Author's note: I should have probably mentioned in the last chapter that this episode is called The Case of the Invisible Man. Yeah.
Also, I am in need of ideas for good crimes. If you have any, let me know and I might just use it for a story. Oh, I will give you credit for the idea too, I'm not going to just steal it from you. I'm not that evil!
The Case of the Invisible Man, Chapter Two: Interviewing the Innocent
Sherlock and I arrived at Scotland Yard at about lunchtime, finding Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins at his desk at the opposite end of the room to where his rival and fellow workmate Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade worked. Hopkins was sitting surrounded by piles of case files and loose papers and had a particularly stressed demeanour about him.
"Ah," said the young detective, glancing up and finding us standing before him. "Mr Holmes, Dr. Watson, miss Flynn obviously took my advice then?"
"And why exactly would you be advising the fiancée of your chief suspect to come and see me?" asked Sherlock with a familiar air of arrogance that he usually got when he was amused with other people's misfortune.
Hopkins' gave a tired sigh. "I know you don't have much faith in us here, Holmes, but we are doing the best we can with what we currently have."
"No you're not," Sherlock stated bluntly. "If you were doing that you wouldn't have Declan Braxton in custody, would you?"
"You haven't even seen him yet!" Hopkins complained with a deep frown.
"I've spoken to the fiancée," Sherlock told him lightly. "She seems convinced of his innocence."
"Since when do you believe a suspect's partner?" I asked him, genuinely taken aback.
"I don't, but that's not the point, John." Sherlock said dismissively. "Yet again you've missed the obvious."
"Of course I have Sherlock," I sighed, hating the way he acted when the rest of the normal people hadn't caught up to him yet.
"Do you want to read the case file?" Hopkins asked, reaching for one of the many folders on his desk.
"The only thing I need to see right now is a picture and details of the victim's wounds." Sherlock said in superior tones, holding out his hand expectantly until Hopkins eventually placed a photograph and some sheets of paper into it. He glanced to them with a frown before handing the photograph over to me.
The man in the photograph was hooked up to all the usual medical equipment that you would expect to see when a patient is fighting for their life. He had silver-grey hair and multiple – six to be exact – stab wounds to the chest that had all been stapled back up. From the positioning of the wounds, I gathered the attack to be a frenzied one rather than being strategically thought through.
"Jesus," I muttered. "He is lucky that the person who did this to him didn't hit any vital organs."
"Oh good, you've caught up," Sherlock said sounding slightly relieved but I looked to him blankly.
"Ah, no I haven't." I admitted slowly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a small sigh. "What was it that Declan Braxton does for a living, John?"
"He's a nurse at the London Hospital," I said nodding, now realising where Sherlock was coming from now. "You think that Braxton should have known where to stab the victim in order to cause death?"
"I know he should and so do you," he said to me sternly. "How could attacking the victim in this fashion do him any good? Chances are that the victim will survive and be able to identify the person who has done this to him."
"Knowledge of vital organs sometimes goes out the window in situations like this, Sherlock. "I reminded him. "Not everyone can handle actually stabbing someone."
"That - like the wounds would suggest - would imply a frenzied attack." Sherlock said back to me. "Now what could possibly provoke Braxton to a man with whom he has known for years? What could he possibly gain from this apart from gaol time, no wedding and a new reputation that will follow him for the rest of his life? There is no motive here!"
"Why do you think I recommended you?" Hopkins said seriously. "This case – well, I can make neither heads nor tails of it. The suspect is adamant that he didn't have an argument with the victim, yet the landlady – a Mrs Addison – is insistent that she saw the pair of them arguing quite loudly on the staircase in the house."
"Yes, well I am going to want to speak with her after we are finished with Braxton, as well as going of the scene for myself."
Hopkins nodded. "Come this way then,"
He led us silently through Scotland Yard and down to the holding cells and we made our way through the multiple security checkpoints before finally reaching the dark and cold corridor of holding cells. We walked halfway down this corridor, the cells inhabitants all yelling very flavoursome things out to us, until we reached cell number twenty-four and the supervising sergeant unlocked the door for us so we could go in.
The cell's sole occupant was a fairly tall man, maybe five foot nine inches, early thirties with sandy blond hair. When Sherlock and I followed Hopkins in and the cell door shut loudly behind us, he stood and looked to Hopkins alarmed.
"Should I be asking for a lawyer?" Declan Braxton asked in a thick Irish accent.
"Don't be boring," Sherlock sighed, sounding disappointed.
"Sherlock," I muttered, receiving an annoyed glare from him.
"Sherlock Holmes?" the tired looking man asked, relief flooding his pale face. "Imogen went to see you then?"
"She came and saw us this morning," I told him and his gaze turned now to me. "John Watson," I added, holding out my hand to shake his.
"I know," Braxton nodded. "Detective Inspector Hopkins has told me all about you both and what it is that you do. Have you found out who really attacked Caleb yet?"
"I already have a fair idea who the person is, yes." Sherlock said, pausing to allow Hopkins and myself to look to him sharply, a small, smug smile briefly playing on his lips before he continued. "But I still need decent evidence to support my theories."
"Hopkins said that you were good," Braxton laughed honestly and I noticed that Sherlock looked over to the DI raising his eyebrows in a slightly conceited manner.
"Why don't you tell them everything that you've told me Mr Braxton," Hopkins urged uncomfortably, making Sherlock smirk as I quickly retrieved my notepad and pen from my jacket pocket.
"Save no details," Sherlock instructed. "Nothing is irrelevant!"
Braxton nodded and quickly gathered his thoughts. "I woke up on Friday afternoon at about one-thirty –"
"You work the nightshift at the London Hospital?" Sherlock enquired.
"Yeah," Braxton nodded. "Imogen gets Friday's off so we just spent most of the afternoon chilling on the sofa, watching TV. Caleb – Imogen's dad – called her at about two-thirty to ask if I could go around to his place to fix the shower head in the bathroom and I said that I would call in on my way to work. I left home to catch the underground from Paddington Station at quarter-past three. I didn't pay much attention to when I actually got on the train or anything like that, and I didn't even notice what time I arrived at Baker Street, but I know for certain that I got to Caleb's flat by four."
"Must have been a fairly good run on the Tube then," I said to him.
"Yeah, that's how I knew for certain that it was four o'clock because I double checked Caleb's clock." Braxton said to me.
"And what happened once you arrived at your fiancée's father's place?" Sherlock asked with hints of impatientness in his voice due to our little side-note.
"The front door was locked, which wasn't surprising, so I had to buzz the intercom to ask the landlady if she could let me in."
"And she let you in with no hesitation?" Sherlock pressed, frowning in concentration.
"She let me in straight away." He said. "But she did sound a bit distracted. I asked her if she was alright but she said I had just waked her up from her afternoon nap, so I just went upstairs to knock on Caleb's door."
"Did you notice if the woman's television was on?" Sherlock asked seriously and I frowned, not able to see the relevance, while Braxton thought it over before eventually nodding.
"Yeah, I think it was," he said vaguely. "I remember hearing one of those awful commercials for health insurance that everyone has been plugging recently and Mrs Addison is the only person living downstairs at the moment."
Sherlock nodded. "Continue,"
"So, Caleb let me in and I fixed his leaking shower head – it wasn't really broken, it just needed a quick tightening but I don't think he could have reached it with his back giving him grief all the time." Braxton went on to explain. "I had a quick cup of tea with him after that before leaving him at twenty to five and calling Imogen to let her know all was well and that I was on my way to work."
"You checked the phone records?" Sherlock asked Hopkins, who nodded. "What time did you arrive at Baker Street Station?"
"About five to five," he said. "And I was on the train by five past."
"Do you use an oyster card?" I asked, thinking that it would be easy enough to check his whereabouts with that.
"I do, but that day I accidently left it at home so I had to buy a normal ticket," he said to me and I could tell that he regretted it.
"CCTV footage?" asked Sherlock, glancing at Hopkins.
"I have people going through the footage now to locate him on the tapes." Hopkins answered him and Sherlock nodded, looking back to Braxton.
"Now, how many years did you study to get to where you are now in nursing?" Sherlock asked lightly.
Braxton looked to him startled. "Three,"
"And if you were going to stab someone with the intent to kill them, where would you aim for?"
"Sherlock," I protested loudly.
"Please give me an honest answer, Mr Braxton." Sherlock pressed, ignoring me.
"I – I don't know," he stammered. "I haven't ever thought about it."
"Well, think about it now, using your knowledge of the delicate nature of the human body and imagining that your victim is more muscular than you are and has begun to fight back. Where would you aim to stop him for good?"
"I don't – probably the throat," Braxton said, his voice shaking violently. "Or maybe his lower abdomen – look, I don't know, I could never actually do it!"
"I know you wouldn't, I just had to prove a point." Sherlock said calmly and I shook my head disapprovingly as the poor man sunk weakly down to the bed. "Just one last thing before we go though did you actually have an argument with your fiancée's father?"
"No," he answered, looking up to Sherlock, his face pale.
"And the landlady, Mrs Addison, she doesn't bare a grudge against you?"
"I have no idea why she would say that she saw me and Caleb arguing. I mean, we were only together inside his flat and he didn't walk downstairs with me when I left. He always avoided using the stairs unless he absolutely had to, because he was getting on in years now and his knees weren't what they used to be. Plus, his back was aching from helping Mrs Addison rearrange the attic last week. In all honesty, he was considering moving out to a place with no stairs."
"Interesting," Sherlock mumbled. "Well Mr Braxton, I would imagine that you should be out of here by this afternoon."
"Really?" he asked eagerly.
"They have no reason to keep holding you, why do you think they called me in?" Sherlock smiled as he knocked on the cell door to be let out, Hopkins looking across to him darkly. "Goodbye!"