The slums of Middlesex Street; or Petticoat Lane as the locals still referred to it; was darker then usual. The Ripper murders still hung over everyone's recent memories and Harmya Rose Verma; being who she was; was always on edge when it came to who she ought to trust.
She liked to think at least she had Amos and Bartholomew McMillan watching over her most times. She somewhat hated their constant possessiveness but she'd much rather be smothered by too much attention then by the hands of someone fond of cutting people to ribbon.
She walked quickly past the vendors avoiding eye contact. Climbing up a rickety spiral staircase she reached her small flat. Letting out a sigh of relief she took off her shoes and her hat shaking her long black hair loose. It hung down to her waist.
Although she wore more traditionally Indian clothing when she was dancing she didn't like to draw too much attention to herself outside of work so she dressed like your average British woman while walking the streets. Technically speaking she was British. She was born and raised in London but her parents were immigrants. She tried not to speak too much around customers so her perfectly average British accent wouldn't detract from the allure of the foreign and "exotic"; which was the whole point of her job.
She placed her small hat on the dresser. It was black and decorated with plum colored feathers, magenta flower petals and a big black bow. She was quite fond of it and wore it often. She'd leave little traces of plum colored feathers everywhere she went.
She hated how constricting her clothing was when she wasn't dancing. The collar of her amethyst colored dress clung to her neck. She undressed till she was finally down to her black bloomers and camisole and fell like a tired rag doll onto her bed.
Her life was nocturnal. She worked at the saloon entertaining drunkards with her dancing by night and slept the morning away. She'd slept in the cot in her dressing room till the sun came out. Bartholomew wouldn't let her walk at night.
Bart ran the establishment along with his brother Amos. Poor Amos was always under Bart's thumb and rarely made any real decisions about how to run the business. Amos rarely spoke for himself either. Bartholomew always spoke for him. So when Amos was without his brother he had trouble speaking. He mumbled and flushed red whenever he tried to speak with Harmya especially.
Amos was a tall man standing a little over 6 feet. To add to his largeness he carried a lot of solid weight. It wasn't plump nor was it muscular either. I guess it's what some would call "big boned". His looks were far more intimidating then he actually was.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked into the saloon right as Harmya was about to begin her dance. Watson, being the straight laced and well principled man that he was, was highly uncomfortable and continuously fiddled with his collar as if every turn of Harmya's hips was somehow tightening his shirt's grip around his neck. Sherlock on the other hand watched smiling mostly out of sheer interest in the intricacies of the dance itself rather then on Harmya.
Sherlock rarely showed any interest in intimacy with woman. His only real fascination with them was mostly on a scientific level; as was his fascination with most anything. Brilliant as he was, he never could grasp emotional connections very well. Watson on the other hand sometimes seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve.
The two men caught up with her after her performance in her dressing room. Harmya seemed surprised to hear Bartholomew had been murdered.
"How did it happen?" she asked wrapping up her sparkling purple and gold belly dance costume in a black silk robe as she let the two detectives in her dressing room.
"Seems he made the wrong person angry. It looked as if a fight between him and one other individual escalated to a fist fight which escalated to a knife fight." Sherlock explained. "It must have been someone he knew well for there was no evidence whatsoever that someone tried to break into the home and no one invites a complete stranger into their home in the middle of the night. His body was found in the dinning room where most of the fight took place. It seems Bart used a fork that had been sitting on the table to stab the murderer so our killer will have a distinctive mark either on this arm or neck. Most likely the left side of his body since Bartholomew was right handed. If the attacker was coming at him head on, as I suspect, he would have slashed the attackers left side" at this point he was really thinking out loud to himself.
Harmya interrupts his thoughts. "Well, what is it you need from me?" she asked sitting down on an off white couch with gold trim. That is, wood painted gold trim. Her voice was soft and a little shaken.
"We simply need to ask some questions about Mr. McMillan. His day to day routine or if there was anything out of the ordinary that you may have noticed in the last few days you'd seen him" said Watson in a polite tone of voice one uses when speaking to a woman in distress.
Harmya smiled at Watson not hiding her infatuation with the handsome doctor and thought of what to say. "Well" she began "Really the only strange thing was that he didn't come in today" she shrugged. "I honestly don't know what could have happened." she took a deep breath as she looked up at the ceiling in thought. "I'm not too surprised he got into a fight with the wrong person though, It's not polite to speak ill of the dead but he was known for his temper and for his need to control everything. God forbid the man didn't get his way"
"Did his temper ever get physically violent, Ms. Verma?" Sherlock asked in a clinical and direct tone of voice.
"Why would you ask?" Harmya seems to be put slightly on edge by the question.
"Just noticing the bruising on your wrists." Sherlock points to the slight bruising hiding underneath her bangle bracelets.
"I do a lot of dancing and I sometimes hurt myself a little during practices" she says.
"Well, is there any names you can remember of anyone he may have had a scuffle with recently?" Watson asks.
Harmya just shrugs. "I hear people saying things about him all the time. Some might just be telling lies. I really don't know any details. I stay out of those sorts of confrontations. He'd never allow me to ..…" she tried to find the right words "He was very protective of me. Talk to his brother, Amos. He may be able to help."
"Thank you very much for your time madam. You've been most helpful" Sherlock says while tipping his top hat.
"I sure hope so" Harmya adds. "Maybe we didn't always get along but he was the only father I really had."
"My condolences ma'am and we'll do what we can to bring this killer to justice." Watson bows a little as he speaks.
"Thank you very much, Doctor" she smiles at him again. "Mr. Holmes" she adds with a curtsy.
The two detectives leave the saloon and step aboard a carriage to head back to Baker st. "Well, she was obviously lying about the bruises" Sherlock says with a somewhat annoyed tone in his voice. "Does she honestly believe we would fall for her story about getting bruises on her wrists from dancing?"
"They did look as though they were made by two large hands. You could almost make out the slight marking of fingers." Watson seemed upset at the thought of someone trying to harm Harmya Rose.
"Could be our killers hands but also quite possibly the hands of our victim." Sherlock said looking out the window before adding. "Even if our victim was a wretched slime of a human being we still have to find his killer."
"And thank him for doing us all a favor" Watson scoffed.