7. Near The Cradle Seen


Sherlock had not wanted to wait for a single minute before going to investigate the Cromwell Manor Inn. But John had overruled him, insisting that Lestrade and his warrant card would be able to expedite things once they were there, which would more than make up for the time spent calling him to the scene. Now, as they approached the hotel, John was glad that he had insisted. Sherlock looked as though he would start shouting at anyone who did not produce Madame, alive and healthy, the instant he walked in the door. Just before they entered, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, his expression grave.

"We're going to get this done, Sherlock," he said. "And we're going to do it right. I promise. But you need to cooperate. Let me speak first. You look around the lobby, see if there's anything you can find out." Sherlock opened his mouth, but Lestrade shook his head. "We'll find her. I promise you."

Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade led the way into the hotel. The lobby was small and elegant, and one wall was filled with photographs detailing the history of the place. Sherlock immediately went to examine these, while John followed Lestrade to the registration desk. A young clerk in a blue waistcoat smiled at them.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" she asked.

Lestrade flashed his warrant card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he said. "I'm performing a welfare check on a woman we believe checked in sometime last night."

The clerk raised her eyebrows. "I only came on duty at seven. Um . . . is there a name?"

Lestrade glanced at John. John frowned. "She might have used one of a couple of names. Either Posina Fidolia or Posy Fossil. Do you have anyone by that name?"

The clerk entered some information into her desk computer. After a moment, she looked up. "I have a Posy Fossil registered here. Last night, at . . . er . . . a quarter to eight. That's odd."

"What is?" John asked.

"She didn't book ahead. Most of our guests do."

John sighed, and glanced over at Sherlock. "I suspected as much."

"We'll need to check on her," Lestrade said. "Can you tell us which room she's in?"

The clerk blushed. "I'd have to get the manager."

"Do that. We'll wait."

The clerk disappeared into a back room. John went to stand by Sherlock. "She checked in here last night," he said softly.

"I know. I heard." Sherlock gazed at the photographs on the wall. "History of the area. That one was taken on the day the hotel opened, 1938." He moved a little bit further down the line of framed pictures. "That was when it was still a private home."

Madame's home, he didn't say. John gazed at the photograph. It showed a man about Sherlock's age and a young girl, both wearing greasy overalls, standing in front of the house, leaning against an old-fashioned car. John wondered if the girl might be Madame or one of her sisters. With the exception of the awning and the sign out front, the exterior of the building had not changed much since the photograph had been taken.

There was a polite cough behind them. They turned around to see a man in a suit. Pinned to his lapel was a nameplate identifying him as the manager, Mr. Titon. "Excuse me," he said. "Winnie called me in, said someone was doing a welfare check?"

Lestrade stepped forward. "Yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard." He shook hands with Mr. Titon. "Your clerk said that you could tell us where to find a Ms. Posy Fossil. I've been asked to check up on her."

Mr. Titon nodded. "Of course. She rang last night, asked for a room. Didn't book her into the computer, she said she was on her way. Funny thing, she specifically asked for a room on the top floor." He went to the registration desk and collected a key card.

"Did you see her when she arrived?" John asked.

Mr. Titon nodded, and led them to the stairs. "Little old lady, very small. Didn't have much luggage, which was odd. Just a handbag, a shopping bag, and one of those portable oxygen tanks. Took it directly to the staircase, never even noticed when I tried to show her the lift. Why she'd want to drag something like that up all these steps is beyond me."

"How did she look when you saw her?"

Mr. Titon paused on the landing and thought. "Couldn't tell you. Like a sweet old granny. Perhaps a bit pale, but that could have been the lighting in the lobby."

"Go on," Sherlock said. "Take us to her. Now."

"Sherlock." John held out his arm to stop Sherlock from grabbing at Mr. Titon's jacket.

They climbed the last few flights of stairs, and Mr. Titon led them to a door at the end of the hallway. He glanced at Lestrade once, and then knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Mr. Titon knocked again.

"Ms. Fossil?" he called. "Ms. Fossil, it's the manager. You all right?"

Still, no answer came.

"Ms. Fossil, I have the police with me," Mr. Titon said. "They're here to check up on you. You all right in there?" When there was still no answer, he took a deep breath. Lestrade nodded to him, and he fished in his pocket for the key card. "Ms. Fossil, we're coming in."

The key card clicked in the lock, and Mr. Titon opened the door. The curtains were still closed, and the room was dark. Sherlock fumbled for the light switch, and gave it a vicious slap when he finally found it.

A light over the door gave them just enough illumination so that John could rush to the window and open the curtains. Daylight poured into the room, revealing Madame Posy Fossil, lying serene and composed on the bed, wearing a plain blue dress. Her oxygen tank stood nearby, its tubing and nasal cannula coiled neatly around its frame. A coat hung on a coat hanger in the wardrobe. There was a string of coral beads around Posy's throat, and she clasped a pair of old, faded ballet shoes in her hands. When John touched her face, she was cold.

He looked up just in time to see a last dim ray of hope flicker out in Sherlock's face. "How long?" Sherlock choked out.

John tugged at Posy's hand, and found that it was stiff. "She's in full rigor mortis. At least six to eight hours, likely a bit longer. There was nothing you could have done, Sherlock. I'd guess she was dead even before Mycroft phoned this morning."

No one spoke for a moment. Sherlock's face went slack, but his eyes burned. He took a few stumbling steps toward the bed, and reached out his hand as if to touch Posy's body, but pulled it back. He looked up, and glanced from John to Lestrade as if seeing them for the first time. As a doctor and as a friend, John knew his duty. There was nothing he could do for Posy. It was Sherlock who needed him now. John placed a steadying hand on Sherlock's back.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's give Lestrade some room to work." Lestrade took the hint and pulled out his mobile. As John guided Sherlock back out into the hall, he could hear Lestrade calling for medical support. John turned Sherlock so that he stood with his back to the wall, and then pushed at his shoulder in an effort to get him to sit down on the floor.

"Sit down before you fall down," he said. "Won't do anyone any good if you collapse and we have to take you to hospital."

"I'm not going to collapse," Sherlock growled. "I can't collapse. I haven't finished. Where are the records, the hotel records? I need to see them."

"Sherlock, calm down. I know you're upset –"

"I am not upset!" Sherlock cried. "I need to see the hotel records!" He turned the full force of his glare on Winnie, who had just come up to the top floor. "Get me the hotel records!"

Winnie jumped. Mr. Titon emerged from Posy's room. "Ah," he said, smiling a tight, mirthless little smile. "Winnie, stay here, assist the Inspector with whatever he needs. There'll be paramedics arriving shortly." He turned to Sherlock. "Er, in the meantime, can I be of help?"

Sherlock swallowed. "I want to see the purchase records for this building. Where are they?"

Mr. Titon blinked. "Um. Well. I think we might have a set of documents in the office. If you would care to follow me?" He went to the stairs.

Sherlock hesitated, glancing back at the room where Posy's body lay. John took his arm. "It's all right, Sherlock," he said. "Lestrade is with her. He'll take care of her."

Sherlock bowed his head and allowed John to walk him down the stairs.


They caught up with Mr. Titon in the hotel's office, as he rooted through an old cardboard banker's box. John pushed Sherlock to sit down in a chair. "Can I get you anything?" Mr. Titon asked.

"The purchase records," Sherlock said.

"Cup of tea," John said. "Three sugars."

Mr. Titon gave a weak nod, and phoned the kitchen. The tea arrived within minutes, and John pushed the cup into Sherlock's hand.

"Drink that," he said. "Doctor's orders."

At last, Mr. Titon pulled a yellowing folder from the bottom of the box. "Here we are," he said. "Nothing unusual. Purchased 1936, by Mr. Douglas Manning, he's the grandfather of the present owner. Purchased from . . . let me see . . . a Miss Sylvia Brown."

"Garnie," Sherlock said. He relaxed a little in his chair and breathed in the steam from the tea.

"Oh, were you interested?" Mr. Titon asked. "Er – friend of the family?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

Mr. Titon waited, but Sherlock said nothing more. He turned a puzzled expression to John.

"Don't worry about Ms. Fossil," John said. "In fact, I promised I'd notify her niece once we'd found her." He took out his mobile, and Mr. Titon nodded. He replaced the purchase record in the box as John rang Patricia Bridger.


Patricia and Petrova had clearly been waiting for John's call, ready to go, for Patricia's car drew to a stop in front of the hotel before the police and the paramedics had left. John had delegated the task of meeting them to himself and Sherlock, primarily to keep Sherlock out of the way of the paramedics. When Patricia's car arrived, John helped Petrova out of the car as Patricia retrieved her mother's walking frame from the back seat and unfolded it.

Petrova paused for a moment on the pavement to gaze at the building. "Will you look at that?" she said. "Brings me right back to when I was a little girl." She spotted Sherlock and trundled her walker over to him. "Did you find Posy?"

Sherlock flushed pink, and his mouth worked silently for a moment before he spoke. "Yes. I did. She – she's dead."

John hurried to Petrova's side, in case she might collapse at hearing the news broken so bluntly. But Petrova simply nodded, as though she had been expecting exactly this outcome. "Where is my sister?" she asked.

"She's upstairs," John said. "She asked for a room on the top floor."

"Of course." Petrova nodded. "Our rooms. Nana would still call them the nursery, of course, even after Pauline and I began working. You would think that a child old enough to go on stage would be too old for a nursery, but I suppose it's because of Posy. I'd like to go and see her."

Patricia shot a glance at John, clearly feeling that he was the one in charge. John nodded. "The paramedics haven't brought her down yet. I'll go upstairs and make sure it's all right; I'm sure they won't mind. Sherlock, can you help Mrs. Fossil-Davies get to the lift?"

Sherlock nodded, and bent down to offer Petrova his arm.

"There's a lift now? Gum will enjoy that," Petrova told him approvingly, as John hurried inside.

When Petrova made her way to the top floor, Lestrade waved for quiet, and all of the workers stood back so that she could approach her sister's body. Petrova gazed down at Posy, and stroked Posy's hair before covering Posy's hands with her own. "Her mother's ballet shoes," she said softly. "She loved those shoes, even after she outgrew them."

The medical examiner cleared her throat. "We think that your sister went to sleep without her oxygen tubes," she said. "She couldn't get enough air during the night, and she'd placed the tank too far away to reach."

Petrova nodded. "Well."

She stood up, and turned around until she spotted Sherlock. "Thank you," she said, "for finding Posy."

Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't find her in time."

"Nonsense," Petrova replied. "You found her exactly as she wished to be found. Posy lived to dance, ever since she was a very little child. I'm sure she simply hated being tethered to that tank all the time."

"You think it was . . . intentional?" Lestrade asked.

Petrova smiled fondly at Posy. "Posy always did make her own decisions. Once she made up her mind to do something, she always found a way. Pauline only went to Hollywood for Posy's sake, you know, so that Posy could dance with Manoff." She sighed, and turned to Patricia. "Now there's the funeral to arrange, I suppose. I think I'll need a little rest first."

Mr. Titon stepped forward. "Of course. Would you care to wait in my office?"

"Thank you," Petrova said. "That's very kind of you. I haven't been in this house since I was a girl." She allowed Mr. Titon to escort her and Patricia out of the room.

Lestrade cast a worried glance at Sherlock. "No foul play," he said. "I think we can handle it from here. I'll contact the Academy. You two should go home. You look about as worn out as the sister."

Sherlock nodded, and turned to leave, but Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock . . . I'm sorry about your teacher."

Sherlock paused, and took one last look at Posy. "She was a proper genius," he said, and then stalked out of the hotel room, his head held high, and John at his heels.


A few days later, John posted a link on his blog to the Guardian's obituary notice for the famous former ballerina Posina Fidolia. Posy's funeral had been small and private, and Sherlock had not attended, although John suspected that he might be able to entice Sherlock into going to the memorial concert that the Academy would be staging in a month.

Sherlock stood at the window, playing scales on his violin. Something caught his attention, and he craned his neck to see. "The post has arrived," he announced, and then returned to his scales.

John checked to make sure that his post was formatted properly, and then hurried downstairs. He had taken on the task of collecting and sorting the post while Mrs. Hudson recovered from her recent encounter with an arsonist that Sherlock had been hunting. John dropped off Mrs. Hudson's portion of the post, declined her offer of tea, and took the rest upstairs.

He pulled a stiff cardboard mailer from the pile and handed it to Sherlock. "This one's for you, from the Academy," he said. "I thought you had decided not to take any money from them."

"I did decide that." Sherlock set his violin down in its case and peeled the mailer open. He extracted a piece of stationery folded around a photograph. As he glanced between the letter and the photograph, he went very still, and his eyes took on a faraway look.

Curious, John twitched the photograph out of Sherlock's unresisting fingers. It was a black-and-white image of Posy Fossil that John guessed had been taken in the 1950s, what would have been the peak of her career. In the photograph, Posy wore a leotard trimmed with smooth, patterned feathers at the shoulders and the waist. A short skirt, also made of patterned feathers, sprayed out about her hips. She balanced on one toe, her other leg drawn up, her lithe body forming a graceful C-curve. Her arms were raised to complete the gesture, and she looked into the camera with a joyous smile on her face. Printed in the white border below the image were the words Posina Fidolia, "Birds of North America," 1951. The photograph was signed, in a sprawling hand, To dear Madame, with much Love, your Posy.

"Dorothy Robinson sent it to me," Sherlock said, his voice slurring a little. "With the official thanks of the Fidolia Academy of the Performing Arts. I never saw her dance, John. Not really, not the way she did before her accident."

John looked again at the photograph and tried to imagine the flow of graceful motion that had produced such a still image. "She never saw the best of your genius, either. But . . . I think that you and she both saw what you needed to see." He slid the photograph back into the mailer to protect it. "We'll have this framed," he said, and set the mailer down by his laptop.

Sherlock gave a tiny smile, and turned to pick up his violin again.


END


Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. I'm so thrilled to see how many other people turn out to be fans of both Ballet Shoes and Sherlock! Who knew there were so many? I'm not alone! I had a tremendous amount of fun planning and researching and writing this, and I hope you had as much fun reading it.

The idea seemed almost absurd when I first thought of it. I'd been rereading Ballet Shoes, and somehow, it occurred to me that, in both Ballet Shoes and Sherlock, the city of London is portrayed in loving detail, almost as though it is a secondary character in its own right. I also started thinking of how Sherlock is a world without the iconic character of Sherlock Holmes, and I wondered what detective would have taken his cultural place. I settled on Poe's C. Auguste Dupin, who was one of Conan Doyle's models for Sherlock Holmes, and thought that, in the world of Sherlock, the actor William Gillette, who in our world made his fortune being the first iconic portrayer of Sherlock Holmes, would have played Dupin instead.

Thinking along those lines led me to Ballet Shoes and its companion books, where it's hinted that Pauline Fossil replaces the real-life Vivien Leigh in Gone With The Wind. A world where William Gillette played Auguste Dupin and a world where Pauline Fossil played Scarlett O'Hara could perhaps . . . coincide. And that was the spark that led to a crossover. After that, I had to find a way to make the timelines work – Ballet Shoes is set in the 1930s, while Sherlock is in the present day, and the two eras almost don't overlap. That was what led to the scenes of Sherlock and Madame through the years.

Thank you so much for reading. I'll see you next time.