The footpath through the forest. Sherlock and John come walking along it, side by side, Sherlock with his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking quite at ease, John with his shoulders slightly hunched and a face like a thundercloud. They walk without speaking, the little brook - or burn, as they say in Scotland – to their left murmuring alongside as they follow its course upstream.
JOHN (after a moment): You were never in the boy scouts.
SHERLOCK (straight-faced): Oh really? Why not?
JOHN: Just look at you!
Sherlock stops in his tracks and, as instructed, looks down his own person – coat, scarf, dark suit, shiny black leather-soled shoes - and then back at John with a puzzled expression.
SHERLOCK: Yes?
JOHN: You'd have learned how to dress for hiking.
SHERLOCK (in a dignified tone): I'm always dressed for anything.
JOHN: Says the man who went harpooning a pig in a white shirt.
SHERLOCK (pointedly): "Fleur de sel".
JOHN: Sell what?
SHERLOCK: That colour is called "fleur de sel", John.
JOHN: Jesus. Last time I looked, salt was white.
They continue along the path in tense silence, Sherlock shooting John quick covert looks, genuinely trying but apparently failing to fathom the cause for John's ill humour.
JOHN (after a moment): So that's the reason, is it?
SHERLOCK: The reason for what?
JOHN: For your trademark wardrobe monotony. And I thought it was just because you couldn't be bothered to decide what to put on every morning.
Sherlock pulls a face, as if he can't quite believe he's being made to discuss such things. Then he pouts.
SHERLOCK (miffed): I do change the colour of my shirts, you know.
JOHN: Oh, interesting! How do you do that, like a chameleon?
They walk on, John looking inordinately amused now, Sherlock scowling.
SHERLOCK (under his breath, peevishly): "Trademark wardrobe monotony".
JOHN (under his breath, sing-song): "Vary". The word is "vary".
SHERLOCK (a few yards further on): Tell you what?
JOHN: What?
SHERLOCK (jabbing his forefinger at John's solid rubber-soled brogues): Your shoes may look the part, but they're new. So you'll be the one who comes back downhill limping.
John makes a show of inspecting Sherlock's own shoes, black leather once polished to perfection already rather obscured by mud.
JOHN: While yours –
SHERLOCK (snappishly): Don't insult my shoes, John, or I'll insult your jumpers.
JOHN (squaring his shoulders, with dignity): At least they keep me warm.
Sherlock snorts, ostentatiously pulls his coat closed around himself, and walks on past his friend. John, rolling his eyes, follows suit.
A few minutes later, the path climbs out of the ravine, and broadens into a track across a patch of open moorland. Sherlock is walking along with energetic strides. John follows at a more sober pace, the frown on his face indicating that there is something more serious than his flatmate's impractical wardrobe choices still weighing on his mind. The distance between them lengthens. Sherlock notices it, and halts to wait for his friend to catch up. When he does, John speaks up again.
JOHN: You do this stuff just for the sake of doing it, don't you?
SHERLOCK: What "stuff"?
They continue walking together.
JOHN: Taking the piss out of poor unsuspecting country constables. Planes delayed on account of the fog. The logbook of the Sea Unicorn of Dundee. Little boys listening to police radio. Seriously.
SHERLOCK: That last bit was quite accurate, you know. (Didactically) And to the average mind, it's the details that make a story ring true, John.
JOHN (not amused): Yes, well, except that the story isn't funny anymore when McGregor starts wondering just how incompetent the secretaries at Baxter, Coulson and Cox Solicitors in London can really be, and checks back with them whether we're real.
SHERLOCK (dismissively): In which case he'll find the right name but no photograph among the junior partners on their website, so he'll be none the wiser. And all his remaining questions will have to wait til they're open again tomorrow morning, when we'll be long gone. There's a reason why we're doing this on a Sunday, you know.
JOHN (grumpily): Ah. I thought it was just to annoy the Puritans.
SHERLOCK (with a brief grin): Oh, that too. Seriously, John – the poor unsuspecting constable has proved a treasure trove of information, hasn't he? He's taken us a big step further, and not just geographically.
JOHN: It's just that I object to making people look like idiots for no reason.
SHERLOCK (innocently): Even if they are idiots?
JOHN (still unsmiling): And I'm never happy about these stunts when the risks totally outweigh the profits.
SHERLOCK(stopping short): What do you mean?
JOHN (impatiently): What do I mean? Are you joking? One phone call from MacDee, Sherlock, and there would have been no need at all for that hocus-pocus about testamentary gifts to Greenwich, and renting the wrong car. McGregor would just as happily have taken us up here as ourselves, don't you think? It would have been less fun, maybe, or what you consider to be fun, but –
SHERLOCK (with a frown): This isn't about fun, John.
JOHN (sarcastically): I'd have thought so, too.
SHERLOCK (gravely): No, really. Surely you're aware for whose benefit all that hocus-pocus, as you call it, was intended?
JOHN: For yours, obviously, just so you didn't have to ask MacDee for a favour.
SHERLOCK: Yes, good. And why didn't I want to do that?
JOHN (snappishly): Because you're Sherlock Holmes, who can never just say "please"? (Muttering under his breath) Or "sorry", either.
SHERLOCK (coldly): You know, I almost wish it was only that.
He turns, and continues walking. John looks after him, honestly confused, then follows.
JOHN: Alright, I'm missing something here. (In a grumpy aside) As usual. (Aloud) What's MacDee got to do with us putting on that charade for the constable?
SHERLOCK: He's got everything to do with it, John.
Now it's John who stops short in his tracks. We can see the cogs turning in his head for a moment, then his eyes go wide.
JOHN: You mean you didn't ask him to get us a lift out here on purpose? Because you don't want him to know we're here? (His frown deepens.) And all that about going to see Neligan at Ben Avon, that was a scam from beginning to end, so he won't start wondering where we've really gone?
SHERLOCK (wryly): Well spotted.
JOHN (pulling an almost comically puzzled face): But why?
SHERLOCK (with a hint of impatience): Because, John, for all we know, MacDee has his own reasons for taking an interest in whether this case gets cleared up or not. Except they're not the same as ours.
JOHN (astonished): You mean he doesn't want it cleared up?
SHERLOCK: I'd be surprised if he did.
JOHN: But he's a copper. It's his job.
SHERLOCK: He wouldn't be the first policeman to stray from the path of virtue, you know. They're actually quite good at it, statistically.
JOHN (realising the implications, aghast): What? Sherlock, d'you know what you're saying?
SHERLOCK: Perfectly well, thank you.
JOHN(shaking his head): No. Just no. That's - that's impossible. We drink his beer, we joke with his kids, we sleep on his sofa, and now you tell me he's had a hand in a murder? (His hand wanders through his hair, so deeply disquieted that he can't keep it still.) Jesus. Jesus.
SHERLOCK (lightly): Oh, I wouldn't go quite as far as that. We'd probably give him too much credit if we assumed that he'd have the nerve to commit a murder he'd be investigating himself on the next day. Although - (He frowns, as if he thinks it's an idea worth pursuing.) If he was really clever, of course that -
JOHN: Sherlock.
SHERLOCK: - would have given him the perfect opportunity to -
JOHN (sternly): Sherlock. Stop it, now.
Sherlock closes his mouth, looking a little disappointed.
JOHN (firmly): That's just the most sick and twisted thing I've ever heard.
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Alright, I won't insist. For now. Remind me to check his alibi for that night later. (He resumes walking, John following automatically.) For the time being, we'll assume that he didn't do it, just that he knows who did, and is doing his best now to keep it hushed up.
JOHN (with an incredulous laugh): Oh, much better.
SHERLOCK : But you've got to see why, John. Do you see why?
JOHN: Nope. Absolutely not. And you know what? I think you're seeing things. Seriously. I think you're getting carried away here, Sherlock, more than a little. And I think I know why, and I don't think it's a good sign.
SHERLOCK (sarcastically): Oh, charming. I'm getting carried away, right, just because I happened to know the victim? (Getting louder) So of course I must be beside myself with grief and guilt now, mustn't I, and unable to think straight, so I'm hurling baseless accusations left and right, just because someone's got to be responsible? (Still louder, working himself into quite a rage) That's what you're thinking, isn't it? That I'm blinded by sentiment, and willing to believe any enormity of anyone now? (Acidly) You're very quick in drawing your conclusions, John, considering just how little you know about the whole matter!
JOHN (now getting worked up in his turn, angrily): Oh, and that's my fault, is it? Listen, you don't have to tell me what exactly Joseph Bell meant to you when he was alive, if it's such a big secret. But I do care, Sherlock, when I find him messing with your head as a corpse, and that's what he's doing right now. (He takes a deep breath, then continues in a voice of forced calm.) I can understand that it isn't pleasant to think about his death - I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy to end like that, really not - but don't, don't let that -
SHERLOCK (stubbornly): Who says I -
JOHN: Yeah, I know that you'd like to think that it can't happen to you, letting feelings get in your way. But if you could hear yourself right now, you'd know that's exactly what it is. (Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John talks over him.) Seriously, MacDee of all people, trying to hush up a murder? That man, in cahoots with a gang of killers? It's ridiculous, Sherlock, ridiculous. It would be like saying Greg Lestrade's being sponsored by the Mafia, or something!
SHERLOCK (furiously): Ah, but I'm the one here who's blinded by sentiment? Just because MacDee's such a nice guy, and a friend of Lestrade's into the bargain – that alone is solid factual proof of his innocence, is it? But when I say that there's something very fishy going on here, and that all the threads lead back to the officer in charge of the investigation, suddenly I'm -
John, who has been listening with mounting impatience, cuts him off, raising his voice almost to a shout.
JOHN: Yes, I say you are!
SHERLOCK (in a sharp hiss): Keep your voice down, for God's sake!
JOHN (even louder than before, his voice full of scorn): Oh, now we've got to worry about being followed, too, do we?
With a sudden, enormous shriek, a large brown bird rises out of the heather, only feet away from the path. Sherlock and John both flinch, and fall silent. Then Sherlock gives his friend a reproachful look.
SHERLOCK: No, but you're frightening the birds. (With a sudden change of tone, quiet and reassuring now) We're not being followed, John. I'm absolutely certain that we're not being followed.
JOHN (sarcastically): Well, I'm happy to hear it.
SHERLOCK: But as for the rest -
JOHN: Sherlock -
SHERLOCK: What?
JOHN (also in a very different tone, almost appeasingly): Please don't.
SHERLOCK: Please don't what?
JOHN: You - I - You know, I shrugged it off when he told me. But I'm beginning to believe that your brother did have a point when he said, the other day, that he was worried about you.
Sherlock stands very still for a moment, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. John grimaces, as if he already regrets saying what he did.
SHERLOCK: My brother. Worried about me. (With a sneer.) Tell me something new, John.
He turns away, and walks on without looking back.
JOHN (calling after him): Wild goose chases, he said.
Sherlock walks on.
JOHN: Conspiracy theories. Chasing phantasmagoria.
Sherlock continues for another couple of yards, then he stops and turns around.
SHERLOCK: Mycroft said that?
JOHN: Yes, he did. (Catching up, quoting) "If you feel," he said, "that in any of your upcoming cases, Sherlock seems to be going down a rather fantastical road again, do try and steer him back onto the rails of his accustomed rationality."
SHERLOCK (with an exaggerated sigh): I keep telling him he really needs to work on not mixing his metaphors quite so atrociously.
JOHN (not to be distracted): I didn't want to believe it at the time, but it seems like sound advice to me right now.
SHERLOCK: When did he say that?
JOHN: The day we got back from Dartmoor. (Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but John cuts right across him, sounding rather annoyed again.) And no, thank you, you can spare me that tirade this time. Interfering busybody. Nosey git. None of his business. (Wearily) I've heard that so many times, Sherlock, I assure you I know it by heart, no need to repeat it. (Sherlock looks for a moment as if he is about to disagree, then he thinks better of it, and closes his mouth again.) And we're really wasting time right now. Come on.
They walk on in silence for a few minutes, both looking straight ahead, avoiding each other's eyes. Then, at exactly the same moment, they both speak up again.
JOHN: You know -
SHERLOCK (simultaneously): Can we -
They pause, each waiting for the other to continue.
JOHN: Go ahead. Can we what?
SHERLOCK: Go back to square one?
JOHN (still rather sceptical): Alright.
SHERLOCK: Because there is something fishy going on here, John. No, really. I'm talking about facts, John, not figments of an overwrought imagination. Facts that require an explanation. If you have a better one than I have, let me know. I never said I liked mine. But just let me put the case before you. (John makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand.) So. As I said last night, John Neligan can't have killed Bell on his own. He had the motive - fear of recapture - but he didn't have the opportunity. We don't even know that he ever made it as far as Bell's hut at all. It would be no mean feat, would it, to walk all those twenty-five miles across country from Ben Avon to here, particularly for a man with no knowledge of the area and severely limited intelligence. And as for having had help, we know of no one he was in touch with, and no one who would have been likely to join him once he was out. So I think we can safely dismiss the theory that Neligan was the head of a gang of killers, the rest of whom simply escaped notice. With me so far? (John nods.) So if Neligan wasn't among the perpetrators, then why did he confess to the crime?
JOHN (with a shrug): Hard to tell, with a man of his condition. To get attention? Because it made him feel important? Simple minds sometimes work that way.
SHERLOCK: But then, how did he even know that there was a man in a mountain hut somewhere nearby with a harpoon sticking out of his chest, whose murder he could take the credit for? You may say he walked openly into Braemar and heard people talking about it in the village shop or in the pub, but even he would have been clever enough not to risk being seen in broad daylight. So, that leaves us with only two possibilities.
JOHN: You mean that "confession" was a complete fabrication? And the doctors were in on it?
SHERLOCK: That's one possibility, yes.
JOHN: But that makes no sense. According to McGregor, Ben Avon's been taking a lot of flak lately for not coming up to scratch. Why would they add one of their patients breaking out and committing a nasty murder to their current record, if it wasn't true?
SHERLOCK: You excel yourself, John, now that I've managed to steer you back onto the rails of your accustomed rationality. (Sarcastically) To quote a great Englishman. (John pulls a face. Serious again) No, I agree. The doctors had no reason to fake it, so Neligan probably really told them that tale. And that means someone must have put it in his head, and made sure he passed it on.
JOHN: Forced him, you mean? How?
SHERLOCK: Bribed him, more likely. Remember what McGregor said about his own visit to Ben Avon? What Neligan kept muttering about?
JOHN: TV and cigarettes?
SHERLOCK: Exactly. You know, for someone cooped up in an institution like that, with no hope of ever getting out again, small privileges can go a long way towards making life more bearable. That's what they do all the time to get prisoners to cooperate, too. And with someone as dim as Neligan, it really wouldn't take much. (John lets out a long breath, but he doesn't object. Sherlock glances at him with a secret little smile before he continues.) Now, let's look at the rather inglorious role of the Grampian Police in this. A team from the CID in Aberdeen arrives at the crime scene, the SOCOs go through all the usual motions of examining it, while the officer in charge questions the witness. So far, so regular. Then, not twenty-four hours later, without any effort from the police at all, the case miraculously solves itself.
JOHN (with another shrug): They just got lucky?
SHERLOCK: And where would we all be if they didn't, once in a while? But yes, at that time, it could have been put down to luck, no more. But what happens then makes that impossible.
JOHN: What do you mean?
SHERLOCK: The officer in charge of the investigation is promoted.
JOHN: Ah.
SHERLOCK: Yes. Out of the blue. And five if not ten years earlier than he had any right to expect, too. (John runs a hand over his face, then shakes his head in disbelief.) I know. I told you I don't like it either. You were right when you said this case has been weighing on my mind ever since I heard about it. But it was only when we came back from Henry's, and I found out about MacDee's promotion, that I knew we'd have to come up here and look into it ourselves.
JOHN: So you knew that already, that he'd been made DI? No clever deduction at all?
SHERLOCK (with a rueful smile): I'm afraid not. Just a phone call to the Grampian Police HQ by a former student of Joseph Bell's, who said he was planning to write his biography, and asked to interview the officer who investigated his death. They referred the enquirer to their PR department instead, of course, but not before informing him, rather proudly, that the DS Macdonald he was asking after was now a DI. (He smiles again.) I may have neglected to book a hotel room, John, but I didn't come here entirely unprepared.
John frowns, and then after a moment responds with a smile of his own, but a very lopsided one.
JOHN: You can be such a prick, you know that? So we invited ourselves to stay at his place on purpose, too, did we? So you could keep a close watch on him, and he'd have nowhere to hide and recoup? (He puffs out a loud breath.) That's a whole new level of perfidy, Sherlock, it really is.
Sherlock grins as if he can imagine no greater compliment.
SHERLOCK: I did give him a fair warning though.
JOHN: What? That you were suspecting him of foul play, and that you'd be watching?
SHERLOCK: Yes, of course.
JOHN: When did – (comprehension dawning on his face) – oh. Oh. Last night, right, at supper? "No one's above suspicion", you said. "Never rule out that there could be a bad apple in your own ranks." (Sherlock smiles wryly. John shakes his head again.) Jesus, you've got a nerve. To his face, in his own house -
SHERLOCK: I thought it'd be interesting to see his reaction. And it was.
JOHN: He thought it was funny, Sherlock. He laughed.
SHERLOCK: Yes. And then he fled.
John walks on in silence for a few yards, running a hand along the back of his neck, his shoulders twitching uncomfortably.
SHERLOCK (glancing at his friend's discomfort): What is it, midges? At this time of the year?
JOHN: No. Just trying to image how MacDee must be feeling now, if you're right about him. Christ, he must be sweating.
SHERLOCK (coldly): If I'm right, he deserves every minute of it.
Another silence falls. The track they are on takes them slightly downhill again now, to the edge of yet another patch of trees. When they enter the wood, the path narrows so they have to walk in single file, Sherlock in the lead, John bringing up the rear. John is so lost in thought that he is threatening to fall behind again.
JOHN (thinking aloud): So, that promotion. If it was so unexpected, then it was either a reward or a bribe, right?
SHERLOCK: Yes. But if you want me to spec -
JOHN: No, I'm just wondering who around here would be in the position to both manipulate a psychiatric patient and his doctors, to the point of extracting a fake murder confession, and to secure an out-of-turn promotion for a police officer, too. (In a tone of disquiet) And I'm not sure I like the implications.
SHERLOCK (lightly): No? I find them intriguing. Although it may not be as big a secret as it seems. It's quite possible that MacDee told us himself, last night.
JOHN: What? When?
SHERLOCK: Very early on. Before supper.
JOHN: Before supper? We just talked a bit about Greg, didn't we, and about crime statistics, and then he got carried away a bit about Scottish politics…
SHERLOCK: There you are.
JOHN: Politics? You mean we're looking at a political murder? Oh, come on.
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Not so far-fetched. A string of them from early Scottish history made it straight into world literature, you know.
JOHN (with a laugh): Oh, that. But that's just a story.
SHERLOCK: – that was dreamed up, in shameless defiance of all historical accuracy, by a poet who, according to the scholars, very likely didn't even exist himself?
JOHN: Yeah, anyone here mention conspiracy theories?
SHERLOCK (deadpan): Not that I heard.
They glance at each other, and then both at the same time crack up laughing. It is like the sun coming out from behind a dark, dark cloud at last. John's face brightens considerably, and it remains that way for the rest of the scene. Sherlock, seeing it, has a hard time trying to hide just how happy it makes him.
SHERLOCK (still chuckling): Want to hear my top five reasons why Macbeth in fact can't have murdered King Duncan?
JOHN (with a snort): Top five? Meaning there are more?
SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. Eleven or twelve, last time I counted.
This brings on a fresh bout of laughter. They keep giggling for a while as they walk along, until Sherlock speaks up, serious again.
SHERLOCK: I wasn't really thinking of political motives for the murder, you know. What would they be? But MacDee certainly lost no time telling us that he has friends in high places. In a fairly small community, where everyone knows everyone, and everyone's a member of the SNP -
JOHN (still grinning): - except Constable McGregor and his staunch fellow royalists from Balmoral, of course… No, I see what you mean. (A pause. Serious again) Right, I'm still not buying it. MacDee as one of the bad guys, I mean. He'd have to be a better actor than you. As a theory, fine. But promise me you won't lose sight of any alternatives, alright?
SHERLOCK: Not that I like the only possible alternative any better.
JOHN: What, you don't like the idea that he's innocent?
SHERLOCK (darkly): I don't like the idea that someone's using him as a puppet.
He pops out the last word with sharp emphasis, then snaps his mouth shut with finality, all the good humour of a moment ago completely gone. John sighs.
JOHN: And anyway, all that doesn't take us one step closer to finding out who killed Bell, and why, does it?
SHERLOCK (glancing at his watch): Not one step, John? We must be nearly there. (Quickening his pace) We'll soon find out why, and the why will take us to the who.