Chapter Six.
Miss Cassia Ingram did not look like a nutcase, John Watson was relieved to find, regarding her from his perch on the other side of the room, note pad and pen poised, ready to begin taking notes.
She looked like a perfectly normal, respectable young woman.
However, Watson well knew that appearances could be deceptive.
Take Sherlock for instance
He looked like a perfectly nice, respectable young man, butter wouldn't melt. Polite, good manners, well educated, charming, none aggressive, indeed, you'd think he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag.
And then he opened his mouth, waved a gun around or launched a punch.
As far as speaking his mind, Holmes had absolutely no inhibitions.
It was both shocking and shaming, but he was who he was and when in full flow, it was best to just let him get it off his chest.
Miss Ingram was a perfectly ordinary looking young woman. Plain, but by no means ugly, plump, but certainly not over weight to a degree that it might affect her health, indeed, from the way her clothes fell, he suspected that she had lost some weight recently.
Her complexion was fair, very pale, typically British, in other words, milk bottle white, despite the recent heat wave, so, she did not have a propensity for sun bathing.
Her hands were slender, fingers ringless, her wrists delicate.
Her hair, a mousy shade of brown had artificial blonde highlights artfully streaked through them and was pulled back in a rather uncomplimentary and somewhat untidy pony tail, and her eyes were a rather unique shade of moss green, the dark, lush kind you found on trees deep in the woods, and he could just make out that the dilated pupils had tiny flecks of gold sprinkled around them.
She sat demurely in the chair opposite Holmes. Silent. Her body language giving nothing away that Watson could pick up on, but he suspected that Holmes had deduced more in the first ten seconds after her appearance at the door, than he ever would after knowing her for a week.
As soon as Miss Ingram had entered the flat, Holmes had gone straight into deductive mode, scrutinizing the young woman silently, and Watson had decided to follow suit, mostly because he knew that Sherlock was keen that he try to be more observant and try to use his methods of deduction, and that his friend would quiz him later, wanting to know what he had made of their visitor.
Superior, condescending git, he just liked to show off.
However, so far, Holmes appeared to be on his best behaviour.
Still, it was difficult to insult, or put his foot in it, when he hadn't actually opened his mouth.
Indeed, no-one had spoken yet.
Apparently, no-one had seen the need for introductions.
Sherlock and Miss Ingram seemed to be communing silently, and all Watson could do was sit and watch.
Never the best host, Holmes had not greeted his guest verbally and had thrown Watson a scathing look, indicating that he should keep his mouth shut too when he had attempted to greet the young woman with a handshake, and he had simply waved the woman toward the chair opposite him.
Surprisingly, Miss Ingram had not introduced herself either, she had merely followed the waved instruction and taken the seat offered demurely, placing her folded hands in her lap, and fixed her unusual eyes on Sherlock Holmes.
After a few seconds of watching the pair, a shudder had suddenly run down Watson's spine.
He knew what Holmes was doing, but was it possible that Miss Ingram was doing the same to Holmes?
Was she reading him too, trying to deduce what kind of man he was?
Interesting.
Watson had decided to do Sherlock's bidding and remain silent, curious to see who would feel compelled to break the silence first.
At least Sherlock had stopped twitching.
However, Watson wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.
Holmes, like a snake, could be far more dangerous when he was silent and contemplative.
Yet, there he sat, silent save for the sound of his breathing, he habitually breathed through his mouth, slow and steady, his fingers steepled against his chin, inscrutable eyes fixed on Cassia Ingram.
This little show of restraint was very unusual.
Holmes was such a power house of nervous energy he simply could not control himself, often leaping out of his chair to pace up and down, waving his arms around, and pontificating.
This was a side to Holmes that Watson rarely saw.
What was the little sod up to this time?
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
It couldn't last, could it?
If it did, if this was some childish battle of wills, this could turn out to be a very long and unproductive day.
Watson's money, were he a betting man, would be on Miss Ingram.
Sherlock Holmes was too fond of the sound of his own voice and showing off how clever he was for him to hold out too much longer.
Maybe, Watson pondered, he had better say something to break the silence, get the ball rolling? Perhaps that was what Holmes was waiting for, but he hadn't given him any indication that he wanted him to begin the questioning.
Watson decided to return his attention to Cassia Ingram, and now that he looked at her again, he saw something different.
If he had thought that Holmes had been looking a bit under the weather lately, Cassia Ingram could top that.
She sat quietly, all outward appearances calm, demure, self assured, yet, his medically trained eye could see the weariness and dejection in the set of her shoulders, tired, red rimmed, defeated looking over bright eyes, flat, unemotional demeanour and chewed fingernails, one on each hand, the index finger to be precise, and that implied nervousness and anxiety.
She did not appear at all curious about her surroundings, indeed, had not made any attempt to look around the flat, but had fixed her eyes on Holmes and only Holmes.
Perhaps that was the only way she could focus and concentrate?
She looked tired and deflated, although she was trying hard to conceal it, and if John had to make a diagnosis, he would say that something had definitely disrupted her sleep last night, perhaps for more than one night, he mused, deciding that something that had definitely made her very uneasy.
In his chair, Sherlock continued his silent contemplation, reviewing what he had deduced so far about their visitor.
Quiet.
Not feeling the need to fill the silence with superfluous nonsense, which was unusual in the female of the species.
Holmes liked that.
She appeared self assured and quietly confident, and quite comfortable with her present situation, a little uneasy, he suspected, for her breathing was slightly irregular and she was trembling, ever so slightly, and not, he deduced because she was here to visit him.
Whilst trying to give that impression, she was far from relaxed, but again, he suspected that that was more to do with the reason why she was here, not because she was in any way daunted or over awed by him.
He could also deduce from her demeanour that whilst she had kept the appointment, she did not expect a successful outcome from her meeting with him.
She had already prepared herself for a rebuttal.
After the receptions she had received elsewhere, however, it seemed logical that she would assume that he too would kick her out with a flea in her ear.
Yet, here she was.
Good girl, Miss Ingram.
Tenacity, in the face of rejection.
Holmes liked that attitude too.
She was made of strong stuff.
Obviously her need of his help weighed more heavily upon her than her fear of ridicule.
He admired that.
Make your point, no matter how foolish other people might think you look.
Well, he knew all about that, too, didn't he?
He also admired her patience.
So, what else had he deduced so far?
Her clothes were simple, plain, neither old nor new, cheap nor expensive.
She had donned a pair of light weight summer slacks in a becoming shade of cream and a simple, plain white short sleeved T-Shirt, suitable for the weather, yet respectable enough for a business appointment.
Her feet were bare, ensconced in flat, plain strappy white sandals, just a little dusty, which indicated that she had walked a short distance to get here, and the absence of a handbag or purse endorsed that fact.
She hadn't come by taxi or the tube, unless she had an Oyster card in her trouser pocket, so therefore she had either been given a lift and someone was waiting for her to conclude her business and return her home, or, she was staying somewhere close and had decided to walk to the appointment, probably to help her focus her thoughts and plan what she was going to say to him.
Her mousy, highlighted, medium length hair was scraped back into a rather untidy pony tail. She had done it in a hurry, or uncaringly, for she had missed a few fine wisps around her ears and in the nape of her neck, not disturbed by the wind, for there was not a breath of air outside this morning, and she wore no jewellery, save for a cheap watch with a thin black leather strap, and not a scrap of make-up.
She was trying to show the world that she was a simple soul with simple needs, and that what you saw was what you got, nothing more complicated than that.
That she had no need to hide behind a facade.
Yet, he had the strong impression that she was indeed trying to hide something.
Further scrutiny told Holmes that something had obviously disturbed her sleep, recently, but, then again, he knew all about that too.
However, in her case, it was probably the stifling heat and humidity.
No-one was sleeping well in this heatwave.
No, wait, it was a little more than that.
Something had spooked her.
Badly.
Her finger nails were bitten to the quick, but only the index finger on both hands, and she hadn't stopped at the nails, fresh patches of raw, sore skin were evident around the nails where she had bitten away the skin.
She hadn't taken the usual care with her dress and appearance this morning, obviously distracted and in a hurry to get this meeting over and done with, uncaring about whatever first impression he might have of her.
As to the kind of woman she was, he was struggling.
Holmes couldn't see anything to indicate her profession or anything about her personal life.
She was something of a blank page to him, and he found that discomforting.
He suspected that it was a deliberate move on her part.
That wasn't what she was trying to hide, but at the same time, she wasn't giving anything away either.
The only other time he had been in such a position had been his first meeting with 'the woman', and she had been completely naked save for her shoes and a diamond ring, at the time.
Hard to deduce much of anything, except that she was female, delighted at trying to embarrass him and Watson, shameless and completely comfortable with nudity and her own body.
So, Miss Cassia Ingram was something of a quandary.
Why was she here?
Finally, Holmes let out a deep breath, crossed one knee over the other and lightly tapping his lips with his fingers regarded Miss Ingram with a strangely benign and sympathetic expression on his face.
Watson was startled.
Holmes appeared to be going out of his way to make Miss Ingram more comfortable and at ease, inviting her to trust him.
That was definitely out of character for Holmes.
He had never been concerned about treading lightly, 'catching more flies with honey than vinegar', and sparing a person's blushes, or their feelings. Normally he just waded right in.
Pompous, arrogant, upper class twit!
Yet, right now he seemed strangely patient and understanding.
"Articulate," Holmes finally invited.
"There has been a murder," Cassia Ingram spoke at last, her voice a low, throaty contralto.
Watson immediately surmised that the rough voice was a clear indication that she had been crying.
Well, that accounted for the reddened eyes and the somewhat flat mood, he noted.
"Just the one?" Holmes shot back, and Miss Ingram made a small, involuntary movement away from him.
Oh no ...
Here we go.
You just can't stop yourself, can you Sherlock!
Holmes could be such a child at times. Petulant, belligerent, so damn immature in his bid to always get the upper hand.
And yet, he was also brilliant, intuitive and quick witted.
Bloody clever clogs!
Volatile and unpredictable, downright stubborn and unothodox, he could be infuriating beyond belief, and Watson was suddenly getting the feeling that Miss Cassia Ingram was in for one hell of a show.
"Yes, well, there usually is. Murder is more common than most people think. It's a big world, and somewhere out there, someone is killing someone else. Patricide. Fratricide. Stranger killings. Serial killings. Parents killing their offspring, and children killing their maters and paters, or their siblings, husbands doing in their wives and vice cersa. Poisonings, shootings, stabbings, strangulations ..."
"Sherlock!" Watson hissed, noting Miss Ingram's rather startled expression and realizing that Holmes was building up to a full blown rant.
Here we go ...
"Assassinations, murder for hire fuelled by greed or jealousy or race or religious intolerance," Holmes continued, ignoring Watson's rebuke.
For her part, Cassia Ingram seemed to have pulled herself together, and was weathering the vocal storm stoically, maintaining her silent calm.
"Don't waste my time with generalities, Miss Ingram, give me the facts. Don't exaggerate, and don't be boring, please, just the facts,' Holmes concluded, easing himself back in to his seat, having made his point, a little breathless Watson could not help noticing.
Cassia Ingram remained silent, her green eyes still pinned on Holmes, but her expression had changed to one of disappointed resignation.
"Well? Murder you say. Pray tell, who is the victim? Facts Miss Ingram, I cannot help you if you do not give me facts."
"You now damn well, Mr Holmes, that if I had any solid facts, I wouldn't be here, I'd be at a police station making a statement," Cassia Ingram spoke softly once more, her voice low but a little stronger now. "I don't have a name for you."
"What do you have? Gender? Age?" Holmes spoke laconically now, and Watson could see that he was growing bored.
Any minute now he would be yawning, and that would be his cue to end the visit.
So what happened to hearing her out?
"A child," Cassia Ingram replied, a quiver in her voice and an involuntary swallow, the first sign or any real discomfort on her part.
"A child?" Holmes echoed, casting a quick glance toward Watson, seeking silent confirmation that nothing had been reported in any newspaper in the past couple of days.
Watson gently shook his head.
However, that in its self didn't mean much.
A child murder was hardly something that the great British press would miss. Something like that was guaranteed to cause a media feeding frenzy.
So perhaps the body had not yet been found.
"A girl. A little blonde haired, blue eyed angel."
There was a definite emotional crack in her voice now, and if Watson wasn't mistaken, there were tears welling in Miss Ingram's eyes.
"She looks to be about three, four, I'm not sure. I'm not very good with children's ages, not having any myself," she wrestled with her emotions and fished a shredded tissue out of her pocket to discreetly dab at the corners of her eyes.
Oh God ...
There it was.
The face.
Sherlock was doing that thing with his face again.
The look that said he knew exactly what was going on here, when Watson himself still didn't have a ruddy clue.
Smartarse!
Smarmy egotist!
Poor Miss Ingram, she was in for a roasting.
Perhaps he should step in, say something before Holmes got started.
"She looks?" Holmes sneered, suddenly leaning forward in his chair, latching on to those two words immediately. "What do you mean, she looks? Did you see this murder take place, Miss Ingram? Did you see who did it? Did you do it?" he growled. "Are you here to make a confession?"
Cassia Ingram drew in a short, ragged breath a look of utter horror on her face, as though something that Holmes had said during his tirade had actually come a little too close to home for her comfort.
"No."
A simple reply.
"I am no murderer, Mr Holmes."
She paused to draw in a slow, calming breath before continuing.
"Again, if I'd seen it, if I had been there, knew who the perpetrator was, I'd have no need of you, Mr Holmes. The police would have had to take me seriously."
That much, Watson had to concede, was true.
The police would have taken a statement and started an investigation, not overlooking the fact that as well as being a witness, she could also be their main suspect. It was normal procedure.
Yet they had done neither of those things, and LeStrade would not have sent her here to be humiliated by Holmes, for that was what his friend was doing to the poor woman.
Cruel bastard.
So, just how did Cassia Ingram know that a child had been murdered, if indeed a child had been murdered?
From the triumphant, gleeful glitter in Holmes' eyes, Watson suspected that his friend had already worked that out, was way ahead of him in this game and was gearing up to unleash himself, just toying with her, like a cat playing with a mouse.
Tosser.
Watson wanted to tell Holmes not to be such a dick, but he knew that he would be wasting his breath.
There were times when he simply could not exercise any form of self control. He just had to let go.
This was going to be one of those times.
Watson could feel it.
Holmes had latched on to something that obviously rankled and he was out to have his fun.
Duck!
Incoming!
"I didn't see it. I wasn't there. I haven't killed anyone," Cassia Ingram spoke calmly, her voice throbbing with emotion, and the determination to stand her ground, even in the face of Holmes wrath.
She paused to draw in another soft breath.
"I am here because I want; I need to prevent any more deaths, Mr Holmes. Yes, I know your reputation; yet, I thought you of all people might just be prepared to hear me out. I see now that I have made a mistake. I thought you might be different. Under the circumstances..."
Cassia Ingram rose slowly to her feet, and immediately began to sway alarmingly.
"Sit!" Holmes barked. "Before you fall down!"
He exploded forward and grabbed the young woman by the hands, yanking downward to direct her back into the chair.
Watson too was out of his seat, immediately the concerned doctor, pad and pen falling to the ground as he strode over to Cassia Ingram and squatted down in front of her as Holmes moved aside to give him room.
She looked awful.
The colour had drained from her face, her breathing rapid and as soon as Watson touched her wrist to take her pulse, he felt how clammy and cold she was, and he realized that she was exhibiting the classic symptoms of shock, and not just because Holmes had been sharp with her.
"A cup of sweet tea is in order, I think," he declared, turning to glare a warning at Holmes. "Thank goodness Mrs Hudson left everything ready to brew a fresh pot before she left."
He gave Holmes another warning look as he took himself off to the kitchen to brew the tea, and was aware of the tense silence in the other room as he waited for the kettle to boil.
What the hell was wrong with Sherlock?
Why was he suddenly so angry?
None of this made any sense to Watson. Neither Cassia Ingram's reason for being here, nor Holmes' sudden adverse reaction to her, his sudden irrational anger and scorn and the need to be hurtful and cruel.
Ok, well, that wasn't so unusual, Watson conceded, as he prepared the tea, but what he couldn't fathom was, what had suddenly set Holmes off.