I have blatantly borrowed some Mofftiss Magic. Don't sue me!

Chapter Eight

Over the next few days, Sherlock found himself inundated with a rash of rather quirky but not terribly taxing cases, which kept him and John both occupied and amused. The first of these was 'The Hollow Client.' He and his blogger arrived at 221B Baker Street to find a full set of clothes, including socks, shoes, shirt, tie and underwear, laid out on John's chair as though the wearer had simply melted, evaporated or otherwise disappeared from within them.

It didn't take Sherlock long to deduce that Mrs Turner, who was house-sitting whilst her friend was away, had turned over two pages of Mrs H's wall calendar instead of one, by mistake, and thought it was 1st April so had set up the prank as a joke. She rather gave the game away by standing at the foot of the stairs, giggling, and then trying to look innocent when Sherlock asked her if she had seen anyone coming to or from the flat that day.

The second was 'The Elephant in the Room.' Again, John and Sherlock arrived at the flat to discover a baby elephant standing in the sitting room, having relieved itself all over the ancient rug. A quick search of the Internet revealed that a baby elephant called Lucy had been stolen from a private zoo in Surrey. It later transpired that this had been a stunt for Rag Week, carried out by the students of the nearby University of London campus.

It soon became apparent that, although elephants are quite adept at climbing up stairs, they are not so good at descending them, due to the forward position of their centre of gravity. But, with the assistance of the London Fire Brigade's specialist Animal Rescue Unit and the employment of a portable crane, the young pachyderm was eventually removed through one of the front windows and returned to its home and mother. The students were obliged to pay for the whole operation, including the cleaning of the rug.

Last, and by no means least, was the case of 'The Poison Giant'. This was the most compelling case of all, since it involved a number of rather high-profile individuals being struck down by a very rare poison, only found in the plants grown in the Amazon Rain Forest. Fortunately, the poison was quickly identified by the Centre for Tropical Diseases, so no one actually died. But the means by which the victims were being injected with the poison was not immediately obvious, until Sherlock discovered a tiny barb at one of the crime scenes.

This struck quite a chord with the detective and the current edition of Time Out provided the vital information needed to close the case. A troupe of Brazilian clowns were currently performing at Olympia and staying at a hotel in Bayswater, close to where all the attacks had taken place. John and Sherlock staked out the roof of the hotel and caught the culprit in the act of targeting his next victim, with a blowpipe, as the innocent person strolled in a nearby park, below. After a short chase, the homicidal midget was floored by a well-timed rugby tackle from John, disarmed of his blowpipe and stock of poisonous thorns, and delivered to DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard, after which, the intrepid duo celebrated, as was their custom, with a meal at Angelo's.

Added to these more interesting cases were the usual round of unfaithful spouses, lost dogs and missing persons – most of which, Sherlock refused to even consider. Too boring.

However, despite all this activity, at every quiet moment the detective's thoughts returned to the mystery of 'The Mumbling Man and the Psychotic Racehorse'. He watched the videos, over and over, searching for anything that he might have missed. He knew it would be there, somewhere. He always missed something. It was his most frustrating trait.

Then, about a week after his first visit and just three days before the race itself, Lord Hadfield came to see his godson again, with a startling revelation. The man turned up at Baker Street, sweating and shaking but pale as a ghost, and blurted out,

'It was me! I placed the large bet!'

Sherlock, seated in his leather and chrome chair, simply steepled his fingers and fixed the man with a cold stare.

'I had deduced as much,' he confirmed. 'But, having done so, why then draw attention to the bet by coming to me? You might have known I would work it out, in the end.'

'You have no idea what is resting on this race!' the marquis squawked, ringing his hands in anxious desperation.

'Then why don't you tell me,' Sherlock suggested and, with in imperious wave of his hand, invited the other man to sit down and spill the beans.

'I have debts, dear boy, huge debts. Inheritance Tax, Wealth Tax, running costs and maintenance – you know what it's like, nowadays, with the landed gentry. We are property rich but cash poor. Most of us can barely keep our heads above water. Your brother is one of the lucky few….'

'I don't believe that, in Mycroft's case, luck has much to do with it, do you?' Sherlock interjected.

'No, probably not. Your brother is an astute business man and has managed your family's assets extremely well, ever since your p…since he came into his inheritance. I, on the other hand, have been a bit of a fool. But this horse and this race were going to be the answer to all my financial problems.'

Sherlock pursed his lips and refrained from voicing his opinion on the subject of gambling, especially on something as unpredictable as a horse race. He kept his own council and waited for the stupid man to go on.

'When Bridges came to me with the proposition to buy the horse, I was reluctant. Owning race horses is a very expensive hobby. One hardly ever makes any money from it. One should go into it with that in mind. And, at the time, I was thinking of selling the horse I already owned. But the trainer told me that this horse was special, that it was a sure thing, that we simply could not lose. And, up until Christmas, this was absolutely true.'

'But then the horse lost its form,' Sherlock filled in.

'In deed, he did and I went to Bridges and asked him what on earth was going on. But the man told me not to panic, that this was all part of the plan. He said that the horse's odds were too small – he was 5/1 favourite – but if he lost a few races, his odds would slide and the pay-out would be greater for the same stake.'

'And you believed him?'

'I did, at first, and even though the horse kept losing or being pulled up, I wasn't concerned and I even placed that big bet – anonymously, of course. I did it through an account I have in a false name - to hide it from my creditors, you understand.'

This was completely illegal but the man knew that. There was no point in Sherlock stating the obvious, so he said nothing.

'That was my first mistake,' the marquis groaned, then looked put out at Sherlock's bark of derision.

'Oh, alright, not my first mistake but perhaps my worst?'

The detective just raised his eyebrows but kept silent.

'That was when the BHA and the Jockey Club got involved. I should have realised it would attract their attention but, at the time, I wasn't thinking straight. However, when Bridges found out, he was really rather angry. He spoke to me in such a manner! I can't even begin to describe how downright rude he was!'

'I think I can imagine,' Sherlock assured him.

'He said I had put the whole venture at risk and he wanted to scratch the horse from the race, lay low for a while and then come back again, next year, with a new campaign. But, you see, Sherlock, I can't wait until next year. By this time next year, I could be destitute. I could have lost everything. The horse has to run and it has to win!'

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and shook his head, holding up a hand to silence the other man.

'I really don't understand. If the horse's loss of form was intentional, why ask me to find out why the horse had lost his form? Surely, you already know the answer to that question?'

'I know why the horse has lost his form but I don't know how,' Lord Hadfield exclaimed. 'And it wasn't supposed to go on for this long. The horse was supposed to have a couple of bad runs – enough to sew the seed of doubt about his invulnerability - and then come back to form, just in time for the big event. But that hasn't happened.'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, not sure what the marquis expected of him.

'I fear that Bridges has double-crossed me. I believe he is going to let the horse lose, deliberately. If I can prove that he is throwing the race, I could ruin him. He would lose his licence for race fixing – he could lose it now, since he has let the horse lose three times already – but only if I, or rather you, can discover how he's doing it. That is why I came to you.'

The marquis sat back in the chair, looking every inch the desperate man he was, and wiped his sweaty brow with a trembling hand.

'This is why I am imploring you, Sherlock, to go there – to the yard – and find out what they are doing to that horse to stop it performing on the track, that doesn't show up in urine or blood tests. Please, I'm begging you.'

Sherlock looked at the man, feeling no sympathy, what so ever, for the situation which he had, undoubtedly, brought upon himself. But he was still intrigued. He really did want to know how it was being done.

'I would need a cover story,' he said, at last.

Lord Hadfield's face lit up like that of a child on Christmas Morning.

'So, you'll do it?' he squeaked.

'I could be a journalist, doing a story on the horse. That would get me in and give me 'access all areas' but you would have to clear that with the trainer. I doubt he would let me in if I just turned up at the door.'

'No problem! He's still my horse and I still pay the bills. And, if Bridges refuses, I'll threaten to take the horse away. He won't like that. That horse is still a champion in the making,' Hadfield declared.

'Alright,' Sherlock said, standing up to indicate that the meeting was over. 'You get that ball rolling. Tell him I represent the Scandinavian racing magazine, Galoppmagasinet. It covers the sport, world-wide, from a life-style perspective. Tell him I've been commissioned to write an article about the build up to a major race – you know, all the behind-the-scenes stuff that goes into preparing a horse for the big event - and then the event itself.' He was on a bit of a roll, now, and proving that he had already given this eventuality a great deal of thought.

'What if he decides to check your story?' the other man asked, suddenly looking doubtful.

'He'll find I check out!' Sherlock replied, confidently. Mycroft would see to that.

'I want full access to every aspect of the horse's life, for two whole days, so I will need over-night accommodation, on site,' he added.

'And what shall I call you? He might recognise your real name, from the papers. He might even recognise you!' Lord Hadfield seemed to be having second thoughts.

Sherlock gave him a look of utter contempt.

'I have no doubt that he would recognise Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, so I will not be Sherlock Holmes. Tell him I am Lars Sigerson and that I will be there at nine a.m., tomorrow.'

ooOoo

Golly! Two updates in two days! Dare I suggest the Muse is back...? No! Mustn't tempt Fate!