Old Evidence & Cold Tea
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Chapter 2
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Sherlock Holmes’ phone rang at 10:45 the following morning.
“I was wondering when you’d call me. In my opinion, you’re already late.”
Lestrade was exasperated already, “Dammit Sherlock, the press conference only ended fifteen minutes ago.”
“Precisely my point.”
“Alright, well, I’m not going to skirt around the issue and pretend that this isn’t the case you know it is — will you please come in and confirm it’s a suicide?”
“It's murder.”
“Half the department thinks it’s a bloody suicide and they’ll need solid proof to think it’s anything otherwise. Like a killer and a confession.”
"You know it’s murder.”
Lestrade sighed, “I just want to close this case. Quickest thing to get us to the truth, which is your specialty.”
“I want to see the room. And the body is still at Bart’s, correct?”
“Sherlock, you know that any evidence at her place will be at least a few weeks old…”
“Bring your files then. Everything you have. Pictures especially. And bring everything you found in the room with her including her clothes. You need to start this case over, and I’ll do precisely that. But only if I get to see the room. Make sure Anderson doesn’t come along, I can’t afford annoyances. Is the body still at Bart’s?”
“No, the funeral home recovered her body a few days after the autopsy was concluded last week —”
“Get the body.”
“In the mean time,” Lestrade pressed on, “we have pictures and notes for you. And I’ll see if Donovan can acquire the items found with her. I’m assuming…?”
“Don’t bother sending a car. 30 minutes.”
"… Alright. I’ll text —”
Sherlock had already hung up. John Watson stared at him, wholly invested in the conversation that had just occurred.
“Lestrade?”
Sherlock pocketed his phone, “Who else?”
“And it’s the Amelia Bones case?”
“Obviously.”
“About bloody time.” John was already up and halfway to the door.
Sherlock abandoned his half-finished tea as he grabbed his coat and skipped down the stairs after John.
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By the time their taxi pulled up to the townhouse in Westminster, Lestrade had already secured the perimeter. He was on the phone right outside the door, clearly in the middle of negotiations over something. John hastily shoved cash into the taxi driver’s hand and mumbled something about keeping the change before hurrying out of the car after Sherlock.
“Yeah… yeah, well is there any way we can… I know it’s tomorrow, but we can… No I understand… But this time we have… Hello?”
“Body?” Sherlock breezed past him, right through the front door. Lestrade trailed him, followed closely by John.
“No luck. Her niece won’t consent to any more examinations. Funeral home’s hands are tied.”
“Idiot.” Sherlock wasted no time in checking out the first floor of the house. It was quite clear that none of the activity had happened down in this part of the house - it was just a normal living room and kitchen, nicely furnished. It was also clear her niece hadn’t gotten around to moving out her belongings.
“It’s the poor girl’s aunt, Sherlock. The body was released from Bart’s, and it’s her choice as next of kin. She’s only sixteen, she probably just wants to get the whole thing over with.”
Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time, and immediately began checking the doors up there.
“Second door on your left!” Greg hollered up as his phone rang again. “John, take these up to him, will you? These are all the notes and photos from the first sweep. Donovan will be here shortly with the rest.”
John went up and aimed directly for the aforementioned door. The first thing that John noticed were the few but very distinct burn marks on the dark green walls and the inside of the door. The room itself was rather small and, even more interesting, completely empty. John flipped through the files to find a picture of the room, and pulled out the master shot.
In the picture, Amelia's body was face down in the middle of the room, it looked as though her body had crumpled to the floor. Whatever killed her brought her down, it was clear that the body had not been moved after time of death. There was a stick in her right hand, and she was wearing a long purple cloak. But the room was empty back then, too. What had this room been used for?
Sherlock joined John in the room, “Nothing’s been touched in the bedroom. No theft. Just murder.”
John shook his head, “It’s been weeks, something could have —”
“Dust marks. No one’s touched a thing.”
John had to concede. He showed Sherlock the picture of the room from the file. “Files from Lestrade, and this room has always been empty. At least ever since police showed up on the scene.”
Sherlock furrowed his brow, staring at the picture. He then darted directly to the door, examining its hinges, then the lock, then both sides of the door.
“Door hasn’t been replaced, there’s burn marks —” John started.
“Files.” Sherlock extended his hand, not looking at John. It was clear he was doing his own analysis, so John gave up and just gave him the damn files.
Five minutes passed with Sherlock flipping through the photos, the notes, and examining the room. At one point, John could have sworn Sherlock pocketed something from the file, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for him. Then the sound of heavy footsteps from the hall announced Lestrade's presence upstairs.
“I come bearing gifts.” He held up two evidence bags - one had the stick, and the other, her cloak.
This was enough to snap Sherlock out of his reverie. He snatched the bags from Lestrade and dumped the contents onto the floor, rearranging them exactly as shown in the picture.
“Sherlock—”
“Shut up. Follow John’s example.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Sherlock sat on the floor, placed three photos from the file in front of the mock “dead body”. Then his mind raced with all of the new data he had acquired…
ROOM: small, windowless. Only one way in or out - the door. Door locked from the inside, per report. Burn marks on side in the room, no burn marks on side in the hallway. Hinges in perfect working order, same with lock. No scratches on lock inside or outside the room. Conclusion: no forced entry… either she knew her attacker and let him… him/her in or he/she got in by some other means.
If by other means, then how?
Sherlock quickly looked up at the ceiling. He quickly scratched that theory from his mind.
As for the burn marks — four on the walls, two on the floor, one on the door. Residue to test? Run by Lestrade. Could be red herring. File away and revisit later.
He observed the pictures laid out in front of him: one was the master shot John had shown him, one was a full body shot of Amelia Bones, the third was a medium shot of Amelia Bones focusing on her head and hands. Her face was not visible in any of these shots. He scanned them to compile his data...
CLOTHES: high quality, well made, not current fashion trends but not abhorrently out of style. Not only well made, some items are custom made. Position at work pays well - office-work, evidenced by hands, clearly taken care of, not scarred or stained from manual labor, and by shoes, high heels, power shoes, click clack shoes that you hear a mile away - well off enough to live in Westminster (comfortably) and… hmm…
Sherlock opened the file. “Car... car car car…"
Lestrade couldn’t help himself, “What's this about a car?”
“Greg, don't start.” John chimed in before Sherlock lost his train of thought…
File away and revisit later.
CLOTHES continued: the cloak.
Sherlock felt the fabric of the cloak.
Light, quality fabric. Smooth. Not heavy enough for to keep one warm. Not applicable for practical purposes… was this her personal style? Work attire? Was she just a weird woman?… File away and revisit later.
Sherlock shook his head, getting frustrated by the inconclusive data.
HAIR: hair is messy, office work (going by clothes that resemble a business suit) clearly encourage a well-kept appearance, and messy hair certainly wouldn't do, especially for that highly-paid job she has. Conclusion: she was engaged in some physical activity prior to her death. In her work clothes? Rule out athletic activity - not in those clothes and shoes. Rule out sex - negative results from autopsy, and significant other would have either come forward or been tracked down by now. Conclusion: Self-defense. Conclusion: She put up a fight.
Conclusion: Murder, not suicide. Well, at least there’s something for Lestrade.
Time of death was:11:04PM. Killed while wearing cloak, which would have been cumbersome to wear around the house and clearly the first clothing item to go the moment she walked in the house. Conclusion: Ambushed or approached immediately after returning to her residence from work. Unless she didn’t get to her cloak or forgot about it the moment she walked in because she knew this was going to happen…. File and revisit later.
Sherlock would get to the picture he had pocketed later.
Instead, he focused on the stick...
...STICK: nothing else found on her person or in the room, and in fighting off her attacker, she chooses… this stick? Obviously there is great significance to the stick, be it practical, nostalgic, or obsessive. Slightly decorated along the whole stick, carved with patterns...
Sherlock reached out his hand for the stick.
As soon as his hand even started to slightly grip the stick, Sherlock felt a rush of energy shoot through from the stick to his hand, his arm, and then fade through his chest. He immediately let go, a gasp escaped him involuntarily.
John came to at the disturbance, “You alright, Sherlock?”
“Yes…that… thing was very cold. I wasn’t expecting it.” he responded automatically.
Sherlock poked the stick again. The sensation did not return…
… File away and revisit later.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the stick. And the cloak for good measure.
Something nagged at the back of Sherlock's mind: Don’t tell Lestrade about the stick.
“Done.”
Relief began to show on Lestrade’s face, “What have you got?”
“Amelia Bones was murdered. Those at the Yard who claimed it was suicide are clearly idiots. Hardly anything surprising there. The state of her hair is indicative of a physical struggle. It was clear she was involved in a fight before her death, something not all that common when it comes to suicides. Not only that, but she didn't have time to take off her cloak or clearly uncomfortable shoes before getting involved in this struggle, meaning that the ambush happened as soon as she got home, or she knew it was going to happen by the time she got home. If she was going to commit suicide in such cumbersome clothes, she would have thrown herself into a pool and let the cloak drag her down. All the signs point to murder. Your colleagues’ fixation with suicide is probably linked with their inability to prove it otherwise. But since the evidence you have is circumstantial at best and inconclusive at worst, I want every new lead you and your team discover to be forwarded to me, however thin. There are too many holes in this case, something is missing. And while that something is missing, progress cannot be made. This is not the open and shut case you want it to be.
“What is clear is this,” Sherlock gathered up the files and the photos from the floor and shoved them back at Lestrade. “this case should really have been assigned to you from the start. Then at least, we’d have reliable evidence to begin with.”
And with that, Sherlock strolled out of the room. “Carry on.” he shouted behind him.
“Wait,” Lestrade followed him. “that’s it? You spent a good twenty minutes in that room, and that's all you’ve got?”
John and Lestrade followed Sherlock back down the stairs and out the front door.
“I got all that information from your lousy reports. We’re back to square one, George, I don’t know why you won’t admit it—”
“Greg—”
“Isn't that what I said?” Sherlock pulled out his phone, his eyes alight. Clearly his mind was on fire. “John, find us a taxi.”
By that point, Lestrade had clearly given up. As he rounded back into the house to clear out his team, John hurried up to catch Sherlock and held out his arm for an upcoming taxi.
“You didn’t need to act like that, he only just got on the case today.”
“Lies and false flattery won’t help solve this case.” Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. “Good evidence would have helped with that. There’s missing data, and that which is missing is crucial.”
John bit back the pre-scripted lesson on how to be a real human being that he wanted to lash out on Sherlock, and instead focused his energy into making sure the taxi he hailed pulled over. He opened the passenger door, “221B Baker Street, please.”
Sherlock didn’t follow.
“Wait,” John halted the driver, “my flatmate…”
He poked his head back out the door, and saw Sherlock, a few houses down, whispering into the ear of a homeless woman sitting on the street. As he pulled back, she pocketed a bill that (John came to the conclusion) must have been part of the exchange.
Guess I'm paying for the taxi again. John shifted back into his seat.
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Halfway home, John couldn’t hold his silence anymore. Sherlock had been excruciatingly quiet, and John’s frustration in how he treated Lestrade had long since been replaced by his need to know what Sherlock had really found.
“Alright,” he blurted out, “what did you figure out that you aren’t telling Lestrade?”
Stone-faced. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”
“I know that’s not all you found, because that's definitely not all I found.”
Sherlock’s signature smirk began to curl on his lips. “What did you find?”
Great. Time to look like a prat again. John settled himself in for the ride. “Well, I noticed her clothes —”
“What about them?”
“They were tailored. Which means she had the money to set aside after necessities for nice clothes. But for someone who could afford a house in Westminster and tailored clothes… where is her car?”
“Go on.”
“Either her work is extremely close by, or she would be driven to and from work. But in her file there was no record of a car being recovered. And she never hired services.”
“And…?”
“...Maybe the killer has access to the car or took it?”
Sherlock nodded. “What else?”
John tried to remember the details of what he had read in the file. “Well, other than her niece, there’s no one reported in her file as a friend, relative or even a co-worker. Who, then, reported her death to the police? And the door was locked from the inside when they arrived on the scene. That has to mean either the murderer reported it, which for someone who has covered their tracks so well is not likely, or someone would have to have found her, re-locked the door, somehow get out of the room without damaging the door, and then call the police... or it was suicide.”
“What else?”
John thought for a minute, then begrudgingly, “That’s it.”
Another nod. “Good start, John.”
John was no stranger to this game, “Don’t patronize me. I’ve clearly missed the bigger picture, haven’t I? That’s usually your response.”
Sherlock launched in. “The car is a dead end. It’s irrelevant. But as for who discovered her? That is interesting. If the murderer didn’t report it, then someone she knew and regularly checked in on her did, and in order to do that, like you said, they’d need to lock the door again and then go to the police. But if neither of those options occurred, then she was monitored by some agency that was concerned for her - be it her work, or be it the government. Where ever she worked, it is clear that she was an important asset, and one to be monitored.”
He then launched into the rest of what he found at the scene, from the door to the quality of the burn marks, to the cloak and everything in between.
All John could say in response was, “Oh.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much, John, I withheld the key piece of evidence from you.”
John instantly turned to Sherlock, “And that would be…?”
Sherlock reached inside his coat and pulled out the pocketed picture for John to see. The image was of Amelia Bones’ face: it was contorted into an expression of pure terror. It was not a pretty sight.
“Amelia Bones died with this expression on her face. Rigor mortis occurred at moment of death, which, as you could imagine, astounded those conducting the autopsy —”
“Wait, but that’s impossible —”
Sherlock pointed back to the picture, "These pictures were taken prior to the autopsy. How else would you explain why those facial muscles are staying in place?"
John had no viable answer to offer, only a feeble joke about magic, but it was clear Sherlock was not in the mood. He opted instead for a neutral shrug.
Sherlock resumed, “This picture was not released to the public or the press, for obvious reasons. But this picture is the key piece of evidence thus far.”
He pocketed the picture again. “Little Hangleton. Small village in the north of England, nothing of note. Except in 1943, the most hated family in the town, the Riddle family, was found dead in their mansion on the hill overlooking the town. Father, mother, only son. Adult son, but that’s beside the point. Cause of death was indeterminable because all three victims appeared to be in perfect health at the time of death. For the records, they pitifully determined they were frightened to death. Laughably bad and unfounded even by grade school standards.”
He pulled out his phone, pulling up an image on the internet, “Only suspect at the time was the Riddle’s gardener, Mr. Frank Bryce, since he had the means to enter the house. However, they were forced to call it a cold case since their case with Frank was weak at best. Until he was found dead in the same house by the same means two years ago.”
Sherlock lazily handed over his phone, “This was taken and leaked by trespassers two days before police got wind of the case.”
John took the phone - an elderly man, sprawled on the floor, his face frozen in pure terror. Just like Amelia Bones.
“This case,” he continued as the taxi slowed to a stop outside 221B Baker Street, “is the first since then that I have come across with a victim that is not connected to the Riddle Family. And while the time in between both of these cases is less than favorable, it’s still the strongest lead we have."
John had to agree as they exited the cab. True to his prediction, John, again, was the one to shove money into the taxi driver’s hand as they made their way to the door. Sherlock stopped, and abruptly turned back to John with an expression on his face akin to some convoluted combination of amazement, disbelief, and (though John didn’t want to admit it) fear.
“That stick. I felt… something… something similar to an electrical surge through my arm. I know it wasn’t that… but it happened…” his voice was hushed but charged. It was clear that this was what had really been on his mind. Everything else was explainable, for the most part. The stick, however, was was not. The stick was… different.
John didn’t know exactly how to react, but seeing Sherlock like this was slightly alarming for his liking. He really hoped that Sherlock was just pulling his leg, but he knew Sherlock better than to act like that.
“You couldn't have told me inside?”
Sherlock mostly snapped back to his senses, “No,” as he discretely nodded across the street. John turned to see a familiar black sedan parked across the street. “We have a nosy big brother upstairs.”
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Mycroft stood in the middle of the living room, umbrella at the ready, when Sherlock walked through the door. It was clear this was not a social call.
“Mummy cross with her darling boy, Mycroft?” Sherlock showed no signs of the emotions he displayed a good ten seconds earlier.
“You can’t solve this case, Sherlock.”
John trailed in right behind Sherlock, “Hello to you too, Mycroft. Tea?”
Mycroft examined his umbrella. “Not today, John. Thank you. I'm just here to talk my brother out of getting himself killed.”
Sherlock plopped down in his favorite armchair. “Was that a threat? Mummy said play nice, Mycroft.” Sherlock picked up his now stone-cold cup of tea from that morning.
John noticed, “Sherlock, don’t drink that - that’s disgusting.”
Mycroft plowed through, as if uninterrupted. “Your narrow and linear mindset are not ideal qualities to solving a case of this nature, and quite frankly I won’t allow you to solve it. There are things at stake here that are far greater than your ego. Call it a suicide and drop it.”
“But it’s not a suicide.”
“If you spin the evidence in the right way, it will be. Make it one.”
Sherlock remained unfazed, sipping on his tea. “I can solve it.”
“Regardless of whether you can or cannot solve it, it won’t do any good. The man you’re looking for can’t be stopped.”
Sherlock shot up from his chair. Eureka. “Ah!”
“Oh don’t be so offended, Sherlock…”
“It is murder. And you know who did it.”
John chimed in from the kitchen, “Then shouldn’t we be working on tracking him down already?”
“It’s not that simple, John. I wish it were. Certainly would save us a lot of trouble.”
“Who is it?”
Mycroft spared a pitiful glance for his brother. “Give Lestrade the day, then call it a suicide. He’ll take your word for it. If you don’t by tomorrow morning, then I’ll do it myself. Good evening.”
Sherlock wouldn't give it up, “Little Hangleton, 1943. The Riddle Family.”
Mycroft scoffed, pausing at the door, “An obvious connection. And if you believe that that chapter of history wasn't already investigated then I can assure you, my dear brother, that you are entirely mistaken. It is merely another dead end. Good evening.”
And with that, Mycroft left. He firmly shut the door behind him.
“You’re not going to listen to him.”
Sherlock turned his attention to John for the first time since they had gotten home. “That wasn’t even a question,” he pouted.
John shrugged. “I know you well enough to know that you very rarely listen to Mycroft.”
Sherlock smirked. John was at least always right when it came to people. “It’s clear that what is bothering him is not me solving the case, but rather the press that would come from solving it. Mycroft wants this case to go away. Clearly the man who did this is powerful.”
John started settling down at his desk in the living room, closer to the case files, “Moriarty, perchance?”
“We would have a more obvious calling card if it were him, something akin to a box of chocolates or a personal visit and confession. At the very least, a text. No, this is someone new... someone who knew about Little Hangleton, or better yet…"
Sherlock stood in silence for a minute, his mind whirring away in thought. Then he made a move for his violin, and John could sense that the conversation was done for the foreseeable future of the evening. Thoughts and words kept floating around in John’s mind as music covered the silence… Little Hangleton… Suicide… stick… electricity?… None of it stuck. It was all a wash: just words, and nothing else. No connections, no discoveries… maybe Sherlock should just…
The violin screeched and stopped. “Computer.”
“Hm… What?”
Sherlock tossed his violin aside on the sofa and immediately dived for John’s computer on the table. “Her body was released from Bart’s last week, if half of London hasn't up and died between now and then, then it's likely that scheduling would go according to plan and her funeral would be due for sometime this week…”
Sherlock clearly found what he was looking for. He turned to John with a triumphant look on his face.
“Clear your schedule, John. Tomorrow we’re going to Amelia Bones’ funeral.”
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Thanks for all of the love so far! :)