Chapter VI. The Hyde Park Mystery
Usually, John didn't like coming here. The St. Bart's Hospital was, according to him, nothing but a huge, grey, distasteful block with far too small windows. It reminded him of his time at the military, where he would reside at such atrocities, mostly during the dreadful time of being injured. Furthermore, coming here either meant that someone had been killed – as it was this time – or that Sherlock would get lost in fanatic endeavour, mumbling to himself in an attempt to gain expert advice on some criminal, chemical masterpiece he was determined to unravel, while expertly forgetting everything and everyone else.
This time, John was simply relieved that he could escape the cab and eventually, Sherlock's complaints about the driver's radio programme. The moment his companion himself had entered the hospital, however, he seemed to have forgotten that fraught incident and was instead beaming with child-like euphoria while quickly ascending the stairs. It was just as if his life had a purpose again, he had shed his boredom like an old skin and he was fit as a fiddle and almost inappropriately excited. But this wasn't new to John. He knew Sherlock Holmes too well to still be appalled by his eccentric behaviour.
He followed him up the stairs, shaking his head and smiling to himself. His mind gave him contrary opinions. On one hand, he was delighted and happy to see his friend so active and evidently rejoicing. On the other hand, he suspected that their Christmas plans were in great danger. This wasn't the right time for a case. Yet, for Sherlock, there was no time, no date, no holiday that would be inept for a case. He knew no boundaries.
Soon, the two of them found themselves in the room they had been called to. They both knew the St. Bart's Hospital almost as well as their own flat and moved through the hallways and corridors with the same implicitness as they would at home. John thought to himself that one could indeed almost call the mortuary Sherlock's second living room, as he liked staying there almost as much as staying in his own.
"How long?" -until somebody found her? -has she been dead?, Sherlock asked immediately after dashing through the doors, as usual without wasting time for a greeting, his coat dramatically floating in behind him. His demand left just as much time for Lestrade to utter an "Ah…" upon his arrival. John felt unpleasantly ignored.
"Walkers found her in Hyde Park this morning, not far from the road. Said it looked more like she has had an epileptic seizure. Her name is Sandra Spiegelmann, as we've been able to identify, and she has recently turned twenty years old."
Sherlock had already strolled over to the body on the stretcher, walking around it, observing the young woman meticulously. To him, Lestrade's voice probably seemed like an informative podcast in the background. While Sherlock observed, John had stopped to look around the room. To his surprise, Molly Hooper was present, just a blurred figure in their midst, but she discretely and respectfully left the room after smiling at John and greeting him with a whispered "Hello". When the doors closed behind her, John's eyes followed her shadow on the milky glass windows and he noted that she sat down on a chair right next to the door.
"You said autopsy revealed that she has water in her lungs" said Sherlock after a while, "How come?" John turned his head and walked across the room to join his companion's side.
"That's what we've been hoping you could tell us…" Lestrade responded.
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, narrowing his eyes, "I will need a blood sample, as well as one of that water. But for now…" His gaze never left the body when he matter-of-factly put on rubber gloves. John was just next to him, Lestrade on the other side of the stretcher, while Sherlock's fingers traced the young woman's blouse. It turned out that it was more wet than damp, but that didn't say much as she had been lying on the grass all night. But opening her blouse and pealing the coat off her shoulders and décolleté revealed bruises, exactly the size of male fingertips. Sherlock's expression darkened in concentration.
"What was in her handbag? Her coat?" He straightened to face Lestrade.
"Not much, actually." Sherlock was led over to a small table. The few belongings Sandra Spiegelmann had had with her last night were spread there, like precious objects in a museum. Among them was a purse – bank card, no cash – an umbrella, a watch which wasn't ticking, a package of ataractics, a pocket calendar with a black pen and a small photograph. The photograph showed two brightly smiling children in what looked like a dark living room. Sherlock took the photograph and turned it.
"I suppose you took her mobile phone for retracing her calls?" Sherlock asked, never ceasing to look at the photograph.
"There was no mobile phone." Lestrade informed him, appearing quite distressed.
"No mobile phone? Interesting…"
Keeping the picture in his hand, Sherlock elaborated, "Obviously, the young woman wasn't planning on going out, as there is no cash in her purse. It seems likely that she was on her way home from work, yet her things do not give us any clue where she could have been working at, although it's clear that she cannot be a student. Considering her clothes, I would say she was some company employee. She's been wanting to get a new battery for her watch, or she wouldn't carry it around in her handbag, but she never got around to it, which means that she starts working early and stops working late. The ataractics say that she was probably under extreme stress and pressure and emotionally troubled. Last night, while she was on her way home, she got violently assaulted in Hyde Park, as deduced from the bruises on her arms and chest area. Now, the photograph… two children, certainly not her own children, as she is far too young. The children are approximately fourteen and nine years old. Also, the picture seems quite old – the corners are snapped off and it's crumbled. The older face resembles hers, so I assume it's our victim. Who is the other child? It could be a friend, but that's unlikely. Looking closer shows that they have the same light hair, the same arched eyebrows and a similar lip shape, which means that it can only be her little sister. Why would she keep such an old photograph of herself and her sister in her handbag? One possible explanation would be that her family doesn't respect her and she hasn't seen her sister for a very long time, but still misses her." Sherlock turned the photograph. "But look what we've got here. 'Never forgotten' and 'I'm sorry' written next to it with a pen. Conclusion: her sister died when they were both very young. It was likely an accident and partly or fully her fault. That says a lot."
Upon Sherlock's unparalleled detailing, Lestrade's astonishment was clearly legible in his features; for merely a second, before he realised it and evened his face. John couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a common reaction to his companion's descriptions, although one should assume that Lestrade was used to it by now. Still, Sherlock easily managed to flabbergast the Detective Inspector anew with every chain of evidence he so skilfully presented. John, too, caught himself thinking that Sherlock was proving once again how plainly brilliant he was. But Sherlock didn't seem to care much, as he didn't bother pointing out how idiotic he and Lestrade were to him, which was close to the only sign of flattery he could display.
"At first," Sherlock said, finally breaking the silence, "you must contact her therapist."
"What makes you think she had a-?" Lestrade was rudely interrupted, "Her sister died in a tragic accident when they were children and it was undoubtedly her fault, of course she had a therapist! Ask her pocket calendar if you don't believe me."
Lestrade's stare told John that for now, he simply went with believing Sherlock's words. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't waste his time with analysing the detective's expression. Instead, he returned to the body, signalising John and Lestrade to follow him.
"John", said Sherlock, "I need your medical opinion…" He bent over the corpse, his eyes summoning John to do the same. Some more observation needed to be done.
While not being half as gifted in this regard as Sherlock, John would as usual do his best not to disappoint his partner when it came to deduction and observation. He could even claim that, by now, he knew how to examine and had learned where to draw his attention. John furrowed his forehead in a concentrated fashion, focussing on the young woman's appearance. Her face, her figure, her skin. He could feel Sherlock's anticipating gaze and only by a hair could he prevent himself from uttering how irritating it was for him. When he finally spoke, he kept his eyes on the body.
"Well, she is pretty skinny and haggard. She's got bags under her eyes but she didn't use make-up to conceal them, which could mean that she might be stressed indeed and on top of all has troubles sleeping… Maybe it also hints that she was suffering from depression… or at least some other mental or personal stress."
"Clearly, it hints that she was still traumatised." Sherlock interfered instead of expressing approval. But John had found that being disappointed about Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm upon his observations did him more harm than good. He sighed.
"Still, a few questions remain" Sherlock pondered out loud, "Why did this have her end up in Hyde Park, seemingly drowned without water in range and who is the murderer?"
"Exactly…" Lestrade said with a chuckle, but he went ignored.
A far-off, dreamy expression fell over Sherlock's eyes as he shed the rubber gloves, putting his palms together for a second.
"Do you have any ideas?" Lestrade asked, carefully.
"Oh, plenty," Sherlock responded with a smug grin. Eventually, he started moving and as John realised where he was going, he followed him. Already on his way to the door, Sherlock exclaimed, "Lestrade, send me those samples, as soon as you have them. Blood and water. Find out as much about her as possible. Family, working place, therapy, anything. Oh and, don't lose her pocket calendar, it might prove to be of help!"
Leaving Lestrade no time to react, Sherlock rushed through the door and he would have continued strolling down the corridor, never reducing speed and making it quite a challenge for John to keep up, if Molly hadn't stopped him. Even John had already forgotten, that she had sat down in front of the room and if he hadn't, he still wouldn't have anticipated her to wait for Sherlock to return. She was firmly holding a small package, neatly wrapped in red, green and golden paper and her expression didn't hide well how nervous she was.
"Sherlock?" she said, softly seizing his arm. He clearly flinched at the unexpected touch.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked brusquely, pulling back his arm. His disapproval was notably audible in his voice and John was about to scold him for it, but Sherlock was in a hurry and it was decidedly unwise to disturb him in such a case.
However, his indignation had put Molly at a loss and for a moment, she just stared at Sherlock, her lip quivering, while Sherlock's eyes impatiently urged her to elaborate.
"Uh… I know, it is not Christmas yet," she said, her voice thin and insecure, "but I didn't know when I would see you again, so I thought I might as well… just give it to you now…"
Her hands were shaken by a slight tremor as she tentatively held out the package to Sherlock. Lifting one eyebrow in surprise, Sherlock pocketed it without even trying to guess what it might be. John could tell that Sherlock hadn't expected a present at all and neither had John.
"Well… Merry Christmas…" Molly said with an uneasy smile.
For a moment, Sherlock looked at her as if his brain was trying to fit this peculiar occurrence in a familiar setting or trying to put it into a context, so he would figure out a proper reaction. Likely, he was even making an effort in doing so, as if afraid he might hurt her by being too harsh. Then, he simply gave her a numb, "Thank you, Molly" and turned to leave without another word.
John felt the need to stay. "I'm sorry, you know he doesn't mean it like that…" he said, hoping to chase away her hangdog expression. She sighed deeply. Then she turned around to pick up another package that had been lying on the chair next to her.
"Don't think that I have forgotten about you, John…" she said, placing the present in his hands.
"Oh, thank you… You really wouldn't have to…" he stopped, not sure how to start and too surprised to continue. Luckily, Molly interrupted his attempts of speech, "I hope you'll have a nice time. Merry Christmas…"
"Merry Christmas, Molly." John returned her warm smile and passed the present from hand to hand. It felt like a book.
He was just about to leave when Molly called after him, "John?"
"Yes?" He turned his head.
"Try to get him out, okay?"
It gave him a sting, because it reminded him that their Christmas plans were certainly bound to fail. "I suppose, I am left to try…" he said, not without noting to himself how much Molly still cared about Sherlock.