Hopkins did at least have the decency to make a decent pot of coffee after keeping you up all night. Lestrade kept to his tea no matter how many hours he had gone without sleep.
Hopkins had also threatened anyone who finished off the pot, it seemed. Hopkins had a knack for coffee unlike anyone I had ever met. It was almost worth being up all night. Maybe.
His coffee never lasted long, which was likely the reason for the threat. I poured the last of the coffee into my cup with relish and uttered a prayer that the day would be a quiet one before heading for my office.
The force that plowed into me as I turned the corner was not enough to knock me down, but the impact was more than enough to ruin my coffee.
A shattered mug and burns from steaming coffee warred and previous experience won out. I let the cup go and jerked backwards in time to avoid most of the hot liquid. I shook out my handkerchief with my left hand and dabbed at the angry red splotch forming on my right.
I was dimly aware of a stammering, stuttering shadow chasing me as I turned and went straight back to the kitchen to rinse my hand in cold water. Cratchett, I realized belatedly and wondered where Lestrade was if not with the Rookie.
I looked up at the white-faced, white-eyed apparition before me and wondered if it really were possible to die of fright. "Did you get any on you?" I asked, looking him over. He managed a choking noise, but that was all.
I decided he had escaped the scalding beverage and handed him a towel. "Help me clean this up." I said, leading the way back to the mess.
I realized my mistake as a shard from my mug drew blood from one of the boy's trembling fingers. "I've got it, Cratchett." I said a bit sharply, eliciting another stammered attempt at an apology, but at least he got out of the way.
I turned my attention to Lestrade's Rookie after the mess was taken care of and wondered how on earth he could have cut himself that badly on a sliver of cup. I never gave him a choice, but pressed my handkerchief (part of it was still clean) against the cut.
"Come on," I wondered if Lestrade were in his office, "let's get you taken care of." I hoped Lestrade was in his office.
He was not. I wondered if it were my imagination that Cratchett was not surprised. It was hard to tell, the way he looked as if he might flee at any given moment.
Still, he had come back after his first few days with Lestrade. That said something for him.
I tried to decide what to do with the boy. I could hardly leave him here to bleed all over Lestrade's floor.
I guided Cratchett to a chair, gently shoved him into it, and crossed the small office to lean out through the doorway. "Jones!" I called, hoping he was in.
He was, and I was relieved to note that things appeared to have been resolved at home. "What?" He demanded.
"I need you to look at this."
Cratchett paled even more as Jones grabbed his hand to examine his finger. An expert flick of the wrist drew out a clean handkerchief and wiped the blood away in one swift motion, leaving me to wonder how much practice Jones had had at that particular trick.
He scowled at the finger Cratchett had somehow managed to slice open and pulled a thin roll of bandaging from same pocket in his jacket as he kept his cigarettes. I recalled anew that Jones payed fewer visits to physicians than Lestrade did as he also pulled out a flask I had never seen him drink from and splash something on the wound that made Cratchett jump and yelp like a startled puppy.
Jones had wrapped his finger and told him to keep it clean and covered before Cratchett landed back in his chair. He was gone a second later.
I wondered absently why, if Jones disliked people so much, he worked so hard to protect them.
I heard Lestrade coming, for once. He was humming. At least, humming was what most people called it, though the sound was largely tuneless and usually off key. It was a relief to everyone at the Yard that Lestrade rarely hummed.
"What did you do to him, Bradstreet?" Cratchett had not heard the Inspector coming; he jumped again as Lestrade strode into his office.
"I spilled coffee on him." I offered, too tired to care that Cratchett's eyes were threatening to pop out of his head again.
Lestrade nodded briskly, and I wondered how much sleep he was getting. "Hopkins got his man, then." He commented and went back to humming whatever it was as he sat down at his desk. The sound had nothing to do with Lestrade's mood, and the man seemed largely unaware he was doing it unless you pointed it out to him. Usually it meant that Holmes had actually been playing actual music on his violin during Lestrade's last visit and the tune had latched on to Lestrade and stuck with him.
I had thought, however, that Jones, who found Lestrade's tuneless humming particularly maddening, had taken care of the matter. Apparently he had not.
I nodded in agreement with Lestrade's observation and barely stifled a yawn. "The Rookie cut his finger. Jones said to keep it clean." I took one last look at Cratchett, who still looked as if he expected me to knock him down for spilling my coffee, and headed for the door.
I resigned myself to boiling my own coffee, which while not one of the best brews in the Yard was not the worst and certainly better than nothing, and retreated to my office.
I managed to get quite a bit of work done before lunch. The day was somewhat of a rarity; usually the days you needed a bit of peace were the busiest.
I stared at my desk, marveling at the fact that it was clean in what was probably the first time in years. It would also probably be years before such a thing happened again.
I turned my thoughts to the Southhall case, hoping my mind had had enough time to digest everything, and reviewed what I knew.
James Southhall had been found in his bedroom during the breakfast hour face down on the floor, his throat slit. His niece had been the one to find him.
He had last been seen the night before. His brother, niece, and the niece's suitor had been there that night, as had the cook and the housekeeper. Any one of them could have committed the murder.
The niece owned a knife with a blade the same size as whatever knife had been used to slit James Southhall's throat. She claimed it had disappeared two days before the murder.
The knife had not been in the room when I had originally searched it. It was found under her bed the following day, with blood still on it.
James Southhall approved of a marriage between his niece and her suitor. Her father approved as well. The young lady in question had said in no uncertain terms that she would not marry the man. In spite of his favoring the marriage, James Southhall did not wish for his niece to marry against her will.
The cook and the housekeeper might as well have been family. The suitor was counted as soon-to-be family. The family got along surprisingly well with each other.
So who had murdered James Southhall, and why?
Who had planted the knife under the Miss Southhall's bed?
I wondered if Watson had known about the knife. I wondered if the cook and the housekeeper had. I would find out.
I stopped on my way out to watch as Jones interrupted a conversation between Gregson and Sherlock Holmes. Watson was watching as well, from a distance. Around Holmes the doctor always slipped into the role of the quiet observer, leaving Holmes in the spotlight. I wondered if anyone realized how much Watson actually saw.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming here after yesterday." Jones accused Holmes, and the amateur detective's eyebrows lifted. He seemed to have no idea to what Jones was referring. Watson looked equally confused, Gregson resigned.
Jones glared at Holmes. "We told you to stop playing the violin around Lestrade." He grumbled, and Holmes' expression cleared. Watson's did as well-a little.
Jones realized Watson had no idea what the problem was. It set him off. "He's been humming!" Jones growled. "Whatever you were playing, he's been humming it all morning! You can't even tell what he's humming, either." He complained. "The man can't carry a tune."
"He can," Gregson chose to take up for Lestrade over the oddest things, "very well, in fact. He just usually doesn't." I wondered when Gregson had heard Lestrade actually singing, and what had lead to it.
"Well he sounds terrible right now." Jones pointed out. "I wish someone would shoot one of us and put me out of my misery." He shot Holmes one last dark look before storming off.
I laughed softly to myself and continued on my way.
Miss Larson, the housekeeper, looked worried when she opened the door. She was quiet as she let me in the house and took me back to the kitchen, where the cook seemed just as upset. It did not take me long to learn why.
"A quarrel?" I repeated, not certain I had heard correctly.
Miss Jacobs nodded as she poured out a cup of tea for the distraught housekeeper. "The first one I've ever heard in this household." She confirmed, pouring out a second cup of tea.
She offered the cup to me. I was experienced enough with people who took comfort in throwing themselves into their work to know to accept it.
"It happened after breakfast." The cook explained. "I couldn't hear what it was about, but Miss Southall left shortly afterward and hasn't come back. Mr. Southhall is out looking for her now with Mr. Watson's help."
I wondered why this had not been reported, but then reconsidered the matter. The woman probably had not been gone long enough to cause any real concern, and she struck me as the type sensible enough not to put herself in danger even if she were upset.
But that was under normal circumstances. With the murder of her uncle, the fact that she had not come back yet could mean she was in danger.
Or that she had committed the murder herself, I reluctantly admitted. Was it possible the girl's father or Watson had confronted her about it being her knife that had been found covered in blood? If she were guilty, she might have run.
"Are you sure you don't know what they were arguing about?" I asked carefully. The cook shook her head.
I resisted the urge to sigh and asked another question. "Did either of you know that Miss Southhall carried a knife?"
It was possibly not the best time to ask such a thing, but I was hoping to catch them off guard. People were more honest that way.
I was also, I admit, hoping the idea of the woman having a knife might reassure the two concerning Miss Southhall's disappearance.
The cook was only moderately surprised; the housekeeper was horrified. Neither of them had known.
"She was in the habit of carrying a small dagger concealed on her person for protection. Wherever she went after she and her father quarreled," I lied, "She likely has it with her."
Both Miss Jacobs and Miss Larson relaxed a little at the thought that the young lady was not completely helpless. "Are you going to help look for her?" The cook wanted to know. I nodded.
"It would help if I knew what places she tends to frequent." I said.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.