Thanks for the reviews! Always appreciated!
(A/N: All potions/chemical reactions in this story are probably unrealistic. I mean there isn't going to be anything too ridiculous I hope, but most of it will be fictional.)
It was a blessing that only one of the knives had been moved; the second was still stuck fast in the victims' neck. The mouth hung open a little way, but it was enough to show the congealed pond of blood that pooled inside. The eyes were wide open, and glassy, staring out at the world like a broken doll.
Steeling himself, and hoping he wasn't going to faint, Ichabod knelt down beside the corpse. He set his briefcase down on his right, and opened it to reveal the rack of potions and strange inventions. He ran a finger across the neatly labelled bottles, till his finger reached one filled with white powder. He lifted it from the stand, and doing his best not to catch the dead woman's eerie gaze, sprinkled a small amount onto the rounded end of the knife.
The task done, he leant away gratefully, replacing the lid, and then the bottle. He reached a searching hand down into the case, and withdrew a battered but serviceable pocket watch. He watched it intently for ten seconds, then leant back once more to look at the knife.
Most of the powder had disappeared, but tiny amount were still visible, marking out obvious fingerprints on the metal. Taking a satisfied breath at a job well done, he closed his briefcase, stood up and turned to look at the anxious figure of Constable Drew, looming behind him. Drew unfolded his arms, which took a lot of unfolding, and peered down at the body.
"What are those white marks? There on the handle."
"Those, Constable, are fingerprints."
Drew sneered.
"Do we assume the killer is a decorator then, who forgot to wash his hands?"
"That is not paint" Ichabod muttered testily "It is a special powder, that shows up any fingerprints left on an object."
"What good does that do us?"
"Fingerprints are unique to each person. If we know the fingerprint, we can identify the person."
"So, you're suggesting we look at everyone's fingerprints in New York?"
"Well, no. There must be certain suspects, people who regularly commit crime who might be expected to do so again. In fact.."
Ichabod pulled a pencil and notebook from his coat.
"I want you to go to the police station, and make a list of the names of criminals who are likely to have perpetrated this crime. Prime suspects. We then proceed with a process of elimination."
Drew could only stutter indignantly as Ichabod pushed the notebook and pencil into his numb hands.
"Good man. I'll see you next week."
"Next week?"
"Yes. It's my week off."
And with that, he turned on his heel, and hailed a passing cab. He watched Drew with gleeful satisfaction out the carriage window; the man was waving the notebook angrily, and chasing the coach up the street.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the coach pulled up outside a respectable looking town house. It was small, and squashed between equally small but respectable town houses. It was home.
Ichabod opened the front door onto a well lit but uninteresting hallway, the only feature being a spindly end table with a lamp on it. To the left of this was a rectangular sitting room. Beyond the hall was a kitchen that needlessly took up half the house, with the stairs and bathroom beyond that.
Ichabod flopped down into an armchair, watching the fire in the grate and wondering vaguely who'd lit it. He certainly hadn't this morning, and who else was there?
There came a loud bang noise from the kitchen, followed by a crash, a clatter and finally after a long beat; "Fiddlesticks".
Ah yes, Ichabod remembered, that's who.
Upon their return to Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod Katrina and young Masbath (now the only one) had settled into New York. Katrina, loaded down with her inheritance, and more dresses than a tailors, had taken up residence in a hotel. Ichabod, with only a suitcase, two boxes and his various inventions had returned home. Masbath who had arrived with nothing but a duffle bag and that not full, had moved into the second bedroom in Ichabod's house, and was rarely seen with his head out of a book.
Except for the moment when Ichabod returned home, judging by the sounds emanating from the kitchen. Slowly, wondering what on earth he might discover, Ichabod opened the kitchen door, and beheld the interior.
There wasn't much to see except airborne flour. Then the fog of war cleared, and the constable had no trouble at all identifying victim, weapon and suspect.
All three were the same person.
Masbath was covered in flour, as was everything else in his vicinity. He appeared to have been grievously injured in every way that didn't draw blood; he was bruised, tired looking and utterly miserable.
As for the weapon, the most dangerous thing in the kitchen could only be the boy himself. He could wreak more havoc than any knife or meat cleaver.
The suspect needed no explanation. He turned toward the door, looking like a kicked puppy hoping for a lenient sentence.
"What did you do?"
"I dropped the flour sack."
"What else did you do?"
"I left the cupboard door open and walked into it by mistake."
"Anything else?"
"I burned myself lighting the fire in the sitting room. Then I dropped the match on the rug, which burnt. So I brought it in here to wash the ash off only it all got soaked in the sink, so I hung it on the airer to drip dry, only the airer collapsed. So I went to put it up again but I slipped in the puddle of water and fell over."
Ichabod waited with baited breath in case anything else was forth coming. When it was clear it wasn't, he swallowed and looked round the kitchen once more, taking it all in. He took a few careful steps inside, and drew a long breath in.
This was his first mistake as he simply inhaled a lungful of flour. When he had stopped coughing, he looked up once more at the pathetic, flour dusted boy in front of him.
"Well, I have got the whole week off, so we might be able to get this lot cleared up…"
Masbath grinned, causing a landslide of flour to tumble from his cheek to the floor. Ichabod managed a weak smile back. So much for a holiday.