The residence of Margret Thatcher was like its owner. It was a small campy house in the countryside, built sometime in the early parts of the '50s during the reconstruction period. Only two stories but compact enough that from looking around it looked like a wide lunchbox. The roof was recently repaired from the damages caused by last winter and so switched from the old fashioned green colored shingles to the rolled out and stapled brown with box pattern replacement. The walls around were painted recently as well, with expensive weather and life proof white paint. There was the decorative crisscross walls attached, brimming with flowers for the season. With trimmed bushes, cobbled stone pathways, and the usual motifs associated with older women, it was a home that could've very well been depicted in an old broadcast that even Sherlock and Mycroft's mother would've watched.
Sherlock stepped over the cobbled stone pathway toward the door and glanced around. He was half expecting his mother to step out of the doorway with knitted sweaters when he stepped up the steps and headed toward the door. He gently knocked on the door and waited. Shuffling toward the door and opening it, Margret poked her head out with her reading glasses bobbing up and down her face. "Yes," she looked at him. He gave a nod. He responded with, "Mrs. Thatcher?"
"Ms. Thatcher. My dear Theo died thirty years ago," she corrected him. She blinked as she asked him, "Are you Nancy's boy?"
"No, ma'am, I am Sherlock Holmes. I was told by your daughter you took a man in," Sherlock introduced himself.
Margret tilted her head. She tilted back and smiled.
"Oh! He said you might come by!" she gleefully said to him.
Sherlock was confused. He responded with, "What do you mean?"
"He was a charming man. He even helped me fix the thimble on my sewing machine," Margret nodded at him.
"Is he here?" Sherlock gestured. "I need to speak with him."
"Ah, well I'm afraid he had to leave. He was very busy indeed," Margret smiled.
Sherlock could tell by the look in her face. She must've been diagnosed recently.
"Ms. Thatcher, I took the liberty of adding the porcini mushrooms," called a voice from the kitchen, a man's.
Margret turned her head from Sherlock to call into the kitchen, "And did you add the spices?"
"Of course!" the voice in the kitchen answered.
It left Sherlock visibly confused. "Ma'am, who's in there with you?" he asked her.
"Why, Alice, of course," Margret gleamed.
Sherlock blinked. It confused him. And he hated it.
"Ma'am, may I speak with Alice?" he asked.
She looked at him funny.
"May I ask what it's about, sir?" she asked back.
Sherlock responded with, "It's an important matter, ma'am."
"Er, well, I'm not sure. Who are you again?" Margret stared at him confusingly.
Sherlock told her again. "I am Sherlock Holmes, ma'am," he said.
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, you're the detective!" she smiled. She nodded profusely.
"Oh, please come in and join us," she opened the door for him.
It smelt of all sorts of foods. Sherlock could distinctly smell the porcini mushrooms being cooked. He also smelt the lamb in the skillet with the peppers. While he was being lead, Sherlock glanced around the home the décor spoke a thousand words about the motifs of an elderly woman. Old knickknacks lined the glass shelves, family portraits, mass produced paintings of farmland and fruit baskets. The wallpaper's base color was beige with the design of a row of red roses. Even Sherlock's mother would call it old fashion.
Margret led him through the dining room where there was a large old mahogany table with six accompanying chairs. Above it was a handcrafted chandelier with roses intertwining with a transparent background for the base glass. The eight limbs with bulbs faintly seen through the bases were blown glass roses colored red from the melting process. When the chandelier lit up it gave the room a faint red hue.
"Oh, Alice, darling, we have a guest," Margret hurried into the kitchen. Sherlock followed closely behind. He heard in return, "Oh, fantastic, do they like porcini mushrooms?"
"I'm sure he does. He's Sherlock Holmes!" Margret gleamed as she stepped near the oven while Alice stirred the contents of the skillet. Alice lowered the spoon when he heard the name. "Sherlock Holmes?" he blinked. He turned to Margret. "What do you mean?"
Margret pointed at Sherlock who stood there with a peculiar look on his face. Alice moved away from the oven and allowed Margret to take over. He slowly turned around and they both stared at each other.
"Alice, it's me," Sherlock pointed at himself. "Don't you recognize me?"
"Of course I know who you are. You're that git that gets into trouble," Alice scorned.
Sherlock couldn't believe it. A far cry from when he first met him, Alice wasn't afraid. He didn't quiver with fright. He didn't look behind and glance about as if someone were watching him. And he certainly wasn't talking about the raven. Either the drugs wore off or Sherlock was having an episode himself.
"Alice, we were looking for you," Sherlock told him. "We thought you were in trouble."
"Hmph! You get old and they think you're a walking hazard," Alice scoffed. "Back in my day, you had only your wits about you. Age was just a number they assign you so they don't have to deal with the paperwork."
It was peculiar. Alice was assertive, strong willed. Like a police officer. He was so different that Sherlock had to double check to make sure it was even the right Alice. It was.
"Alice, do you remember me?" Sherlock gestured. "You came to my flat two days ago."
"I'd never go to a half-wit who thinks he's above the law," Alice spat. "I'd turn you in if I could!"
Margret turned her head. "Alice, who's that?" she asked.
"Just a half-wit," Alice waved his hand.
"Oh, would you like to stay for lunch?" Margret smiled at Sherlock. "We're having porcini mushrooms and some haggis."
"Alice, how could you not remember?" Sherlock stood there blankly. "You asked me to solve a case."
Alice stared at him. His face was different. His fine lines gave the impression he had a permanent scowl on his face. Hardly any different than a retired police officer if one thought about how the profession would cause someone to age quickly than they would normally. And it intrigued Sherlock how Alice couldn't remember him. His body language told him that Alice scarce knew him other than what he probably read in the newspaper. Yet, Sherlock knew for a fact that Alice had come to him in distress. Something was wrong and Sherlock knew it for a fact.
He remembered the drugs and how they could've influenced Alice. It had been two days since he went missing and likely the drugs had worn off or their effects diminished enough for Alice to become coherent. It was interesting to note that from the look of things, Alice was normal as one could say. Sherlock concluded the side effects of the drugs were responsible.
"I hadn't been on the force for over 20 years," Alice pointed at him. "Even then we'd never turn over cases to a lunatic with high cheeks."
"I do also take cases that aren't police related," Sherlock reminded him. "I am a detective."
"A detective who's above the law," Alice snorted.
Sherlock sighed, "I believe your life is in danger."
"Porcini isn't that bad for the heart," they heard Margret as she got plates out.
Alice shook his head. "Any policeman can tell you his life is in danger," he responded to Sherlock.
Sherlock tilted his head, "Does the name Frank Colton mean anything to you?"
Sherlock decided that if Alice was not going to be cooperative that he was going to instill some sort of fear in him. While he wouldn't have done it under normal circumstances, Sherlock was strapped for time, with three bodies in Oxford's freezer, there wasn't much in a way of doing things he'd normally do.
Alice's face changed from a scowl to a peculiar look. He stared at Sherlock intently. "Where'd you hear that name?" he asked.
Sherlock replied, "We think he's vowed for vengeance against you."
"Impossible," Alice shook his head.
Sherlock waited for Alice to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. Instead, he heard something else. "I hadn't heard from him in years," Alice scorned.
Ah and therein the problem lies. A terrible lie, Alice, even the low-level criminals Sherlock and John hunted for had better lies than you.
"Then, why are you specifically being targeted?" Sherlock gestured. "People are dying because of it."
"I was a police officer. It doesn't take a detective to know that a police officer is expectant to get threats," Alice retorted with.
"Who would target you then?" Sherlock crossed his arms at him. "Who'd want you dead the most?"
"Why are you so intent?" Alice stared at him. "Why are you bothering me?"
"Three men died, Alice. All because they're linked to you and you are the target in mind. Why would someone go through the trouble?" Sherlock dropped his gentleman act. Alice wasn't winning points with him. He admitted that he was expecting the same frightened Alice he met two days ago. He never thought Alice would become this. Drugs or not, Sherlock wasn't sure if this was his actual personality or if it was the effects of Withdrawal Syndrome.
"How am I supposed to know who wants vengeance against me," Alice waved his hand. "Most of them died of old age or bad luck."
"Just like Frank, Alice?" Sherlock raised his brow. "Did he suffer bad luck?"
"And what just are you instigating?" Alice gave him a stern look at him.
Sherlock uncrossed his arms as he leaned in. "You told me you set him up. Said Hilton Associates wanted you to tell them where he was going to be so they'd take care of him. He was going to expose the scam they were setting up," he said. "You told me this, Alice."
"I told you nothing," Alice shook his head. "And I certainly don't remember you."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "I have proof, Alice. At my flat, you will see that you did in fact come to me," he slowly said.
"And how do I know you're telling the truth?" Alice tilted his head.
Sherlock responded with, "I only tell lies to people who annoy me. But for you, I'll make an exception."