Chapter 6
Now - Eight Years Later: December 1886
John Watson followed his friend into the bathroom. It was there they found the corpse of Mr Thomas Jones laying, undignified and naked, submerged in the bath. His skin was white, a stark contrast to the water, tinted pink by the dead man's blood. It didn't take Watson long to find the source: the man's wrists had been sliced open, as had his neck. A straight razor, slicked with a deeper shade of red, lay discarded on the ground.
"I'd say it was definitely a suicide," Watson said with certainty. Lestrade was right, there was no case here for Holmes.
Sherlock, who had been studying the wounds intently, met Watson's eyes for a moment before returning to his work. "Well that's what you're meant to think," he said as he removed his magnifying glass from the inside of his jacket and began looking at something below the dead man's ear.
Undeterred, Watson explained his thinking. "Well the poor man was found in the bath. The straight razor is there, on the ground." He gestured, then moved closer to the body. "There are clear cuts to his wrist and neck."
Watson stood to look at Holmes in the eyes. "And let's not forget he's got a few money troubles. What else could it be, Holmes?"
Sherlock tucked his magnifying glass away, removed his leather gloves and submerged his hands in the water. Watson watched as his friend used his thumbs to open one of the man's eyelids, and then another. Shaking the blood-tainted water off his hands, Sherlock stalked across the room to dry his hands on a washcloth.
"Holmes?" Watson asked using the tone he always found himself adopting when the detective wasn't responding to his inquiries.
"Those are the facts," he said, glancing at the wall as if he could see through it directly at the tearful visage of the now widowed Mrs Jones, before concluding, "but it's definitely not suicide."
"Oh?" Watson took another look at the body, trying to find the clue that had so eluded him, but seemed so obvious to Holmes. "What is it?"
Sherlock smiled the infuriating smile he reserved for when a case has piqued his interest. "My friend," he began, his tone dripping with condescension, "As ever you are seeing but not perceiving."
"What am I missing, man?" John didn't mean to raise his voice, but his friend was more than testing his patience.
Sherlock pointed in the general direction of the body, "Thomas Jones is left-handed."
Watson bent over the man's body, taking a look at his hands. "Nonsense! Look at the ink stains - they're on his right hand!" He corrected his friend.
Sherlock looked at Watson with a look he knew all too well. It was the look the detective wore when he was overcome with pity – and sometimes frustration - at the simplicity with which people experienced the world.
"Oh Watson, even if he held a pen with his right hand, the man was naturally left-handed. The schoolmaster's cane can cause one to learn right-handed penmanship, but it cannot rewire the entire brain." John caught a slight gleam in Sherlock's eyes. A memory, perhaps, of his own unpleasant school years.
Sherlock slapped John on the shoulder, "But that's only one part of the puzzle, my friend," he said as he swept out of the room.
John tarried a moment, surveying the scene again for any small details he may have missed. By the time he caught up with Sherlock, his friend was engaged in an intense conversation with the widowed Mrs Jones.
John only overheard part of what they were saying. It seemed as if Mrs Jones was relieved that Holmes had seen a detail on her husband's body that she too had noticed. A detail, Watson had to admit, he was annoyed to have missed, especially considering that he was the only trained medical doctor in the room.
The widow sighed, tension leaving her shoulders. "I'm so glad you could see it, too."
Sherlock nodded, his mouth fixed in a tight frown, a furrow in his brow. "Yes. Your husband was definitely murdered."
Officers rushed past, having obviously gotten clearance from Lestrade to enter the crime scene. The commotion was so loud that John couldn't entirely hear what Mrs Jones said next. And what he did hear didn't make any sense. It sounded as if she said I'm sorry. To Sherlock. But why on earth would she be expressing condolences to him?
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Then - Eight Years Earlier: February 1878
"A young lady left her condolences this morning," said Mrs Turner in way of greeting a few days later.
As she did every day on the stroke of 9am, Sherlock's housekeeper brought a tea tray into his room and laid it on the side table. Usually, he would ignore the woman, rolling over and going back to sleep again until the tea was long cold, but Mrs Turner's announcement had him intrigued. Sherlock grabbed his robe, sprung out of bed, and seized the small, black-bordered envelope from Mrs Turner's hands.
Sherlock turned the envelope over in his hands, studying it so intently he almost didn't hear what she was saying.
"I'm so sorry to hear you've lost someone Mr Holmes. Was it a close friend? Or relative?"
Sherlock opened the envelope to find his own calling card inside, the left-hand corner downturned.
Miss Hooper was sending him as clear a message as possible: any hope of their further acquaintance was dead, buried, gone.
Mrs Turner stopped her movements around the room when she realised Sherlock hadn't responded "Was it someone special, Mr Holmes?"
"No." Sherlock said the word so sharply it almost sounded like an animalistic grunt.
The diminutive woman continued her morning ministrations, opening curtains and shutters, continuing to talk entirely undeterred by Sherlock's tone.
"Well that's a relief. Although, I was almost thankful it was a condolence card the young woman was delivering. For a moment, I thought she was calling on you…"
Mrs Turner paused, her face flushed as if embarrassed to continue her train of thought. Sherlock's piercing gaze silently prompted her to continue.
"Well, I thought it might have been for – social reasons." She almost whispered the last two words, highlighting the euphemism. "But, of course, you don't seem the type, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock rose an eyebrow at that, and took a large sip of tea to stop himself from saying something he ought not to, lest he frighten Mrs Turner off like he had the last four women who had her job. The small Irish woman had a lot of annoying habits, early morning verbosity being chief among them. However, whatever pains she caused him were mitigated by her high tolerance for Sherlock's recreational habits, which was enough to let the rest lie.
Mrs Turner started making the bed, "So, of course, it was a relief when she handed over the envelope and not her calling card." She stopped for a moment, catching herself, "I mean, of course, the reason for the condolence wasn't a relief…"
Sherlock shook his hand to show her he wasn't offended. In that moment, he caught a slight lingering odour from the card – hospital grade formaldehyde.
Intriguing.
Mrs Turner sighed, "All I mean is, it would be entirely unsuitable if a young woman such as this Miss Hooper was to call on an unattached man such as yourself, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock stared at the card and the envelope. Miss Hooper had called on him before 9am, with a card which had been in proximity of formaldehyde for several hours. Miss Hooper had been at a hospital overnight. But which one?
Sherlock stood, gently ushering his housekeeper out of the room.
"But of course, Mrs Turner, I am already attached," he informed her.
Mrs Turner's green eyes went wide.
Sherlock continued, "I'm attached to my work."
He shut the door behind her, but not loudly enough to block out Mrs Turner's final question for the morning.
"What work?"
Sherlock leaned against the closed door, smiling. In her desire to cut him out of her life, Miss Hooper had inadvertently left a clue for him to follow. All he had to do was find the hospital where she had spent the hours prior to delivering his card, and he would not only find the intriguing young woman, but would be very close to finding her elusive father as well.
Sherlock spent the day visiting all of the hospitals in London, inquiring in their morgue departments for any young lads who had been given approval to work the aptly-named graveyard shift.
He left Saint Bartholomew's - the hospital closest to his apartment - to last, and when he received an affirmative response, Sherlock chided himself for being so blind.
It seemed that there was a young man who periodically visited Bart's hospital and performed experiments using Hooper's credentials. The portly, bi-speckled doctor - Stamford – confirmed as much.
"When's he next due in the laboratory?" Sherlock asked.
Stamford chuckled. "I can't very well give that information away to anyone and everyone, Mr Holmes, it wouldn't be prudent practice."
Sherlock bid his leave from the man who, he considered, was far too cheery for someone who spent all his time with the dead.
As he walked the small stretch of laneway between Bart's hospital and Montague Street, he was, not for the first time, on the verge of giving up on his search for Hooper, when one option came to mind. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother did have connections – if sharing elevenses with half the government cabinet each day could be described as such. Surely a matter so small would be nothing for the minister for health to handle.
Unfortunate as it was, the road to Hooper now lay squarely blocked by the rather large form of Mycroft Holmes.