Prompt 12: From zanganito – Murder.

Here, There, Everywhere

There is a boat moored at the edge of the harbour in Staithes, swaying gently from side to side like a glass bottle riding atop a vast ocean. The paint is chipped, flakes of red and white scattered like thick confetti, some pieces sailing on the water as they abscond to sea. The tide is pulling out, taking everything it can but the vessel and the dead man within.

He is male, somewhere in his late fifties, his skin wet and pale. There is a faint line at the back of his neck and across his collarbone where a chain once sat, a marking where a watch adorned his wrist. His hair is short, sun-bleached like fresh crops, the face clean-shaven. He has been dead around eight hours or more.

The scene would appear somewhat commonplace were it not for the fact that he is completely nude. One bare arm and leg is hooked over the side of the boat, as if he was just about to get in or out of it.

Holmes and Watson glance at the body with lifted brows, their eyes meeting briefly before turning to Mr. Jacob, the owner of the vessel.

"Don't look at me," he says gruffly, squinting at them over his lit cigar, seemingly more put out by their querying looks than the dead, naked man lying in his boat. "I did warn you. Moreover, if I'd have killed him, I'd hardly be showing him off to you, would I?"

"You could cover him up, at the very least," Watson admonishes, a line of tension at his jaw as he gestures to the body. "Have you something we can use?"

A furrow appears between Mr. Jacob's brows as he considers this. "I got the fishing net."

"I hardly think that will suffice," Holmes states flatly. "You have a blanket you can spare, surely? Dead or no, this man deserves some dignity."

"I'll ask the missus to bring one from the inn."

Watson stares at him in shock. "You cannot let her see this."

Mr. Jacob laughs, the sounds echoing off the quiet cobbles. "It was she that told me, Doctor. Gave her a bit of a fright, I tell you. She near woke up the village."

Watson opens his mouth to protest when a faint creaking noise reaches his ears. He turns to see Holmes leaning over the boat, one hand curled around the lip of wood, his friend's gaze darting across the broad back and limbs swiftly.

"What you looking for?" Jacob asks him, dragging noisily on his cigar, a brief glint of orange against the pastel sky.

Holmes straightens. "Some means of identification."

"He ain't wearing a stitch, Mr. Holmes. I doubt you'll be able to identify him."

"Is he familiar to you?"

Mr. Jacob sniffs, disapproval wore plain. "No, but whoever he was I bet he was trespassing."

"A man has been murdered, Mr. Jacob," Holmes informs him, a thread of steel running through his voice. "We cannot surmise what his movements were without additional data."

"Murdered?" The man's accent coats the word heavily, makes the 'R's blurred and drawn out. "We don't get murders here!"

Holmes glances at Watson, sees the twitch now visible in the doctor's jaw.

"Consider this your first then," he answers calmly. "Though I suspect this is not an accurate assumption. As quaint as this place may be–" here Holmes gestures to the surrounding cliffs which embrace the harbour and cottages inland, inhales the water like air, "–murder can extend its hand anywhere."

End