"It is murder for a start," said the detective, breaking off from his examination of the chemical apparatus. "Ah, forgive me! I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. What is your name, please?"

"Jenkins, sir," said the constable, taking out his notebook and pencil. "I've heard of your work, Mr. Holmes. The dead lady is … ?"

"An imposter. Although the resemblance to Captain Blount's fiancée is undoubtedly faithful in several respects, this person is not Miss Caroline Wickham. Kindly attend to our client, Watson!"

"Certainly, Holmes!"

"You are right, Mr. Holmes," said Jenkins, upon superficial examination of the corpse. "But why would young Tommy Wickham here fit out a den like this and then gad about, disguised as his own cousin?"

"Why indeed," said Sherlock Holmes. "Tommy Wickham, is it? I suspected as much. His name is known in the highest government circles."

"But by all that is marvelous, Holmes, when did you first suspect?" I ejaculated.

"My dear Watson," said Sherlock Holmes, patiently. "Must I remind you that much depends upon the observation of trifles? Reverend Wickham was murdered two days ago. This person is wearing electric blue What daughter would not mourn her father?"

"Pastor was murdered, Mr. Holmes?" said the constable.

"Assuredly, Jenkins. It is the rare beekeeper who is stung to death by his own bees," my friend explained. "Tommy Wickham, on the other hand, was poisoned. He was dying, even as he ran into this room."

A groan alerted us that Blount had regained his senses. "Who? What?" he began.

"A moment, Captain!" Sherlock Holmes ordered. "Watson, would you please read aloud Reverend Wickham's letter?"