely. You could be fairly described as a close-mouthed man, Watson, but I feel confident that if you had such a relationship I would know about it. Furthermore, there is a striking resemblance between this woman’s hand and that of your late wife’s. I know, since she told me herself when she came to me as a client, that she was an only child. Yet the hand is that of a woman in early middle age. Surely her cousin, then, rather than an aunt.
“I cannot recall your ever speaking of this woman or receiving correspondence from her in the years since you have rejoined me here at Baker Street. Given such a tenuous relationship, it seemed unlikely that she write to inform you of any death except that of her husband’s. The expression on your face as you read the letter informed me that the death was not the result of age, illness, or accident. There was a particular mixture of horror and sadness, the pain that only an unjust death could inspire. As for choosing between suicide and murder, well ….”
“Yes?”
“That part of the mystery can await its unraveling in due time. But is the lady coming?”
“Yes, though I’m not sure why. I only met her once in my life, and that was seven years ago.”
“Indeed. And when may we expect her?”
“She wrote this the 12th of November, with the intention of departing Singapore on the 4th of December.”
“And today is the 24th of January. No mention of the ship itself, I imagine.”
“No. Why all this interest?”