Part Seven: A Rare Jewel

It is a most bizarre and strenuous situation, to be sure.

We three huddle inside the cab, our breath rising in floury plumes as the night`s cold air condenses our words, and we sit, somewhere between home and pursuit, yet unable to set forth to either. I am verging upon incredulity that my companion would halt so in his task; Mr Breckinridge was becoming a distant figure along the length of Baker Street, soon too far away to be followed at all. Yet, his eyes scan the face of our mortuary maid and his body shows uncharacteristic patience as she pulls a drawstring purse from her sleeve. Her coat, I notice, is thin and threadbare and not at all suited for a soon to be freezing December night.

"A cab, Miss Hooper?" Such extravagance was clearly beyond her means which indicated, I knew, the urgency of her mission.

The girl merely shook her head; less in answer, but more to clear it for more important matters.

"She wasn't strangled, Sir, she was asphyxiated; she was choked to death with this."

Our two head look down to see. She holds out her hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm is a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in her glove`s dark hollow.

The Blue Carbuncle.

~x~

We were crossing the river and had managed to keep sight of Breckenridge, who had acquired a cab of his own, since his journey was proving to be a long one. Through an increasingly heavy fall of snow, double-fronters became terraces, terraces became small cottages, and we quickly ascertained a less salubrious side of town was to be our probable destination.

And all the time, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper continued to exchange urgent words.

"Inspector Lestrade arrested John Horner, the gas fitter who was seen leaving Lady Morcor`s hotel room this morning. I know this man is innocent, Mr Holmes."

"How so?"

She pauses momentarily and the clatter of hooves on cobbles are all we hear.

"He has such an innocence about his eyes, sir."

Fully expecting a retort of impatience at such whimsy, I am somewhat surprised to hear him say:

"Please elaborate."

"Truthfully, Mr Horner has been imprisoned previously, but I feel strongly that he is a reformed character who would bear no ill-will to a virtual stranger."

"The gem you hold in your sleeve is worth no less than £20,000," I interject. "Any man might be tempted, Miss Hooper."

"I happen to know, Dr Watson, that Mr Horner was recently reunited with his childhood sweetheart, and was looking to start a new life with her and their child. Real love is a strong, powerful enabler and must not be underestimated."

Again, the anticipated snort of derision from the man who had once labelled love `a far more vicious motivator` never came. I glanced at my friend, as if to gain the mind`s construction in the face, but his set expression gave nothing away, and my slightly untethered puzzlement deepened. This was a man I knew as I knew myself (at times, more so) but this night was proving to be new and uncharted territory. As a lover, Sherlock Holmes would have placed himself in a false position. The softer notions of the heart caused nought but grit upon the lens of such an analytical and finely tuned mind as his. Truthfully, he had admired few of the fairer sex, and any begrudging acknowledgement of their worth was based purely on an admiration of their own intellectual talents challenging his own. Admiration based upon any other quarter (beauty, kindness, accomplishment, sweet humour) was most alien to his brain.

And yet …

The cab lurches forward, then shudders to a greasy stop in the freshly fallen snow. Breckinridge has reached his destination; a squat, red-bricked terrace near the railway arches and in possession of an unkempt garden. A dog barks, echoing under the railway bridge, and from far away, the crying of an infant carries in the night air.

"Mr Ryder in? I need to see `im!" Our quarry`s words were harshly issued, born of stress and un-used to fortitude that had been imposed upon him. It seemed like minutes, but in reality, only moments later the white face of a small, weasily looking man, almost cringing before the imposing form of Breckinridge, appears at the door. Holmes has his hand atop my shoulder, as if to steady our nerves with his physicality; at the sight of Ryder, I feel his hand tighten momentarily, then it is gone.

"I need a little word with you, my friend. I`ve had a few close shaves this day and we need to get things straight." Breckinridge`s words appear to brook no refusal, and Ryder nods, without words, holding open the door for his unwelcome visitor.

I feel the weight in the cab shift as Sherlock Holmes slumps back into his seat and knock on the ceiling to the cabbie.

"Belgravia, my man. We must repair to the Hotel Cosmopolitan. I have a hotel room to search, and a man`s innocence to prove. We have seen all we need to see here."

And as the hooves take to the cobbles again, I sink back into my seat and ruminate upon everything I have seen – and everything I have missed.

~x~

Part Eight: An Inconsistency of Evidence

Lestrade hovers above me as I examine the safe and I am forced to bite back my irritation (social niceties are charming, but often serve to merely slow down my work) as I examine the abrasions about the keyhole and the badly treated handle. It is fortuitous then, that my (very elementary) deductions are complete within the space of two and a half minutes (my dear brother Mycroft would goad that I was slipping). I sit back upon my heels, causing him to step back abruptly, knocking into a parlour fern. I do not smile, but I want to.

"Horner is innocent. Release him and we can apprehend the real villains in this piece, Lestrade."

His face: a veritable compound of confusion and impatience.

"Mr Holmes, you can`t be serious? The man is a convicted criminal. He was reported leaving the suite hurriedly the morning of the robbery; the very day Lady Eleanor disappeared. He was agitated."

"Reported by whom?"

Notebooks and illegible handwriting are squinted at (it seems that all policemen share a similar malaise of poor penmanship).

"A young man – a guest at the hotel, most likely at the conference in the Grand Ballroom that day (more rustling of pages) – some kind of conference for schoolmasters. Small, well-mannered, smart …"

"And unnamed?" adds John Watson, to my inner jouissance.

Lestrade is pinker than previously.

"A reliable witness, Mr Holmes, nevertheless. Circumstances must point to – "

I sigh. This is taking far too long, and time is our enemy. I glance across to the settle to see Molly Hooper looking directly at a triptych of framed portraits of the Countess, her deceased daughter and grand-daughter, and I am thrilled to see she is frowning … then her finely arched brows lift, and I know that she knows … she knows …

"Horner was jailed by the Assizes two years ago for the crime of breaking, entering and safe-cracking, Lestrade. The marks, scratches and shoddy use of a key (yes, a key has been recently used in this lock, not a jemmy) would be a shameful testimony to the man`s chosen area of criminality. He would have left very few marks and certainly not had access to a key. He did not take the Blue Carbuncle."

(At that very moment, an official source – perhaps even my dear brother – was reuniting the Countess with her precious legacy. More the pity he could not reunite her with the poor creature now lying white and lifeless in the mortuary)

"Then, Mr Holmes, who did?"

"Countess Morcar`s grand-daughter, the late Lady Eleanor," I respond, lowering my eyes towards the daguerreotypes, still lying in the gloved hands of Miss Molly Hooper.

A/N: Thank you so much for the kindly and constructive reviews - feedback is love! :)

Guest: Thank you so much for the encouragement; much appreciated. x