Chapter Thirty Six

Sherlock stepped from the South-Eastern Javelin train onto the platform at Canterbury West station, just one hour after he boarded from Platform 11 at St Pancras International station, following a high speed dash through the Kent countryside, past fields and woodlands white with a thick hoar frost after days of unrelenting sub-zero temperatures.

Sherlock, however, had been largely oblivious to the wintry diorama rolling by on either side of the moving train, despite the fact that he had been staring through the window for most of the journey, since his sight had been turned inwards upon himself, reviewing the recent events that had thrown his and Molly's lives into a strange sort of juxtaposition with him cast as the househusband and holding the fort at home, whilst Molly became the dragon slayer.

It had given him a new insight into Molly's perspective on their relationship. She was the stage manager, behind the scenes, making sure everything ran smoothly whilst he was the leading man, strutting and fretting his hour upon the stage. He now knew all too well what before he could only imagine. Hers was by far the tougher role to perform and yet she won no accolades, received no rapturous reviews, was never mentioned in dispatches.

The conversation with William had been interesting, to say the least, and a perfect example of Molly's ability to make difficult concepts seem blindingly obvious. She had taken the lead in that, beginning with a simple question.

'William, when you took those things belonging to the other children, did you realise you were doing something wrong?'

William gave this question a good deal of serious consideration before answering.

'It wasn't really wrong, Mummy. I never meant to keep those things, just to lift the prints and then return them. If I'd meant to keep them, that would have been wrong.'

'Well, actually, William, taking something without the owner's permission, even if you intend to give it back later, is still wrong. It's the law. And no one is allowed to break the law, not even the police – especially not the police.'

'But what about Daddy? Doesn't he sometimes break the law when he's on a case?' William asked.

Molly looked at Sherlock, inviting him to step in. This was difficult. Yes, he did bend the rules, sometimes, but so far – partly by good luck and partly through good management – he'd never been caught. How could he say this without incurring Molly's disapproval?

'You are right, William, I have been known to cross the line between what's legal and what's not legal in the pursuit of a criminal but I have always known that, should I get caught, I would be just at liable for prosecution as the person who broke the law in the first place. So, if I do break the law, it's a calculated risk. And I would only do it for a very, very good reason.'

Having said his piece, Sherlock glanced at Molly and was relieved to see that she was nodding in agreement. William, in the meantime, was processing that information.

'So finding out who sent those letters…was that a good reason or not a good reason to break the law?' he asked.

'Perhaps not good enough?' Sherlock suggested. He felt for his son. He knew what it was like to be faced with a puzzle that was just screaming out to be solved. That is just how he had felt, all those years ago, when he heard about the death of Carl Powers. He just had to get to the bottom of it, even though it meant breaking rules, absconding from school and disrupting the Coroner's Court by yelling at the top of his voice until security dragged him away. A week of rustication had seemed a small price to pay for scratching that itch – and he's been scratching it ever since.

'Just imagine, William, that someone broke into your games locker and took your pencil case. How would you feel?' Molly was asking.

William ran that scenario through his imagination and frowned.

'When I got to my next lesson and couldn't find my pencil case, I would be really worried that I had left it somewhere or that it had dropped out of my bag accidentally. I would have to go and look for it, straightaway, and if I couldn't find it – which I wouldn't because the other person would have it – I would be very upset!' he concluded.

'Exactly,' Molly replied, with a gentle smile. 'It would be very upsetting. So, can you see how these other children might feel about having their things taken?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' William agreed, rather reluctantly. 'They would probably be very upset, too, although Robert and Janine don't seem to care about their things. They leave their bags outside the Refectory. I would never do that!'

'Yes, but that's why those pigeon holes are there, so people can leave their bags outside and keep down the clutter in the Refectory. And there is the matter of trust. The other children should be able to leave their bags unattended and not have to worry about their safety, do you see?'

'Yes, Mummy, when you put it like that, I do see,' William replied.

'And I expect Joseph thought his things were safe in his locker. He would not have expected anyone to pick the lock and take something, for whatever reason, would he?'

'No, Mummy, he wouldn't,' William agreed and looked, for the first time, quite sorry for what he had done.

Mrs Alsop had decided that William should write letters of apology to all the children whose property he had taken. Up to that point, he had been unsure about why this was necessary but now he understood. He went off to his room to write those letters and he also took the opportunity to explain why he had taken the items in the first place. Molly and Sherlock left him to it, secure in the knowledge that an important lesson had been learned.

How Molly had known exactly the right things to say to show William the error of his ways, but without bruising his fragile ego, was a mystery to Sherlock. But Molly had always been a mystery to him – beginning with why she ever loved him in the first place.

Perhaps, during his brief visit to Canterbury, he could take the time to find some little token, something that would convey, in a manner which mere words could not, his deep and heartfelt love, respect and admiration for his wife. He was trying to remember the last time he had given her a gift, other than for her birthday or Christmas, and he really could not recall it. As a couple, they were not given to grand gestures. But there was clearly a call for one now. He had the whole day ahead of him, confidant as he was that his business at the cathedral would be concluded quite quickly. Then the rest of the day would be his own.

As the train rattled over the level crossing at St Dunstan's, he was shaken from his reverie and stood up to retrieve his valise from the overhead luggage rack and make his way to the nearest door.

Crossing the railway lines over the footbridge, Sherlock exited the station via the ticket hall and turned left towards The Goods Shed, an indoor farmers' market and food hall and – on the mezzanine floor – a gourmet restaurant that served breakfast, lunch and dinner, all made from fresh, seasonal, locally sourced produce, where he had arranged to meet with Canon Morris.

Strolling unimpeded through the bustling crowd, which seemed to part like the Red Sea in order that he should pass, he climbed the steps to the restaurant and spotted the canon sitting at a window table about half way down the row, nursing a cup of morning coffee. He slipped into the seat opposite her and a waiter appeared as if by magic and took his order.

'Well, Mr Holmes,' said the canon, once the waiter had gone about his business, 'I can't pretend I'm not rather excited about today. Are we going to find out, at long last, who or what is responsible for these mysterious deaths?'

Sherlock gave a dismissive little shrug.

'I don't wish to disappoint you, Canon Morris, but I really can't describe any of these deaths as mysterious, as I hope to prove tonight but, in the meantime, I need to make a thorough reconnoitre of the cathedral and its precincts. There are a few technical issues that I need to be clear on. Do you have the cathedral pass that I asked for?'

'I do,' she replied, reaching into her handbag and placing a plastic card, the size and shape of a credit card, on the table in front of him.

'This belongs to my son but he's away at university so won't be needing it today or even for the next few weeks. This will get you into all the publicly accessible parts of the cathedral and precincts but, unlike the visitors' tickets, this is a resident's pass. When the precincts close for the night, you will still be able to gain access with this.'

Sherlock swiped the card up from the table and looked at the colourful image of the cathedral on the front before turning it over to reveal the printed name and registration number on the back and the signature scrawled by the canon's son.

'No one ever checks them too closely,' the canon assured him. 'But if push came to shove I'm sure you could convince them you are Jamie Morris,' she added, with a knowing smile.

'What time does the precincts close?' he asked.

'The Postern Gate closes at six o'clock and the Christchurch and Mint Yard gates at nine. The Quenin Gate, which is pedestrians only and accessed through the Memorial Garden, closes at ten thirty. After that, you can still go in and out via the Christchurch or Mint Yard gates as they are manned by security. You just have to ring the bell and they'll let you in – as long as you show your resident's pass.'

'No cavity searches, then?' he quipped and the canon laughed heartily at the image that evoked, of members of the clergy having to hoist their cassocks up round their waists in order to be 'inspected'.

'And once you've finished for the night,' she went on, 'you will be my guest at No 15 The Precincts, which is right next door to the Memorial Garden, opposite the car park – or The Oaks, to use its official title…so much more poetic than 'car park'. We have a very comfortable guest room with an open fireplace. I'll make sure the fire is lit as I expect you'll be jolly cold after standing around outside all evening.'

'Thank you, yes, I'm sure I will,' Sherlock agreed.

Finishing his coffee, he pushed his valise, with his foot, from his side of the table to hers and said,

'If you wouldn't mind taking that back with you? I presume you came by car.'

'I did,' she replied and pulled the bag in to the side of her chair. As he rose to leave, she raised her half empty cup to him and said,

'Good hunting, Mr Holmes.'

He nodded, gave a half smile, turned and left. The canon watched as the crowds parted once more to let him through, a phenomenon which he seemed not to even notice.

ooOoo

And so it begins... :)