Yours sincerely
DEAR MR. GREGSON,
We have a mysterious murder case for which we cannot identify the cause of death.
We would appreciate your assistance. Included here is a current report of the case.
Crime Scene Report – Summary
Victim information:
Name: Mr. B. Smith
Occupation: Unspecified
Home address: 24A Ronald Street, Morriston
Description of crime scene:
Crime scene address: Victim's home
Position of victim:
Mr. Smith seemingly died in a chair in a sitting position.
Possible murder weapon(s):
Not yet discovered.
Yours Sincerely,
Harry Stark
Head Commander of Stark Detective Agency
18/06/1997 S.D.A
12th Hector Street, Morriston.
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I folded the report and looked up, greeting me ahead was a warmly lit walkway with an elegant side-track decorated with graceful blossoming roses. Glancing toward the mail-post: 24A, Ronald Street, I saw a man waiting for my arrival.
“Jonathan Darren. Stark Detective agency,” he introduced, “I believe you are Mr. Gregson?”
“I am indeed,” I replied, “And to my knowledge you’ve just got your tie stuck inside your pants this morning and you got into a fight with your wife during the past few days and smoked several pipes of cigar to calm the pressure… am I correct?”
“My… my goodness”, exclaimed Jonathan, “That… that was incredible! No doubt Mr. Stark was so fond of you…”
“Now,” I interrupted, “Lead me to the crime scene, I believe we got carried away!”
“Yes,” said Jonathan, walking ahead, “Right this way.”
Time for some detective work.
We stepped into the hallway and there he was, seated with his head rested on a desk, his hands holding an opened letter. Mr. Smith looked as if he was napping. I placed a finger in front of his large, pointed nose, oddly hopeful. There were no signs of life, however. Meanwhile, Jonathan scanned the house and collected everything that could be evidence: the letter, pens, and what seems to be an old, worn-out school photo. We sat beside Mr. Smith’s stiff body, embraced by the bright fireplace, and began analysing.
The first object in the pile was the photo. It was crumbled, yellowing, and stale, indicating that Mr. Smith must have adored it which makes it a potentially valuable clue to the crime. However, what caught my attention was a small young man dwarfed by his classmates. His eyes: one blue and one brown, stared back at me intently. As I looked aside at the taller boy next to him, a sudden wave of familiarity flooded my mind.
I turned my attention to the letter. Written in a thick, black ink, it simply read:
To Mr. Bryan Smith,
Yours Sincerely.
“It almost seemed like a joke,” stated Jonathan, “Maybe the murderer was playing a game..”
“Hardly likely, there must be a reason behind this,” I muttered, while scrutinising the items with a magnifying glass, checking for markings or blood. Nothing.
Jonathan twisted open his container of fingerprint powder and dust it thoroughly over every item. To both our disappointment, there was only one set of fingerprints on the letters: the victim's.
Suddenly, I heard police sirens shrieking outside the house. Harry Stark’s familiar footsteps echoed a frustration that both Jonathan and I were unfamiliar with. The door opened and there stood my colleague, distressed expression and a sweat-soaked blazer.
“What's wrong, Mr. Stark?", I asked, concerned.
“Four murders, four!” exclaimed Mr. Stark, waving a wad of documents in his hand frantically. “Oh, what a barrelful of bad news! This never happens in Morriston!”
“Bugger!” I cried, “We must take immediate action. Request reinforcements to surround this area while we investigate the four crime locations.”
“I'm on it,” replied Mr. Stark, dialling a reinforcement call.
Jonathan took over command as Mr. Stark and I set off for the houses.
We found the corpses, all slumped and motionless. An open letter sat snugly in each of their cold, rigid fingers. The victim’s names and the ever so familiar “Yours Sincerely” stared at me eerily from the otherwise blank page, pleading for their murderer to be found. We concluded that the only person who could have orchestrated such a felony would be the postman – the only one in Morriston. With no further ado, we tracked down and arrested him. To our triumph, the postman wore a pair of black gloves.
As we enter the interrogation room, Mr. Stark brings out the items we have collected. The postman denies recognising any of them. But just when I began to lose hope, Mr. Stark cried in disbelief at the final item in his hands - the school photo from Mr Smith’s room.
“This is my old chemistry club from school!” explained Mr. Stark, choking with emotion, “It… it's impossible for it to be here, but here it is. Oh… back in the old days, we had so much fun playing with chemicals and dreaming of becoming famous scientists. My brother Anthony was particularly good, and the teacher always praised him. But everyone bullied him for being the teacher's pet and for having heterochromia.”
I glanced at the photo again. There, sitting in the front row was a young Mr Smith, with his large, pointed nose, smiling back at me innocently.
“You have a brother?", I asked.
He gazed wistfully at the photo. "Well, one day in 1966, he ran away after graduating, and was never heard of since.”
“Pardon me,” the postman interrupted, “Did you say heterochromia? I remember delivering some letters sent from Germany to a crumbly house on the edge of Morriston just the other day. The man who took the letters had blue and brown eyes!”
“Whereabouts?” asks Mr. Stark, suddenly serious.
“On the corner of Varness Street.”
We delayed no longer. This could possibly be our only chance to catch the murderer. We put the postman in temporary custody, promising him that he will be released within twenty-four hours if he is innocent.
The isolated, run-down property resembled a hunched old man. The door was already unlocked as we walked ahead towards the innermost room. I held my tranquiliser gun, warily scanning across the hallway for any incoming threats. The dimly lit study resembled a laboratory, with layers upon layers of chemical-filled shelves that tinted the window light with a ghostly hue.
And there, sitting at the desk wearing a gas mask and sealing a letter, is Anthony Stark. He is a short, stocky man, with a terrible hunchback. This is the man I had seen in the photo. His clothing is unkempt. Although he has his back to us, there was a noticeable tiredness to him. For a moment, I felt sorry for him.
“Detective Gregson. Hands in the air!” I called.
“Brother…,” whispered Mr. Stark.
Anthony swivelled around. His jaw dropped. For a few long seconds, he stared at his taller, well-dressed brother, with two wide eyes: one blue, one brown.
“I'm not your brother!” Anthony grunted, pulling a dagger from his belt.
“Don't do this, Anthony,” pleaded Mr. Stark, “We want to help.”
“I don't need your worthless help,” bellowed Anthony. “I vowed to kill everyone who bullied me. Nobody would expect such ordinary letters to be weapons of murder! I joined a research team at Germany and requested the formula for Zyklon B, which I modified into liquid form. The result? An ink which instantly kills anyone who smells it.”
Zyklon B. It was the lethal gas that killed millions during the second World War.
Just as Anthony is about to run at Mr. Stark, a shot broke the temporary silence. Anthony froze like a startled deer in the headlights, and collapsed to the floor in deep sleep. I stood behind him, my hands holding the smoking tranquiliser.
“No!” cried Mr. Stark, his face streaking with tears as he storms outside. “It's my fault! I should have taken better care of him, or he would not have turned into this… animal!”
I stood alone in the dark, musty study. What a tragedy. Anthony slumped before me, the tranquilising arrow embedded in his limp shoulder. I held my breath, put on the gas mask, and walked slowly to his desk. Trembling, I grasped the letter and tore it open. My heart sank at the words that greeted me:
To Mr. Harry Stark,
Yours Sincerely.
Epilogue
Meanwhile, back at the S.D.A prison, the postman revealed a bottle of Zyklon B from his coat, laughing madly as he succumbs in the poisonous gas.
(SEQUEL COMING… …)
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