Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty Three
A Pocketful of Rye (Part Two)
A half an hour later, the port police were itching to move the body.
"No." Lestrade was adamant. "It really needs to stay where it is."
Schaeffer grimaced. "Why?"
"Because the crime will be solved faster if the person I called can see the scene for real rather than in photographs. Trust me; I know his methods."
"Look, I don't know who you've got coming that's going to do anything different from the CSE and ME on scene, but I gave you the scene to process, so that's up to you."
The small man turned to the Medical Examiner. Almost gently, he said, "Doctor Freeman, I think it best if you don't handle the autopsy."
She nodded. "I'll contact the Pathologist at Basildon Hospital. I don't think I could bear to do this to Simon. Chief, we really have to catch the bastards who did this. Poor Lucy; she's going to be devastated."
To Lestrade, Schaeffer gave a sharp nod. "I've got to go. I have to phone West's wife. It's really not on to wait any longer. When you're done here, there's the evidence of the previous three murders waiting for you in the briefing room." The Chief looked down sadly at the blue tarpaulin now covering the body, one last time before turning away and moving back through the crowd on the other side of the tape.
CSE Mantey pulled off his gloves, having bagged the body's hands. He'd been on the scene for nearly a half hour. He was an overweight man in his early forties, who had arrived red-faced and puffing, having rushed from the ferry terminal a half mile to the east of the dock area. He'd got Ellicock to organise the line of port constables, now combing the dock area with, looking for trace – particularly a bullet casing. The light had improved. It would be a grey day, but the sun was up enough behind them to be able to spot what they were looking for, if it was there. Thankfully, the orange sodium lights had gone off.
Going through West's other clothing, the CSE found nothing apart from an old coin in his upper shirt pocket, which Lestrade was now looking at carefully, through the plastic evidence bag. Blackened and thick with corrosion, a bit heavy- not possible to read where it came from or what it was worth. A third mystery to add to the fish and the wheat.
Sherlock's going to love this one. Greg had been looking forward to getting back to work with him. After the media circus around his return and the Underground bomb, he figured that the man would appreciate some solid case work. Just like old times. It might shift some of the ennui that Greg had seen settling on Sherlock's shoulders.
Sally returned from talking to some of the off-duty staff milling about outside the tape- a mix of port security with a few uniformed police officers. The impatience on her face told Lestrade that she was feeling some sympathy for the grumbling tone in the voices he'd heard behind him.
"Guv, they're upset. It's nearly nine. What's taking him so bloody long? They think it's cruel to keep the body hanging about- not decent and all. They were curious at first- what does the Met have that they don't have, but now they just want West to be treated with respect."
Greg nodded. "I get that. Traffic at this hour will be dire; the Dartford bridge is going to be nose-to-tail. Listen, Donovan." He was trying to figure out how to say this without pissing off his sergeant. "I know you haven't worked a scene with him in more than two years. And I know the two of you didn't exactly part on good terms…"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you could say that. He's going to march in here and tell me I'm an idiot, blaming me for…everything. The idea that he might be doing the crimes himself? Yes, sir, that's my stupidity. I was proved wrong by the inquiry, and he won't let me forget it. I was bloody lucky to keep my job, which I am sure he will remind me of several times." She looked down at the ground. "I'm not looking forward to this, you know. You could have warned me. I sort of wanted to try to make my peace with him privately, without having a crime scene to be working at the same time."
"No time like the present." Greg was looking over her shoulder as the crowd behind the tapes parted, and a tall solitary figure in a long dark coat lifted the yellow tape and strode onto the scene.
Sally turned around, to watch Sherlock move straight to the body and crouch down, pulling his forensic gloves on tight. He lifted the blue tarpaulin that was covering it.
She squared her shoulders and walked over. Lestrade held a hand up to keep the CSE and ME back, before going to stand on the other side of the body. He stood off a bit, giving Sally her chance to say her piece. But before she could start, the crouching figure spoke first.
"Good morning, Sergeant Donovan. You have bagged the evidence. I'd like to see what was in his pockets." He didn't look up, instead pulling open his sliding magnifier to examine the bullet wound in West's temple.
She looked up at the sky for a moment, bit her lip, and then without a word turned to CSE Mantey, crooking a finger to signal him to come over. However, it was Donna Foreman who picked up the cooler that the CSE had used to store the evidence. The woman had pushed back her blue plastic hood, and Sally could see her dark hair was greying. She came and set it down on the ground beside Sherlock. She gave a little shrug to Lestrade. "Mantey has to get back to work. His day job is in Kent; he just does us the odd favour now and then."
Greg watched as Sally crouched down across the body from Sherlock and said quietly, "So, that's how it's going to be? As if nothing happened?"
Without a word, the consulting detective pulled the top of the cooler off and looked in, then pulled out the bag with the fish, to take a closer look.
She drew breath, "Okay, let's get this over. I was wrong and I'm…"
He cut her off with a quiet "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't apologise. There is nothing to apologise for. You were doing your job; Moriarty counted on that fact. I don't hold you in any way responsible. He manipulated us all." It was said quietly, and in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he'd asked her to pass the next piece of evidence. "Now, I need to see the wheat you mentioned, Lestrade."
Greg was standing there a little stunned by the exchange between Sherlock and Sally. Whatever awkwardness his sergeant might have felt, it obviously wasn't shared by the consulting detective. It was not quite a Sherlockian olive branch, but far more than a caustic 'piss off' that Sally had been expecting. It impressed Greg, and that surprised him. The Sherlock who returned from whatever he had gotten up to over the past two years was a changed man, and it wasn't all change for the worse.
He watched Donna Foreman reach into the cooler and pull the bag of grain out. Sherlock took it from her, his eyes always on the bag. Greg winced. He still doesn't like making eye contact with strangers, though. The DI waited for Sally to flare up and say something sarcastic, but it didn't come. She was looking at Sherlock, a puzzled look on her face.
In the meantime, Sherlock opened the bag and took a deep sniff. He poured a few grains out on his gloved hand and brought it up to his face, really looking at it. "Not wheat. This is rye. Secale cereale, a different grain, it's more closely related to barley than wheat. Northern Russia and Poland are the principal producers, but Germany, Belarus and the Ukraine are all sizable producers, too."
Lestrade asked the obvious question, "So, how does that matter?"
"Look around you. We are in a port. Sergeant Donovan can check what ships are using the grain terminal at the north end of the Riverside Upper berths on the New Branch docks. One of them is likely to be carrying rye." This was delivered in a quiet monotone, no sneer or sarcasm. No attempt to make him or anyone else look stupid. Greg was impressed, again. It was as if Sherlock was actually trying to avoid irritating people.
Now the consulting detective reached over to the cooler and fished out the bag with the blackened coin, holding it up to examine it through the magnifier. "This is an old half shilling. Otherwise known as a sixpence. Before your time, Donovan, but not yours, Lestrade. Pre-decimal."
Greg considered the blacked coin. The corrosion was so bad that no text or image of any kind was decipherable. "How can you tell?" He couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.
"Shape, size, weight. I can get the corrosion off in a lab, but the date of minting is irrelevant."
He stood up, and put the coin and the bag of rye back into the box. "I'll take a few of the grains to analyse, as well."
The ME spoke up. "It would be easiest to use the Port Health Authority lab. It's across the street from the station. We can keep the chain of evidence intact over there, and we have a full technical analysis array- use it for the tests that are needed on the goods coming in, as well as the health of the crews on the ships."
Sherlock looked at her, as if seeing her properly for the first time. "Yes, that would be convenient." Then he quickly broke eye contact and bent over the body again. "Can you remember how the fish was actually placed in the pocket? I need to know exactly."
Sally beckoned the photographer over. "Show Holmes the photo you took of the fish." The man clicked through the menu until he got the right close up on the back screen.
"Hmm. That's interesting."
Greg was waiting; he knew that Sherlock had put something together. But where was the triumphant "Oh!" or the little smirk that he'd come to know over the years? Sherlock seemed quiet, subdued, as he stood up and walked a few paces away from the body, pulling his hands together under his chin. The morning breeze was picking up, and it caught his coat, causing it to billow out behind him. He stood silent, his eyes focused somewhere out on the dark water. He looked tired; there were faint dark smudges under his eyes.
The audience of police behind the tape was becoming restless, and Greg was aware that all eyes were on Sherlock, watching him. Sometimes I think we all expect too much of him. Now more than ever; the publicity around his fake suicide, his exoneration at the inquiry, his miraculous return to London, followed so soon by the Underground bomb case- well, it made people expect a miracle.
He came up to the man's shoulder and said quietly, "have you got anything?"
The onshore breeze blew a few of the black curls away from his face, but he didn't move. Then he turned to look back at the body. "It's a message." He paused, before continuing, "Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye. It's an old nursery rhyme. I'm not sure what the message means, but the clues left in the man's pockets are as clear as day."
"What about the fish? What does that mean?"
"Not just a fish, Lestrade, it's a sardine, a fish of the herring family in the species of Clupeidae."
Greg frowned, confused. "Is a fish part of the rhyme?"
"No."
"Does that matter?"
"I don't know. Maybe, maybe not; I need more data."
"There's more evidence- the previous three murder files are at the station. What say we go there now? They want to move this body quickly."
Sherlock looked down at the dead man, and nodded. "It should be possible to get a list of the ships in dock at the moment." Donna Foreman nodded. "Yes, of course, back at the station, sir. We can get all of that off the port authority's systems; the station house has a direct live feed."
Sherlock nodded again. He took one more look down the length of the dock, before turning back to Lestrade and the women. "Then let's go." He strode off, with Greg watching as the crowd on the other side of the tape parted silently, their questioning eyes following the lone figure that passed through them without a sideways glance.
As he and Sally followed, with the ME, Greg kept thinking how this was a different Sherlock, and not just because John wasn't there with him. There had been no swoop or swirl of that coat, no little smiles to himself, or asides. No bravado deductive streams, or snide comments about him being an idiot or Sally failing to keep up. No insult to any of the PCs, nor a dig at the crime scene examiner. It certainly made for a quieter crime scene. But, there was no joy in the man's actions, which were now almost subdued, almost a bit weary. That, more than anything else, worried the hell out of Greg.
