Sherlock & The Copper Beeches
by Soledad
Summary: a modern retelling of the classic ACD story, with a twist. Set in the same 'verse as "Sherlock & the Illustrious Client". Time: between "The Great Game" and "A Scandal in Belgravia."
A few lines are borrowed from the original ACD story; those are in italics.
I realize that the White Horse Inn might not rent rooms to tourists; my internet research didn't bring up anything conclusive. So let us just assume that they do, for the sake of the story, shall we?
My heartfelt thanks to englishtutor for the beta reading and to my dear friend Linda Hoyland for the Brit-picking. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Chapter 07 – A Ghost from the Past
Sherlock and John didn't hear another word from Miss Hunter for almost two months. It was after Sherlock had solved the case John would later title "The Speckled Blonde" when the first life sign finally came in – in the form of an e-mail, sent to Sherlock's official address that was displayed on his website, The Science of Deduction.
And it was a rather odd message, too, as it didn't contain any actual message. Not a single word. Just a dozen or so photographs, not very high resolution ones at that, all of the same woman.
A woman with marked likeness to Miss Hunter.
"These are not the original ones," Sherlock judged. "By the low quality of them I'd say she found the originals somewhere and made the copies with her camera phone; and quite hurriedly at that."
"The woman does look a great deal like Miss Hunter," John commented. "Do you think she's the reason why Jeff Rucastle was so insistent on hiring her? Miss Hunter, I mean."
"Obviously," Sherlock replied with an exasperated eyeroll; it always annoyed him when people stated the glaringly obvious. "Whoever she might be, she is the key. If we figure out her identity, we'll know what's behind this suspicious job offer. A pity, really; with a probability of eighty-seven per cent, there's some boring love affair behind the whole case. I expected more from it."
"But how can we found out who she is?" John asked. "The clues, if there are any, are most likely in Jeff Rucastle's past. That means the States; and we don't even know where the man used to live before he showed up in New York, some eight or so years ago."
"We don't," Sherlock admitted glumly. "The FBI might, though."
John stared at him in surprise. "You have contacts within the FBI? Or are you planning to draft Mycroft into the case?"
"Don't be ridiculous, John; as if I'd ask Mycroft's help with a case that's barely a three!" Sherlock replied with a derisive snort. "However, Detective Inspector Gregson has a brother or a cousin or somesuch, - I've deleted the details about his boring family life – who works for the NYPD. He might be able to help."
John wasn't so sure about that.
"Yeah, but would he be willing to do so?" he asked doubtfully. "Gregson hasn't been happy about the fact that you've worked almost exclusively with Lestrade in the last six months. You know how jealous he is of Greg."
Sherlock shrugged. "Irrelevant. He also owes me several favours, and I'm about to collect my debts. Besides, this isn't even Lestrade's case."
"Gregson might still be holding grudges," John pointed out.
Sherlock shrugged again. "Also irrelevant. He knows he might need my help eventually. He'll do me the favour to ensure my future cooperation. We need to get in touch with Miss Hunter, though. She may have more data she hasn't managed to send us."
"What about this?" John opened the morning paper to show his flatmate a small article in the section oddly named Books & Events. It had Jeff Rucastle's photo and a report about his upcoming reading of his new book, not yet in print, in the Village Hall of Otterbourne.
"Our reporter, Mr Alex Fowler, will be there to give our readers a general impression," the article ended the usual way, marking the agency from which it had come, as CAM News.
To John's surprise, this seemingly insignificant little detail appeared to fascinate Sherlock.
"Now that," the detective said in deep satisfaction, "is a clue."
"Sorry, what?" John asked in confusion.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "CAM News, John, don't you see it?"
"Yes, of course I see it," John still didn't understand. "So what?"
"CAM News won't be interested in a rather unimportant cultural event, unless there's some secret scandal in the background," Sherlock explained evenly. "So, if CAM News is interested in Jeff Rucastle's reading…"
"… then Mr Rucastle must have a few skeletons in his cupboard," John finished for him.
Sherlock nodded. "Figuratively or literally, yes."
"Which is why we're going to the reading," John guessed, familiar enough with Sherlock's modus operandi by now.
"Precisely," Sherlock was already texting Detective Inspector Gregson, sending him the unknown woman's pictures and a list of data he needed Gregson to get for him.
His unshakable belief that people would always cater to his every whim never ceased to amaze John; or the fact that most of the time people actually did cater to his every whim –if only to get rid of him and his ruthless demands.
Unless it was pure charisma. Or both.
Whichever the case might be, John knew he had no right to criticize others for giving in to Sherlock too easily. He regularly did the same, after all.
"Well," Sherlock sent the text message on its way and then pocketed his phone with a flourish. "Why don't you make yourself useful, John, and look up the trains to Otterbourne?"
Practical (=boring) things were usually John's domain in their shared existence. However, in the light of his most recent considerations, the doctor felt like putting up at least a little fight before doing as he had been told by his erratic flatmate.
"Why don't you look them up yourself?" he retorted.
"You are using your computer," Sherlock pointed out.
John rolled his eyes. "What happened to yours?"
"It is in the bedroom," Sherlock replied, as if that would explain everything.
For him, it probably did.
John knew defeat when he was facing it, and that any further argument would be useless. So he stopped arguing and started looking up trains to Otterbourne… well, to Winchester, really, from where they would have to take the coach to their final destination. It didn't really matter, though, as it was only a short distance.
He also took the liberty to book rooms in The White Horse Inn for the two nights after Jeff Rucastle's scheduled reading. Sherlock had entrusted to him the dealing with the money given them by Sebastian Wilkes for the "Blind Banker" case and he had been careful with it, so they could afford a short vacation in the countryside.
What was more, they needed it. Sherlock would complain, of course, but he wouldn't be able to deny that it was for a case; and as much as John loved London, there were times when he felt the desperate need of fresh air and a bit of peace and quiet. This was one of those times; and the first chance to actually get it.
"All done," he announced, closing his laptop and grinning to himself, imagining Sherlock's outrage when he would realize that they were going on a vacation.
He got no answer. Draped over the sofa, his hands steepled under his chin, the world's only consulting detective was already deep in his Mind Palace. John shook his head in fond exasperation and went to the kitchen to make tea.
It would have been hard to tell which one of them was more surprised when only three days later Detective Inspector Gregson called them.
"Where did you get those pictures of Melissa Moretti?" he demanded.
Sherlock grimaced and held the phone a few inches from his head to prevent serious ear damage.
"If, as I assume, you are talking about the pictures I've forwarded to you, then they came from a client," he replied in an exaggeratedly patient manner as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child. "I do not know who the woman is; which is why I asked for your help. So; who is Melissa Moretti?"
"She is – or rather was, as she's been presumably dead for almost a decade – the daughter of a minor mafia don in Chicago," Gregson explained. "She was shielded from the unsavoury business the men of her family made money from and counted as some sort of celebrity in the so-called high society of Chicago."
"And now she isn't?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
He had put the phone on speakers, so that John could also listen; but at his questioning look, the doctor simply shook his head, signalling that the name didn't ring a bell with him either.
"As I said: she hasn't been seen for over nine years and is presumably dead," Gregson replied with forced patience. John could almost see with his mind's eye the man's ruggedly handsome face turning red with ill-concealed annoyance; Sherlock did have that effect on a lot of people. "She went missing shortly after marrying a man named Jack Harper."
"And no-one thought of questioning the husband?" Sherlock asked in exasperation. "Clearly, the American police are even more incompetent than ours!"
"They wanted to," Gregson replied. "But the husband went missing on the same day and hasn't been seen ever since, either."
"Hardly a coincidence," Sherlock commented. "I assume the woman's money went missing with them as well."
"The ink hadn't dried on their marriage contract when her accent was cleaned out," Gregson said dryly. "No-one has ever figured out where they went."
"I'm surprised that a mafia don, even a minor one, wouldn't try to hunt them down," Sherlock said. "Usually, the means of the mob are not as limited as those of the police."
"Oh, according to my cousin they did look for the lovebirds for a while," Gregson replied. "However, old Julian Moretti, the family head, died less than a year after his daughter's disappearance, and his sons had a hard time establishing control over his small criminal empire. By the time their position became stable enough, the trail had long gone cold."
"Hmmm…" John could see that Sherlock was already thinking hard, forming and rejecting theories with a dizzying speed. "That's an interesting challenge. I'll need all the background data you've got on this case."
"I'll send Sergeant Liu over with the file," the Detective Inspector promised.
"That's not necessary," Sherlock began, but Gregson interrupted.
"Yes, it is. I'm willing to help you, Holmes, for a change, but I want in. Cousin Thomas took quite the risk to get you these facts; if he can close the Moretti case after almost a decade it will make that risk acceptable. So, either you work with Liu on the case, or you don't get any of the facts. It is that simple. Take it or leave it."
After some resistance, Sherlock gave in, of course… it was either that or asking Mycroft to get him the facts, and that was the last thing he would do. To be honest, John found his outrage over being blackmailed by Gregson quite amusing.
Sherlock tended to forget that not everyone was as tolerant towards him as Gregory Lestrade, who had the patience of a saint. Gregson, while more than willing to accept Sherlock's help in difficult cases, clearly despised him and wouldn't give him the time of the day – unless he got something useful in exchange.
Half an hour later Sergeant Joan Liu, a somewhat dog-faced Chinese woman with no taste when it came to clothes, but capable of killing a Sumo wrestler thrice her size with her bare hands in six different ways, arrived at 221B with a thick manila file. She was a tiny, whipcord-thin person in her late forties and loyal to her boss to a fault. Yet in an unexpected bout of independent thinking, she had also become a great admirer of Sherlock's methods, especially after the "Blind Banker" case. She might have been a third generation British citizen, but she still had great respect for her own roots and the culture of her ancestors.
This was the first time that John actually saw her in person and frankly, she gave him the creeps with her blank face and almost completely unblinking eyes. He assumed it worked well on suspects, too.
Sherlock, of course, remained completely unimpressed. He tore the folder from her hand without asking and soon he was submerged in its contents, while John was trying to do damage control, offering the Sergeant tea, which she gracefully accepted. John tried to apologize on Sherlock's behalf, but Sergeant Liu waved off his concerns.
"I've known Mr. Holmes longer than you, Doctor. I know what to expect," she said dryly.
"You're still willing to work with him, which is more than we could say from Sergeant Donovan," John replied.
Sergeant Liu shrugged her bony shoulders.
"Donovan is still young and a bit idealistic," she said. "Should she stay with the Yard, say, another ten years, she'll learn that getting the job done is the only important thing in our lives. Certainly more important than our personal sensibilities."
"But you don't like Sherlock, either," John said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't have to like him," Sergeant Liu replied. "His methods work, and that's the only thing I care about."
John grinned. "You know, you almost sound like him."
That earned him a fine, arched eyebrow. "Do not insult me, Doctor!"
John still thought she and Sherlock would be a match made in Heaven but he knew better than to say it.
In the meantime Sherlock had finished absorbing what little useful information the folder contained – he didn't see Melissa Moretti's musical and food preferences as particularly useful; after all, the woman was most likely dead – and threw the file on top of a pile of old cases.
"This is almost useless," he announced. "We'll have to go to Otterbourne and do our own investigation. Have you looked up the trains?"
John nodded. "Looked them up, bought the tickets online, and booked a room in The White Horse. I suggest you do the same, Sergeant," he turned to Liu. "We may have to stay there longer than just for one night."
Liu nodded. "Give me the web address and I will. What do I have to pack, aside from my toothbrush?"
"We're going to a reading," John explained. "It's not a big place, so smart casual might be good enough… whatever ladies understand by that."
"Will there be a buffet?" Sergeant Liu asked. "I could go undercover as part of a catering service."
"I don't think so," John answered, a little uncertainly. "As far as I know it is a simple reading in the Village Hall, not some big event."
"A shame," Liu deadpanned. "You would be amazed what I can do in a tux and a bow tie."(*)
John managed to withstand the urge to ask: And nothing else? Barely. He was glad that he could swallow the question in time. Somehow he doubted that the Sergeant would find it as funny as he did.
"Sorry, Sergeant, but I'm afraid there won't be a chance this time," was what he said instead.
Sergeant Liu accepted that with a shrug and, after saving the necessary links to her smartphone, she left.
Needless to say that Sherlock was not happy with the turn of events and spent the rest of the day in an epic sulk.
John didn't really care. He was happy for the chance to leave London for a couple of days and was looking forward to seeing the legendary Jeff Rucastle in the flesh again. Whatever else the man might have been, he had done a lot for the armed forces all over the world, portraying them in a fairer, more sympathetic light, and that made him a good man in John's books.
By eleven o'clock on the next Saturday, they were well upon their way to the old English capital. Sherlock busied himself with his phone all the way down, doing his best to shut out the noise and olfactory attacks of the many people taking the same train.
John had realized by now that the preference of his flatmate for cabs to public transportation came only partially coming from his privileged social status. In truth, the overlapping sensations on the Tube or a train were too much for his hypersensitive senses, which was why he tried to avoid them whenever he could. As a doctor, John understood that; but understanding did not make Sherlock any more pleasant as a travelling companion.
Sergeant Liu, laconic creature that she was, took it all in her stride, burying herself in the morning papers. She was the first woman John had ever known who read only the political, economic and sports sections of a paper, tossing the gossip columns aside with an expression of vague disgust and handing the pages she had finished wordlessly to John.
As usual, she was wearing clothes more fitting a woman half her age, which looked a bit ridiculous on her, despite her being slim and shapely: black leggings with high-heeled ankle boots, a long-sleeved sweatshirt and an oversized, crocheted pullover over it. She wore her long, glossy black hair in a ponytail and just a touch more make-up than was strictly necessary. John only hoped she had something more tasteful in that large carry-all of hers, or else their appearance at the reading would be slightly embarrassing.
On the other hand, a middle-aged woman desperately trying to still look young was as good a cover as any, he had to admit.
Aside from these considerations, the trip was deadly dull, between a morose Sherlock and an indifferent Sergeant Liu. By the time they had passed the Hampshire border, John was out of reading material and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farmsteads peeked out from amidst the light green of the new foliage.
Even through the closed window of the train car, John felt the invigorating effect of the reawakening nature and was happy to get out of the London fog at least a short time. While he never wanted to live everywhere else than in London, not for the long run anyway, he appreciated the fresh country air as much as every sane man; more so at times when a recent injury was paining him.
Like now.
He only hoped that the dark picture Sherlock had painted about life in the countryside would prove to be an overly dramatic statement.
~TBC~
(*) This comment was inspired by a picture I saw somewhere on the Net, showing the actress in a tux and a bow-tie indeed.