Part VIII
Sherlock slipped into his new Assignment as Consulting Detective as naturally as breathing. As soon as John had moved in as his Protector Assistant – as soon as John's mug was in the kitchen and John's pillow was on the squishier armchair and John's revolver was sitting on his desk upstairs – Sherlock had commenced his duties. The Consulting Detective was in, and ready to go.
Already pinned on the wall above the mantelpiece were the photographs of the past three suicides. Apparent suicides. Each victim took the same poison, and each victim was tied to the war in some way.
Sherlock shed his coat, draping it over his own armchair. He adjusted his silken purple vest and steeped his fingers together in his thinking pose, staring at the photographs.
"The facts run thus, John," he announced as John's footsteps rang down the stairs. Moments later the fair-haired man was in the room. Sherlock chanced a glance at him. The man was wearing yet another jumper, and leaning heavily on his cane as usual.
"Hm?" John asked. "Any tea?"
"Kettle should whistle any minute now." At that moment the kettle screeched. A coal-fuelled stovetop usually required a lot of coal, but luckily for them Mycroft paid their Landlady directly for living expenses. Coal and ice (for the icebox) were expensive.
"I suppose you're too busy thinking to get that," John muttered, going over and turning the dial that would shut off the stove. "By the way, you were wrong."
"About what?"
"About Harry. Harry's my sister."
Sherlock made a scathing noise. "Sister! I knew there was something off."
"Yeah." John limped back moments later with a mug of tea. "What about the facts, then?"
"Mm, yes, the facts run thus. First victim – Sir Jeffrey Patterson – was a Tactician as well as an Assignment Agent. He'd been pushing for the descent into total war ever since actual conflict erupted. In total war situations, about eighty-three percent of the boys are thus assigned into the military and a majority of the girls to the factories. Munitions for the battlefield, the military-industrial complex. Patterson was found in a warehouse."
"And the second?"
"James Phillimore, a Clerk at the Ministry of Defence. Last seen by his friend and co-worker Andrew West on a rainy evening, found in the morning dead outside an abandoned Recreational Centre. According to the recorded testimonial on the phonograph, West last saw his friend return home to fetch an umbrella."
"Didn't West himself disappear?"
"Two days after Phillimore's death, yes. No suspicion in the death, though. Alibi perfect for that night. He'd been with his fiancée Violet."
"Right, and the third?"
Sherlock smirked. "Beth Davenport. Munitions Factory Manager. Found in an airfield. All three of these people died in ways that make it seem intentional. Suicidal. But there's something… odd. They're all linked to the war."
"We're all linked to the war now, aren't we?"
"Mm, yes, but these…" At that moment, there came the sound of clattering hooves and a knock down below. "Lestrade," Sherlock murmured, walking over to the window to look out at Baker Street.
Moments later, their Landlady Mrs. Hudson came bustling up. She wore a proper black dress trimmed with purple lace, buttoned to the collar and the cuffs and adorned with a cameo brooch. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's here to see you, Sherlock. Seems like the next suicide's coming up your alley!"
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied as Lestrade came rattling up the stairs.
"You really ought to check the state of your rooms, Sherlock. What a mess! I'd clean up, but I'm not your housekeeper."
Sherlock had known Mrs. Hudson far longer before he moved in as the next Consulting Detective. After all, he had, when his predecessor Poirot had been sick, taken on the case of her philandering and murderous husband and helped the authorities in Florida execute him. But then again, he had impinged on Poirot's Assignment so often that about half of London seemed to owe him one favour or another.
"Of course, of course." Sherlock waved her away now to focus his attention on Lestrade. "A fourth suicide, then?"
"Jennifer Wilson, the infamous Propagandist. Found in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Left a note. Will you come?"
"We'll hail our own cab." Lestrade nodded and promptly left. Sherlock looked over at John, raising both eyebrows.
"Well? You could just sit there and reread a Treatise on Modern Society until you die of boredom…"
It'd only been a day since they met, and already the game was afoot. Sherlock was raring for his chance to prove his worth. It was written all over his face.
"Why would I do that?" John asked.
"Well, as an ex-Army Doctor I'd suppose you'd seen enough violent deaths to last you a lifetime."
"Mm, yes, far too much. Especially with the burning zeppelin and that corsair attack."
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh god yes."
Jennifer Wilson was very well-known for her written propaganda. She'd been responsible for the "Soldiers, Bear Your Arms" piece that had adorned the headlines of every newspaper once the fighting in the Turkish war had broke out.
Soldiers, bear your arms. Now is the time to face the glorious death. Now is the time to rust the machines of your enemies with blood. They are no better than automatons, no better than broken machines. Smash their clocks, destroy their planes, burn every last corsair ship you can find until these Turkish heathens have been driven back into the pit from whence they came. Soldiers, now is your hour.
The piece had been responsible for the sharp spike in military-related Assignments all the years after. Now its author lay dead on the third floor of an abandoned house in Brixton.
Pink was the first adjective that popped into John's mind when he saw her prone form. She lay prostrate, dressed in a violently pink dress that shimmered in the gas lamps. Her hair had been done in a chignon, adorned with pink feathers.
"What can you tell us about her?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who had bent down with his observation goggles and set to work.
"She's been unhappily married for about ten years, and she's had a string of lovers… she intended to stay overnight, judging by the size of her trunk –"
"Her trunk?"
"Mm, yes, she had a trunk. Wheeled, in fact. She'd been walking through rain and strong winds – but not for very long, so I assume she took a cab…" He leaned in closer to inspect the note. Scratched into the rotting floorboards was the word 'Rache'.
"What about the note?" a snide voice asked from the doorway. John turned to see a man with a terrible haircut and a pointed, almost rat-like face. He was clad in the coat of a scientist or a doctor, over a set of striped bloomers and black leather boots. "Rache. German for revenge."
"Why would a British Propagandist want to leave an angry note in German, Anderson? Use your brain," Sherlock growled, getting up to shut the door in his face. "Obviously she was intending to write the name 'Rachel'."
"Rachel?" Lestrade demanded, incredulous.
"Yes, Rachel. Go find Rachel. In the meantime, where've you put her trunk?"
"There was no trunk."
"What do you mean, 'there was no trunk'? Look at the splash marks on the back of her legs. She was wheeling a trunk with her."
"But there was no trunk."
Sherlock frowned for a moment, and suddenly his eyes lit up. "Ah! I see. Well, in that case… I'm afraid we're looking at a murder. Serial killings! Oh, this is getting to be quite fun!" Clapping his hands like a child at Christmas, the new Consulting Detective practically skipped down the stairs and out the door, leaving his new Protector Assistant behind.
John found Sherlock lying on the couch when he finally managed to return to Baker Street. "You left me out there," he stated.
"Do try to keep up occasionally."
"You left me. Out there." John glared at Sherlock. Never had he met someone so careless about their Protector Assistant! "That Sergeant Detective –"
"Sally Donovan?"
"Yeah. She says you get off on these things. These murders."
"Don't be absurd. I get off on intellectual stimulation." Sherlock reached for the coffee table and grabbed his pipe. Striking a match, he filled the bowl with tobacco and started to puff at it introspectively.
"That's bad for you," John remarked. "Damages breathing. As if London wasn't smoggy enough already."
"Breathing's boring," drawled Sherlock, closing his eyes. "Rachel… hm, Rachel."
"Who do you think she is?"
"I'm not so sure if Rachel is a person," Sherlock replied, setting the pipe down. "Or at least… she was a person at one point… and…" Suddenly, his eyes lit up. John frowned.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You have a phone, right?"
"Yes…"
"You can help me pull an advertisement in the morning paper."
"Can't you do it yourself?"
"Name may be recognised. You did read my treatise, right?"
"The Science of Deduction, mm." John walked over to the window. "I suppose at this point in time it's not hard to figure out how you can deduce a Railroad Porter by his watch and a Writer by his fingers?"
"Oh, those are simple." Sherlock grinned. "Now, back to the case. The local papers let me send in my advertisements via textogram."
"What would you want me to say?"
Sherlock grinned and held up a ring. John frowned, so he explained, "this ring is an engagement ring that was meant for a finger much slimmer than that of Jennifer Wilson's. This, along with taking the trunk, was the killer's mistake. I've managed to recover the trunk –" and while saying that, he dragged in a wheeled trunk and set it on a chair. John's frown deepened. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens but forgot that her luggage was with him, so he had to dispose of it somehow. In his hurry to get out of the door, he dropped this in the mud outside the house. I recovered it and I searched for any skips that could be accessed by a cab five minutes from Lauriston Gardens. Knowing that the trunk had to be pink, it took me only a short while to find the right skip."
John stared. "That's… brilliant."
"So therefore, I'd like for you to use your phone to send a textogram about recovering a lost engagement ring. Make sure to say that I pulled the ad, but to keep my name out of it when published. Off the record, as they say. Use your name instead, and change the address to 22 Northumberland Street. Everyone knows the Consulting Detective lives here, it'll be no use."
John set to dialling out the message. Sherlock reached into the valise and pulled out a laptop very similar to that of John's. He turned the key, and was immediately faced with a password request.
"Hm," he muttered, turning off the laptop and replacing it in the trunk.
"Done," John said after a moment, sending the message. "What do we do in the meantime?"
