Chapter 26 - The Adventure of Silver Blaze
The thrill of Sherlock's attention—his lazy caress of her throat, breasts and across her stomach—shot a delicious heat through Violet until the memory of the same sensations she experienced the previous evening brought about a state of anxiety. A disturbing image clouded her thoughts once more—the silhouette of a figure watching them having sex in the disused tunnel of the London Underground.
Violet's body tensed, a movement so imperceptible it would take a detective-genius to notice.
"You're not here again, are you?" his voice rumbled as he brought his kisses back to the soft skin behind Violet's ear. "You're thinking about the homeless person again."
"I can't help it," Violet replied in a whisper partly strained due to her emotional state.
Sherlock sighed and ceased his ministrations, pulling Violet in closer. He gently brought his hand up and brushed her hair aside. Cupping her face he used his thumb to idly caress her cheekbone.
"Completely harmless," he remarked in a soothing tone. "And I doubt they could see anything."
Violet furrowed her brow.
"They were standing in the dark," she said. "Their eyes would've adjusted to the darkness, so when the train came past we would've been lit up like a Christmas tree."
Sherlock chuckled lightly before planting a soft kiss on Violet's lips.
"A very naughty Christmas tree," he whispered as his lips continued to brush hers.
"Sherlock," Violet said, sighing. She wanted to scold him but he was doing his best to distract her again and was almost succeeding. "I don't like the idea of someone watching us."
"They wouldn't have seen anything.
"What if they had an infrared camera?"
Sherlock studied Violet's eyes in the soft light of her bedside lamp on the stand behind him. Did he think she was an idiot?
"I doubt that many homeless people carry them, and I know quite a few." He shrugged and then continued, "Look, what does it matter who sees what and when. We were both covered up, mostly, and you would've been obscured from their view by me. Unless someone had a high res infrared video or still camera whose footage they're going to post on YouTube, I really don't think we've got anything to worry about, hmm?"
"I don't think it was a homeless person. I think someone followed us."
"No one could've followed us without me noticing, Violet. Besides, they would've easily become lost after the number of turns and detours we took. I mean, even I didn't know where we—" Sherlock stopped abruptly.
"What?" Violet's eyes widened in incredulity. "Were we lost?"
"Only momentarily." He smiled sheepishly at her. "You only have to stop and listen for a minute and head in the direction of the noise of the Underground."
Violet scowled at Sherlock's confession. Sherlock, however, sighed and rolled away from her. Violet knew what that sigh meant. He was disappointed at the lost opportunity for a morning quickie.
Sitting up, he said, "We'd better get going then. The train leaves Paddington in an hour, and I see you haven't packed yet."
He rose from the bed and padded across the room.
"It won't take me long," Violet replied. She shut her eyes and drew her pillow closer, substituting its warmth for the cold air brought by Sherlock's absence from her bed.
Sherlock stooped to retrieve his second best dressing gown from the floor. He slipped it on, saying, "You're the most disorganised person I know." His eyes scanned Violet's bedroom floor, taking in all the clothes and books that hid the floorboards from view.
"There's order in my chaos," she retorted, sitting up and rubbing at her tired eyes. "I know where everything is."
"Really? So where's your purple brush?"
Violet eyed Sherlock suspiciously.
"How do you know about that? I've been looking for that brush for weeks. It's my favourite."
"It's between that bookshelf and the cardboard box full of novels you've yet to store on your shelves." Sherlock smirked, hoping to counteract Violet's scowl. "I noticed it the other day when I was in here."
Violet swiftly left the bed to verify the truth to Sherlock's statement. Sherlock bent down to retrieve the pyjamas he'd discarded the night before.
"You know, that's kind of creepy, you being in here when I was out," Violet remarked after retrieving her long lost brush from its hiding place.
Sherlock gifted Violet with one of his broad smiles. "I know," he said proudly, before dashing out of the room.
Violet tutted and sighed to herself, surveying the carnage of her bedroom. At least her clean clothes were separated from the rest. There were two piles of dirty clothes: one of clothes worn only once and therefore potential candidates for re-wearing, and the other of clothes in need of a wash. Sherlock had swiftly made the three piles after he had entered her room the night before and stared in horror at the mountain of clothes on her bed.
Violet had suggested they spend the night in her room for a change, and then she'd insisted a little more forcefully when Sherlock started making noises against the idea.
When he had entered her room after their evening out, fresh from a shower downstairs, clad in pyjamas and his dressing gown, Violet was sitting at her dressing table braiding her hair. She watched in amusement as Sherlock had looked at her bed in disgust, then his mood switched to intense determination for sorting the washing. Once the chore was complete, he settled into Violet's bed to wait patiently for her. Violet thought he looked so out of place: Sherlock Holmes, with his seemingly cold exterior, his logical mind, and sharp tongue, sat propped up against Violet's ruffled pillows, with his fingers laced together and resting atop a plump, floral duvet that had been pulled up to his waist.
They fooled around for far too long—Sherlock wanted to wrestle again, which had Violet in fits of laughter—and had sleepy, nonsensical discussions about where would be the best place to stash a body, interspersed with Violet's paranoid (at least according to Sherlock) remarks concerning the Underground voyeur. Before they decided to call it a night and let sleep take hold, Sherlock had reminded Violet that they had to wake early to catch their train to Devon.
Violet hastily packed for two nights' stay. Sherlock said he'd have the case solved within hours of their arrival, but he had also hinted that Violet should book the accommodation for two nights. When she questioned him as to why, he looked completely embarrassed and mumbled something about it being just in case something came up. Violet knew the reason why, and she felt a little bit bad about tormenting the poor man.
She was packed and dressed and out the door in record time, at least for her. Sherlock hailed them a cab, and they drove in comfortable silence to Paddington station with Sherlock absorbed in his phone.
Violet had never travelled first class before. Even when she was seeing Jake, with all his disposable income, they had never actually left Manchester. She was also looking forward to spending time out of the city, cuddling up with Sherlock in a small country hotel. She could barely contain her excitement, which manifested itself in childish curiosity and hyperactivity, much to Sherlock's annoyance.
"Look, why don't you just hold my arm as we walk," he suggested as Violet apologised for the third time after bumping into somebody. She was too busy staring at the movie and theatre posters that adorned the walls of the station, and daydreaming about appearing on them, plus she found Sherlock's stride difficult to keep up with.
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Sherlock glanced at his watch and muttered to himself, "We should be there by midday."
He caught Violet's attention, and she looked up from her iPad. They sat across from one another, by the window, with a small table between them. There weren't any other passengers sitting beside them, and the first class car was mostly empty.
"I think we've got time to grab lunch in Plymouth before we catch the bus to Tavistock," she commented, absentmindedly resting her hand on her stomach. Clearly she had skipped breakfast in their haste to catch the train.
Sherlock cleared his throat. What he was about to tell Violet would probably cause some offense. Best keep it light, then.
"Colonel Ross will meet me at the station, to drive me to King's Pyland. You can catch the bus to Tavistock and check into our hotel. Scout the village, chat to little old ladies, that kind of thing."
Violet opened her mouth to protest but Sherlock swiftly interrupted her with his explanation. He didn't want them to be seen arriving together, he said, because he needed Violet to obtain an insight into local gossip without appearing to have any connection to the 'big shot from the city.'
"And people like talking to you," he finished, hoping to make a convincing argument by ending on a compliment.
Sherlock was sure he would never have felt bad about issuing that kind of instruction to John Watson. How simple it would've been if John were accompanying him on the case instead.
Violet looked like she was trying to contain her emotions. Eventually, she asked, "So, a murdered trainer and a missing horse?"
"John Straker," Sherlock replied, "the trainer, was found dead some distance from the training stables, a cataract knife in his hand, and a fatal wound to his head."
Sherlock tapped away on his phone before turning the screen to Violet to show her a photo of a horse.
He turned his phone back around, and continued to navigate it while he spoke.
"The horse, Silver Blaze, owned by Colonel Ross, was missing from its box. Inspector Gregory, the officer in charge, has theorised that Straker heard something in the middle of the night from out in the yard, then he picked up the knife that his wife said he had on his dresser and went out to investigate. Curious kind of knife to have on a dresser." Sherlock turned his phone around once more so Violet could see the long, thin, surgical instrument. "Gregory thinks he probably disturbed the horse thief. He never returned, and one of the grooms found his body the following morning."
"And the police have nothing to go on at all?" Violet asked.
"They've got a suspect by the name of Rory Simpson and a hundred theories spouted by armchair amateurs on half a dozen gossip and equine neighbourhood watch websites all the way to Torquay." Sherlock furrowed his brow in obvious disapproval.
"What do they say was Simpson's motive, or was it an accident?"
"He's a member of one of those anti-horseracing lobby groups. He got into a heated argument with Straker over his treatment of a couple of horses he's responsible for."
Sherlock turned his phone around to Violet, showing a website with the heading 'Stop the Slaughter of Racehorses!' and it included a rather graphic photograph of a headless and legless body of a horse hanging from harnesses in what looked like an abattoir. Violet immediately turned away, saying, "Oh God. Put that away. I didn't even want to see a picture of Straker's body."
Sherlock emitted a small sigh. What did Lestrade say about Violet being too sensitive? Again, he wouldn't have this problem with John as his assistant... no, colleague.
"There are also videos on YouTube," he continued. "Most of them are alarmist in nature and don't depict anything that doesn't happen legitimately anyway."
"Um, no thanks."
Sherlock withdrew his phone.
"Simpson was seen in a local pub," he went on, "chatting to one of Straker's grooms, and got him drunk in order to extract information from him, apparently. There was evidence that Simpson had been to King's Pyland, but he denies the charge of having anything to do with Straker's death or taking the horse. And a memory stick containing images and videos of the kind I've just shown you was found in the vicinity of the stable lads' quarters. Simpson doesn't deny it belonged to him, but he claims he had given it to the stable lad when they were chatting at the pub."
"Do you think it was Simpson?"
"I have three theories so far, but I never reach a conclusion before gathering all of the relevant data."
Sherlock turned his attention back to his phone, his brow furrowed as he deftly typed into it. Thankfully, Violet took that as a signal to leave him to it, and she retrieved her script from her handbag and began to study it.
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Morons.
Sherlock sighed in exasperation.
"Just this immediate area?" he asked, repeating the information imparted by the West Devon Inspector.
Inspector Gregory nodded and puffed out his chest before deepening his voice in an effort to reassert his authority.
"We cordoned off this patch of grass around Mr Straker's body."
Idiots.
"And where was his coat found?" Sherlock asked, trying to convey an even tone although he was incredulous that the no longer preserved crime scene looked like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants.
"Down there, somewhere," Gregory said, pointing where the ground sloped downward.
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Where, exactly? Can you take me there?"
"Well, we don't know exactly, sir," a young female Police Community Support Officer chimed in. "Ned found it when he were wandering about in despair."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the phrase 'in despair', but queried who Ned was.
The P.C.S.O. replied, "The Head Lad, sir. One of three lads that work and live here under Mr Straker."
"Right," said Sherlock, his eyes scanning the landscape beyond the stables, before returning to the young officer. "And he was the groom who was drunk the same night?"
"Yes, sir."
"We've interviewed all staff who were present on the night of the murder, Mr Holmes," Inspector Gregory cut in, "if you'd like to see the case notes."
"I prefer to do my own editing. Are they available to be interviewed?"
The Inspector's open mouth told Sherlock he was momentarily taken aback by the Consulting Detective's abrupt manner, and he replied coldly, "I'll go up to the house and see if Mrs Straker's about. P.C.S.O. Perkins here will show you to the yard and Silver Blaze's box."
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Violet found the village of Tavistock much bigger than she imagined it was going to be, but it was still fairly easy to walk around the town centre. She didn't know which little old ladies she could talk to from whom she'd receive any useful gossip. She quickly realised that their 'hotel' was actually an inn, and 'up the road from the village' was another thirty minute journey by bus, heading toward Dartmoor National Park. She made the decision to check in much later, after exploring the village centre a bit further.
Another thing that pissed her off greatly: there were no markets. Of the two days of the week when Tavistock did not hold their famous market day, Sunday was one of them, Monday being the other.
Great, the two days we're here. Looks like Mandi won't be getting her clotted cream fudge after all.
She sent a text to Sherlock asking how far away the stables were and what the fuck was she supposed to do now, using slightly more eloquent words than the ones she wanted to type.
So much for a romantic getaway, she thought, walking along what appeared to be a main street and pulling her suitcase behind her. Guess he does have a case to work on. Wonder where I can get cream tea from?
Partway through her pot of English breakfast tea and scones, from the comfort of a café along the river Tavy, Violet received a cryptic message from Sherlock.
The Curried Mutton. —SH
Before Violet could send a query, another message came in almost immediately.
It's a pub, frequented by the stable lads at King's Pyland. They aren't there at the moment because they're here having lunch but you can talk to the village gossips about them. —SH
Violet gulped down the rest of her tea, looked longingly at the remaining scone loaded with clotted cream and strawberry jam, and set off to find a pub called The Curried Mutton. Along the way, another text came in from Sherlock:
Don't forget to mention the sheep. —SH
So she replied, What about them? but received nothing in response by the time she found the pub on the other side of the river.
Bloody Sherlock. What's he talking about?
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