December 2020 Challenge Prompt
From Book girl fan: Snowfall
One icy December, Holmes and I were drawn to the midlands of England to investigate the disappearance of a rare gemstone. Holmes tracked the thief to the small town of Desborough, and apprehended him by nightfall with the help of the local constabulary. With the thief in custody and the gemstone in the secure hands of the authorities, we stopped for a pint and a warm meal at the Vagabond Inn, a quaint respite from our cross-country journey. From the smoky dining area I watched slow drifting snowfall over the adjacent church and graveyard. There were few passersby at this hour of the evening, the sun dipping down to the horizon through cold, billowy clouds—I was thankful to be warm and well fed, especially as a cold gust of wind blew through the room as a woman entered.
I was enjoying our moment of relaxation in Desborough. The waitress brought two more dark beers to our table, and as I nursed my drink I considered purchasing the fleece scarf that I had spotted in a shop window earlier in the day as a gift for Mary.
"I'm sure Mary will be pleased with the scarf," said Holmes. "We can visit the shop tomorrow morning to pick it up."
I nodded unwittingly. "My thoughts exactly—hold now, I don't recall mentioning the scarf or Mary to you, or anyone for that matter! I was only just pondering the idea… Holmes, you are too much!"
Holmes took a sip of his drink and chuckled. "You may not have mentioned it directly," he said. "But I was fairly certain that I had deduced your ruminations."
"Elaborate," I said.
"Ah, Watson, if I explain my process now then the spell will be broken," said Holmes. "You're familiar with my methods."
"I only saw the scarf once," I said. "About two hours ago, in the shop window down the street. We were walking together, so you must have seen the scarf too, and you saw me look at the scarf as we passed. But, there were plenty of articles of clothing in the window along with it—it was such an inconsequential moment at the time. And how did you know about Mary? You pinpointed the exact moment that I began considering her and the scarf!"
"I find that subtle physical gestures, often performed subconsciously, can be quite illuminating, and offer a look into the mind," said Holmes. "Let us recount a series of events: a woman entered the inn, followed by a cold breeze, which caused you to flinch and raise your collar, after which you looked down at your gloves and smiled, and pondered momentarily as you absent-mindedly grazed your hand against your left coat pocket. These nuanced expressions and subtle gestures provided valuable insight regarding your train of thought. The woman that entered the inn had similar physical characteristics as Mary—hair color, height and weight. I thought of Mary when I saw her, so I assumed that you did as well, as I noted that your gaze lingered on her for longer than usual. When you looked down at your new gloves from Mary and smiled, I was quite certain that you must have been thinking of Mary."
Mary had given me a pair of hand-knitted gloves the week prior. "How did you know that these gloves are from Mary?" I said.
"I've seen her wear a similar pair, same type of fabric and knitting pattern, Mary's style is quite distinct," said Holmes. "The gloves are new, and you've taken great care to keep them clean and unharmed, so I assume that they were recently gifted to you by Mary. Your old pair had more than a few rips and stains, they were ready to be replaced."
"Thanks to that escapade in the swamps of Basildon that you dragged me into!" I said. "Ruined a good pair of boots too."
"So, you were thinking of Mary," said Holmes, refusing to be deterred by my tangent. "Specifically, Mary and the act of giving gifts. The woman that entered not only looked like Mary, she was also wrapped in a scarf that bore a similar hue as the scarf in the window that had caught your eye. You raised your collar as we suffered the frigid snap of air from the opened door; scarves were certainly on your mind. You made a calculating expression as you pondered in silence, and in combination with the act of passing your hand over the pocket that's holding your wallet, I figured it was likely that you were considering a purchase. When I last saw Mary's current scarf, about one month ago, it had already begun to unravel. In conclusion, I was confident that you were considering purchasing the scarf in the window for Mary. I merely wished to offer my opinion and encouragement."
"I deduce that you are considering purchasing another round," I said. His glass was almost empty.
Holmes and I enjoyed our drinks as the snowfall outside came to a stop in the icy twilight. We resided at the Vagabond Inn for the night, and in the morning we ventured out through yesterday evening's blanket of snowfall to get the scarf. Not ten steps out of the door of the inn, we heard a woman's scream from the graveyard. Holmes and I instinctually followed the sound of the scream to lend aid and investigate, and we discovered Ms. Jennifer Bates at the edge of the graveyard in a state of frantic shock and perplexity. She looked to be in her late fifties, grey eyes wide and breathing in anxious gasps. Bates had been visiting the grave of a loved one on her morning stroll when she came across the corpse of Mr. Finley Powell.
Powell lay facedown in the snow, the pool of his red blood contrasting with the cold whiteness of his surroundings. His boot prints were relatively uniform and unremarkable for most of their track, then there were drops of blood, and a heavy, discarded crate of maintenance tools to the side as the prints became more jagged and Powell collapsed. Powell bled profusely from a wound on his side, soaking and freezing his coat, and tainting the blank canvas of snow. Most mystifying of all, there were no other prints or marking on the ground anywhere near him—his body was isolated, with no sign of an assailant approaching or departing, as if a ghostly knife had found his flesh before vanishing and leaving him to perish.
"That's the g-groundskeeper," said Bates. "I recognize him. Mr. F-Finley Powell."
Constable Leonard Murray of the Desborough police rounded the corner in a hurry, having heard Bates's scream as he walked nearby. He found the three of us looking out at the body, and recognized Holmes from yesterday's pursuit of the gemstone thief.
"Good God, is that Finley Powell?!" said Murray. "What's going on here?"
"We arrived here only moments before you, Constable Murray," said Holmes. "He appears to have perished last night from blood loss."
"I just found him like this," said Bates. "There so much b-b-blood!"
We stepped closer to the body. Murray crouched down and moved Powell's jacket, revealing a small wound in Powell's side. "Looks to be stabbed," he said. "I think we're looking for a rather petite murderer, perhaps even a child."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Are we?"
"Surely you noticed that the killer's prints have been concealed by the snow, but Powell's prints remain visible," said Murray. "The killer must have made much shallower prints, and fled before last night's snowfall ceased."
"If that were the case, then Powell's body would be covered in snow as well," said Holmes. "It's clear that there was no falling snow when Powell collapsed."
Murray scratched his ear in thought. "Hmm, I suppose you have a point," he said. "Did he end his own life? Suicide by stabbing oneself is extreme, but not impossible, and if there's no sign of anyone else being present... But there's no blade on the body!" Murray darted over to the box of tools, but he found that none were marked with blood, and it seemed highly unlikely that any of them could have delivered Powell's fatal wound. Murray trudged around in the snow around the body, searching for a potential weapon with no success.
Holmes hovered over the body, studying the thin wound and frozen blood. Powell's joints showed signs of chronic swelling, and his skin was spotted with several light bruises. Holmes spoke to me without moving his gaze from the body, producing a pocket magnifying glass to scrutinize a rash on Powell's skin near the wound. "Medical opinion?"
I joined Holmes beside the corpse. "Catastrophic blood loss," I said. "He was cut last night—time of death is difficult to determine, but based on the frigid temperature of the body, and lack of snow on top, I estimate that he died between six o'clock and midnight. Was he struck with a projectile? It doesn't look like a ballistic wound, no, I'm certain it's not. Not to mention, we would have heard the gunshot last night, we were just next door at the inn."
"What do you make of the volume of blood relative to the size of the wound?" said Holmes.
"Inordinate," I said. "Now that you mention it, I'm surprised he bled this much. Was an artery struck?"
"I knew Powell," said Bates. She had inched closer to us as we examined the body. "He wouldn't harm a fly, and I can't imagine anyone wishing harm upon him!"
My mind conjured nightmarish images of a spectral assassin, armed with a weapon capable of inflicting lethal wounds without leaving proportionate damage to the flesh. Why was it that Holmes and I seemed magnetically drawn to these violent conundrums, even when traveling outside of London?
"What if he stabbed himself with a blade of sculpted ice?" said Murray. He had momentarily given up on the search for a murder weapon. "That's why there's no trace of it!" I had a feeling Murray was a fan of detective literature.
Holmes shook his head. "At this temperature, an ice weapon wouldn't have melted. There would still be evidence."
"What if the killer stepped inside Powell's prints to avoid leaving his own?" said Murray.
"Powell died yesterday evening in the lowlight, near darkness," said Holmes. "I highly doubt anyone could have followed his footsteps so precisely without leaving evidence in the snow."
Murray crossed his arms and grimaced. "Well, then science and logic is beginning to fail us," he said. "I don't see who could have inflicted his death blow, or how, aside from a phantasmal executioner. Powell was murdered in the middle of a graveyard, so the idea of a supernatural influence is not so far fetched. I fear I'll need to summon the clergy as well as the coroner for this case."
"Before we begin unearthing the surrounding graves for evidence of spiritual interference, I propose we consider the possibility that there was no murderer at all," said Holmes.
Murray gestured to the body. "I think Powell would beg to differ."
"I see one possible series of events that correlates with all the evidence at present," said Holmes. "The wound was not inflicted yesterday as we originally thought. Powell suffered the cut to his side at least one day prior, and, mistakenly believing it was fully healed, he reopened it when he attempted to carry that crate of maintenance supplies. By the contents of the load, and the depth of Powell's prints, I judge the crate weighed fifty to sixty pounds, certainly heavy enough to rupture a healing injury. Note that the wound shows subtle signs of partial recovery—difficult to spot with the frozen flesh and blood—and there are indications of irritation on the skin from the recent application of bandages."
"Wouldn't he have noticed?" said Murray. "You think he just bled out without seeking help?"
"I think he realized too late," said Holmes. "Partly due to the cold; Powell was working late, likely fatigued and numb, so the sudden loss of blood would be particularly exhausting, and could go temporarily unnoticed. It's also clear that Powell bled very quickly, especially considering the size of the cut. We must consider the possibility that he had a blood condition."
"Hemophilia?" I said. I had treated a handful of patients with the affliction throughout my medical career. Their blood was incapable of clotting properly, and in a severe case a patient could lose a significant amount of blood from a small scratch or nosebleed. "Holmes, the bruising on Powell's body, and swelling around the joints, they're symptoms of hemophilia."
"Precisely," said Holmes. "I assume a relative of Powell could confirm or deny this theory; hemophilia is inherited genetically. Thus, I do not believe that Powell was murdered by a floating revenant, rather, he failed to take care of an injury, and overworked himself, unintentionally resulting in this deadly situation. When he realized that he was losing blood, Powell dropped the crate, but he did not make it far before the cold, exhaustion and exsanguination rendered him unconscious. It was a tragic accident."