The Devil's Root

Chapter One

Molly Hooper and Inspector Lestrade were waiting in the morgue when Sherlock burst through the double doors with John Watson on his heels.

"Morning, Molly, Grant," he called cheerfully as he swept past them to look at the grey figure on the slab. The victim, a man in his early forties, stared up at him unblinking. His lips were blue-grey and twisted into a horrible grimace. He had the look of someone who had just been given a fright, as if he had been caught in a moment of sheer terror and died with his face frozen that way.

"My name is Greg," grumbled Lestrade.

"Whatever," Sherlock answered without looking up. "What can you tell me about this fellow?'

Lestrade cleared his throat and walked over to where the detective stood hunched over the body. He was peering into one of the victim's eyes through a small retractable magnifier.

"We know his name is Owen St. George," began the Inspector. "He was an accountant with the Farnsworth Firm. No wife or significant other that we know of. Lived alone in Hoxton."

"What about you, Molly?" asked Sherlock. "What do you make of this?"

The pathologist shrugged. "I've never seen anything like it," she answered. "Whatever it was that killed him, I can't seem to find it."

"Dr. Watson?" Sherlock turned to his friend. "Diagnosis?"

John stepped closer and examined the body. He studied the eyes, the lips and chest.

"At first glance I would have thought heart attack," said the doctor. "The blue tinge around the mouth suggests oxygen deprivation. No skin mottling though."

"No, I've checked," said Molly. "No heart attack or stroke or undiagnosed conditions; he was in relatively perfect health."

"And no poisons have been detected, I take it," stated Sherlock.

"That's right," Molly answered. "No poisons, toxins, or drugs of any kind have shown up in his system."

Sherlock frowned and peered closer at the dead man. "Interesting," he said.

"No," interrupted Lestrade. "What's interesting is the story his friend told of how he died."

Sherlock looked up with his brow furrowed. "His friend? Who?" he asked.

"Guy by the name of Trent Mortimer," answered the Inspector. "He's a real whack-job. He said his friend here was killed by an evil spirit."

Molly shuddered and turned away and Sherlock and John stared at Lestrade.

"What did you say?" asked the detective.

"Mortimer says his friend was killed by an evil spirit. Isn't that ridiculous?" Lestrade repeated with a laugh.

"Where is Mr. Mortimer now, Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

"At home I guess, in Hampstead," answered Lestrade. "There was no evidence to suggest homicide, so we had to let him go. He was a wreck anyway. He kept railing on about how his friend had tried to warn him before he died."

"And you haven't investigated further?" questioned John.

"We questioned Mortimer as much as we could, Dr.," answered the Inspector. "Without a definite cause of death, there's not much more we could do. Besides, we're Scotland Yard, not Ghost Hunters."

Sherlock turned and stalked out of the room without a word and the Inspector stared after him, bewildered. John nodded to Molly and Lestrade and then ran to catch up with the detective.

"Going to talk to Mortimer?" he asked as they left St. Bart's and hailed a cab.

"Very good, John," Sherlock cooed sarcastically. "I guess it's not true what they say about old dogs and new tricks,"

"Whatever," John muttered, clearly dismissing his friend's attempt to ruffle him. A cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock and John slid into the back seat. Sherlock barked directions to the driver before settling into his seat.

"What do you think about Mortimer's story?" asked John when they were on their way.

Sherlock looked out the window as the city whizzed past. "I think," he began, "either he's crazy or he's lying. A conversation with Mr. Mortimer should clear up rather definitively which one he is."

John nodded and leaned back against the seat as the cab wove through the crowded streets toward Hampstead.


It didn't take long for the detective to track down Mr. Mortimer. After questioning at the local pub, the detective and the doctor were pointed toward a newly remodeled housing unit in a particularly fashionable area of the neighborhood.

"Nice," noted John as they looked up at the stone building with large Doric columns and perfectly symmetrical topiaries.

Sherlock rang the buzzer and looked up at the security camera overhead and smiled.

"Name please," came a tinny voice over the intercom.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered, holding up the marker he had swiped from the Inspector. "This is Sergeant Donovan," he continued, indicating John. "We're here to speak to Mr. Mortimer about his friend, Mr. St. George."

"One moment please," said the intercom voice.

"Would you stop stealing those?" John complained.

Sherlock held up Lestrade's marker. "What, this?" he asked and grunted. "Gary has more."

John shook his head. "Well, at least stop making me be Donovan," he hissed as the intercom buzzed and crackled and the voice came back on.

"Mr. Mortimer says to come right up, Inspector."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. He heard the door lock click and held it open for John. "After you, Sergeant Donovan," he teased.

"Shut up," muttered John.


"You're not Lestrade," said Trent Mortimer when he opened the door and looked at the two men standing in the hall.

"No," replied Sherlock. "My name is Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson. We're here to ask you a few questions about the death of Owen St. George."

"I've already told the police everything and they pretty much laughed in my face, so go away and leave me alone." Mr. Mortimer began to close the door, but Sherlock blocked it with his foot.

"We believe you though, Mr. Mortimer," he said. "We just want to hear it from you. Right, Dr. Watson?"

"Um…oh. Yes," said John, catching on. "We are very interested in hearing your story."

Mr. Mortimer didn't look convinced. "You sure you aren't just here to laugh at me?" he asked.

"You have our word as gentlemen, Mr. Mortimer," replied Sherlock. He looked at John who smiled and nodded his agreement.

"All right then. Come in." Mortimer opened the door and let them enter his flat. It was large and tidy with new furnishings, high-end finishes and sparkling updated appliances. Sherlock noticed the lingering scent of ladies' perfume, Enchantment, as well as several fashion magazines in a basket near the sofa.

"Your girlfriend isn't here?" he asked.

Mortimer looked startled. "How did—No, she isn't here. She's at work."

Sherlock studied Mortimer carefully. He was a tall, slim, not unattractive man in his mid to late forties. He had a fairly muscular build but slightly thinning hair. His blue slacks were nicely tailored, his pinstriped shirt was neatly pressed, and his shoes were polished to a shine.

"What sort of office work do you do, Mr. Mortimer?" asked the detective, having deduced his occupation by simply giving him the once-over.

"I'm a data entry clerk for Cranford and Company," the man answered.

Sherlock looked around thoughtfully. "Must pay unusually well," he said.

"Not at all-" Mortimer began but stopped when he caught the detective's meaning. "This is my girlfriend's place," he said, embarrassed. "She's the one with the posh job. She's a graphic designer."

"Ah, I see," said Sherlock. He gave a slight nod to John and began to aimlessly wander about, picking up and examining things as he went.

"So…" sighed John. "Mr. Mortimer, how did you know Owen St. George?"

Mortimer shifted uncomfortably before answering. "We were both in the Society," he said finally.

"Society?" echoed John.

"Yes, we investigated things."

"What sort of things?" asked Sherlock as he picked up a thick book and flipped through it.

Mortimer drew in a long breath and released it. "We investigated hauntings. You know, ghosts and such. Just a hobby really. We never found much until…" His voice trailed off.

"A paranormal society then," stated Sherlock and Mortimer nodded. "And now you think one of the spirits you investigated killed your friend?"

"I know it sounds crazy," the man gushed. "But I swear it's true. I saw what happened!"

"Tell us what happened, Mr. Mortimer," urged the detective. Mortimer sat down on the sofa and retold the story he had shared with Lestrade earlier.

"I got a call Thursday night from Owen. He sounded upset. Said he needed to speak to me. That it was urgent. So I met him at our headquarters." Mortimer paused and shook his head. "I'd never seen Owen like that. He was so shaken up. I asked him what was wrong and he said that we had to stop the investigations. When I asked why, he didn't want to say at first, but I kept needling him. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe that's the reason for what happened next."

"What happened next?" John asked gently. Mortimer took a deep breath and continued.

"Owen said he'd had a premonition. He said an evil spirit warned him that if the investigations didn't stop that he would die. While he was still speaking, he went stark white, like he was seeing something. I didn't see anything, and I asked him what it was and he just said, 'No." Just that. 'No.' Then he started convulsing and collapsed. I called the ambulance and tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. Owen was dead."

"You didn't see anything else?" John asked. "No one else was there?"

Mortimer shook his head.

"Do you know of anyone who would want Mr. St. George dead?" asked Sherlock.

Mortimer shook his head again. "No," he answered. "Everyone liked Owen. He was a great guy and a terrific friend. I tell you, I never would have believed something like this if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!"

Sherlock and John looked questioningly at one another before leaving Mr. Mortimer with instructions to get in touch if he thought of anything else that might be important.


"So, what do you think?" asked John when they were out in the hall.

"It's certainly peculiar," Sherlock replied and headed for the exit. "Mortimer seems absolutely convinced of this evil spirit business."

"Perhaps we should question the other members of the Society," offered John.

"Yes, you do that, John," said Sherlock. "I'm going to go see what I can find in the home of Mr. St. George." He flagged down a cab and hopped inside. "You'll have to get the next one," he said. "This one's mine."

John shook his head as the cab drove away.


A/N:

Next time: Inside The London Advanced Paranormal Investigation Society

Playlist:

I Appear Missing- Queens of the Stone Age

Standing the Storm- William Joseph

The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell- *David Bowie

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*There's always Bowie playing. Always.