"I know this sounds awful, under the circumstances," sighed the landlady, "but I'll never be able to find a tenant for this flat now. I need that money, what with Edwin's surgery coming up and all."
John Watson looked up from the body that lay crumpled under the open skylight, its head bent at an unnatural angle. A trickle of blood had dripped from the nose onto the hardwood floor. "Really? Sorry to hear that. What's wrong with Mr. Turner?"
"It's a wart. On the bottom of his foot. Shaped just like South America." Mrs. Hudson's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "She doesn't like to talk about it."
"John!" snapped Sherlock Holmes.
"Sorry." John moved aside a pillowcase that lay across the young woman's shoulder. A single, downy white feather floated to the floor as he rolled the body onto its back.
"Cause of death?"
"Fairly straightforward, I should think. I'd need an x-ray to be sure, but it looks as if the second cervical vertebra has been fractured. She probably died instantly." John picked up one of the woman's hands to examine the fingernails. A large, ripe strawberry rolled from the palm.
"Now it's getting interesting," said the detective, with a wry grin. He picked up the strawberry and began examining it with a pocket lens. "What's your theory, John? Dazzle me."
"Hm. Well. She's had a fall - one from sufficient height to break her neck. The doors and windows are dead-bolted, leaving no means of escape, and Mrs. Turner has all the keys. So the killer had to have been on the roof. There's a pillowcase, but no pillow. There was a pillow in it at some point, though, as evidenced by the feather."
"Good," muttered Sherlock, putting down the strawberry and turning his attention to the feather. "Go on."
"Not been dead long. An hour, maybe."
"That's just when I heard it!" Mrs. Turner exclaimed. "A scream, and oh, that horrid thump!"
"And the strawberry?"
"Perhaps it was the killer's calling card? Like the black paper lotus in the case of the blind banker," John suggested.
"It's got a bite out of it," Sherlock remarked. "So...?" He had lost interest in the feather, and was now staring intently out the window.
"The murderer was peckish?" giggled Mrs. Hudson.
"Stop that! It's not funny!" Mrs. Turner began to whimper.
"Come now, dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed to her friend. "A little vinegar and bicarbonate of soda will take that nasty bloodstain right out."
"Martha! Think! It'll be all over the news! What reasonable person would want to live at the scene of a murder?"
"Who wouldn't? Nice high ceilings - and those skylights! So light and airy! And I just love what you've done with the drapes."
"Oh, shut up, Martha. No one would ever call you reasonable."
"You needn't worry, Mrs. Turner," Sherlock replied crisply, blowing the feather from the palm of his hand. He dropped the magnifying lens into his pocket with a dramatic flourish. "This woman's death was an accident."