Part Four: Sherlock Holmes and the Hat
My dear friend, and erstwhile biographer, Dr John H Watson so loves to paint my character in the broadest and most sensational of brush strokes in order to both enthral and entice his readership. My negligible knowledge of philosophy, astronomy and politics; my variable and selective forays into botany and geology (if not for a case, then why clutter up a distinctly overwhelmed brain attic?); my `eccentric` chemistry (it seems that burns do not always enhance the mahogany of the breakfast table) and apparent `self-poisoning` by cocaine and tobacco have been whipped up into an unseemly exaggeration of my own true nature for a goggle-eyed London populous to enjoy over their morning coffee. I do, however, elect to indulge Watson his little flourishes, since I owe him both my sanity and, on several occasions, my life. Suffice to say, he is at his most accurate when describing the more subtle nuances of my character, and in particular, the fact that I am very rarely surprised.
When you have become embroiled and enveloped within the dark underbelly of crime and its far-reaching tendrils, you do also become rather immune to some of its more shocking elements. Two sets of ears in a biscuit tin; a baboon roaming the grounds of a man`s estate; a South American vampire at large in a Sussex mansion – both Watson and I have teetered on the brink of sanity on many occasions, and yet I have always endeavoured to maintain an unshakable stoicism which serves to both calm the nerves of my client and myself. I am the only consulting detective in the world (I invented the job) and find it wise to affect an unruffled exterior whenever possible.
Thus, rarely surprised.
But rarely is not never.
I entered the mortuary alone later that evening. Grieving relatives and the fussing of Scotland Yarders do little but irritate when I really need to think. The good Doctor had retired for the night with a hot toddy (his last Afghan campaign had left his chest more brittle and susceptible than it had previously been, although he would attest to the contrary) which allowed me my freedom. Sometimes the inside of my head is the only place I feel truly at liberty.
The gas lamps were dim and a constant drip could be heard in the far reaches of the room. Only two bodies were laid out (one of them being the late Lady Eleanor) and the faint slip-slop of rag over tile could be heard as a late December wind began to whip up from the East.
"Mr Holmes, a word if I may?"
Damn and blast … Gregson.
His office was overstuffed and under-heated. I deduced a poorly clerk and unreliable coal merchant. I also elected silence upon the matter, since he was twirling in his hand a rather interesting piece of evidence – a lady`s hat.
"This was found at the crime scene?" I offer. "The first crime. The theft from the Countesses hotel room?" His gaze appears puzzled. I realise I must explain further. "The evidence label – the penmanship is the same, as is the crime number. The hat is in good condition; clearly not dredged from the Thames. Also, a size too large for our victim. You suspect the two crimes may be linked; I agree. What was taken from the hotel room? You have been less than forthcoming with me, Inspector."
He is shaking his head, yet smiling. I am unsure how to proceed.
"I think you are, once more, a few steps ahead of us, Mr Holmes. With all concerns focused upon her grand-daughter`s disappearance, it was only this morning that the Countess Morcor reported the theft of a valuable stone from her hotel safe. We have an arrest warrant for a gas fitter, a James Horner, who was seen leaving the room that day. This could lead us to the killer."
"You are satisfied it was no accident?" This is good news. I would not wish to have to point out such an obvious conclusion. He nods his head.
"And the stone? It was valuable?" Inspector Gregson consults his police notebook (a habit I wish more would deign to employ. Inaccuracies tend to infuriate me. Watson would attest – another bad habit of my own).
"`The Blue Carbuncle`" he intones, squinting slightly at his own handwriting (none of us are perfect, it would seem). "Mined in 1823 from Count Eric Morcor`s mine in Johannesburg, and presented to his bride on their wedding day." He glances up at me. "It is currently valued at £20,000 Mr Holmes. Apparently, they are more commonly found in red; blue is the rarest variety."
Hmm. Blue in nature always proves to be the more deadly option, it would seem.
~x~
Part Five: A Surfeit of Deductions
I am more than a little jolted when I hear his words cut abruptly through the cool mortuary stillness:
"Is it fresh?"
So startled, in fact, that I drop the rough-hewn shroud in surprise, so that it pools almost classically around the set features of the corpse. Even so, I know of this voice, and of this man, and something nudges into my mind, advising me against artifice or affectation.
So I merely say:
"Mr Joshua Davies – brought in from Piccadilly Circus a mere two hours ago."
He moves silently; sparingly, like a cat. Not a step wasted nor a hesitation brooked. Black, leather gloved hands smooth back the shroud from Mr Davies; hands and eyes (the former, barely skimming the body, the latter boring into its supine layers, as if transparent).
"A blunt instrument to the left temple, " I venture (too bold, Margaret Hooper! Comes my dead mother`s voice). "Also – " I hesitate (goodness, the dead do seemingly haunt both my conscious and subconscious these days) and as I do so, the black gloved hands falter and I know he is looking at me, even though my eyes are downcast and tremendously focused upon Mr Davies.
"What have you noticed? What did you see?" There is a tiny, infinitesimal tremor in his voice; the laconic assuredness is gone, replaced by something much more human –
Excitement.
"I – I`m not quite sure … "
"Yes, yes you are. You were right about the haemorrhaging in the eyes of Lady Eleanor. I know that she was asphyxiated, not drowned, as do you."
"Sir, I am the mortuary maid of work; I am not paid to have opinions regarding the nature of death, just the cleaning up of the mess it leaves in its wake."
He is so still, so quiet then, that I am compelled to lift my eyes and meet with his, as anything else would be –
Oh.
Heterochromia Iridum. Layers of green, of blue; depth of colour, followed by almost translucent light … the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, The Great Detective, who`s mouth is moving, since he appears to be speaking – to me (so quietly, in the quietest of places).
"That, dear lady, could be a very accurate definition of my own career. Please ensure that Dr Watson never hears of it." And, for the briefest of moments, I hear a lightness in his tone, as if to put me at my ease. He wants my trust, and somehow, he has it.
"I – I noticed that Mr Davies`s bruising was a little unusual in its colouration."
"How so?" The eyes so hard and focused once more, as if a semblance had passed across his face.
Lifting the shroud further, I point out the faint, yet visible markings around the impacted wound which had ended the life of this man.
"See, here – and here … it appears out of place, Sir. I have witnessed so many variants on a bruise; a compression wound of this nature, but never seen such a singular pattern and discolouration. Mr Sanderson says – "
Sherlock Holmes emits a sound which I swiftly understand to be distaste and thus, determine upon another avenue of opinion:
"The general consensus, Sir, is murder."
Sherlock Holmes tilts his head to one side, steps back and folds his black overcoated arms as he contemplates poor Mr Davies.
"He seemed a popular man to me, Sir." I add. "People have been by. He was nice."
"He was nice. This man`s colouration, clear sedentary habits, wear on his inner thumbs and habit of wearing his hat perched on the back of his head all point to the fact he was a London cabbie who, tragically, fell from his own cab and was accidentally kicked in the head by his own horse. The discolouration you noticed is indeed irreconcilable with a natural bruising pattern because it is rust, from a nail in the shoe of a poor horse now without a master. If Lestrade or Gregson start listening to Sanderson with any degree of reliance, I shall have no option but to take them to task upon the matter."
At that, the fine gentleman turned and gave me the sparest of smiles, which swift advanced when noting my astonishment.
"Not so very clever, Ma`am. Indeed, it was your very own observations which piqued my interest." Whereupon, Sherlock Holmes reaches across, pulls out a small stool and bids me to sit upon it.
"I wonder," his eyes almost glow their translucence beneath the flickering gas, "could you possibly relinquish your mop and slop bucket for five more precious minutes whilst you give me the benefit of your observational skills upon this very fine lady`s headgear? I must warn you, I am very persuasive when the cause is just."
~x~
Her fingers are small, deft and precise in their exploration, whilst intense brown eyes appear almost ferocious as they roll across the stiffened felt and beribboned confection in her grasp. Watson frequently chides me regarding my mistrust of the fairer sex, since I find them to be naturally secretive, (even the best of them), however, this small and slightly under-nourished creature affects an open and focused desire to … discover.
"I – I don`t really … "
"You must look."
"I can see – "
"You see, but you do not observe – the distinction is clear." I resist the dominant urge to relieve her of the hat and share my own discourse on its owner, but before I resort to such unchivalrous behaviour –
"So, Mr Holmes, what do I see about the individuality of the person who wore this article? The lady is of an intellectual persuasion (a larger fitting suggests a larger brain), and a lady who has lived frugally but had, within recent years, become more accustomed to wealth and privilege."
Indeed. The hat was a recent purchase (highly in fashion in certain circles) and evidence of a hat-securer about its brim indicated a person new to wealth, who had taken measures against the frivolity and carelessness of those born into it.
"Slight perspiration stains about the lining indicate a lady of moderate fitness; a sedentary person who has only infrequent bursts of activity; yet, a young person, judging by the dark hair I see beneath the hat band …"
Quite, quite remarkable.
"… and – there is something else I may – observe, sir."
"Please."
"This hat," she holds it aloft, rotating its navy feather, jaunty and tremulous as it turns in the space between us. "This hat fills me with a strange sense of sadness, Mr Holmes. Although expensively purchased, I feel it has been neglected, as has its owner." The brown eyes lift and meet with my own, conveying a genuinely earnest sense of sorrow, and I am momentarily, inexplicably, moved.
"I feel, Mr Holmes, that someone very close to the owner of this hat has … ceased to love them."
As previously ascertained, I am rarely surprised, and when I am, I hold it closely, like a jewel that is richer and more precious than a thousand well-meant accolades.
~x~
Hello, and thank you to those who have read, reviewed or followed - lovely!
I had so few characters to summarise the story (I always waffle on too much) that I forgot a most important piece of information - this story (as some have most likely noted) is based on The Blue Carbuncle by ACD and I have melded the plot to my own Sherlolly needs (apologies, Sir Arthur, but needs must).
Hope this chapter reads ok. :)