A/N: I unashamedly swiped the basic idea of the reporter scene outside the courtroom from the recent BBC adaptations starring Clive Merrison and Michael Williams, just in case anybody recognizes the situation. My apologies to Bert Coules.
"Well, that was a capital waste of time, Watson," Lestrade grumbled, in a thoroughly ill temper.
I was deep in thought and only barely registered that he had spoken until a few moments after the fact.
"Hmm? Oh, the cab-stand. It was not a waste, Lestrade."
"It certainly was," the man averred grouchily, "supposedly one or the other of those cabbies was there all night the evening of the murder and they all swear they heard nothing that could have even possibly been a shot."
"That is why it was not a waste of time, Lestrade," I murmured distractedly, trying to piece together this puzzle that was gnawing at me.
There was something odd about it, something very odd – almost like a faint whisper of a more organized and intelligent culprit at the back of it than the usual petty murderer. I could not quite place what…
"Doctor, for heaven's sake, are you even listening to me?" the Scotland Yarder was demanding.
"I am sorry, Lestrade," I quickly apologized, coming back to the present, "I was thinking. What were you saying?"
"I asked you, how can you say it was not a waste of time, when we learned nothing?"
"Because the fact that those cabmen heard nothing is a significant clew, Lestrade," I replied.
"How?"
"I don't know," I admitted, "but I know it has to be significant somehow. It has to be."
"Confound this whole case, anyhow," the man growled, flagging down a passing cab.
"Heading back to the Yard?"
"Yes. Hop in, Doctor, I'll drop you off – it's on my way."
My pride dictated I refuse the offer – Lestrade knew of my slight financial pinch and was no doubt doing his not-so-subtle best to help; but the rain had started to drizzle its way under my collar and my discomfort pushed out my foolish pride. I got in beside him with a murmured thank-you.
"I suppose I shall see you at the inquest, Doctor?" he asked as we pulled up in front of my consulting-room.
"Yes, unless I think of anything before then," I replied, exiting the cab, "and thank you for the ride."
"Anytime, Doctor. Until the inquest, then."
I nodded and raised a hand in farewell as the driver chucked the reins and the cab moved onward.
A slight movement caught my eye across the street in the shadow of a large flowering bush, and I scrutinized for a moment the spot but saw absolutely nothing in the gloomy evening.
Then when a large blast of rain hit me in the face I shook myself, laughing at my tense, over-active imagination and reluctantly entered my dark, lonely house, hoping my maid had built a fire at least to ward off the chill in my body, not to mention my mind.
IS SOMETHING AMISS BROTHER STOP WHY ARE YOU NOT RESPONDING STOP M.
I sighed wearily. Our experiments were drawing to an end now, thank heaven, and soon I would be able to answer Mycroft's insistent pleas for my correspondence. I would be done by the time this inquest – what was the name again? Adair? – had been performed in London.
Why the devil did my brother want me to look up some recent London murder? Mycroft always had been the most impatient of elder brothers – not that I deserved a deal of patience; but still, even for him, this was rather insistent.
Two more days, and then this experiment should be under enough control that I could take a holiday and go to Paris to find out the latest news.
Until then, science over sentiment. It had to be.
"Good afternoon, Doctor. How are you?" Lestrade asked me as I seated myself beside him in the courtroom.
"In reasonable health, thank you Lestrade," I returned absently, shuffling through the papers I held.
"You don't look it, Doctor," the man said frankly, "I think you're working yourself into the ground."
"Since when did you become a physician, Inspector?" I asked, glancing up at him with a small smile.
"Well, I –"
We were interrupted by the commencement of the inquest.
I was the first to testify, being the police surgeon involved, and I became thoroughly annoyed when my timid deductions about the type of gun used was curtly and rudely dismissed as being a theory, not a fact – now I knew how Holmes always felt when his theories were rejected by the Scotland Yarders and half-witted clients.
My mind traveled back to the times when I had loyally defended his deductions (sometimes against even my better judgment) against all odds, and the memories for the moment blocked out the sounds of tittering and hooting from the gallery above my head.
I felt my face flush in embarrassment as the judge curtly told me to stick to my medical facts and leave the theorizing to the police. As he nodded to me, I took a deep breath and continued my testimony, now just wishing for the ordeal to be over with.
Finally I was dismissed and the next witness called, the dead man's servant who had broken the door in and found Adair slumped across his desk, stone dead.
I sat down beside Lestrade, feeling that my ears were still slightly red, and he gave me a sympathetic look and started to scribble something on a page of his notebook. I was paying attention to the servant's testimony and did not notice his writing until he shoved the book in my direction.
Insufferable git. Mr. Holmes would be proud of you, Doctor.
I cannot recall anything else the witness said after that.
"M. Vernet?"
"Yes, D'Albert," I snapped impatiently, working feverishly to finish up this infernal experiment. Why had I even agreed to this in the first place?
Not even the scientific knowledge that would be gained by it was worth the bother. I had not the patience for this kind of thing. Odd experiments in my sitting room once in a while, for case or recreation, were one thing – this was entirely different.
I was only half-listening as my companion began to detail to me some results he had mathematically calculated about the derivative's reaction with my chemical compound. My mind was on a city across the Channel, drifting wistfully to one man in particular.
Yes, I was indeed homesick, I realized with some surprise.
The rest of the Adair inquest's testimonies consisted of the three card partners that Adair had played with; but their statements concurred exactly with what Lestrade had already told me about the case – no help there.
Sir John Hardy had indeed had a slight quarrel with Adair before the deceased left the Bagatelle Club, but both he and Colonel Moran insisted that the argument had been resolved and they parted on good terms. Moran swore up and down, corroborated by Arthur Murray, that Adair was 'as honest as the day is long', without a single enemy in the world.
Nothing was said that would furnish us with any clue. Suicide was completely out of the question, but the murder was as inexplicable as ever.
It was not long after the end of the testimonies that the jury lost no time in bringing in a verdict of 'willful murder by person or persons unknown.'
As the gavel came down to dismiss the case, Lestrade glanced at me with a sigh.
"Well, that went as we thought it would," he moaned dismally, slinking down in his chair as the occupants of the courtroom filed past us.
I nodded, rubbing my head wearily.
"Do you get the feeling that there's something we're missing here, Doctor?"
"Yes, Inspector," I agreed, thinking hard as we stood to exit, "there is something. I am going back for another look at the house. Can you come along?"
"I'm sorry, Doctor, but no – I have to be getting back to the station. Have to see what I'm supposed to do now that the verdict's in. Dashed boring routine, if I am any judge. Probably have to question everyone again, that sort of thing."
We had exited the courtroom and were immediately accosted by a flock of over-eager newspaper reporters, all shouting for us to give them statements for their different rags.
I was thoroughly annoyed, and Lestrade was near-apoplectic by the time we had fought our way partially through them.
"I say, Inspector!"
"Inspector Lestrade, just one statement for the Standard?"
"Dr. Watson, have you any theories?"
"Inspector, have you found the murder weapon yet?"
"Do ye have a motive yet?"
"Dr. Watson, how do you think Mr. Holmes would have investigated this case, sir?"
I felt my face blanch at that last upstart's insensitive question and Lestrade grabbed my arm, sending the man a scathing glare and nearly shoving our way through the clamour.
"Sorry about that, Doctor," he gasped at last as we jumped into a cab to escape the pandemonium, "deucedly idiotic fool!"
I had to smile at the man's defense of me – quite a pleasant feeling, having a friend defend me from some harm, slight though it really was.
But the reporter's unthinking words rang still in my mind as Lestrade dropped me off near Park Lane and continued back to the police station.
How would Holmes have investigated this case? He would so have loved its quirks and unusual features, I reflected as I walked along.
How I wished I were walking beside him, preparatory to successfully concluding this abstruse case. But I had to live in reality.
I would never have that chance again.
To be continued...thanks to all you who have reviewed!