NOTES: For the 2012 Yuletide exchange.
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
One can take the licence away from the surgeon for malpractise, but no amount of litigation will ever take the doctor out of the woman.
This patient, at least, is not dead – not yet, not ever, should Joan have her way.
Sherlock finds his hands co-opted as he kneels down on the other side of the woman, the ambulance already called. "They're on their way," he tells her.
Joan hardly seems to hear him.
She grabs his wrist and he is pulled over until his hand presses over her scarf – fine pale mohair, rapidly staining dark. "Hold this," she says, and the warm imprint of her fingers remains in the scarf.
Sherlock watches as she strips off her coat and lays it over the woman, an impromptu blanket.
"If you wanted a coat, why didn't you ask for mine?"
Joan looks blankly at him, then blinks, and with some surprise, Sherlock realises she wasn't thinking of him when she co-opted his hands. He wasn't her charge or her concern – just a pair of hands to do her will.
It's a discomforting feeling.
"So far as I know," she says, "You only have the one coat." She moves back around and shuffles him over again, taking over the holding of the pressure bandage in place.
Sherlock lets his gaze flicker over the woman's clothing, worn and comfortable. His eyes skim the rubber-soled shoes, the cloth bag that holds her belongings – no purse anymore - the slight dent around her left ring finger, the raw mark around her throat.
As he tucks his hand back into his pocket, he feels the chill lump of the ring he scooped out of the street – the jewel for which this woman's life was threatened.
Distantly, the sirens bleed out into the night.
Naturally, Joan refuses to just hand the woman over and walk away, especially after the woman's husband calls to see where she is while the EMTs are working on her and is gently informed that his wife has been attacked.
"I've told Cath she should be more careful coming home on the late shift," he says later, sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. His daughter's head is tucked sleepily into her father's neck, and although she's peeped at Sherlock and Joan a few times, the blue eyes are presently hazed and sleepy. "A woman can never be too careful, I mean, and although she doesn't have anything of value—"
Sherlock doesn't need to hear his rambling. "You've been married, what, four years now? You have a home phone which you prioritise using over your cellphones. You called your wife from home, not from your own cellphone, and she makes most of her calls to the same line. Have you ever received calls from wrong numbers? Unexpected hang-ups?"
James Ryder's stare is dark and shocked "I… No. Well, not until last week, maybe. Just a wrong number – the lady on the other end was very apologetic – got her Catherines mixed up."
"An older woman, I presume, seeing as you've termed her a 'lady' but referred to your wife as a woman."
"Yes. How-?"
"Sherlock picks up details from little things," Joan says, almost apologetically.
"And sometimes from big things, too." Sherlock dislikes being apologised for. He's going to have a word with her about that. Anger he understands – even appreciates. But he will not have her feel embarrassed about him, as though his intelligence and powers of observation should be hidden just so others can feel comfortable around him. "Your wife trained in Boston – 2008 or 2009, I think, Mr. Ryder?"
"She…she did her Masters there – Public Health. We met while she was doing rotations in DC a year later…" Ryder looks from him to Joan and back. "How did you know—?"
Sherlock feels Joan's gaze on him, the wary look that knows he's going somewhere with this, but not where. Her decision to step into the conversation is doubtless to head off any incipient awkwardness caused by his questioning. He lets it slide – for the moment. Her conversation with Ryder allows him to observe the man – and the little girl watching sleepily from his arms.
"Does your wife work the late shift often?"
"Often enough these last few weeks," Ryder says to Joan after a moment. "She's working towards some time off after Christmas."
"So her movements would have been habitual. Known."
"I've told her she should be more careful before…" Ryder glances towards the corridor that leads away from the waiting room. "How bad is it? Do you know?"
"She was stabbed, so it's not good, but it's not terrible, either." The tone of voice she uses is rather more soothing than the ones she uses on Sherlock. He wonders if that's because she doesn't feel he needs it, or because she doesn't want to coddle him.
"Thank you. Thank you both for finding and helping her." Ryder looks down at the girl in his arms – perhaps three or four years old - and takes a deep breath. "I don't know what we'd do without Cath."
"It would be harder on the two of you without her income," Sherlock observes. "But I imagine you'd go back to your work easily enough. You have construction training in electrical work – there's always call for people with skill." At the man's stare, he elaborates. "Callouses take some time to wear down, Mr. Ryder, and your nails have fairly heavy ridging – quite common in the hands of men who do a great deal of manual labour. Your boots are old and very much the workman's. Yes, your fashion is decidedly construction-oriented – t-shirt underneath, shirt over the top, loose trousers, rolled hems. Although the paint is a nice touch. Been letting your daughter experiment with colour?"
There's always a certain amount of satisfaction in watching people puzzle out his deductions about them. "But how—You couldn't have known I was—"
"When first you entered the waiting room, your eyes took in the design of the area – the layout, the building structure, lingering on the lighting and the set-up of the nurses' station." Sherlock glanced up. "I quite agree – the lighting seems awkward at the station, casting shadows from behind onto their work and requiring the inclusion of another lamp on the desk. However, I would suggest that the current set up is temporary. Note the marks on the ceiling and the badly-patched section of wall where the desk used to be – done recently, judging by the faint lingering smell of paint."
"Paint." Ryder snorts. "Right. My wife might be dying and you're talking to me about construction."
Sherlock judges the comment less cynical or angry and rather more astonished and disbelieving. He considers laying out the situation as he sees it to James Ryder – after all, the man knows the truth of his wife – but it is too late.
A man in scrubs emerges from the back room.
"Mr. Ryder?" Ryder stands and, with one fierce and fearful look back at Sherlock, he goes over to see how his wife has fared in surgery.
Well enough from the look of the surgeon, and the way the man's first, low words relax the tension in Ryder in blatant relief before it creeps back in. His wife is out of surgery but Ryder knows that is not the last of it.
"Do I want to know what that was about?" Joan asks him after the surgeon allows that Ryder might see his wife, and the man goes with an aborted glance back over his shoulder.
"I don't know. Do you?" Sherlock glances up and down the hospital corridor. "How secure do you think this place is, Watson?"
"Captain Gregson has a beat cop posted outside Catherine Ryder's room," Joan reports as she walks into the study. "He says he hopes you know what you're doing."
"Oh, he of little faith," Sherlock remarks as he skims the online archives of The Boston Globe.
Joan regards the screen for a moment. "You don't usually involve yourself in cases of this kind."
"You might like to be a little more specific as to exactly which kind you're talking about, Watson."
"Cases which don't involve death. Yes, her attacker tried to kill her, but he failed. It's attempted murder, but you're not usually interested until there's a corpse."
"A terribly morbid way of putting it, perhaps, but true enough." Sherlock answers, still skimming the words on the screen. He reaches into his pocket and puts the ring out on the desk for her to see. "I don't know that I'd call this 'petty' theft, however."
When he looks up, Joan is gaping at the ring.
As well she might.
The sapphire is, if not priceless, certainly expensive, in spite of the relatively cheap silver chain which loops through the ring. The exquisite artistry of a cabochon sapphire, at least a full carat, surrounded by diamonds, set in aged platinum. A woman's ring, to be worn on the ring finger and far above the affordability of a medical student and her stay-at-home partner.
"Isn't that—?"
"The Breckenridge Sapphire – or the 'Blue Carbuncle' as the media termed it five years ago. Ms. Ryder's assailant dropped it as I tripped him up. He managed to keep hold of her purse, and I imagine he supposed getting away with his loot the better part of discretion."
"The Breckenridge Sapphire…"
"Reported missing in 2008 and never found. Last known to be on the Breckenridge Estate, Christmas that year. Note the distinctive star in the middle of the sapphire, and the wear on the chain."
Joan drags her eyes from the ring. "You're saying Catherine Ryder stole the sapphire five years ago? No," she catches herself before Sherlock can chide her. "If she'd stolen it, she'd have fenced it."
"Instead she wore it on a chain around her neck. Which her husband would know, contrary to his assertion that she had nothing of value on her."
"It was a family heirloom, I remember. My mother was paranoid about house thieves for months afterwards…" Her eyes narrow. "Don't the Breckenridges have a son who'd be around the same age as Catherine?"
"Andrew Breckenridge. Studied Philosophy and English Literature at Boston University. Graduated with full honours the summer after the sapphire went missing. The same year Catherine Cusack – as she was back then – graduated from Boston University School Of Medicine."
"He gave it to her?"
"So it seems. Didn't tell his parents, obviously, since they reported the ring missing and claimed the insurance on it. Which brings us to an interesting moral conundrum – whether or not to return the ring to Ms. Ryder or to the Breckenridges."
"If it was given to her as a gift, it belongs to her."
"Straightforward enough, if you assume that Andrew Breckenridge owned the ring. If he didn't, then it could technically be argued she's received stolen goods. And the claim on the ring was put in by Charles and Elizabeth Breckenridge, young Mr. Breckenridge's parents. In addition to which, if she received the ring from the son, then she would have known of its origins – which, technically, makes it possession of stolen property in the second degree, since the ring itself is rather valuable." Sherlock grinned at Joan's slightly stunned expression. "Not so straightforward after all, eh? So what would you do?"
She stares at him. "You're asking what you should do?"
"No, I'm asking you what you would do."
"Give the ring back to Ms. Ryder."
"Except now she knows you know she has it. Can she trust you not to tell the police?"
"Then tell her it's been reported stolen and…ask if she wants to give it back?"
"And if the ring has sentimental value?"
"How sentimental can it be if she's married another man?"
Sometimes her lines of thought are frustratingly straight. "She's carrying this ring on a long chain, Watson, so it slips down into her top, wearing it between her breasts – against her heart. It wouldn't be particularly comfortable, and it certainly wouldn't be particularly safe as we saw just this evening. So, I would say that, in spite of her marriage to James Ryder, this is a very sentimental item indeed." He watches her face for a moment longer – she has a stubborn streak, his Watson.
"Right. I don't know what to do with the ring," she says, sighing. "What will you do?"
His gaze rests on the sapphire as he first formulates and then rejects thoughts, ideas, plans. It's even more complicated than Joan realises, which is understandable since she lacks his insights, and he wishes to be sure of everything before he presents the solution – a fait accompli.
Sherlock scoops up the ring and deposits it in his pocket. "I have to see a man about a job," he says. "I am just going outside and may be some time."
He doesn't need to look back to know Joan is rolling her eyes.
As a matter of fact it takes him nearly two days to gain the information he needs, during which time Catherine Ryder is released from hospital and sent home. Joan takes a slightly proprietal interest in the Ryders – with a little prompting from Sherlock.
If you told me why I'm doing this, I'd be more inclined to do it, she texts him on the second day. He's been keeping her updated – not because she has the right to know where and what he is doing – were they married, it would not be her right – but Sherlock considers it a courtesy.
He doesn't waste letters in replying. brng u+2ryder 2moz StHel 1100
Then he heads down a grey brick alleyway where young men look sideways at him with suspicion in their hearts and knives in their hands.
Gregson calls Sherlock just outside the St. Helene in Upper East Side some twenty-six hours later, distinctly unhappy. "You wanna explain to me what I'm doing with the Breckenridges – and therefore the commissioner – on my back?"
"I needed to organise a meeting with them – one which they wouldn't fob off. It's regarding a matter of justice."
"Shouldn't you be leaving that to us? That is our job after all?"
"Under other circumstances I would. But you said it yourself – the commissioner is on your back because of the Breckenridges. Don't worry, Gregson. If things come to a dire head, you'll be the first to find out."
"Now why doesn't that fill me with trust?"
Sherlock hangs up on the disgrunted cop and steps into the foyer of the hotel, well aware that the eye of the concierge and staff immediately fall upon him in his less-than-businesslike attire.
"Sir, I'm afraid we can't—"
"Actually, you can. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I've hired the Beethoven conference room. Here is my card. Don't worry, I know where I'm going."
He leaves the concierge to splutter and protest, and strides up the stairs to the mezzanine, along the internal balcony, past tables piled high with mugs and crowded with tea and coffee-making facilities. The room he booked is small and up the back of the meeting room section.
It is also already occupied by two people in the midst of an argument.
"Mom, I'm not going to—" The man frowns and rises as Sherlock strides in. "I'm sorry, this is a private room—"
In his early thirties, the man seems bland enough – brown hair, good features, a weak chin and tired eyes. The woman is considerably older, her dress neat and conservative. Her hair has been left to silver without shame, but her expression prim and proud in the midst of argument with her son, and her eyes are sharp as she looks at Sherlock.
"I know. I booked this room for our meeting. I'm Sherlock Holmes, a consultant with the NYPD, you're Andrew Breckenridge, and this would be your mother, Elizabeth."
"I trust you have a reason for calling us down here, Mr. Holmes?"
"We're waiting for a few more guests to turn up, but in the meantime, I believe you'll be delighted to know I've retrieved a piece of property that I believe is yours."
He takes the sapphire ring out of his pocket, places it on the table between him and the Breckenridges, and watches their faces. Both of them pale – Andrew more than his mother. His whole body tenses as he looks up, and his expression is stricken, his eyes wild. "Where did you find this?"
"It was dropped by a street thug during a failed mugging attempt."
The mother frowns. "Was the man apprehended?"
"Unfortunately, no. His victim was found with her throat cut." Sherlock watches Andrew now, the hand that gropes for the chair he just vacated. A glance at Elizabeth shows her with her eyes on the jewel, her lids slightly lowered as she stares at it.
"Where—When was this?"
Sherlock lets the moment play out, hearing the sound of distant voices, the familiar cadences of Joan's speech out in the corridor. "Two nights ago. She was admitted to hospital – rather lucky to survive, as a matter of fact since the man missed the jugular by less than an inch. Of course, immediate medical assistance helped. And if I'm not mistaken—"
The door pushes open and Joan enters in the middle of a sentence, "…usually explains. He can't help—" She breaks off at the sight of the Breckenridges and the sapphire ring on the table, but steps aside so the Ryders can come in.
Not that they do, of course. They stop in the doorway, the bandage on her throat an almost sickly cream against the warmth of her skin. Her hand tightens on her husband's arm. For a moment it looks like she'll turn tail and run. But this is a woman with steel in her soul, with spirit – an admirable woman. She lifts her chin and stands her ground.
"Cathy…"
"Andrew." Her voice is calm, although tremors lurk beneath. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"Or you wouldn't have come?" Andrew sounds more resigned than anything else. He indicates his throat, miming the bandage. "Are you—They said you had your throat cut—"
"Not all of it. Luckily for me." She glances away and her gaze falls on Joan, whose accusing gaze Sherlock felt the instant she apprehended what was going on. "Thanks to Dr. Watson, I got help early." Cath Ryder nods at Elizabeth Breckenridge. "Mrs. Breckenridge."
"Miss Cusack."
"We'll find out who did this," Andrew is saying. "Dad knows the commissioner, he'll get them to look into it."
"That won't be necessary," Sherlock interrupts, even as Cath Ryder begins to protest. "I've already found the man who attacked Ms. Ryder. His primary goal was to get the sapphire back from Ms. Ryder. Killing her was really just supposed to be a bonus."
Andrew frowns. "I don't understand."
Joan hears. But then, she knows Sherlock doesn't say anything without due consideration. She looks at Elizabeth Breckenridge. "I believe the ring belonged to your mother-in-law, Mrs. Breckenridge? A family heirloom?"
The carefully powdered face looks thin and tight beneath the make-up as her son turns on her. "Mom?"
Catherine Ryder isn't surprised – her expression is carefully impassive as it looks at the Breckenridge matriarch, but her husband's hand comes to rest on her arm.
"The thing about hiring thugs is that one needs to know the thugs to hire," Sherlock says. "Of course, there are hitmen, but a shooting would cause an investigation which might trace back to you, and you didn't want that. A simple robbery gone wrong was safest."
Elizabeth Breckenridge lifts her gaze to Sherlock. "You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Holmes."
"And far more powerful facts," Sherlock retorts, nettled at her intransigence to yield before the facts. "You instructed your lawyers – Whitland & Associates – to arrange it, and it was done through a certain gang who are well-known to the firm for 'odd jobs' – and, unfortunately for you, Mrs. Breckenridge, well-known to have worked for the firm before. I've already located the young man who attacked Ms. Ryder."
He has to hand it to her – she doesn't flinch. Her face gives away no secrets; she makes no confessions. But Sherlock knows she's guilty – logic points an irrefutable finger at her. Proof, on the other hand, is a slippery beast.
"The links are there from beginning to end, although you're quite right to be assured about it – it would be difficult to prove in a court of law."
"A simple robbery with murder," Breckenridge said grimly. "What did you think you were doing, Mom?"
"That ring was a family heirloom!"
"It was mine to give – gran gave it to me!"
"To your wife!" Elizabeth's nose twitched with suppressed anger. "Not to some woman you just fell in love with out of nowhere and didn't even marry!"
"And I didn't marry her because I was stupid and young and weak and wasn't willing to go against my parents' wishes." Breckenridge looks towards Catherine. "I'm sorry about that."
"I'm not," she says, but gently. She glances at her husband and something passes between them. "You can have the sapphire back, Andrew – your mom is right, it should go to your wife. But we still need to talk."
"Yes, we do. For starters, I'll cover your hospital bills and any care you need while recovering." Andrew looks at his mother pointedly, then turns to Sherlock with the air of a man shouldering an unpleasant duty. "What do you plan to do about the charges against my mother, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock is rather impressed. For a man who's admitted that he was too weak to stand up to his mother a few years ago, he's certainly grown a backbone since then.
"Oh, I'm not the police and while I consult for them, it's not my job to fill in for their failings. Besides, laying charges is for Ms. Ryder to do since she's the injured party." Sherlock regards Catherine Ryder, the scar on her throat, the anger and sadness in her eyes when she looks at the Breckenridges. "I'm not legal counsel, Ms. Ryder, but if I were, I'd advise returning the sapphire to the Breckenridges and taking the offer of financial aid. I'd advise against laying charges. The chances of her being brought to justice are very slim – I could follow the trail but I doubt a jury would. And she'd fight you all the way with an army of lawyers. Plus there's your daughter to consider. Just a little awkward to put her grandmother in prison."
Profound silence follows this pronouncement.
"Sherlock…"
"You'll want to do a paternity test, of course," he says, ignoring the steely note in Joan's voice. "But I think you'll find the results conclusive."
"Perhaps," Joan interrupts, "this should be left as a discussion for another time?"
"Really? I think we should have it now," Breckenridge says sharply, never taking his eyes off his former lover. "You have a daughter? You had my daughter and never told me?"
"I didn't want to make you choose—" Catherine begins, then cuts herself off. She looks at her husband again, and he reaches out and takes her hand in his – a united front. Then she turns to Sherlock. "Thank you for your help on finding who attacked me. Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your help, too. But I think this discussion should take place without you."
It's a fair request. And Sherlock is impressed by the way she makes it. Steel in her soul, indeed!
"If you need our advice again," Joan says, "you have my card."
Sherlock follows Joan out into the corridor, but pauesg to give Catherine his card, too. "The room is booked until lunchtime if you need it. I advise against any screaming or hitting – the hotel staff get antsy when patrons start fistfights."
He catches up with Joan along the internal balcony, while the hotel patrons bustle along below.
"Did you know it all when you saw the sapphire?"
"Most of it. I was uncertain if it was the mother or the son or both, but it seemed more likely to be the mother. After all, the son was more likely to have a vested interest in the mother of his child."
"And you had to spring it on them like that?"
"It was going to come out one way or the other. She was gearing up to tell him anyway."
Joan stops halfway down the staircase. "It was her news to tell, Sherlock, not yours to just spill in the middle of the meeting!"
She's right and they both know it. "I admit, I could have been more tactful—"
"You could have left it for her to tell!"
"—But it's done now."
"Completely tactless."
He's tempted to point out that she's not bothering with tactful either right now, but the circumstances are hardly comparable.
"Did you really find the link between the lawyers and the man who tried to kill her?"
"Do you doubt me?"
"In this instance? Yes."
"Oh, I did locate him," Sherlock says as they descend to the hotel foyer. "However, getting him to tell us his side of the story is going to be more difficult since he's dead."
"Elizabeth Breckenridge again?"
"Hit by a car, no sign of collusion. The driver was a college student who hit the accelerator instead of the brake. Unfortunate mistake resulting in involuntary manslaughter."
Joan winces. "Do you really think Andrew Breckenridge can keep his mother out of trouble?"
"Oh, she won't try again – particularly not now that they have the jewel back and her son is aware of what she did. It was a crime of passion and opportunity."
"And goes unpunished."
"If the purpose of punishment is to prevent reoffending, then I'd say it was successful."
Joan is quiet all the way out to the car, until she opens the driver's side door. "But isn't the purpose of punishment not just to stop offenders repeating their crimes, but to also enact justice?"
"Well, it's not as satisfying as I'd like," Sherlock tells her. "Although it seems that she'll have to accept her son's daughter – and probably her mother, too – into the family."
"Take the ones you can win?"
"And live with the ones you don't. But I'd count this as a win, personally." He waits for her answer, but when there is none, Sherlock climbs into the car. "Shall we?"
fin