A/N: Maeve is, in fact, a cameo, of one of my dearest friends in the world. She isn't quite that terrifying, but she can be if she likes. On a more amusing note, I too, have a cameo, more or less. :) It started off as a joke, really, but somehow both Shannan and Maeve became interesting characters in their own right. (And yes, Shannan is me, or at least, she looks like me...)
There is buried in human nature a deep fascination with death. In Paris, they open the morgue for public display, ostensibly to identify bodies found, and yet crowds flock there. They do not all go to assist the police in identification, but because of this fascination. Macabre? Of course, but hardly strange. In Britain we keep death hidden, like so many other things. The Parisians are nothing if not honest about it.
We have been taught to fear death and its trappings, and there is little doubt that certain aspects of it are fear-inspiring, first among them being the basic fear of the unknown. Everyone wants to know what comes after death–hence the current rage with mediums and seances–but no one wants to die. As for myself, I have both seen death, come close to it, and to my everlasting regret dealt it once. I share my views on the eternal with no one, but I do believe that death is only a door, and so I do not personally fear it. Someday I will die, and there really isn't anything I can do about it, so why should I worry?
There is something chilling about a morgue, though. The death found there is almost always of violent origin, reminding me why I followed the course I did. This impression struck me again as I entered the cold stone building that housed London's morgue, Maeve Stonehaven keeping pace with my stride. Most of the policemen on duty there recognized me at once, though more than a few puzzled or disapproving looks were thrown in my companion's direction. All around us hung the miasma of the morgue, of camphor and other chemicals, and beneath those a fainter, unpleasantly suggestive reek.
Lestrade met at the door of a small room halfway down a narrow corridor, his narrow features etched with weariness. "Holmes," he acknowledged, nodding to me. Then his eyes fell on Maeve, and his brows lowered. "This is hardly an appropriate place for a lady," he began.
"Miss Stonehaven is a client," I interrupted smoothly. "And I have reason to believe that this body might belong to her fiancé."
Lestrade snorted. "I doubt it," he said. Then he shrugged. "If she wants to come in she may, but if she faints or has a fit of vapors it isn't my concern."
"You're too kind," the woman replied. Lestrade appeared not to notice the barely concealed sneer in her tone. Just as well. He was irritable enough as it was.
He led us into the small, chill room where a shrouded form lay on the table. "Where did you find the body?" I asked, removing my coat so it would not hinder my movements and handing it to Maeve. She took it wordlessly.
"Washed up late last night near the Bridge," the inspector responded. "A constable spotted it and called us up." He reached for the top of the sheet covering the body, cast another, uneasy glance at Maeve, and pulled it down to reveal the head and upper body.
No sooner had the corpse's face been revealed than I heard Maeve draw a sharp breath. I glanced swiftly at her and saw tears standing in her green eyes.
My eyes narrowed as I turned to look again at the body. Though death made it difficult to tell for certain, he was probably in his mid-thirties, a few years older than myself. Regular features, elegantly shaped skull covered with short, wiry hair, and skin so dark it was almost ebony. He looked like some of the Egyptian sculptures I'd seen at the British Museum. At first glance, I would have placed him as a native to north Africa. Maeve's reaction, along with his build and the callouses on his hands said otherwise.
The dead man was a Jedi.
There was no sign of a wound on his chest, and I glanced at Lestrade for permission. He nodded curtly. I grasped on cold shoulder in my hands and half-turned the body so I could see his back.
Five days ago, and the manner of his death would have baffled even me. A cauterized wound, with extensive burns in a three inch radius around it. The dead man had been shot, in the back, with a blaster.
Well, damn, I thought, carefully keeping my face expressionless. I peeked at Maeve out of the corner of my eye. Her eyes were on the corpse, her face grown even stonier than my own. "Well, Miss Stonehaven?" The man's apparent nationality had, at least as far as custom was concerned, blown our 'fiancé' story completely out of the water.
"It is he," she whispered, tears running freely down her face now. She fumbled for a handkerchief. "It is my fiancé." Her face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
All right, then. British customs be damned. "I thought he might be," I said without batting an eye. I've never really understood the fuss about skin color anyway. There is no such thing as 'superiority of race,' only superiority of mind. If nothing else, it was worth the expression on Lestrade's face. "I'm so very sorry, Miss Stonehaven," I said sympathetically, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
I will give Inspector Lestrade for admirable ability in swallowing what, to a staid citizen of the Empire such as he, was a radical story. He blinked, sputtered a little bit, then summoned up a stiff but sincere "Most sorry, miss."
"The dead man's name is Ilein," I said. "He and Miss Stonehaven recently arrived in London from Ethiopia to meet her family. Mr. Ilein disappeared four days ago, under mysterious circumstances."
Lestrade's eyebrows performed a dance as he tried to visualize the meeting with the family and failed. If not for the fact that it was a very real corpse before us, I might have found the situation funny. "He was murdered then?"
"I should think that quite clear," I sniffed.
"And you know with what?" A hopeful note appeared in the Inspector's voice.
"I'm afraid not," I lied. "Miss Stonehaven has told me that her fiancé left behind many enemies in Africa. I believe that some may have followed them. There is so much we don't know about the cultures of those countries," I added, waving a hand and counting on Lestrade's ignorance to gloss over what, to me, was a pathetic story. "Allow me to handle the case, Inspector. I assure you that if I capture the party responsible I will turn him over to Scotland Yard."
"I appreciate your expertise, Mr. Holmes, but murder really is a matter for the Yard," Lestrade protested. "I assure you, Miss Stonehaven, that we will find whomever is responsible for your, uh, fiancé's murder–"
Maeve lifted her face from her hands, swiped at the tears running down her cheeks, and took a deep breath. "That won't be necessary," she said softly, moving her right hand across her body in a peculiar gesture I recognized. Ben had used the same trick on the bartender at The King's Legs. "Mr. Holmes will handle the investigation."
"Of course," Lestrade replied, his eyes focused on the blonde woman's hand. "Mr. Holmes will handle the investigation."
"Scotland Yard need not get involved." Her hand moved in the opposite direction.
"Scotland Yard need not get involved."
Without the distraction that had been prevalent at the tavern in the form of a noisy crowd, even I could feel the powerful pull behind Maeve's 'suggestions,' and I wasn't even the focus.
"Thank you, Inspector," I said hastily, and took my companion's arm. "We really must be going now."
She resisted for a moment. "I will send someone later to retrieve the body," she said, making the odd gesture a final time.
"Of course." Lestrade nodded.
I waited until we were outside the morgue before speaking. "Well done," I told Maeve. "But I warn you, Miss Stonehaven, if you or one of your people ever tries such a trick on me, you will regret it."
"I don't think you should worry about that, Mr. Holmes," she said. "You are much too strong-willed for a Jedi mind trick to work."
Her voice was huskier than usual, and it was evident that she was struggling with her grief. "I am very sorry," I said again.
She clenched her fist over the handkerchief. "So am I. Ilein was a very good friend." She sniffled a bit, then bared her teeth. "And Force help the kriffing sithspawn who did this! When I get my hands on him..." she trailed off and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, all traces of anger had faded. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so angry."
"Anger is understandable, Miss Stonehaven," I replied. "A friend has been murdered, after all."
She shook her head. "Maybe in someone who isn't a Jedi, Mr. Holmes. For us, anger can destroy."
I lifted my eyebrows but said nothing. I was well aware that anger, left unchecked and uncontrolled, could indeed lead one to destruction by clouding the judgement and slowing the brain. However, I had found anger to be useful from time to time, when properly channeled. But then, I wasn't a Jedi, either.
We began walking. It was just after noon, and the streets were moderately crowded. "Do you want to take a cab?" I asked after a lengthy silence. "It's a long walk back to Baker Street."
She sighed. "I suppose. Taryn needs to know about–about this as soon as possible."
"I agree." Scanning the street I quickly located an unoccupied hansom and signaled to the driver. Taking Maeve's arm again I stepped off the curb and we wove our way through the traffic. "221B Baker Street," I told the driver, assisting my companion inside. He tipped his hat, clicked to his horse, and a moment later the cab lurched into motion.
Silence reigned for some time. I occupied myself with replaying everything I'd learned at the morgue, sensing that Maeve did not wish to be engaged in conversation at the moment. She sat beside me, her face turned away, staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Her eyes still shone with tears.
The grim atmosphere turned my thoughts to Watson. Where was he now? Was he even still in London, or had Moriarty taken him elsewhere? Was he safe, or was my archenemy taking out his frustration on his prisoner? My imagination, which can be distressingly fertile, provided a number of unpleasant ideas, all highly unproductive and thoroughly distracting. With effort I reigned it in and focused again on Ilein's murder.
His last known location had been high above the earth's surface, in the Jedi ship. I still had little more than a vague concept of this, and wasted a few moments trying to figure out what it looked like, and how Ilein had gotten from there to here. It was an ultimately fruitless exercise, however, and I discarded it. He was here, that was a blatant fact. He had been dead anywhere between twelve hours to a full day, judging from the corpse's condition. He had been shot in the back.
I paused at this fact. I had not seen a great deal of the Jedi in action, but I had seen enough to realize that sneaking up behind one would be extremely difficult. They sensed other living beings with an intensity I'd never seen. My skills in observation had made me extremely sensitive to those around me, to the extent that I, too, was difficult to sneak up on, but that talent was nothing like what these people had exhibited. Recalling the firefight of two nights before, I remembered how Qui-Gon and his apprentice had seemed to anticipate the enemy's every move, and their uncanny skill in deflecting enemy fire, how Ben had known how many were outside Shaever's building. It was reasonable to assume that Ilein had had the same skills.
So how had his killer caught him by surprise? There were two major possibilities that stood out: one, that the Jedi, whatever his abilities, had simply been caught off guard in ambush, or, second, that he had believed himself safe, because his killer had somehow managed to shield his presence from the Jedi's senses, or because Ilein had known and trusted the one who shot him.
Now there was a worrying thought. Could there possibly be a traitor among the Jedi?