Author's Note: Heyyy, guys. Marie here-alive, believe it or not. I apologize for the wait. It seems like yesterday it was August and I was starting college; now it's April and I feel like I haven't written in years! Hopefully, since I've learned some of the college ropes, things will get moving again. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! Disclaimer: Pretty sure we all know I only own Jane. Not even her last name belongs to me.
Chapter 7
The handkerchief I was twisting had nearly turned my hand white as we approached the cemetery, the men of the Scotland Yard swarming around Blackwood's gravesite with their horses tacked neatly in a row.
As Clarky opened the carriage door, John reached and squeezed my hand gently, his hazel eyes looking reassuringly into my own. "Are you sure," he repeated.
I nodded. "Y-Yes." With that, John stepped out, offering me his hand to help me exit the carriage, Holmes bringing up the rear with a riding crop tucked neatly under his arm. As we formed our silent line of four, the detective took my arm and placed it in the crook of his free elbow, just as he had done when we visited Blackwood in prison.
So glad you couldexcept my invitation. Both of you.
John's voice almost startled me. "Who do you think won the match, Clarky?"
Clarky wrinkled his nose. "Sir?"
"The rugby match." He gestured to the streaks and footprints on the ground with his walking stick, earning a small smile from me and a chuckle from Holmes. "Your boys have done a magnificent job of obliterating any potential evidence."
"Yes, but at least they never miss an opportunity...to miss an opportunity," Holmes quipped as we approached the actual gravesite. The stone was completely busted, leaving a gaping hole, big enough for almost two people to stride out of side-by-side.
"You took your time, Holmes," a voice rumbled from the shadows, making me jump.
"And on the third day…" Holmes teased, glancing at me for a moment. I nodded; he left me with my brother and sauntered towards the grave as Lestrade emerged, very much alive and deep in thought.
Once the inspector and the detective were side by side, Lestrade began to fill Holmes in, John and I listening. "These slabs are sandstone, half a ton each if they're a pound, and they were smashed open from the inside."
Holmes nodded. "Lestrade. What of the coffin?"
"We are in the process of bringing it up now."
Holmes turned his attention to the men of the Yard all standing in a clump, staring at the grave with uneasiness. "I see. Hmm... Right." He turned back to Lestrade, a small smirk on his face. "At what stage of the process? Contemplative? And how is our witness?"
After glaring at his men, the DI gestured to the older man huddled against the set of stairs leading to Blackwood's grave. "He's over there. And apparently he's cataton—cata…"
I raised an eyebrow. "Catatonic?"
Lestrade gave a frustrated huff. "He's not feeling very well."
"Yes," Holmes replied, biting back his amusement.
As Lestrade walked towards his men and John towards the witness, I stood staring at the shattered grave, watching Holmes perch on a large fragment of the slabs and pick up smaller bits of the busted stone. "This can't be happening," I whisper as men shuffle into the tomb, into the black.
"What do you mean, Miss Watson?" Holmes inquired mid-sniff, making me jump.
"Remember? 'And I will rise again'?" I quoted, shivering at the familiar words. "Seems as though he was right."
Looking above his tinted lenses, Holmes' brown eyes met mine in an almost stern glance. "He was a man, Jane. Nothing magical about him. Everything is not what it seems," he murmured, licking the piece of sandstone in between his fingers thoughtfully. "Honey?" he asked, looking at the rock.
I wrinkled my nose. "What?"
"Just remember that for me," he requested, rising to his feet and taking my arm to guide me away from the opening; Lestrade's men had emerged again, the black, ornate coffin coming with them.
As John and Lestrade set to helping pry the coffin open, Holmes removed his glasses with one hand, taking my hand to squeeze it with the other as my heart began to pound. Just a man, the glance he gave me said.
My heart continued to hammer away in my chest as the coffin lid flew open to reveal...
A short, red-headed man, covered in maggots and dirt.
"Good Lord," John murmured.
Lestrade looked up in surprise. "That's not Blackwood," he declared.
Three more will die and there is nothing you can do to save them.
Holmes squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying his best to not snap at the Detective Inspector beside him. "Well, now we have a firm grasp, of the obvious," he quipped. He swiftly pulled a string to open a pouch that was attached to his belt, handed me his riding crop, and knelt beside my brother. "Time of death?"
John followed suit, removing his hat and pulling out a ruler to measure the creatures around and inside the body. "Diptera is approximately…two-thirds of an inch which would put the time of death at between ten and twelve hours ago."
As Lestrade licked his pen to take note of John's statement, Holmes' eyes flickered upwards. "May I borrow your pen?" he asked. Nodding, the Detective Inspector complied; Holmes used the pen to lift up the upper lip of the corpse, revealing the absence of two front teeth.
"Adler's dwarf," John confirmed.
"Midget," Holmes corrected, his chin in his hand as he thought as he handed Lestrade his pen back; the DI fluffing out his handkerchief to take the utensil back with a grimace. Holmes removed his hat to rake his hand through his hair, his eyes catching something mine did not.
"I know what I saw!" A new voice declared as Holmes dropped his hat on the corpse.
It was the old, catatonic groundskeeper, inching towards all of us with gleaming blue eyes. "It was Blackwood! As clear as I see you." His face grew grave as he continued. "And when the dead walk...the living will fill these coffins."
Three more…
Holmes glanced over his shoulder at me as John put his hat on, my brother's gaze still studying the man. "Well…" Holmes began, putting his hat back on his head and rising to his feet. "Umm…" He nodded to Lestrade, turned to me for his riding crop.
"Right, put the lid on and clean this lot up," Lestrade instructed as we walked away, myself walking in between my brother and his flat mate.
"Do you really believe he was resurrected?" I inquired, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
Holmes held his riding crop behind his back for a moment, looking at me. "The question is not 'if', Miss Watson, but 'how.' The game's afoot." A sparkle came into his eye as he began again. "Follow your spirit—"
"Andupon this charge, cry: 'God for Harry,England and Saint George.'" The voice to my right joined in.
I shook my head with a small smile on my face. "At least the two of you are well-educated."
"I must say, though, I am famished," Holmes began, looking past me to my brother. "What about you two, Watsons?"
John rolled his eyes as I shook my head. "Only you would want to eat after looking at a corpse. What are you thinking."
Holmes grinned.
"Thank you, Flora. Miss Watson, that's horrible for your circulation."
"What?" I looked down, realising I had managed to knot my handkerchief around my hand again; however, this time, my fingers felt quite stuck. "Oh."
Taking my hand to pry the material away as we waited on my brother to return from the shop Holmes insisted upon going to, Holmes kept his voice low as the people around his milled about. "I know you're worried. About the Blackwood case."
I didn't protest; I simply nodded. No use lying or arguing with a man who could see straight through my words. "I'm frightened," I repeated for the second time today as Holmes pulled my handkerchief free, holding my hand in his to make sure he held my gaze. "We know nothing yet, Jane. Let us get evidence and facts first before we get too frightened."
I nodded, taking a deep breath. "I'll try. No more handkerchief knots."
He smiled, turning my hand to place the material into my palm. "No more handkerchief knots."
"Here you are."
John held the paper bag out for Holmes as the three of us began to walk in a sort of single file to avoid the other people in the alley. "Why that certain fish and chips store I don't understand," my brother continued.
Holmes produced the watch he had picked off of the corpse, beginning to examine it as he walked behind me, John taking the lead with the bag of chips in his hand, offering me one. "Well, there's a particular beer they use out in the back—northern stout, to be exact."
John sighed from in front of me. "You know, Holmes, I've seen things in war I don't understand. In India, I once met a man who predicted his own death right down to the number and placement of the bullets that killed him." He glanced behind him at his flatmate as he examined the watch. "You have to admit, Holmes, that a supernatural explanation to this case is, theoretically, possible."
"No. Agreed," Holmes put in as we left the crowds behind us, standing shoulder-to-shoulder again as he faced my brother. "But, it is a huge mistake to theorise before one has data. Inevitably, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. That said, I believe our midget is the key to this." John nodded as Holmes held up the watch for both of us to see, taking the lead as we approached more people. "Right. Scratches around the keyhole where the watch is wound. What does that tell you?"
John looked ahead of me, studying the watch as best as he could. "The man, was likely a drunk. Every time he wound the watch, his hand slipped, hence the scratches."
Holmes' head bobbed in front of me in approval. "Yes. Very good, Watson. You have developed considerable deductive powers of your own. Let's see now. There are several sets of initials— "
"Pawn brokers' marks."
"Excellent. Most recent of which are: M…H. M.H."
"M.H…"
"Maddison and Haig," I interjected, causing the two men to look at me with surprise. "Well, they are known for their wonderful watchmakers—not to mention their fine jewelry." As the two men blinked in shock at my sudden insight on stores, I rolled my eyes a little. "It's right there," I pointed, causing the two men's shoulders to sag in a sort of humiliation.
"I will say, Miss Watson, your observational skills are remarkable," Holmes smiled, offering me his arm to walk towards the shop. "Madison and Haig. They should be able to give us an address."
"There's one thing you failed to deduce from the watch, Holmes," my brother called from behind us.
"Really? I think not."
I could feel John rolling his eyes as he explained, following us down another alley to the shop we had spoken of earlier. "The time. I have to get back, Holmes. Taking tea with the in-laws."
As Holmes snorted in disapproval, a woman smoking a pipe called from the shadows, "Can I predict your future, sir?"
"Absolutely not," the detective replied.
John and I sighed before politely interpreting together, "No, thank you, ma'am."
However, she insisted, trailing behind us and paying specific attention to my brother. "You need to hear what I have to tell you."
"We have no need of your lucky hella, Gypsy women!" Holmes declared, letting John pass us to speak to her.
"Even if it's to do with Mary?" the Gypsy called, making my brother stop and Holmes and I to exchange a look of surprise. I saw John's shoulders slack as the Gypsy came over, taking his hand and turning it over to look at his palm. "Oh, I see two men. Brothers. Not in blood, but in bond."
John glanced up at Holmes before looking back at the woman holding his hand. "What of Mary?"
The Gypsy traced a line down his palm, studying. "M for Mary, for marriage. Oh, you will be married."
My brother nodded, his eyes bright with curiosity and concern. "Go on."
"I see…patterned table cloths, and oh, china figurines and ugh! Lace doilies…"
"Mmm," Holmes mused. "Dollies."
My gaze snapped to him as all the pieces fit together. "Lace…" I began.
"…doilies," my brother finished before glaring at his flat mate. "Holmes. Does your depravity, know no bounds?"
Holmes paused for a moment before replying. "No."
I swatted him on the arm as the Gypsy continued, now obviously scripted. "Oh, she turns fat, and, oh, she has a beard…"
"And what of the warts?" Holmes inquired, dodging my arm.
"Oh, she's covered in warts!" the Gypsy agreed.
John shook his head. "Enough, enough."
"Are they extensive?" Holmes cried, catching my fist but not my foot as I stomped on his toes, making him wince.
"Please, enough!" John replied, snatching his hand away as the woman puffed at her pipe.
Holmes walked back to my brother's side, leaning heavily on me with an exaggerated limp. "It's the most apt prediction, Flora's made in years." the Gypsy nodded as her name came back into my mind and Holmes kept on. "And precisely the reason you can't find a suitable ring."
Something caught John's eye, and a small smile came to his face. "Do you have my money?" he inquired.
The detective, however, was not through making his case. "You are terrified of a life without the thrill of a macabre."
"Do you have my cut?" John repeated.
"Admit it, admit it!"
"Give me my money!"
I sighed, exasperated. "You two—!"
"Holmes," my brother spoke, his voice calmer as the detective and I turned around, finding what John was looking at: A sign in our watchmaker's store that read, "Large Selection of Engagement Rings for Any Wallet."
"Oh. I see." Holmes' voice was soft as he pulled the notes from his coat pocket, handing them to John.
"Thank you," he replied, the three of us edging by Flora to get to Madison and Haig.
As we stepped inside, I followed John to look at the rings whilst Holmes pulled out the pocket watch to see what could be done. "Look at them all," I whispered, for once being entranced by the glittering bands.
John sighed, clearly out of his depth. "I don't even know where to start looking."
I rolled my eyes. "Men. Where would you be without women?"
"Hopelessly lost," John quipped as I guided him to a table filled with rings closer to his price range. "What about that one?" he asked, pointing to one in the center.
My eyes were quick to find it: a large ruby surrounded by a wreath of diamonds. "John…" I breathed. "That's perfect."
"The ruby in the center, sir?" the gentleman manning the counter inquired.
John looked to me one more time as I nodded in approval before handing over the notes. "Yes, please. Thank you."
As the three of us exited the shop, Holmes picked up the conversation with John. "Well, you've got your ring, and I've got the address for the ginger midget. Should be just there."
My brother looked at the ring box one last time before putting it in his pocket. "I think she'll really like this," he smiled, bouncing some coins in his hand. "And I have some change in my pocket."
"Should I look after it for you?" Holmes inquired as we both watched my brother's eyes trail towards a sort of game on the side of the alley.
John snapped himself out of his revere. "No, no."
"Need some company?" I inquired to Holmes, the detective smiling softly and nodding in consent.
"Don't give it away here," he called to John, referring to his change, of course.
"No! I have to go see Mary," John insisted.
Holmes nodded, guiding me towards a hidden door in the alley. "Give her my best," he called, "And the family as well." With that, he opened the dark double-doors.
I felt a chill race down my spine as I looked into the emptiness, steeling myself. "Are you sure it's here?" I asked, feeling uneasy.
"Quite positive," Holmes replied, gently tapping my knuckles as they gripped his arm again. "The closer we get to finding evidence, the sooner we catch him again."
I took a deep breath, then stepped through the doors.
