Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Slow Me Down" by Emmy Rossum.
The inspector wasn't very pleased to be called to Baker Street, and said as much when he rattled up the staircase to Holmes' rooms at half past seven that evening.
"He knows full well that the case was ruled an accident. It's done for," Lestrade harrumphed to Clarke as they walked in the door. After nodding to a stock-still Madeline, he turned his beady eyes onto Holmes himself. "Can't you leave something that is finished alone?"
Holmes smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Yes…if it were indeed a thoroughly closed case, I would. But then again, I was hired by the lady to take a deeper look at the matter, find the facts. It could do your reputation some good if you followed in the same vein more often."
Watson, having returned just before the inspector arrived, clicked his tongue.
"Perhaps, now that Lestrade is here, you can commence with your…evidence."
Glancing first at him, and then at the woman seated next to the window, the detective rose out of his seat.
"As you know, Mrs. St. James has, until a few days ago, kept her story of events a secret," he began, shuffling through pieces of the evidence that were lying around the room. "A failed investigation made by her brother-in-law prompted her to confess about a life of sadness and jealousy to me; I recorded the details in my own journal. Recently he had returned to town with his single servant, Millie, and after years of hatred he tried to make amends. This brother was…is…jealous of the closeness Madeline had shared with her husband, his brother, but he's trying to turn over a new leaf.
"However, she was not called out on the day of the accident to see him, but her old nanny. She found a note wedged in the doorway…after the maid Millie had left her with a letter from her master. Being a woman devoted to her ex-caretaker, she went, and was summarily trampled. Comparing the writing to samples taken from another of the nanny's letters, the words on the note did not match. Nor did they match the brother-in-law's."
His tale grew darker with every other piece of evidence placed before Lestrade's eyes. Dirt clods taken from Madeline's ripped dress led him to Lewisham, but first a report from the nanny herself caused him to search through the Sloane Street house. There he found the items needed for comparison, but then his quick trip to the stable with Watson revealed much more. Telling of the poor driver's plight, Holmes poked at the clothes on the floor. They were several years old, cast-offs of Lawrence's wardrobe. The pant legs and jacket arms were pinned up to fit someone with a smaller frame, and the inside of the show held a more delicate imprint inside the larger one. The recent wearer of the shoes had petite feet, at least compared to those of the original owner. The most damning part of the clothing was the mud gathered on the left heel.
"As a gentleman, Mr. St. James would never set foot in a stable, let alone the Hither Green stables by his home in Lewisham. When found your missing driver, he confirmed my suspicion that he was approached by a lad, hiding in bulky clothes and beneath a large cap," Sherlock commented lightly. "He was bullied into service, and paid enough money to set up a home elsewhere."
"Where is the driver now? Why didn't you bring him in?!" demanded the inspector.
"He got away," chimed Watson, Madeline and Holmes in unison. Sharing a mutual look of surprise with his companions, the detective ventured forward.
"Ahem…driven by this determination, I went in to search Mr. St. James' residence, and then found these clothes and a stack of papers hidden beneath the floorboards."
Clarke rubbed his eyes. "Sir, that's breaking and entering."
"Perhaps, but it solved the puzzle and put any doubt to rest. This handwriting matches that of one Millicent Donaldson, otherwise known as Millie. Upon obtaining a note inscribing her master's address, I was able to draw my conclusions upon the first note and now these diary pages. She is the grand architect in this scheme. Each page explicitly states her intention to cause the lady's death. Wages are counted and allotted to this paper in the back," Holmes murmured, thumbing through them and handing the pages off to the inspector. "This one speaks of plots, and here we see…ah, 'that hell imp will pay dearly for all she's done' and the initials of the writer are at the bottom of the page: M.D."
Lestrade slumped against the far wall, closing his eyes and expelling a slow breath.
"What of motive, Mr. Holmes? You've forgotten the motive," he exhaled, feeling a tad overwhelmed by the fast-hitting information.
"Now, dear Inspector, you know me better than that, I hope!" Sherlock chuckled with no real mirth. "Is it not obvious? Jealousy is the motive."
"Explain."
"Servants tend to, over long periods of employment, develop loyalty to their masters. In Millie's case, she doted on Lawrence hand and foot, and was the only woman in his life for a long period of time. She began to fall in love with him, the one man who needed her constantly. Then up jumped a strange girl, who stole the person who made her master the happiest. So blindly in love is Millie that she didn't and still doesn't understand how her master will never love her back. All she was able to see was that an obstacle stood in both their ways. That would be you, Madeline."
The damaged woman nodded, but otherwise remained silent. She wanted to hear the story unfold from another person's perspective for once, and to know she wasn't imagining all the events happening around her.
"So she began to save her money, plot and plan to take her out of the way. She planted small seeds of doubt, made her master attempt to persuade his brother to come away with them. A small hitch occurred; Simon St. James dies, and Lawrence St. James runs away from his home. For awhile, that satisfied Millie, as she had her master all to herself. Then, when he expressed the desire to move back to London, she knew she had to remove Madeline from the landscape. And that's when she set her ultimate plan into motion," Holmes paused, his gaze drifting over everyone to make sure they were still paying attention. "Dressing up as a young man, she blackmailed the weak driver into doing her bidding, backing it up with earnings saved over years and years. She painstakingly tried to copy Ruth Bray's writing and draw Mrs. St. James out of her home for a visit, and then stuck the note in the door when she was ordered to deliver her master's letter. And on the days before and after the attempt, she spied upon the house, leaving behind her dainty footprints in the soft ground and her obvious goal of finding out if the home was devoid of the lady's presence entirely."
Picking up his since-discarded pipe, he fiddled with it and turned his back on his audience.
"Hardly a difficult case, when one thinks upon it, but-"
"We'll need a confession out the woman before we can arrest her," Lestrade chimed quietly, motioning for Clarke to gather the clothing and samples up. "But I doubt it would take much, when faced with your conclusions."
Facing him again, Holmes had absolutely no expression gracing his features. "What, no fighting me this time? No disparaging insults?"
The inspector shrugged. "You're completely convinced, and since you've given me reasons to actually consider reopening the case, then no, I am not going to stand in the way. Honestly, I don't have the energy or time to blather on about your methods today. Besides, I believe this maid may have a notion that you have picked up on her trail, and so it would be best to act now and not let her go to ground."
"Wise idea," Watson grunted, leaning forward on his walking stick.
As the men began to discuss an attack plan, Madeline silently rose from her perch and clambered out of the rooms. She wanted a moment's peace, away from voices and plots and the imminent danger. Her stomach was roiling angrily, along with her mind. She decided to conquer the stairs, and at a snail's pace she began to descend.
The one thing she absolutely certain of in her mixed-up world was that Lawrence was the one behind everything. She had clung to the hate, as if it was a tow rope pulling her out of the depths of a murky lake of depression. To have that idea turned upside down and utterly disproven was shocking. Millie had always seemed a little too nosy, and a tad too ambitious for a maid...how could she have been the one driven to murder? Perhaps what her brother-in-law had written her before was true: she was his last link to his family, being the wife of his dead brother. Why then would he ever want her killed? But a woman hot under the collar with jealousy, openly scorning her with each blazing glare directed at her during visits, definitely could do the job. It did make sense; it was just somehow hard to wrap her mind around.
The smooth flow of her recently passed days in Holmes' residence had picked up pace, and now events were traveling at a rate she had no idea if she could follow. Her only hope making it through to the end would be the detective himself.
'Life has become considerably more complicated in the last four days,' she thought, pivoting and preparing to take on the second staircase. 'I sincerely hope that my faith isn't misplaced in Sherlock.'
"Madeline!"
'Damn, I was so close to my goal,' she mused, her head swinging back towards the voice calling her. She had only managed to make it to the second step down.
"What?"
The policeman brushed past her suddenly, the inspector in tow as they flew out the door. John and Holmes came after them, pausing on the steps beside her.
"He has a plan…" the doctor started.
"And it involves you," Holmes butted in. "We intend to draw the maid out-"
"I don't agree with this method at all," Watson countered. "If you don't want to do this, then you don't have to."
"-With your assistance. I assure you, no real danger will befall you," the detective glossed over his friend's words as if he hadn't spoken.
"You can't assure that at all!"
"But if it works…"
"What if it doesn't?!"
No wonder she had nagging feelings of doubt.
"Gentlemen!" Madeline cried, stilling their argument. "If it will bring the matter to a speedy close, then I'll gladly participate. One question, though: what am I to do? I cannot move with any ease, so engaging in a chase is plainly undoable."
Sherlock's mouth, earlier pressed into a thin line, felt his lips stretch into an almost devious smile.
"You won't move much, but if you do need to, that problem can be easily rectified. How do you feel about wearing trousers?"
xXxXxXx
'Strangely enough, I am more uncomfortable with this than I thought,' Madeline groused silently. The trousers wore woolen, itchy, and hotter than blazes. The foreign separated material made her feel even more self-conscious than before. Yes, she had thought that as a cripple, she would have liked more freedom for her bandaged leg, but she could see the merit in hiding it underneath a skirt now. The suspenders dug into her shoulder blades through the blouse, and no matter how she shifted she couldn't erase the pain.
She was left alone, briefly, at Baker Street. Holmes, in disguise, went to deliver a telegram that was supposedly from Madeline to Lawrence. Instead, he would make sure it would reach Millie's hands. Once she had the address, the maid would most likely go after Madeline secretly, ready to finish the job she'd long ago plotted. However, unbeknownst to her, several of Lestrade's men, Watson, and Holmes himself would trace her path to 221B, and take her down once she confirmed the detective's theories. All Madeline had to do was draw her in and keep Millie within reach.
Sitting in a chair in the ground floor lounge, she closed her eyes and ignored the heat floating out of the fireplace. Every now and again she stirred it with the poker, leaving it to rest within the coals. A window was opened, allowing the warmth to bleed out into the night air. The stage was set, and all that was needed was the antagonist to make her way up center. And a half hour later, she did.
The limp-wristed, scraggly-haired woman barged through the front door, her dress disheveled and her blue eyes freezing Madeline's blood. A revolver hung loosely by her side, but intent was written all over her face.
"How did you find me?" Madeline recited, jerking back in fright. 'Alright, calm, try and stay calm…'
"Got the telegram you sent my Lawrence," was the grating response. The maid circled her, the pistol shaking slightly. "For years you hate him and belittle him, and now after you broke a few bones, you wish to be friends?"
She gaped at the madwoman before her. "I almost died…"
"Pity that you didn't," Millie snapped roughly. An evil grin cropped up on her mouth suddenly. "Or perhaps not. Taking the coward's route was not nearly satisfying enough. I much rather prefer seeing you squirm. And I'll do it right this time; no shoddy driver will wreck this for me."
She moved closer, and Madeline's hand instinctively clutched the fiery poker. Forcing herself to choke down the fear, she stirred the logs again and pretended to not be affected.
The maid went on, "You took everything away from him, from me. You deserved all the wounds. You're not worthy to live while he lives. He could've…we could've…but then you had to ruin everything, had to marry Simon and kill Lawrence's joy."
"How odd, then, that you should work so hard to murder me," St. James muttered, giving the coals another poke. Her green eyes glowed in the flames' light, and her heart leapt to her throat. "He doesn't care for you."
"Be quiet," Millie warned.
"How could he ever love anyone but his brother? There's no conceivable way he could love any woman like he did Simon."
"I told you to shut up! It isn't true, he's a devoted brother, that's all!"
Allowing silence to settle momentarily, Madeline uttered the cruelest words she could muster.
"You know it's true. And besides…you're a maid. You're not good enough for him. You're dirt under his feet, and you know it."
With her fury getting the best of her, Millie raised the revolver and fired blindly. Her shot was four feet off the mark, making a piece of the wall explode. Somehow jumping up and keep her footing, Madeline pulled the heavy poker out and swung it hard, her arm straining beneath the iron's weight. Now she was grateful for the trousers; were she in a skirt she would've crashed to the ground and left as prey for the lunatic maid. She caught Millie on the left thigh, felling her like a sack of bricks. The revolver skittered away, lodging itself underneath the divan by the far wall. The flaming stick was trapped in the folds of Millie's dress, smoke rising from the cloth at an alarming rate. Attempting to pull away, she tugged hard on the poker and brought St. James down to her level.
"Take it back!" screamed the coarse woman, dragging the other into a wrestling match. "Take it back, you harlot!"
Madeline fought back as best she could, slapping at exposed skin and pulling hair. It was like a schoolyard brawl, but it was a matter of life or death for her. Later she would be able to see the humor in the situation, but at the moment all she cared was keeping the maid's clawing fingers away from her throat.
And then…thunk!
The butt of a pistol smashed into the back of Millie's skull, rendering her unconscious. She collapsed against Madeline, who immediately shunted her off to the side. Holmes crouched beside her, dropping his gun and looping her good arm across his shoulders. Watson stumbled in, doing cursory checks of both ladies before calling out to the police officers waiting outside.
Sherlock didn't ask her if she was alright; her face reflected the mix of terror, elation, and anxiety that were dueling inside her mind. Rather, he just helped her back up, acting as a human crutch.
"Good work, my dear lady, good work," he mumbled under his breath. And it was damn good work for a woman who only had ample use of one arm and one leg. Instead of verbally responding, she gripped him around his midsection tightly, and watched as the true bane of her current existence was hauled off to Scotland Yard.
Author's note: Sorry I'm a little late this week! Really, I am sorry…the last two weeks before finals are always a killer (no joke intended), and this week has proved to be no exception. Since finals are rapidly approaching, updates may not be on a set schedule.
I will say this again: this fic is not over yet, despite this chapter's events. I have an idea of where I want to go with it now, and I hope all of you will be willing to continue reading. That said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please review, and have fun doing what you're doing, while I'm wading through group presentations and final projects! :)