A Study in Slime Revisited
Original Characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Based upon Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts; A Study in Slime, by LaClarity at Wordpress
Part 7
* A Private Hotel * Nana Qui Win * School for Inspectors * Trust * The Maid * The Devil's Trumpet *
Holmes was uncharacteristically quiet as we three took an auto-cab. I could feel his eyes upon me, but I ignored him for the most part. I was unsure whether he was annoyed that I had been the one called to the scene, or if he were just relieved at escaping explanations about his true nature. If it were the latter, he was not to be let off so easily. Once he leaned forward as if to speak, caught my eye and turned away to look out the window, lips compressed.
For my part, I avoided brushing against Holmes, and once in the cab I wedged myself in the furthest corner from him. I would not allow myself to be distracted by my uneasiness or the lingering pain from my recent surgery, not when there was a person who needed my help. With the discipline hard-won in Afghanistan, I pushed the fear into a corner of my mind and concentrated on Hopkins, plying him with questions. He could tell me precious little about the victim - a man had been found bleeding, and apparently out of his senses. No, the injuries were not life-threatening. No, Hopkins didn't have his name yet.
It was a relatively quick fifteen minute ride to Hallidays' Private Hotel in Little Green Street. I had expected accommodations in Westminster to be pleasant and expensive, but Halliday's confounded me. The lobby was well-decorated with panelling, gas lighting and fringed pink velvet draperies, but had no seating area or indeed, any furniture. There was no adjoining restaurant or coffee room, merely several shadowy curtained corridors leading away God knew where. The Inspector and I hesitated, but Holmes strode past us directly to what I assumed must be the front desk. The top was covered completely by a louvred screen through which nothing could be seen. The only opening was a metal-lined slot at waist level.
A hand came through the slot, passing Holmes a folded piece of heavy paper. He took it impatiently and thrust it at Hopkins. "We are not here for a room! I believe there's another matter? Police Inspector Hopkins and the doctor are here." A muffled male voice replied, and Holmes bent in to argue in a subdued way with the hidden person.
Hopkins unfolded the paper which looked like a kind of menu of rooms, and went red to his hairline. He quickly passed it off to me, and wiped his hands hurriedly on his trousers. Looking at it, I felt my brows go up. Well. It was a menu – of a sort. "I say, Holmes. What kind of establishment is this?"
"What the names advertises – a private one," he shot over his shoulder. "Anonymity guaranteed. A fine thing to have so close to the seat of our Parliament, isn't it? Inspector, please show your badge, we are wasting time."
Before the blushing Inspector could reply, a curtain on a corridor parted to reveal the dark uniform of a constable. "Inspector!" he cried. "Sir, come this way. The management don't like people to hang about in the lobby. The room is up this way."
"Thank you, Constable Rance," said Hopkins, and we followed him to the first floor. "How is the victim?"
"Already gone to the hospital, sir. He took a bad turn, couldn't seem to catch his breath for a while, so Inspector Gregson took him on to St. Thomas's."
"Did he say anything of interest?" asked Holmes.
Theconstable looked askance at this nosy stranger, but Hopkins nodded for him to reply. "He weren't speakin' much except nonsense as it was, anyway. Right addled, he was." The man stolidly shrugged, and held open a door.
Hopkins gave me a worried look, but I only said, "It's all right, Inspector. If he's that badly off, perhaps the hospital is the best place for him. Heaven knows, my skills are a trifle out of practice."
Holmes snorted in disapprobation or disagreement, I couldn't be sure which. I gritted my teeth, preferring to stoke my irritation rather than give in to my discomfort at being near him. Focus on something else, Watson.
The dim gas-lit rooms into which we stepped were large and well-appointed, if a trifle overdone. If a word came to mind to describe the décor, it would be – well, brothel. Fringed heavy draperies blocked all natural light from the windows. A chaise-lounge was covered in yellow satin. An excessively large mirror was set in the ceiling over the bed. My ears began to burn with embarrassment, but Holmes was already striding over to the bed, which had a rumpled salmon-coloured satin coverlet with several large bloodstains upon it. "Everyone, just stay exactly where you are," he barked. "Don't trample any remaining data underfoot, if you please."
Hopkins opened his mouth to protest, but I spoke first. "Holmes! This is not your crime scene, it is Inspector Hopkins'! In case you had forgotten, he is in charge here, and he invited mealong. Don't be overbearing." With that shot, I walked across the room and jerked open a curtain, flooding the room with light. I looked over in Holmes' direction and froze. "Oh."
On the white painted, scroll-edged headboard, something was written in blood, but not in any language I recognized –
Nana qui win
Holmes checked an impatient reply at my reprimand and glanced at what had caught my attention. He studied it intently for a moment, leaning in, face nearly pressed into the bloody smears. He stood straight, and said in a more cordial tone, "Indeed. Very well then, Inspector, if you don't mind, I'd like to offer my assistance on your case." He looking scathingly at the well-trodden carpeting and couldn't resist adding, "It's not like there's likely to be much evidence left on the floor after a herd of constables was set loose in here."
Hopkins cast me a speaking glance, though I couldn't guess whether he was appreciative of my intervention on his behalf, or humiliated. He joined Holmes at the bed, with the aspect of a pupil with his teacher.
"Look carefully at the indentations upon the sheets and bedspread. The victim sat heavily upon the edge of the bed – see how the sheet is pulled down just there. What do you make of the coverlet and sheets?"
"He lay back, or was pushed back onto the bed. The attacker cut him – looks like on the torso, and around the head. He fought and thrashed around, so the bedclothes are jumbled up." Hopkins looked up at Holmes.
"You are coming along, Inspector. Let me point out a few items of interest, then. Your first surmise was correct – someone laid him back on the bed. Here -" he touched the foot of the bed, "Loose dirt grains, not smeared or dragged. Fallen from his shoes, which were not removed. From this we can ascertain that his feet were picked up and carefully placed on the bed by another. As to the blood – well, Doctor Watson can help elucidate as our medical expert, I believe?" His voice was acerbic.
I glared to cover my discomfort at being asked to approach. Tightening my lips, I joined them, being careful to keep the hapless Hopkins between Holmes and me. I touched one small spot with a finger. "These spots where his torso would have lain – they are dry now, so he must have been lying still a while. The shape – like drips running down to collect. The injuries here were superficial. They are too small to indicate significant blood loss. Not life-threatening, certainly. But then – the slight smearing. He did move at some point, when the blood was almost dry."
Holmes was watching me intently over Hopkins' head. Was that an approving look in his cool eyes? He gave me a small nod. "Hopkins, tell me about the pillow."
Hopkins swallowed, but apparently had absorbed what I'd said. He touched the large dark stain running down the pillow. "Well, like I said, sir. Head cut, or neck, but... not fatal."
"Not his neck," confirmed Holmes.
"But heavy bleeding. Still damp, this patch. He didn't move much until later, like the doctor said. And... the stain is on the right side of the pillow so… his ear or scalp."
"Much better, Hopkins. And the writing?"
All four of us – detective, doctor, inspector and constable studied the gory message. Hopkins ventured, "Well, it looks foreign. Isn't 'qui' a French word?"
"Yes, it means 'that'. But 'win'? And 'Nana'– I can't make heads nor tails of it," I confessed. "Some people refer to their grandmothers as Nana. 'Grandmother that wins?'"
"That would be 'grand-mère qui gagne'" said Holmes, a furrow between his brows. "But more than that, the style and method is significant. Cursive script – the attacker had plenty of fresh blood to accomplish that. From the head wound, doubtless. It is written in a shaky hand as well." He pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the macabre message again. The challenge of a puzzle had caught his attention fully, and the policemen and I could only watch as he moved swiftly and with purpose through the room. Hopkins pulled out his notebook and pencil.
Holmes muttered aloud as he searched. He rifled the male attire in the clothes-press, noting the cut and quality. He sniffed quickly at the brandy decanter and two empty snifters on a wheeled cart by the bedside, then spun away to look at the entrance.
"The attacker left through the door – yes, here's a partial bloody fingerprint on the inside of the door handle." He pressed the constable back into the hallway as he perused the door and frame. "Obviously, the victim booked into Halliday's Private Hotel for secrecy. He was hiding. The closed curtains, the signs of long-term residency... "
Returning to the bed, Holmes gestured for Hopkins to help him fold the bedclothes back. Plucking up pillows, he ran his hand between the mattress and the headboard. A satisfied look flashed across his face. He withdrew his hand and revealed a gold wedding band in his palm. Hopkins glowed with excitement. "Mr. Holmes! That's wonderful! This must mean there was a woman involved."
"Possibly. The ring could have been lost during a struggle, or conceivably it has been there a long time, considering the nature of the hotel. Hmm. Curious motif engraved upon it. Bees." He examined it quickly with his glass before passing it to the Inspector.
Next to the hat-rack he brushed a finger through some white powder on the carpet, tasting it. "Dust. Stone particulate – yes. There was a visitor, a known visitor, who hung up their coat. The particulate fell from it. A sculptor? Construction worker? The visit was recent – the maids haven't cleaned it yet. Constable Rance!" he snapped out, and the man snapped to attention. "Go to the desk clerk, and find out how often the rooms are cleaned and whether they employ mechanical maids or human."
"Human, sir!" said Constable Rance, pleased to offer some information. "The manager called me, said there had been a report from another guest complaining about 'excessive screaming', whatever that means. When I arrived, there was a maid standing outside the door, a-wringin' her hands. The noise within was horrible, enough to frighten anyone out of their wits. The manager had to let me in with his key."
"What was her appearance?"
"Well, sir – she was a maid, is all. Dressed in black, white cap on the back of her head. No one important. She was pacin' up and down and -"
"Wringing her hands, you mentioned it. Did she enter the room?"
"No, sir. She was gone when I came back out to wire Scotland Yard."
Holmes gave him a disbelieving look. "And you say she was no one important. Please humour me, Constable Rance. Go and check for certain whether Halliday's employs human maids or automatons, and the uniforms used. Also, find out how many exits the hotel has, and which are monitored."
The constable pounded off down the stairs, and Holmes turned to Hopkins and I, vibrating with suppressed energy. "Some of the threads of the case are within our grasp, Hopkins. A Private Hotel! It is of the utmost importance that you convince them to open up their guest ledgers for us, though in general it is as though the seal of a Roman Catholic confessional protects what happens within these walls."
"We will work on that, sir. But – why did the man just let himself be cut up like that, Mr. Holmes? He didn't even struggle until the end. The attacker must have run then, afraid of the alarm being raised."
"Can you not guess? Some type of drug. It was likely administered in the brandy. Meanwhile, do you have some kind of envelope? I would like to collect some of that stone dust for analysis, and also there is a broken hair upon the drinks tray. I would like to examine and compare it to some others in our little library of criminals."
Hopkins admitted he didn't have an envelope. "Well, then!" cried Holmes, waving him out the door with a return of his imperious air. "Collect a few from the desk clerk, and do try to find Constable Rance. I expected him back by now. We will need another auto-cab to takes us to St. Thomas's." Hopkins nodded eagerly and left.
I seethed on Hopkins' behalf. Poor young man, being treated like some witless lackey. He obviously looked up to Holmes, but that was no reason for such treatment. I was ready to take Holmes to task again when he suddenly turned and grasped me by the forearm. My body tensed in surprise.
"Doctor Watson – I know that you have no reason to believe in me any more. But – I hope that you will trust me in this as I am about to trust you. Do not cry out, I implore you. It is essential. I am about to work – with allmy resources, and if you feel you cannot bear to watch, then leave. Now. I will not blame you." There was no trace of apology in his tone, only a matter-of-fact seriousness.
My skin crawled at his cool touch, but I nodded jerkily. I understood him. This would be a test – of my control of my fear, and of Holmes' confidence in me. I would watch as he shared his secret self with me. I suddenly realized I did want Holmes to trust me. It was important – that someone could believe in me, no matter what kind of creature I was. Holmes had said I was more human than machine, and with a lurch of my heart I saw a greater truth open up. If I was unnatural, then so was Holmes. We were alike, a quiet voice whispered.But if Holmes felt that I was just as human with my clockwork centre, then that meant that Holmes was... ?
Holmes quickly closed the door, and with a quick jerk of his wrists tugged out his shirt from the back waist of his trousers, rumpling up his waistcoat. Eyes widening, I took a quick breath as Holmes'... appendages unfurled from where they had lain compressed and flattened around his waist. They stretched and extended, wavering, and he exhaled. His grey eyes took in my expression and shut briefly as though pained. "Doctor, sit before you collapse, please. You are not recovered yet, and I haven't much time." I sat on the slippery chaise-lounge with a thump and watched the outlandish sight, heart tripping more quickly.
Holmes sprang back to the besmirched bed, and all four of his appendages reached out and touched the bloody patches and the message briefly, patting lightly with their suckers. He licked his lips, as if tasting something salty. "All the same – the victim's blood," Holmes murmured to himself. He turned to the wheeled cart. He grasped something well-nigh invisible to my eye – the hair he had mentioned and held it up. The tip of a cephalopod arm touched it, skimming a cupped surface along the length. Again Holmes' mouth worked, this time in a grimace. "Mercury. So, works with mercury, or is exposed to it."
My mouth hung open slightly. "You… can taste? Through your… extra arms?"
"Yes, the taste receptors on the cups are extremely keen, much better at distinguishing tastes and chemical make-up than human tongues. The sensation I receive… is a bit odd, but clearly distinct," he absently.
He placed the hair carefully down on the tray, and with a quick flick removed the stopper from the brandy decanter. One tip thinned out and dipped into the brandy, swirling the golden liquid about. "Mm. Medium grade, no additives here. So... "
He picked up both snifters in his human hands, and an appendage touched one, skimming the rim and making it sing. "Only brandy. And the other?" The tip touched the lip cautiously, and tentatively brushed the bottom of the glass. He suddenly became quite still, eyes focused inwardly on whatever sensation he was receiving. With a violent twitch, the glass was knocked from his hand by his extra limb. It thumped on the carpeting without breaking and rolled away. I started up from the chaise, wincing at the pain from my surgery.
"Holmes, what is the matter?"
The face he turned to me was white. "Watson, it is the devil's trumpet. We -"
But whatever he was about to say was interrupted out by a knock. "Doctor Watson? Mr. Holmes? I have the envelopes, and the auto-cab is waiting downstairs. I say – why is the door locked?"
Holmes' eyes widened, and his appendages quickly swirled back and compressed themselves under his loosened shirt. Hopkins coughed. Holmes looked at me. "Delay him," he whispered and moved out of sight of the doorway, tucking his shirt in and restoring his appearance as quickly as possible.
My heart lurched. Now. I could expose him, right now. But he trusts that I won't. He has confidence in my discretion, his reputation is in my hands. Could I… ?
Holmes would never apologize for being what he was. I could see it was not in his nature. Instead, he had taken the first step towards creating a true partnership. His eyes caught mine, and I flushed. Surely that pang in the region of my clockwork was not real? But I understood, and made my decision.
I called out, "Just a moment, Inspector. The door is self-latching. Mr. Holmes was just – attempting to recreate the scene with me as a model." I opened the door, and before Inspector could even open his mouth, Holmes was shoving both of us down the stairs.
"Quickly. We must get to St. Thomas's. Constable!" he shouted. Rance appeared.
"Sir?"
"The hotel has only mechanical maids."
"How did you guess?"
"I never guess. Total anonymity! Guaranteed by the silence of automatons, the only living creatures in this establishment are the desk clerk and manager! I must tell you, Constable - you will not get far about your current position unless you use your head more! You met the attacker, and did nothing about it? Instead, you let yourself be blinded by the unimportant. The maid, Rance! You allowed her to escape!"
Constable Rance gaped incredulously, as we three hurried out to the cab.
"The simpleton." Holmes was bitter. "I tell you Doctor, Inspector – to have had this criminal within his grasp, and not realize it! The dull ox-like stolidity of the average police constable is a reassurance to criminals everywhere." He looked out the window in a black fury as the cab sped across the Thames towards St. Thomas's.
"What had this maid to do with this awful business, Holmes?" I asked. My shoulder and chest were aching horribly, but I forced the pain away.
"A Private Hotel – that is of key importance. Normally it is a safeguard for secrets. The lack of human interaction within means fewer servants to gossip. It is a place for politicians to meet, for clandestine meetings, for hiding. But a lack of servants means fewer people to note strangers in the hotel – its strength and weakness."
"I see. It did look like a house of assignation. That... ahem. Menu. But the maid... ?"
Holmes flicked his hand impatiently, while Hopkins looked as though he were ready to burst.
"Yes, a room for every taste. Pedestrian, bourgeois preferences, really. But our victim was using it to hide. He had an expected visitor, based on the white stone dust. But the maid – well, what could be more natural than ordering a meal, or having your room cleaned? Hence – the drinks tray. As Constable Rance has just proven, no one notices maid servants."
"But why would she return once the alarm had been raised?" queried Hopkins.
"The ring, man, the ring! With her abrupt departure, the door locked itself behind her. She went back for the ring, but as the constable was on the scene, she had no chance to retrieve it and so she left. At least we have the ring – if it was important enough to go back for, we can use the ring as bait."
"But Holmes!" I asked in some anxiety. "What about the victim? Why are we in such a tearing hurry?"
"One brandy on the tray was laced liberally with datura stramonium. Also called moon flower, Jimsonweed or thorn apple. Personally I like the more evocative name Devil's Trumpet. It is a member of the deadly nightshade family. So, our attacker may prove to be a murderess."
I sucked in a breath of dismay. The cab slowed, pulling up outside the hospital gates. "Pray God we are not too late."
Private Hotel – Definition from the Unexpurgated Baedecker's Guide to London – It is a common belief that Cromwellian England and Puritanism left indelible marks upon England's social fabric. The truth is, that modern England is a place of great sensuality, exoticism and mystery, that only pays lip-service to middle-class prudery and moralization. Hence, the emergence of Private Hotels – a place of assignation for lovers. Finding such establishments is difficult, however, as you will find no advertisements for them. Commonly, their existence is known and passed on through word of mouth through certain circles of society. A casual visitor to city may never find one, unless he or she has the correct contacts. Should you gain such access, be warned that you will pay a high price – such places are staffed mainly by automatons. Their silence is guaranteed, but the purchase and maintenance of so many mechanical beings means your time in a Private Hotel will be expensive. For the patrons of Private Hotels, this is no object. It is reassuring that the secrecy and exorbitant price ensures that only a better class of people can gain entrance...
Author's notes:
Well, I will not apologize for the lack of tentacle porn thus far in the story. Firstly, it would be octopus arm porn, not tentacle. Secondly, since I couldn't write a darkfic to save my life, I'd much rather not break Watson's mind and fragile health completely. Remember – Holmes wants a partner, not a seme/uke relationship! They both have ISSUES to work out, however.
This chapter marks the return to my personal twisted version of Study in Scarlet, and actual detecting! Huzzah, huzzah.
Grammar note: St. Thomas's Hospital – the use of St. Thomas' as the possessive is recent and wouldn't have been used in Victorian England. English grammar - it's the pits.
