Chapter Three

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay – I had writer's block, and technology troubles. Before anyone else asks, I have to apologise if I was unclear. As the story summary says, Holmes is plagued by his memories. The bits in plain text, therefore, are the present, and the bits in italic are memories. I intend to keep them fairly chronological, so that the first are the earliest and date from just after TGH. Thanks as always to my reviewers. Hermione Holmes, I guess I was inspired by an episode like The Eligible Bachelor here – more introspective and moody. Mierin-lanfear, that would be helpful. Elsie Cubitt, I don't know how you managed to make the review as long as the chapter! I have responded at length at the end of this chapter. Haley Macrae, that's more or less what I was going for. Lindsay, just you wait to see what I have planned for their domestic front! Masked Phantom, I wish you better luck with physics than I ever had myself.

Once the conductor had checked his ticket, Holmes pulled down the shades and dimmed the lamps. He was alone in the first-class compartment. In years past, he would likely have had Watson along with him. Sitting in the seat opposite, the Doctor's earnest face would express indignation at a story of crime, or amazement at Holmes' ingenious solution. In this particular case, the good doctor's presence would have been exceedingly useful. In his absence, Holmes had had to take on the role of the country physician himself, and though his years of friendship with Watson had allowed him many insights into the healing profession, it was no longer easy to disguise his native habits and mannerisms.

The rhythmic sound of the train's wheels on the rails and the darkness of the compartment soothed him. Holmes leaned his head against the tall seatback. "What a pity," Beatrice had said when they parted, "that we are not so young anymore. Being young, one can insinuate oneself nearly everywhere."

She was right, of course. The little woman was always right.

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They had been talking together in the sitting-room at Manor Farm. A knock came at the door, and a disheveled young man, his cheeks red from running, entered. His callused hands were wringing his country cap, and his face had the look of a lost child.

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am," he gasped. "The police want you to come to the Seemans' cabin. There's been a murder."

Beatrice rose quickly, pulling on a shawl, and gestured for Holmes to follow. They walked briskly north-east of the estate, into a low-lying field in the middle of which stood a white-washed cottage. It would have been no different from any of the other cottages in the area, were it not for the half-dozen police constables currently swarming in and out of it. The young man led them to the door, and a swarthy middle-aged man in an overcoat came out to meet them. He nodded sternly at them in greeting.

"My name is Inspector Williams," he said, and they nodded in return. "You are the landlady here?"

"My uncle owns the lands," she answered, "But as he is away on business, I will act as his representative."

Her answer seemed to satisfy him, and he stepped aside to allow them to enter the cottage. Holmes had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe. Inside, beside a dark oak bench, a man's body lay on the dirt floor. Blood seeped from his throat and a dark stain spread on his labourer's smock and into the dirt. Beatrice drew a sharp breath and covered her mouth. She turned her face away, leaning into Holmes' shoulder.

The country inspector shifted uncomfortably behind them. "I'm sorry you have to see this, Ma'am. It's no sight for a lady. We wondered if you knew the man."

Drawing a deep breath, Beatrice regained her composure. "That, as anyone will tell you, is Horace Seeman."

"Yes, ma'am, that he is," the inspector said patiently. "We were told that you visit your tenants often. Did you visit them today?"

"No," answered Beatrice, "and I fail to see why I was brought here to be questioned." Holmes, in the meantime, had left her side, and began very carefully to examine the walls of the cottage. He squinted in concentration as his long fingers caressed the wood surrounding the hearth.

"We have already arrested Mrs Seeman in connection with the shooting, but we have not been able to make her talk. Our men are making the rounds of the neighbouring cottages, but we thought that since you are such a frequent visitor – "

"Shooting?" Beatrice interrupted. "You think he has been shot?"

"Yes," answered the inspector hesitantly, unsure of her line of questioning.

"With what?" she demanded.

"With a revolver, of course," answered the inspector, offended at the query.

"I can find no bullet hole," Holmes said from across the room. "Have you found used cartridges, or, indeed, a revolver?"

"My men are in search of the weapon as we speak," stated the indignant Inspector Williams. Holmes snorted.

Seeming to forget her previous fear, Beatrice strode forward until she straddled the corpse, and leant forward to examine the dead man's neck wound closer. "It's too small for a bullet hole," she said. "And if it were a bullet," she continued, "it would have exited the other side of his neck." She leaned to examine the opposite side. "Which it has not," she ended.

The bewildered inspector crossed the room to her side. He peered at the cadaver's neck and spluttered, "She must have used some kind of cunning weapon hitherto unknown to the police force!"

"No doubt your men have already turned this place upside down?" Holmes asked bitterly.

The inspector didn't reply. Instead, he continued to stare at the corpse. "A knife would have left long thin gashes," he said. "But this is such a thin, round point. What could leave such a mark?" he wondered aloud.

"This," answered Holmes. He was holding a knitting needle, the tip of which was covered in blood and ashes. He had recovered it from the cold hearth.

"Mrs Seeman killed her husband with a knitting needle?" the astonished inspector cried.

"It appears so," Holmes answered smugly.

"Nonsense," Beatrice contradicted from the dark oak bench where she had sat down. "You can't kill anyone with a knitting needle. It's physically impossible." Seeing the confused faces of the men who had thought that they had found the solution to their problem, she rolled her eyes. "Look around you, gentlemen. Do you see anything that Mrs Seeman could have knitted?" Looking around the bare, sparsely furnished room, the men were forced to agree that they did not. "And is there a pair for that needle?" Beatrice continued. After a quick search around the two-roomed cottage, the inspector admitted defeat. The needle in the fireplace was without a twin. Finally, Beatrice Holmes, nee Bassano, produced her most damning evidence. "What is that needle made out of, Holmes?" she asked.

"Wood," he answered immediately.

"And in your opinion, can a sliver of wood so thin pierce human flesh? Especially," she added, "when wielded by a woman against a resisting man?"

The answer was obvious, and the shamefaced inspector said dejectedly, "The aim certainly was remarkable. To hit his carotid artery at the first attempt…remarkable."

Beatrice smiled triumphantly. "I think we can conclude several things, Inspector. We can be certain that Mrs Seeman neither shot her husband nor stabbed him with a knitting needle. We can also be certain that the needle was placed in the hearth to distract you from the true murder weapon."

"And since Mrs Seeman herself does not knit," interjected Holmes, "she is less likely to be the killer."

Beatrice stood up and rearranged her shawl. "I wish you luck with your investigation, Inspector Williams. Good afternoon." She walked out of the cottage, careful not to touch the supine cadaver. Holmes silently handed the bloodied needle to the bewildered inspector, and followed her out.

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Retrieving his luggage from the porter, Holmes was surprised to find his wife waiting for him at the exit from Victoria Station.

"I thought you might report to Mycroft first," she said, greeting him with a wave of her hand, "but I simply could not wait that long to hear about your trip for myself. I have a cab waiting."

Though he was tempted to indulge her curiosity, he did make her wait until they reached Mycroft's rooms.

A/N, continued: Elsie Cubitt, your review was very thought-provoking, and I thank you. I will respond in order of your comments. I am not sentimental, because that's Watson's job and he has that covered. ;-) I like Baring-Gould, but I use SherlockPeoria's Just the Facts database for my chronologies, which allows me to choose between the opinions of different expert Sherlockians, including his. I'm not sure that Holmes is a great example of the human condition. Maybe in a Shakesperean tragic-disconnect sort of way… I like your idea about Holmes maturing throughout the Canon. That appeals to my sense that he is quite human, just with an extraordinary self-control, quite beyond that of any twentieth- or twenty-first-century person. I also like your interpretation of Beatrice's name. I generally like it when readers find something I didn't necessarily intend. I'm afraid to say that her name is a very simple pun and not a reference to Dante. (Though no one has yet deciphered it – c'mon, people!) But I'm glad that your theory works just as well, if not better. I love the JB quote! But then again, he was one to talk, having the emotional maturity of a 12-year-old at best! Is Beatrice a mixture of Holmes, Watson and Mrs Hudson? I think she asks more questions. (It has always bothered me that Mrs Hudson didn't throw a fit when she saw the VR bullet-holes in her rented rooms! Patriotism or no patriotism, his damage deposit is gone forever!) Your characterisation of JB is remarkable, and hits exactly those points I love about the show; but as I said to Hermione Holmes above, I meant that I was inspired by the later shows, where you get the occasional insight into Holmes' head. As for my dialogue, I have taken your comment to heart. I hope this chapter is more along the lines of what you wanted to see. Does Holmes complete Beatrice? An interesting question: Stay tuned. As for the Catholicism question, I have decided that it will be important to the plot after all, so I will post my hypothesis soon.