BBC Sherlock: Death Wish

Chapter 14: Under the Canopy

888***888

The deep shade of the birch forest glistened with sunlight as the dense canopy swayed in the breeze, but the scenic delights were furthermost from the minds of the men who gathered beneath.

While Bane's Unit-E regrouped with Technical Unit-A for the next phase of their operation, the DI was immediately brought up to speed. He was guided to the "command post" that Unit-A had set up to centralize operations for communication, defense, and first-aid. The ersatz C.P.—strategically situated in the section of the dirt clearing that afforded the most comprehensive view of all the dwellings—merely consisted of two portable tables for the radio and lighting equipment, several portable chairs, and a cot. Bane sank into the closest chair to catch his breath and rest his knee while he listened to Unit-A Head give a report. Once apprised that all appropriate precautions had been taken and the dwellings were safe for forensic inspection, Bane ordered both the armed and dog units to use the valuable daylight and expand their exploration of the surrounding terrain. At the same time, he gave the go-ahead to the forensic team, adding one stern warning, "Stay within the safe zones." He deliberately focused on Sherlock and John as if he expected resistance or outright defiance at a prudent restriction.

Frowning, Sherlock turned without a word and followed John to the makeshift prep station—a smaller portable table with one chair—that was several yards from the "doorstep" of the great roundhouse. There, the Forensic Science Investigators removed unnecessary gear and donned hooded scrubs, masks, gloves, and slippers while discussing the protocols among themselves. Sherlock was unusually absent from their conversation, but one glance at the impassive face told John the detective's mind was busy elsewhere.

Sherlock tuned out the reiterations of the FSI team to focus on his objective. "Yew must show my plan by investigatin', Mr. Holmes, what I do and how I do it to kill him," was the challenge Winnie had given him, even though Bane had thrown a serious spanner in the works.

And had it not been for John Watson, the game would not be afoot.

Sherlock was both pleased and grateful to be standing outside the Cain's home. His adrenaline surged with the prospect of selecting choice specimens for analysis despite Bane's limitations, but half a loaf is better than none. Not for the first time Sherlock admired John's intercession with Bane. It had been masterful. Sherlock had not had to give up on a fascinating opportunity. To be this close to the answers was exhilarating. He quashed the momentary delight he felt at the prospect—along with the unbidden smile—spun on his heel and headed toward the roundhouse before the others.

Long strides propelled by enthusiasm gave Sherlock the advantage and he bounded up the ramp to the entrance before the others. With his arms spread wide, Sherlock shouted, "Wait!" Poking only his head into the dark interior, he pulled off his face mask and sniffed while his body remained blocking the door.

"Was sup! Techs said it was safe." FSI Glen Howe grumbled.

With his head inside—if he even heard—Sherlock did not answer

"What the hell y'doin'?" Another FSI balked after bumping into a colleague. The others were still murmuring among themselves when John joined them.

"He's sniffing," John explained unhelpfully at the back of the group, chuckling to himself when the perplexed team had turned back to watch Sherlock sniffing the rank air.

"Well?" FSI Geoffrey Morrow groused his impatience. "How long's this gonna take?"

Sniffing for clues was not a pleasant task but environmental odors were key in any investigation. Sherlock detected fish, rotting meat, and the smells associated with human sickness and disease in that initial sniff. Another whiff revealed a blend of stale body odor, both animal and human, smoky ash commingling with sour swamp air and the rich peat soil. More important to his particular investigation, he caught trace chemical smells that included ammonia, thiols, alcohol, chlorine, urine, and tannins and the more familiar scents of fermentation and mold.

Once Sherlock's eyes acclimated to the dim light he spotted in the center of the space an open-hearth flanked by wrought-iron fire dogs. Under it was mounded ash and above it was a sizeable bronze cauldron with a utensil handle poking above its rim. A tripod with an adjustable chain suspended the cauldron over the heat source. Flies buzzed above the pot, suggesting a cold fish or meat-based stew had been abandoned when Cain had left days ago.

With the acrid array of chemical smells sorted and stored in his Mind Palace, Sherlock withdrew his head. He turned toward the impatient scientists he had blocked, flashed a self-satisfied grin and exclaimed, "All done!" then spun around, switched on his head torch, and ducked inside again.

The FSI team switched on their head torches, pulled their face masks over their noses, and followed Sherlock across the threshold. The dark and dank interior was filthy and ripe with such a foul-smelling stench that penetrated their masks. Some coughing and gagging were heard but the Constabulary men were up to the challenge. Their task was to check for human blood, teeth, skulls and bone fragments along with artifacts and keepsakes of missing hikers. Given they were working in less than ideal conditions, the cadaver dogs were more likely to find the evidence of Cain's life-long criminal activity in the haphazard graves along the river, in the river silt and bogs.

John choked and inhaled through his mouth as he took in the surroundings. Missing a woman's touch, no doubt, for many years… He wondered whether Winnie had been debilitated by her illness years before she entered the hospital or if these deplorable conditions were the result of her deliberate refusal to keep a healthy home—a passive-aggressive move of yet another kind.

The light coming from the doorway and open eaves would not have been sufficient to illuminate the space. Presumably firelight from the hearth would have helped, but as John surveyed the living space with his head lamp, he noticed reed torches had been strategically placed. Tucked to one side of the main door were assorted musty-smelling pallets covered with worn handwoven blankets. The number of beds was a reminder that there had been a family of Cains before Harmen returned from the asylum—and murdered his entire family? —well before he took Winnie to be his wife.

There was a sitting area on the other side, distinguished by several wood-hewn chairs covered in coarse burlap pillows, mildewed with age. Alongside the chairs were columns of dusty, ash-covered books. Several stacks had toppled and remained strewn among old newspapers. An upright weaving loom appeared to have been untouched for years and at the foot of one chair a reed basket full of dirty spun yarn awaited someone to take up the needles. The floor was rough and filthy with rodent droppings and insect carcasses. Whether there had been man-made flooring beneath would require excavation because layers of detritus, dirt, and ash covered everything.

While the forensic teams took photos, measurements, and catalogued the scene, Sherlock methodically packed samples of ash from the cold hearth and tucked them in one of his rucksacks. The cauldron was alive with maggots and buzzing flies and the hefty ladle was crusted over with food and rust. Sherlock carefully scraped corroded flakes and substantial samples from each into collection containers and bags, meticulously labeling each one.

Mere steps away from the hearth was what passed for a kitchen—Winnie's headquarters for murder. Everything—the heavy wooden board showing evidence of chopping, the array of cutlery, the mallets, rolling pins, measuring cups, the unmarked bottles and tins of ingredients—drew Sherlock's interest. He inspected the wooden cupboards, recorded and took samples from jars of pickled and preserved foods stocked on shelves, excitedly anticipating learning what ingredients Winnie had used to prepare her poison-laced preserves.

Despite the speed at which he worked, Sherlock was cautious. Before lifting or pulling any object, he studied it, determining whether it had been moved recently and whether there might be a booby-trap connected to it; according to the dust levels some objects had gone untouched for years—these could be the most dangerous—a laid trap not yet triggered. His keen eye saved his fingers from a spring-loaded mousetrap that snapped behind a jar. In another spot, he avoided a jagged blade nearly invisible in the shadows that protruded from the wood shelf. Had his hand been scratched, it would have been a minor inconvenience as long as the blade had not been tipped with poison, but for Harmen Cain, a little scratch in an environment without antibiotics or tetanus vaccine didn't need poison to be deadly.

Sherlock focused on the edges of the assorted knives with his magnifying lens; some were sharp, some blunted with use. He picked through the assorted herbs hanging from the roof timbers on slender strings and perused the crockery, slipping a small skillet layered with decades of grease into a forensic envelope and added it to a second rucksack. He took great pains to sniff out every putrid odor in the cooking oils and lard. As needed, he pulled out a small notebook to jot down his observations, other times he input a message on his smart phone, expecting to send it once clear of the dead zone.

Nothing was too trivial for his investigation but limitations of time and portability curtailed his choices. Only so much could he carry out with him for his forensic analysis later. As his two rucksacks grew heavier with samples, Sherlock regretted not having brought a third.

Soon enough, little dangers came from unexpected sources. Unit-A forensic scientist Geoffrey Morrow, paired with Unit-E's Glen Howe, had trouble opening the warped wooden door of a storage cupboard in the back section of the dwelling. It took the strength of both men to prise free. When it swung open, it hit the front of a freestanding wardrobe with a loud bang, causing the solid oak piece to topple forward, pushing both FSIs inside, shutting the door behind them and trapping them. The crashing of the wardrobe hitting the ground startled everyone while the muffled shouts from within summoned help.

It took two men with John's assistance to drag the fallen wardrobe away from the door. Inside, they found Morrow and Howe sitting on a mound of netting, ropes and pulleys, in a storage cupboard for weapons and hunting equipment.

Howe had twisted his ankle but otherwise the two men had been fortunate: had the force from the fallen wardrobe that pushed them forward and momentarily imprisoned them been stronger, they might have been thrust against the open-jawed metal traps, pointed pikes, sharp war-bow arrows poking from a quiver, and spears mounted on the walls. It was luck that their injuries were not serious.

"Well, gentlemen!" Sherlock clapped his hands in delight as he surveyed the contents of the cupboard. "You've hit the jackpot. With this stockpile of used weapons you should find a trove of evidence."

"Luck, maybe! That wardrobe, toppling like that, was a freak accident!" Howe shook his head in bewilderment as John checked and bandaged the man's ankle. It was not a severe sprain and Howe could still walk about. "Never saw it coming," he said.

"That was no accident," Sherlock corrected upon inspecting the wardrobe lying on its side. "These front legs have been deliberately shaved down."

"How?" Miffed, Morrow dusted himself off. "Don't tell me one person laid it down to tamper with the legs? Just now, that damned wardrobe took several bloody men to move it."

"Laid down, no. Standing upright, yes. See the cut marks," Sherlock squatted and pointed at subtle incisions made in the wood. "The angle suggests that a person worked on it while the wardrobe stood in place. I imagine it was painstaking, lying on the floor to whittle at each leg with a sharp device. It took time and great patience. And notice, too, how the dirt floor slopes toward the cupboard to ensure the direction of its fall."

"But, Sherlock," John puzzled. "Why hadn't it fallen before this? Cain has been here at least three years without Winnie?"

"Good question, John," Sherlock studied the floor and smiled in admiration. "This is conjecture, I'm afraid. We know by her own admission that Winnie had been sickening her husband for untold years, sapping his strength with her concoctions and setting booby traps. It's possible he no longer had the strength to use the weapons in this cupboard. These specific traps are used to hunt large and maybe human prey, and you will already have noticed the other contraptions and fishing gear at the ready. Cain could still hunt small game and fish to survive. I surmise, due to his waning strength, he never accessed the cupboard after she spent all that time to lay the trap. Clearly, if Cain had tried, he would have been trapped himself."

Despite the boon in finding the blood-stained weapons in the cupboard, the forensic scientists were more circumspect of their surroundings, especially after hearing Sherlock's explanation. With new respect for Cain's long-dead wife, they were wary that a casual touch might spring another booby trap.

John dodged the forensic team, trying to stay literally out of harm's way as they worked. This was not unusual. On many of their investigations, Sherlock did the actual investigating. Usually, John stood ready to give needed medical details to help Sherlock frame the crime scenario. He'd also provide social intervention and guidance when Sherlock was too blunt with the officials, police or clients. With all the forensic scientists in the roundhouse, John was uncertain if it were necessary for him to rummage through the dwelling or, for that matter, what he should be looking for.

It would have to leap out at me.

Still, John walked with extreme caution toward the "living quarters" and sorted through the musty garments and bedding that had slipped off the pallets and lay in crumpled heaps on the dirt floor. He surprised a coiled snake camouflaged by a blanket and recoiled with a low shout as the snake hissed, equally affronted, then slithered away.

"John?" Sherlock paused with his magnifying lens in one hand and a sprig of dry herb in the other, his face mask pulled down under his chin as his intense eyes crossed the room toward his friend. The other scientists halted with concern, alerted by Sherlock's piercing tone, and focused on the doctor.

"Fine! No. All good," John stifled his embarrassment at being the center of attention. "Just getting acquainted with the house guests."

"Adder?" Sherlock queried having heard it hiss.

"Dunno. It left in a hurry. Didn't leave a calling card," John sniffed behind his face mask and reassuringly patted his first-aid kit. "Don't suppose that will be the last one we encounter."

"Not likely," Sherlock agreed but offered John no further caution.

Moving slowly through the room, John examined the yellowed newspapers, dated more than seventeen years earlier, that had been stuffed in crevices in the wattle walls. Draught proof perhaps, but not snake proof. He approached the garment chests—unsure what might leap out at him when he opened them. He was relieved when all he found were clothes or handmade linens. Small boxes of tin, wood, and cardboard were tucked inside one drawer. Several unlidded boxes held assorted personal effects, ivory buttons, a filigree charm, a pair of dice, and a gold wristwatch. There was one relatively modern-looking cardboard box with its clear-cellophane top containing stationery. John rooted among the drawers' contents and found a large box with a wood-inlay lid— a delicate rose design— its ornamentation alone giving it importance. John found old pieces of jewelry resting atop folded documents inside. The glass-beaded necklace on discolored string looked fragile and ancient. A blackened brooch, possibly of tarnished silver, was shaped like a snake with glittering precious green gems for eyes. But John was not interested in the jewelry. The papers beneath looked important and he lifted them from the box.

"What have you got, John?" Although Sherlock had seemed preoccupied, he was aware of the investigation going on around him. He was especially attuned to John's rummaging and protracted silence. Before John had time to completely open the papers, Sherlock was standing alongside him and reading over his shoulder.

"I think…." John scanned the official-looking documents with letterhead belonging to the Brumehelm Asylum , "…these are commitment letters date 18 April 1933…" he read faster in anticipation of what he knew he would find "…for Harmen Grendel Cain! Two doctors signed the certificate of insanity…" John closed his eyes for a brief instant imagining the horrors to which the child, deemed "violent," would had been subjected—confinement in a small wooden closet or pen, hampered by a jack or leg-lock, bound by a strait jacket, and wearing a leather mask over his face and fastened from behind.

It's a wonder he survived! Did these abuses create the monster?

"John," Sherlock urged in a whisper intended to bring John back to the task before them. "We're not here to pass judgement but to ascertain facts. The age of the paper and the legitimacy of the letterhead you're holding are irrefutable…and evidence for the Constabulary archives… What's that?" The detective spotted the nearly full box of stationery inside the opened drawer and picked it up.

Now seen in Sherlock's hands, the stationery looked familiar to John. "Hold on! That's the same paper—?"

"As Winnie's note," Sherlock finished and turned over the well-preserved box. On the underside was a message. It read Write me, a Manchester address had been scribbled in a childish hand. It was signed Gary.

John's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "You showed the DI Winnie's note, didn't you? He didn't say anything…do you think he recognized it?"

"It was a long time ago...childhood memories are mutable…," Sherlock reflected somberly, "but showing Bane this might jolt those memories."

John nodded, "...and answer a question or two about Bebe's sentiments about him. Dr. Rath said the 'stationery was a gift her sister cherished.'"

"Cherished, perhaps. Yet hardly used," Sherlock mused and snapped open a forensic bag to deposit the nearly full stationery box. "So much for sentiment. Unshared and unrealized, it changed nothing in the course of things."

"Wait, Sherlock!" John whispered with a restraining hand on his friend's arm. "Is that really evidence you should be taking?"

"Not evidence, but information Bane should have…"

"Or heartache he may not want to relive…."

888

888