Of the many tales I have accumulated from accompanying my friend Sherlock Holmes on various adventures, the following is certainly among the most annoying.

We had been called one morning to another murder investigation, and I watched patiently as my friend sniffed about the room like a bloodhound to gather his clues. At length he spoke.

“Well, Watson, it is established so far that the victim is one Emil Gonsalo, born of Spanish parents, raised in Germany, and a known Conservative…”

“Alemán Tory, my dear Holmes?” I said.

“More of your pawkish humor, Watson, on so grim an occasion? Regardless, we have a curious circumstance. This window was clearly shattered by a bullet, which thence apparently struck this wall without hitting anything else or piercing the victim, whose body is unmarked by violence. Yet apparently he expired without making even a sound or calling for assistance. He lies here in his bathrobe, with only some wooden fragments about his corpse.”

“I can see the terrifying expression on his face,” I observed, “And that his lips are puckered, even in death. Perhaps this is why he was unable to shout for help.”

“But what would cause such a pursing of the lips?” he mused.

“Perhaps the bullet passed through a citrus plant of some sort,” I ventured, “and he aspirated the vapours…?”

“A lemon tree, my dear Watson? But there is nothing of the sort close to the bullet’s path.”

“True enough,” I conceded. “However, I would venture to check if the victim had cut himself shaving.”

“Extraordinary!” declared Holmes. “I did notice several marks upon his chin that were consistent with the same.”

“Perhaps the bullet struck a common styptic pencil, used for closing such minor wounds,” I said. “This produced the wooden fragments, along with a cloud of astringent powder that the victim inhaled as he drew breath to cry out.”

“But there seemed to be no particular irritation in the trachea,” Holmes observed.

“I suggest rather that he gagged upon it, causing a gastric paroxysm that led to his death. In a word…” I paused for best effect.

“Alimentary, my dear Holmes.”

Holmes paused for a moment, then his face lit up with merriment. “Capital!” he cried. “I believe we have hit upon the cause of death. Alum entry, my dear Watson!”

I moaned. “Despite my best efforts, you’ve outpunned me once again. I suppose it’s the stage for me next, if not the music hall.”

He grinned. “Too much of your own medicine, I take it? Time for a new career?”

“I may sing,” said I.

“A lament air, eh?” said he.