Chapter 3
Then: February 1878
It took Sherlock less than half an hour to find an unoccupied flat with an unobstructed view of the door into which the mysterious young woman had disappeared less than twelve hours ago. He picked the locks using skills picked up during his time in the more nefarious parts of the city and within moments he was camped out by the window - watching, waiting.
As he surveyed the comings and goings in the street, he found himself revisiting Hooper's articles, thinking about how his findings had changed the way Sherlock looked at the world. In his most recent one, published in an oft-overlooked journal of theoretical chemistry, Hooper had posited that much could be gleaned from analysing a body for trace evidence – small amounts of materials not able to be seen by the naked eye. After reading that article, Sherlock rushed out to acquire a magnifying glass – and now he wouldn't leave home without it stored safely in the pocket of his Inverness cape.
Just last week, Sherlock used the glass to see tiny flecks of ash on the cuff of a dead man's jacket. Sherlock collected a sample and spent an afternoon smoking pipe after pipe until on the sixteenth try he found the matching ash. That ash led him to the store where the man bought his tobacco. That store just happened to be next door to a house of ill-fame. Sherlock observed that the lipstick on the collar of the dead man matched one particular lady who offered services in the establishment. This led Sherlock to deduce that it was the man's wronged wife who stabbed him in a fit of rage.
A whole case, resting on so small a thing, which Sherlock never would have looked for had he not read Hooper's work. He really wanted to meet this man, if only to shake his hand and congratulate him for a job well done.
If Hooper did in fact live in this house, then, wondered Sherlock, what role did the young woman play? Sherlock highly doubted that she was his daughter. No father, no matter how dedicated to science, would send a girl into the streets unescorted to observe crime scenes. Perhaps a servant girl, then. But the question remained, why didn't Hooper just go himself?
There was another possible explanation of the facts, but Sherlock wasn't willing to admit to himself the possibility that his interest in this young woman was piqued as much by her striking deep brown eyes as it was by her incongruous and improper appearance.
There was a chance that his brother was wrong. Maybe the name of Hooper was a mere coincidence. Maybe the universe was just that lazy.
But if that was the case, then Sherlock was fixated on nothing other than a woman. An intriguing woman, but a woman no less. Something he couldn't remember doing since he swore off the fairer sex during his first year at university.
No, he told himself, there was a puzzle here deeper than that, and he wasn't going to rest until it was solved.
The sun had set with no sign of Hooper or the young lady. Sherlock was considering packing up and going home until he saw movement near the servants' entrance. From his distance, he couldn't see anything beyond a dark shape against the white door, but it was enough for him to begin to follow. Whomsoever it was had snuck out under cover of darkness and was now making their way across the street and into an alleyway.
Sherlock followed as closely as he could without drawing attention to himself. It was a much colder evening than the night previous, and he could see that whoever he was following was wearing a thick coat.
The figure wove through streets and back streets, alleys and laneways, until stopping right outside Scotland Yard and having what appeared to be a brief conversation with a Detective Inspector Sherlock knew as Lestrade – Grantham or George, he wasn't sure which.
The conversation was brief. The young man, whom Sherlock was certain was in fact the young lady from the night previous, handed Lestrade a note before heading off into the foggy London darkness.
Sherlock had a choice: follow the woman or question the man. He chose the latter.
Sherlock stalked up to Lestrade. "Who was that young man?" Sherlock asked him without so much as a polite greeting.
"Good evening to you too, Holmes," Lestrade smiled although his words were draped in deep irony.
Sherlock ignored him. "That young man. Who was he?"
Lestrade pointed in the vague direction of her route of departure. "Him? I don't know him. Not really. He works for a scientist named Hooper."
Sherlock let out a breath, visibly relieved. It seemed that he was on the right investigative path after all. Perhaps Lestrade could even help him. "Have you met Hooper?" he asked.
Lestrade scrunched his face as if trying to locate a long lost memory. "Years ago. He used to work in the morgue at Saint Bartholomew's."
"Used to?"
"Retired. But he still keeps his hand in, likes to help us out when he can. Bit of a recluse nowadays though. Usually communicates through notes like this one." Lestrade waved the paper at Sherlock.
"What did he give you tonight?"
Lestrade looked at him blankly.
Sherlock continued, "On the paper – what did it say?"
Lestrade unfolded the paper and read it, unable to hide the surprise on his face.
"It says, the body found at south bank last night had died at least twelve hours before it was dumped." Sherlock nodded in agreement. He too had seen the telltale red bruising on the man's face where the blood had pooled post-mortem due to gravity. The young woman was right. Sherlock wasn't surprised.
He turned to walk away, but Lestrade called out after him.
"Holmes, there's a postscript here. It says 'a man in a deerstalker and Inverness cape has been following me. Please keep him occupied, or incarcerate him – the choice is yours'."
"So, should I arrest you then, Holmes?" Lestrade laughed.
Ignoring him, Sherlock strode away into the night.
As he headed back to Montague Street, he kept replaying every movement in his head. He couldn't believe she'd spotted him. Sherlock's skills in stalking and following had been well-practiced, ever since he was a boy stalking deer and wild boars on his uncle's farm.
More than her finding him out, was the problem that remained for him – the mystery of this young lady. For a moment he had thought that Lestrade was his best lead at discovering her identity. However, now it was all too clear that not only did Lestrade have no idea who the lady was, he had no idea she was a lady at all.
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Now - Eight Years Later: December 1886
The handsome cab pulled up at a modest townhouse in the West End. John thought he saw Sherlock steeling himself before climbing out, taking a few deep breaths in preparation for something, but John couldn't imagine what would require Holmes to do so.
DI Lestrade was waiting for them at the front door.
"Holmes, Watson," he greeted. The two men nodded and tipped their caps. "This case is a bit of a puzzle, but not the type you'd enjoy, I suspect, Holmes."
"Why is that?" John asked.
"Well, if you ask me, it's a straightforward suicide. The man was found with the straight razor in his hand and deep cuts to the wrist. Now it turns out he was deeply in debt. The poor widow might be destitute."
John took off his hat in a sign of respect, not for the man – he was a coward and a fool to leave his wife that way – but for the poor woman left behind.
Sherlock's face was blank. John had seen it before. He was in his mind palace. Holmes often retreated there to sort and store new information, though John couldn't see what was so difficult for him to process.
"So if it's a suicide, why are we here?" John asked when it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to.
"Well, it's the widow." Lestrade said, tipping his head in the direction of the stairs where John assumed the widow was waiting. "She requested me by name – although I have no earthly idea how she'd know who I was."
John thought he caught a flash of a smile crossing Sherlock's lips, but for the life of him had no idea what his friend found so amusing.
"But that still doesn't explain why we're here at a routine suicide," John persisted, looking at Holmes to see if he was annoyed to be called into such a mundane situation, one well beneath his considerable range of skills. John was surprised to see that Sherlock, in fact, looked quite the opposite, almost eager to get inside the house.
"Well, she asked for you too, Holmes."
John was surprised, and expected the same from Sherlock. However, his face betrayed no such emotion.
"When can we go inside?" was all Holmes said.