New Scotland Yard, on the next morning, presents a very different face to the world than on the night before. Greg Lestrade's office floor is teeming with police officers again, both in uniform and in plain clothes, and there's a constant hum of activity – phones ringing, snatches of conversation, people passing to and fro carrying documents, files and coffee mugs.
Like two tallships sailing side by side through the hustle and bustle, Lestrade and Sherlock are making their way towards the Detective-Inspector's office, Lestrade talking busily, Sherlock silent.
LESTRADE: - and four thousand pounds drawn out from Alice Burnham's bank account about a fortnight before her death are definitely unaccounted for. The parents don't recall finding a large amount of cash in her flat, and there was no evidence of any recent purchases of hers to explain it either. It was about a third of her entire savings. She'd just had a pay rise, of course, when she became a nursing instructor. But she hadn't had time to save a lot yet.
They turn a corner. Sherlock almost flattens a young uniformed constable against the wall in the process, but barely even notices.
SHERLOCK: Well, that fits in with Jeanette de Souza's sudden generosity towards those non-existing Brazilian street kids.
LESTRADE: Yeah, I'm afraid it does. I just want to know, since when has it become lethal to make donations to a good cause?
SHERLOCK: Donations to an unknown cause, Lestrade. And remember, Jeanette's generosity even extended to giving away her computer, her phone and her appointment calendar. (Emphatically) They're not giving that money away. They're relieved of it, and then they die.
They have reached the door of Lestrade's office. By it, Sally Donovan stands waiting for them.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock): So you mean someone hacked Jeanette's account and made a payment to themselves? But Alice drew off the four grand in person, at her local bank branch, and I suppose someone would have noticed it if she'd done it with a gun to her head.
SHERLOCK (stubbornly): There is a pattern there.
LESTRADE (opening the door to his office invitingly): Well, then tell me how our third bride in the bath fits into it.
SHERLOCK (walking past him into the room, more irritated than surprised): "Bride in the bath"?
SALLY (behind Sherlock's back, pointedly): We thought that would make a snappy blog title.
Lestrade gives her the slightest look of warning. Sherlock, who just then turns around to glance at Sally in annoyance, misses it completely.
A yellow and white Southeastern Railway train is making its way past the green fields and meadows of Kent, rumbling and rattling along at a very moderate pace from London to the seaside resort of Herne Bay. Inside an almost empty carriage, a group of seats is occupied by Sherlock and John in their coats, sitting vis-à-vis by a window, deep in conversation. Sherlock is obviously in the process of relating the results of Scotland Yard's latest research into suspicious deaths in bathtubs to John.
JOHN: And that happened when exactly?
He asks the question calmly, in marked contrast to his obvious unease when they were last investigating the case together, two days before at the Japanese restaurant.
SHERLOCK: On the second of October, 2009. That night Beatrice Mundy, known as Bessie to her friends, died in the bathtub of her home in Herne Bay. She was found there by her domestic help the next morning. The inquest ruled that it was death from natural causes.
John raises his eyebrows questioningly.
SHERLOCK: There was a family history of cardiovascular disease. Mundy's father had died of a heart attack only a few months previously, and so had his brother and father before him.
JOHN: Ah.
SHERLOCK: Beatrice Mundy's own GP, a Doctor Frank French, gave evidence at the inquest that she had a heightened risk for that sort of thing herself. She was a smoker, she was overweight, she got no exercise apart from walking her dog, and she had a stressful lifestyle. She'd taken over her father's business after his death.
JOHN: But she'd never been diagnosed with a heart condition herself?
SHERLOCK (with an appreciative smile at the question): Never positively, no.
JOHN: What sort of business was it?
SHERLOCK: Cars. Mercedes East Kent.
John gives a soundless whistle at the implications.
JOHN: Not just any cars, then. And Doctor French's evidence coincided with the results of the post mortem? (But before Sherlock can answer, he holds up a hand with a wry grin.) No, let me guess - there was no post mortem?
SHERLOCK: Exactly. Like with Alice Burnham in Blackpool, nobody thought it necessary. And this time, there wasn't even any family to consult. Beatrice Mundy was an only child, and her sole surviving relative, her mother, was living in a private nursing home. She suffered from severe dementia. It seems doubtful whether her daughter's death registered with her at all.
JOHN: And of course Bessie's body was found in the same odd position as Alice's and Jeanette's?
SHERLOCK: No, she was - are you sure you actually want to hear this?
John looks up in surprise at this sudden fit of human concern on the part of his flatmate. But there's no hint of irony in Sherlock's expression.
JOHN (wryly): Bit late now, isn't it? No, seriously, it's all right. It's – (He seems to be searching for the right words.) This is what we do, isn't it? (He gestures around, encompassing not only the carriage but their whole journey and its purpose.) Clear things up. Set things right. So it's all good, really.
SHERLOCK (not entirely convinced): Sure?
JOHN: It might be a while before I'll start enjoying sushi again.
SHERLOCK: I'm sure we can find a way to accommodate you there.
They exchange a fleeting smile, and then Sherlock immediately delves back into his account of Beatrice Mundy's death.
SHERLOCK: Bessie Mundy was found floating face down, according to the testimony of the cleaning woman at the inquest. But it was a large bathtub, triangular, with a jacuzzi feature and everything. As you've guessed correctly, they were well off, the Mundys. Lots of room to drown in that one.
JOHN: And the police weren't involved at all?
SHERLOCK: No. The cleaning woman only called an ambulance. Dr French, the GP, came as well. His surgery is just down the road. He signed the death certificate. Nobody seems to have had any reason to suspect foul play.
JOHN: But if this was the same killer every time, how does he choose his victims? First Kent, then Blackpool, then London. A businesswoman, a nurse, a teacher. There's no rhyme or reason to it.
SHERLOCK: That's what we're trying to find out.
JOHN: And you no longer think that this has anything to do with Jeanette's plans to travel to Brazil?
SHERLOCK: Only indirectly.
John waits for a moment for his friend to elaborate, but when Sherlock doesn't, John lets it go, too.
JOHN: It's pretty spooky though, isn't it? I mean, technically - how does he make them drown and never leave a trace? Can he control their actions somehow, without ever touching them? Is it some sort of psychological coercion? Or does he make them want to die?
SHERLOCK (in a mildly mocking tone): Well, a murderer who kills with supernatural powers is certainly still missing in my collection. (He shakes his head decidedly.) No. No psychological pressure, not even a threat of death, not even a gun pointed at their heads could overcome their bodies' internalised reflex to struggle back to the surface when submerged. Even under hypnosis, people can't be induced to inflict actual physical harm on themselves against their will. Believe it or not, there's been research done on that. There's no way.
JOHN: Hmm. (He looks out of the window in silence for a moment, then slowly shakes his head.) Three well-nigh perfect murders in as many years.
SHERLOCK (deadpan): I know. He's brilliant.
JOHN (turning back towards his friend, with a very lopsided smile): I'm sure he'd be proud to hear you say so.
In the seaside town of Herne Bay, Sherlock and John come walking down Central Parade, the broad seafront street that spans the length of the town along the south coast of the Thames Estuary. The day is rather windy, and as early in the year as this, the beach and the marina are practically deserted. Terraced houses from the Victorian period line the town side of the street, some neatly restored and well-kept, some clearly having seen better times. In the background looms the absurdly oversized Victorian clock tower that is the town's landmark. Sherlock and John are heading straight towards a domed glass-and-iron pavilion from the same period. By the stacks of folded-up chairs and tables waiting for the sun on a patio outside, it houses a café or a restaurant.
JOHN: How did you find her so quickly, by the way?
They reach the pavilion, and Sherlock pushes the door open.
SHERLOCK: How many Vasilescus would you expect to find in a backwater like this?
A little later, Sherlock and John are installed in the pavilion café, opposite an obese woman of about sixty, dyed auburn hair carefully permed, doughy face carefully made-up, but dressed entirely in black to indicate her widowhood - Maria Vasilescu, Bessie Mundy's one-time cleaning woman. A plate of scones and jam sits in front of her, but she has little attention to spare for it at the moment. She's talking away twenty to the dozen, in good English but with a heavy accent. John is having difficulty getting a word in. Sherlock has, by all appearances, already given up.
MRS VASILESCU: … but I never had a good feeling about it, a young woman like her all alone in that big empty house… Still empty now, of course. Nobody wants to buy it, people say it brings bad luck. Girl dead, father dead, mother crazy in the head, you know... (She taps her forehead significantly.) But poor Bessie always was such a lonely girl. Work work work all day, no time for friends, no time for pub, no time for parties, the way you young people like, eh?
She gives Sherlock and John a grin that's supposed to be cheeky. John hurries to return it. It sits as badly on his face as it does on hers.
MRS VASILESCU: Only thing in the world she really loved was her dog. Always the dog, always the dog. He was her baby. (With barely concealed disapproval) Went everywhere, that animal. Dog hair all over the place, hoover all day... Even in the bed. (She literally shakes with disgust. To John) You're a doctor, no? Bad idea, wouldn't you say, too? Not hygienic. Ah. (She picks up a scone and starts buttering it.) But you know what some people are like, about their pets. (She reaches for the jam, puffing with the effort.) She was crazy about dogs. All dogs. (She takes a bite of her scone, and chews and swallows rapidly.) One time, she showed me these internet pictures, pictures of shaggy stray dogs, dead dogs, poisoned. That's how you treat dogs in Romania, Maria? she asks me, and I tell her, yes, of course we kill the street dogs in Romania. (Addressing John in particular again) They bite children and spread infection, no? Good for nothing, those mutts. But Bessie tells me there's this shelter for stray dogs in Bucharest that she's giving money to so they can build bigger kennels and pay the vet and what have you. She had pictures of that on her computer, too.
Sherlock, who seems to have let Mrs Vasilescu's rambling wash over him without paying it much attention at all so far, now exchanges a pointed look with John.
JOHN (to Mrs Vasilescu): You mean there was a website about this dog shelter?
MRS VASILESCU: Oh yes. Nice pictures, shaggy dogs all happy and well-fed there. (She smiles sourly.) But it was all a swindle, right?
JOHN: A swindle? Why?
MRS VASILESCU: Yes, yes. All wrong. The text. (She gives a laugh.) Looked like Romanian, but was no proper Romanian at all. No grammar, you know. I told her. I said, this is all wrong, Bessie. But don't feel bad. There are lots of bad people in Romania who try to steal your money on the internet. Maybe give the money to a dog shelter here in England? Or give money to people who have no home, eh?
JOHN (leaning forward in his seat): Let me get this straight. You told her outright that if she gave money to that supposed dog shelter in Bucharest, she'd give it to a bunch of fraudsters?
MRS VASILESCU: Yes, but she said too late. She said she'd given them the money already.
JOHN: Was she upset to hear that it was a scam?
MRS VASILESCU: Oh, she didn't want to hear about it at all. She said George had met the people that run the place, so it had to be real. (She throws up her hands in a gesture of resignation.) Rolling in money, the Mundys. Didn't have to care about a few thousand pounds either way.
Only then, she realises the curious, tense quiet that's fallen over her companions.
JOHN (after a moment, slowly, as if testing the sound of the name): "George".
He abruptly turns to Sherlock, as if for his friend's opinion.
SHERLOCK: One name's as good as any other. (To Mrs Vasilescu) Who exactly was this George?
MRS VASILESCU: A man she was seeing.
JOHN: Her boyfriend?
MRS VASILESCU (with another, rather disapproving laugh): Oh, no. It wasn't serious. Just, how do you call it, a little hanky-panky?
JOHN: How do you know?
Mrs Vasilescu gives John a censorious look.
MRS VASILESCU (with dignity): I washed the sheets, you know, and suddenly there was no dog hair any more, but other things.
John instantly goes red.
JOHN (quickly): No, no, sorry, I mean how do you know it wasn't serious?
MRS VASILESCU: Ah, he didn't love her. Did he come and ask after her when she'd died? No, not that man. Vanished into thin air. Poor Bessie, she was terribly in love with him, but did he care? No.
Sherlock and John exchange another very significant look.
SHERLOCK: You didn't mention at the inquest that she was going out with someone.
MRS VASILESCU: Nobody asked. (Bitterly) And you know what they're like. (She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand.) "Silly foreign woman, what do you know?"
JOHN: When did it start? Bessie dating this George, I mean?
MRS VASILESCU: Not long. Four weeks, five weeks?
JOHN: Before she died, you mean?
MRS VASILESCU: Yes. She was happy. Much happier than in a long time. So I asked, you walk with a bouncy step, Bessie, anything happen? And she just smiles. You know, the way women always do.
For some reason that isn't immediately apparent, she addresses this last comment to Sherlock in particular, as if to the expert in the room on such things. Sherlock merely shrugs. Mrs Vasilescu looks a little disappointed at his obvious lack of interest in all things romantic.
JOHN: Did you ever meet him?
MRS VASILESCU: No.
JOHN: And he wasn't there the night she died, was he?
MRS VASILESCU (with total conviction): He can't have been there. He'd have called a doctor for her straight away, wouldn't he?
SHERLOCK: Nothing on the sheets that time to suggest otherwise?
There is a moment of awkward silence. Mrs Vasilescu apparently isn't going to deign to answer that question. John changes tack.
JOHN (to Mrs Vasilescu): Have you any idea how Bessie met this George in the first place?
MRS VASILESCU (knowingly): Where do you young people go to find the love of your lives these days, eh?