The Chemical Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Shroud of

Chemistry for Everyone

The Chemical Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Shroud of Spartacus Thomas G. Waddell* and Thomas R. Rybolt** Department of Chemistry, University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, Chattanooga, TN 37403; *[email protected]; **[email protected]

The following story is a chemical mystery with emphasis on a blood test, qualitative analysis, and the properties of biological substances. This is the 12th article in a series presenting a scientific problem in mystery format in the context of the popular and beloved characters Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (1, 2 ). There is a break in the story where readers (students and teachers) can ponder and solve the mystery. Sherlock Holmes provides his solution in the paragraphs following this break.

The Story To the precise and analytical mind of Sherlock Holmes, the emotional world of art and artists was alien. With the exception of his beloved violin, which Holmes turned to in times of inactivity or, in contrast, during the stress of a difficult criminal investigation, Holmes’s mental processes were ratiocinative to the extreme. Thus, the highly publicized murder of one of London’s affluent art dealers and Holmes’s subsequent dealings with a hysterical female client presented the Great Detective with an investigation which was highly challenging to his very nature. In fact, the volatile personalities in this case, which I call “The Adventure of the Shroud of Spartacus”, stand in sharp contrast to the logical and rational chemistry and chemical knowledge that Sherlock Holmes applied to solve this most bewildering of problems. It all began on a bleak November morning in 1897. I was settled before a crackling fire in my chair at 221B Baker Street, engaged in a medical journal, as Holmes emerged from his dark laboratory corner, wearing a long smock and smoking his large cherry wood pipe. Billows of acrid, blue smoke hung like fog about the ceiling of the room. “Beauty and sadness, Watson. How the two so often walk together. Do we not feel the melancholy of a moving symphony or stand in sadness at a golden sunset? And is not a woman of stunning beauty so often a troubled soul?” “Holmes,” I replied, “whatever has brought you to such an unusually reflective mood?” “Look at this, my friend.” Holmes beckoned me to his laboratory bench where he held up a test tube containing a few milliliters of a yellow fluid. “Watson, this is a sample of the urine of the Countess Andrea Lanner-Del Rey, which Scotland Yard has acquired in a clandestine manner from the chamber maid of the Countess herself. And here is a solution of ferric chloride, a drop of which I now add to the urine.” He did so, and immediately the fluid in the test tube turned a bright red. “What does this analysis mean, Holmes?” I asked. “It means, my good fellow,” he replied, “that the beautiful Countess, whom the populace of London believes to live a dream life, is beset with sadness. For the urine of opium smokers contains poppy acid, a phenol substance that reacts 470

with ferric chloride to give a bright red color (3). Here, Watson, observe the results for this color reaction, which I have also performed on salicylic acid, another phenol. Here is the tube used in this test. Notice that it gives a light violet color when reacted with ferric chloride.” As I looked down at the second tube, Holmes pointed to his opened laboratory notebook and chemical equation.

“But Holmes, salicylate medicinals are just beginning to be used to relieve headaches and other pains. Could not the Countess simply be taking some innocent substance?” “Capital, Watson!” he replied. “However,” said Holmes as he held the two tubes before my eyes, “the bright red of the poppy acid test and the violet of the salicylic acid result are easily distinguished. Moreover, we know the Countess has no unusual disease that could interfere. No, Watson, the ferric chloride test is a reliable test for opium use” (3). After Holmes’s burst of activity quieted, I withdrew to my medical journals and the cold, quiet morning drew on. We ate our breakfast in silence while Holmes intently studied the front page of the Times. “Watson,” he exclaimed suddenly, “do you remember reading about the art dealer who last month sold the Shroud of Spartacus for a rather exorbitant sum?” “Well, I do remember the Shroud,” I replied. “Isn’t that the archeological artifact that held the body of that Roman slave who was executed after the rebellion? Why do you ask?” “Because that very art dealer was murdered last night. Bludgeoned to death with a niblick, one of his own ironheaded golf clubs.” “Shocking, Holmes! Most shocking. The world is becoming more and more dangerous even for ordinary citizens. Does Scotland Yard have a suspect?” “Yes, indeed,” he offered in what seemed like an unusually cheery voice. “The prompt Lestrade has arrested an artist by the name of Uriah Malthus. It says here that Malthus was having an affair with the art dealer’s wife.”

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“A passionate love triangle, Holmes?” “Perhaps, Watson, perhaps,” he replied thoughtfully. “However, with Lestrade at the helm, one can never be sure of the course he is steering.” The matter did not end there, for a few minutes later, on the landing outside our door, we heard a shrieking female voice intermingled with the calm entreaties of our faithful landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes rose from his chair, strode across the room, and opened the door. Immediately, a young woman rushed unceremoniously into our flat. She was dressed plainly in shades of brown, her hair was short and straight, and her face was reddened and streaked with tears. “Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson pleaded, “I’m sorry to—–” But her apology was interrupted as Holmes dismissed her from our flat and turned to face our visitor. “Excuse me, sir,” she pleaded, “but I need your help most urgently. You see, my brother Uriah Malthus has been arrested. He is innocent, Mr. Holmes! He would not harm a fly!” New tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at nervously with a twisted kerchief. “Calm yourself, Mrs. —?” “Mrs. Mary Neill, Mr. Holmes. The police say my brother murdered Leeds Lanner, the art dealer. But I know he didn’t do it!” With this exclamation, Mary Neill covered her face with her hands and wept. Holmes puffed calmly on his pipe, but I felt it my duty as a counseling physician to intercede. “Mrs. Neill,” I said, placing my arm properly around her slumped shoulders, “Sherlock Holmes will do everything he can to assist you. What are the circumstances of your brother’s arrest?” Mary Neill looked up at Holmes and he nodded, encouraging her explanation of the tragic events. “Mr. Lanner and my brother Uriah had a professional association for many years, Mr. Holmes. Uriah is quite a good artist, painting mainly, and Mr. Lanner served as his agent. In fact, Lanner himself bought several of Uriah’s paintings. Lanner has many fine works of art in his house. The police found out that Uriah was romantically involved with Lanner’s wife. It’s true, I’m afraid. I tried to stop him. She is a gorgeous woman, but timid and frail, not my brother’s type. And she is a married woman! It is extremely improper and unsettling. Anyway, Lanner and Uriah had a falling out, as you might expect. Each threatened the other with violence. Uriah was the obvious suspect when Lanner was found dead. Scotland Yard questioned him, an Inspector Lestrade, I believe. He has no alibi for last night, and the police found what looks like stains of blood on his coat. Mr. Holmes, I know my brother very well. He is innocent. Please help him!” Holmes stood up and began pacing about the room. The blue smoke from his pipe trailed behind him and his long legs cast grotesque shadows on the wall opposite the fireplace. “Mrs. Neill, if your brother is indeed innocent, I will find a way to prove it. However, I must warn you, until the facts are in, I can reach no conclusion. Meanwhile, if you will leave us your address, we will be in touch in due time.” “You will take the case, Mr. Holmes?” she asked anxiously. “I will, Mrs. Neill. Rest assured. Watson, please have Mrs. Hudson summon a cab. You and I have a few errands to run about the city.” Later, as we sat in a hansom cab clattering through the streets of London, I tried to apply Holmes’s own methods to the case at hand. “Now Holmes, it seems to me that Lestrade

is overlooking the obvious—isn’t Lanner’s wife as strong a suspect as Mrs. Neill’s brother, Uriah Malthus? Mrs. Lanner was surely in the house, and considering her love affair, might have had a strong motive to get rid of her husband.” “My good fellow!” he offered, “congratulations on some sound reasoning. However, there may be one or two additional facts that make this supposition less likely.” Before he could explain, our cab stopped abruptly before the grim walls of Scotland Yard and we were soon seated in Inspector Lestrade’s office, face to face with the man himself. Holmes skipped over any idle pleasantries and spoke right to the matter of our visit. “Who found Lanner’s body?” he asked. “It was the victim’s son Bart,” said Lestrade as he consulted his notebook. “Our patrolman was notified just past midnight.” “And you went through the procedure of eliminating his son Bart as a suspect, I assume.” “Of course, Mr. Holmes. Bart was at a party near Gray’s Inn Road, surrounded by his rowdies all night. He was taken home by two friends. They found Leeds Lanner’s body and then located the local constable to report the crime. Bart was in the presence of his friends the whole time and rather drunk to boot. I don’t see how he could have done it. Later the patrolman found Lanner’s wife fast asleep in a distant part of the mansion. Likewise two servants were asleep in their quarters.” “Inspector,” Holmes said, “would you be so kind as to allow me to examine Uriah Malthus’ coat, the one with the blood stains?” “I guess I can do that,” Lestrade replied, his facial muscles twitching in rodent-like fashion. “It is a bit out of the ordinary, but this is an open-and-shut case if I ever saw one. Malthus threatened Lanner, Mr. Holmes. They hated each other. Well, wait a moment and I’ll get the coat.” Lestrade returned immediately and handed Holmes a well-worn tweed coat, light brown but stained with dark gore. I was repelled by the thought of the violence and fury of the attack. Before Lestrade could stop him Holmes drew out from the coat several thick fibers which were caked with the dark substance. “Here now,” Lestrade shouted, “let’s not have this! I’ll have you for damaging evidence!” “Inspector, please,” Holmes replied. “Here is your coat, returned to you intact with only a trifle of the mass removed. No harm, Inspector, no harm.” “Well, I suppose not,” Lestrade allowed. “But I’ll not have you stirring around with my investigation. I think you had better leave now.” “You will not hear from us again, Inspector,” Holmes declared, “unless, of course, I have something worthwhile to report.” I did not hear Lestrade’s response because Holmes quickly guided me out the door and into the street. “One more errand, Watson, one more and then a little laboratory work,” he said. During our second cab ride of the day, Holmes reflected. “As you will recall, Watson, the slave Spartacus led a revolt against Rome in 73 B.C. in Catua, Italy. He was later captured and executed most horribly. His burial shroud has become quite an item these days among artifact collectors.” The carriage made a left turn onto Farringdon Street and I turned to Holmes. “Where are we going now, Holmes?”

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“To the home of Mr. Tor Heidegger, the new owner of the Shroud of Spartacus.” With a clatter of hoofs, our carriage pulled to a stop in front of a stately brownstone. Holmes paid the driver and I glanced up at the three-storey house, built of granite and trimmed with brass and dark green shutters. Holmes approached the door and sounded the bell. After a minute or two, the door was opened by a large man wearing a smoking jacket of the same dark green which adorned the house. “Mr. Heidegger?” Holmes inquired. “Ya, it is me,” replied the man in a thick Norwegian accent. “May we have a word with you, sir? I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.” “Ya, come in. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes,” Heidegger said. We were led into a small but exquisite sitting room. Paintings, ceramic pieces, artifacts, and sculptures covered the walls and counter tops. The taste and expertise of their owner were clear. “Mr. Heidegger, you have recently purchased the Shroud of Spartacus, I believe. I am wondering if I may have a look at it? Watson and I have acquired a passion for Roman history and to look upon such an archaeological treasure will provide us with great satisfaction.” This proclamation came as a surprise to me, but I went along with Holmes, as I was sure that there must be some logical direction in which his deception was leading. “I don’t see why not, Mr. Holmes,” Heidegger replied, in what I thought was a rather subdued manner. “It is in my study. Hold a moment, please.” While he was gone from the room, I glanced at my colleague. “Where are you heading with this sham, Holmes?” “Maybe nowhere, Watson,” he replied, “or maybe everywhere. Time will tell.” Our Norwegian host reappeared momentarily carrying a long, shallow box of smooth, dark cherry wood. He placed the box on the floor at Holmes’s feet and said quietly, “Well, this is it, Mr. Holmes, the Shroud of Spartacus.” The garment in the box was certainly ancient. The fabric was stiff with age and several small pieces of it had broken from the main and lay scattered about. A close examination of the shroud revealed dark stains, the result of the execution, no doubt. I was captivated by the thought of this ancient’ slave’s life and death. “Ah, Mr. Heidegger,” Holmes said, pointing, “that landscape painting on the wall, is that a Uriah Malthus original? Isn’t that St. Andrews?” “Ya, Mr. Holmes, that it is. I bought it at the same time that I purchased the shroud, although, as you may imagine, it was much less expensive.” While Heidegger was admiring his painting, Holmes snatched a small fragment of the shroud from the box on the floor and stuffed it quickly into his coat pocket. “Fascinating,” Holmes said and glanced at his watch. “But I am afraid that Dr. Watson and I are late for an appointment and we must reluctantly take our leave. I thank you, for your hospitality. It was a helpful visit.” Our host accompanied us to the door where, we bid him farewell. When we were alone again on Farringdon Street, a cold rain began to fall. “Holmes,” I said, “in there, you—–” “Rain, Watson,” Holmes rejoined, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Let’s hail a cab. Quickly, now.” 472

In twenty minutes we were back in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. Holmes had been silent during our trip and was silent still as he worked furiously at his laboratory bench preparing solutions. I knew that he was performing chemical experiments on the fibers from Malthus’s coat and on the fragment of the shroud that he had purloined from Tor Heidegger. However, I could offer no help in these areas so I sat patiently and waited. “Watson, come here. I want you to witness these results,” Holmes called from across the room. I rose from my chair and approached his laboratory bench. “Before I ask you to serve as witness to the tests I’m about to perform, I must first explain something about chemical blood tests,” said Holmes. “These tests are necessary because it is not always clear whether a stain is, in fact, blood or some other pigment. Do you remember when we first met in 1881 at the time of the little adventure you chronicled as ‘A Study in Scarlet’? At that time I told you I was very interested in new chemical tests for blood.” “I recall it well,” I said. “And I’m sure you remember from your medical training that proteins are complex compounds containing carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and sulfur, and they are in some mysterious way essential to the very process of life itself.” I nodded and Holmes continued, “Well, a new chemical test for proteins recently published by Nietzki [4 ] is based on a simple principle. There is a dye, tetrabromophenolphthalein ester, that is yellow in its neutral state. Look at these formulas in my notebook. The potassium salt of this dye is blue! Adding dilute acetic acid would, of course, convert the blue salt back to the yellow, neutral dye. However, according to Nietzki, in the presence of protein (like blood, Watson!) a ‘saltlike adsorption compound’ forms and the blue color persists even when the acetic acid is added [5 ]. It’s a brilliant test!

“Now, Watson, watch carefully,” he continued, “you are the official witness. In this tube on the left is an extract from the stained fibers from Malthus’s coat. I add a drop of solution of the blue salt. Then, I add two drops of dilute acetic acid. Watch! I draw your attention to the result.” “The solution has turned from blue back to yellow,” I offered. “Exactly. Now again, Watson,” he continued, “let us do the same experiment on an extract of the stains on the shroud fragment on the right. I treat it with the blue dye salt. Then I add two drops of dilute acetic acid. The bluish color persists. We have detected blood protein!” “Blood, Holmes!” I cried. “The blood on the shroud! The blood of Spartacus!”

STOP Can You Solve the Mystery?



Mysteries remain but can be solved by careful observation of the events of the story, an understanding of the chemistry and meaning of the blood protein test, and a knowledge of the properties of protein material. 1. Why did the Shroud of Spartacus give a positive test for protein and what does this positive test mean? 2. Who killed Leeds Lanner? 3. What was the motive for the murder? Sherlock Holmes reveals his solution in the paragraphs that follow.

The Solution “The blood of Spartacus!” Holmes laughed. “Perhaps your medical training was too clinical, leaving you and your colleagues with a failure to appreciate the importance of basic chemical processes. No, my friend, not the blood of Spartacus.” I thought a moment and countered. “The victim’s blood, Holmes! The blood of Leeds Lanner himself! But how—–?” “Unlikely, my good fellow, truly unlikely! The fragile shroud, dropping pieces of material even into its own display box, was never at the crime scene. Even the hopeless Lestrade would not have missed its trail.” “I am at a loss then, Holmes,” I said. “Do you know who murdered Leeds Lanner?” “Of course I do, Watson, I do indeed,” he replied. “Whose blood is on the shroud?” I asked. “Who killed Leeds Lanner, and why?” “Watson, I do not know whose blood is on the shroud, or even if it is human blood!” he replied, a great smile on his face. “But Holmes, what—–” “Watson, listen to me. The burial Shroud of Spartacus would be more than nineteen hundred years old. The complex protein in the blood of Spartacus would have long ago decomposed and disappeared. That the shroud gave a positive test for protein proves one thing. The Shroud of Spartacus is a hoax, Watson, a clever forgery!” “I’m at a loss then,” I said. “The stains on Malthus’s coat are not blood but undoubtedly nothing more than some dark paint pigment that he splashed on himself during his work,” said Holmes. “Uriah Malthus did not kill Lanner. “Lanner’s wife, then?” I asked. “Watson, let us not emotionally jump from one suspect to the next as Lestrade might do. Let us proceed rationally to examine all the people we know who are connected to Leeds Lanner. There is Uriah Malthus, the accused, who has no blood on his jacket—only paint pigment. There is Lanner’s rowdy son Bart who was with his friends and has an alibi at the time of the crime. There is Lanner’s wife, whom you mentioned, but she is a small, frail woman and hardly capable of the violence of the attack involved in killing a man with a golf club.” “Well, now that you mention it,” I added, “I suppose that if she planned to kill Lanner and run off with Malthus, such a manner of murder is most inconvenient and not at all subtle. She could not expect to avoid suspicion and elude capture.”

“Well done, Watson, now you’re proceeding with a rational mind. However, she has played an unfortunate part in this drama—a part of which you are unaware. Not only was she having a love affair with Malthus, but she had an extremely expensive opium addiction and an exorbitant life style. This drove her jealous husband to concoct the fraudulent Shroud and to sell it for a large sum of cash. Thus, he hoped to keep her under his grip.” “Opium addiction?” I exclaimed. “Holmes, however can you know about that?” “Quite by accident, Watson,” he returned. “The Countess Andrea Lanner-Del Rey is Leeds Lanner’s wife. Scotland Yard had been investigating some other unusual activities involving Lanner and his wife and wanted to know if she is an opium user. Scotland Yard asked me to test her urine for poppy acid, an ingredient of the latex of the opium poppy. As I mentioned to you before, the urine of opium smokers contains this phenol substance which gives a bright red color with ferric chloride!” “Holmes,” I interjected, “if the shroud is a hoax, then Tor Heidegger fell for it and paid a large sum of money for a worthless piece of cloth recently adulterated with blood from some unknown and innocent source!” “Excellent, Watson, excellent. As an art collector, Heidegger soon learned that his recent purchase was a fake. He confronted Lanner with that fact and the confrontation came to anger, revenge, and violence. Heidegger is certainly a large enough man to carry out the act successfully. And obviously he is a golf enthusiast since he proudly displayed his Malthus original of St. Andrews—the most famous golf course in the world!” “Now that I think about it,” I said, “he didn’t seem very proud of what must have been the most expensive item in his collection.” “That’s right,” said Holmes, “he kept the box in a back room and was reluctant to even show it to us. What pride can there be in a fake object that has led you to murder?” He paused and we silently contemplated this crime of passion. At last I spoke up, “Holmes, Nietzki’s new test for protein material could revolutionize crime detection, don’t you think?” “It might, but I have a few ideas of my own on the subject. Someday, Watson, chemical tests will be able to identify not just the presence of blood or even a type of blood, but the unique identity of the individual person. Perhaps lurking somewhere within the cells of our bodies are chemicals so unique that no two humans are exactly the same. After all, we

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differ in our exterior appearance, so why not in our internal makeup as well?” “Surely the detail you describe could never lend itself to such study,” I insisted, “It would be far too complex to begin to sort it all out.” “I submit humanity has already set upon such a course, and although we are still early in the journey—who knows what the next hundred years may bring?”

2. 3. 4.

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999–1001; 1993, 70, 1003–1005; 1994, 71, 1049–1051; 1996, 73, 1157–1159; 1998, 75, 484–486; 2000, 77, 471474. Rybolt, T. R.; Waddell, T. G. J. Chem. Educ. 1995, 72, 1090– 1092; 1999, 76, 489–493. Lovell, S. ; Subramony, P.; Kahr, B. J. Am. Chem. Soc. 1999, 121, 7020–7025. Nietzki, R.; Burckhardt, E. Berichte 1897, 30, 107, as reported in Feigl, F. Spot Tests in Organic Analysis; Elsevier: New York, 1956; p 401. Feigl, F. Spot Tests in Organic Analysis; Elsevier: New York, 1956; p 401.


The Chemical Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Shroud of

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