The November fog of 1895 pressed against the windows of my consulting room like a living thing. I had just settled into my armchair with the evening paper when my housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, announced an unexpected visitor.
"A Mrs. Margaret Ashford to see you, Dr. Whitmore," she said, her weathered face creased with concern. "She appears most distressed."
I set aside my paper and rose. "Show her in at once."
The woman who entered wore mourning clothes of fine quality, though her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands spoke of genuine grief rather than mere social obligation. She appeared to be perhaps thirty-five years of age, with a drawn face that must once have been beautiful.
"Dr. Whitmore," she began without preamble, "I have heard of your success in solving certain… unusual matters. I come to you because I believe my brother has been murdered, and the police refuse to listen."
I gestured for her to sit. "Please, Mrs. Ashford, compose yourself and tell me everything. Who was your brother?"
"Sir Edmund Blackwood of Eaton Square. He was found dead in his locked study four nights ago—on October twenty-third. The physicians say his heart simply stopped, but I know better. I know he was murdered, Dr. Whitmore."
I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. Though I had trained as a physician, I had developed something of a reputation for investigating puzzling deaths that others dismissed too readily.
"What makes you certain of foul play?"
From her handbag, she withdrew a letter, which she passed to me with shaking fingers. "This arrived by post on the day of his death. And the day before, Edmund told me something was terribly wrong—that an old sin had returned to haunt him."
I unfolded the letter and read:
*Sir Edmund—*
*You have made a grave error. The matter we discussed in Cairo cannot be forgotten. What was done in the desert must remain buried, or consequences beyond your imagining will follow.*
*Remember the crimson cipher. Remember its meaning.*
*One who remembers*
The handwriting was bold and masculine, the paper of good quality. The postmark showed it had been sent from central London.
"Tell me about your brother's recent activities," I said. "Had he traveled abroad?"
"He returned from Egypt in June. He'd been conducting archaeological excavations—he was passionate about ancient history, you see. Since his return, however, he became a different man. Withdrawn, frightened even. He dismissed several servants without explanation and began locking himself away for hours."
"And this phrase—'crimson cipher'—does it mean anything to you?"
"Nothing whatsoever. But Edmund seemed terrified by it."
"How exactly was your brother found?"
She drew a shuddering breath. "His butler, Graves, discovered him at eight in the morning. Edmund was slumped over his desk as though he'd fallen asleep while working. A half-drunk glass of brandy sat at his elbow. The room was locked from the inside—the key was still in the lock. All the windows were fastened shut. Dr. Thornley examined him and declared it a natural death from heart failure."
"And you doubt this diagnosis because…?"
"Because of what Edmund told me the day before. He said, 'Margaret, if anything happens to me, you must find the person who understands the crimson cipher. Only they can set things right.' He was warning me, Dr. Whitmore. He knew he was in danger."
I considered this carefully. A locked room, a seemingly natural death, and yet a threatening letter and a frightened man's warning. The pieces did not quite fit together.
"Mrs. Ashford, I will need to examine your brother's study. Can that be arranged?"
"Of course. I'm staying at the house now. You may come whenever you wish."
"Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. In the meantime, make me a list of everyone who had access to your brother's house—servants, regular visitors, any tradesmen. And I'll need to know about his finances and his will."
She colored slightly. "I am his sole heir. His estate amounts to approximately forty thousand pounds, plus the house and his collection of antiquities."
After she departed, I sat for a long while, staring into the fire and contemplating this curious case. A locked room death was always intriguing, but the mysterious letter and the reference to Egypt suggested something far more complex than a simple murder.