Chapter 10 - Aren't Ordinary People Adorable
"Sherlock, your cab's here!" Mrs Hudson called out from the stairwell.
"Coming."
Deciding not to smuggle it abroad, which would've been against the direct orders of his brother, Sherlock tucked his phone into the wooden drawers on the table. No point checking again. Violet wouldn't reply to his text for a few hours yet. According to Australian Eastern Standard Time, she'd still be asleep.
Sherlock double-checked he had the Security Services-issued phone in his breast pocket. However long he'd be away—a day or two, he surmised—he'd have no contact with his girlfriend, or anyone else in his life, for that matter. Except for his brother.
"We must assume your movements can be tracked," Mycroft Holmes had told him in a more specific briefing the day before. "Do not take your own phone abroad, and don't under any circumstances, tell your friends for whom you are searching."
And that meant his girlfriend.
A rather vague text to Violet—"on a case" in a "very patchy service area". He'd call her once he returned, he said.
Sherlock descended to the entranceway, picking up his overnight bag from the landing on the way. His taxi sat across from the front door. As he approached it, a second cab squealed to a halt behind his. He threw a cursory glance at the passenger when she alighted. Black felt hat. Sunglasses. Incognito.
But I know her.
"Mister Holmes. Sherlock," she said, trotting up to him, holding her handbag in a tight grasp.
Bit familiar and rather desperate.
She was already breathless, even though she had only hastened a few yards along the footpath.
Why did he know her?
"You're leaving?" she added, a trace of mild panic in her tone.
"For a bit."
He couldn't really get away with answering, 'No'. A cursory glance at his hand luggage gave her enough data.
"Are you… going to Australia?" she asked.
Hmm. Someone who knew he was dating Violet Hunter, and that she was shooting a film in Australia. Well, that could be half of London.
"No… but I'm in a bit of a hurry," he said amiably, opening the cab door to reinforce his words, "so if you'd like to come back at the end of the week, I'll—"
"I'll ride with you," she said, immediately slipping into the back seat.
A bit like Violet. Same demeanour, slightly taller though. That little bit of an entitled air. Why did he know her?
That small amount of curiosity was enough for him not to throw her out of the cab. And he had already deduced she wasn't a journalist.
With a weary sigh, he joined the unknown client (of course she was! Why else was she hounding him! A murderer would be more discreet). She fiddled with the clasp on her handbag as Sherlock bid the cabbie to take them to Heathrow, Terminal 5.
"You've made a mistake and you're looking to me to get you out of it," he deduced as the cab pulled away from the kerb.
A sharp intake of breath, as expected.
She pulled off her shades and wiped a tear from her lower lashes. Of course he knew her! And his initial deduction now made perfect sense.
"Stuart Jire has been convicted of both Lauren Myrtle's murder and the assault on you," he told her. "He confessed to Lauren's murder, but he's a little cagey on the details of your assault. Said he was too drunk to remember. And you couldn't identify the assailant with any real confidence. Since he was already a self-confessed murderer, you thought you could live with a possible wrongful conviction for your own assault, except… you have the unsettling feeling you're being followed. You think the person who assaulted you is still out there."
Chenoa Burton let out a shuddering breath.
"Wow," she breathed, her eyes wide. "She said you were brilliant, but I'd also heard you're a bit of an arsehole. I was hoping I'd get the brilliant detective and not the arsehole."
Sherlock decided to ignore that remark.
"You came to me after Violet left for Australia," he said. Was this a new trend? First Mycroft, and now Ms Burton. "You didn't want her to worry," he went on.
Of course Violet Hunter would worry. She had accompanied Chenoa to court, while Sherlock had managed to avoid it, only hearing details as reported by Violet upon her return home. Before the assault on Chenoa, Sherlock had taught his girlfriend how to conduct covert surveillance, using her Regency Road co-star as an example. Violet already suspected Chenoa was secretly dating the sleazy studio exec Stuart Jire. Their surveillance confirmed this fact. Given they'd done nothing about enlightening Violet's friend as to the gossip concerning Jire and his possible involvement in Lauren Myrtle's death, Violet had been ridden with guilt.
"She's such a caring soul," Chenoa offered. "But you're right. I know she'll worry about me, so I thought it'd be the perfect time to ask you to take my case—while she was away. Will you?"
Sherlock ruminated for a few seconds. Not one secret case, but two. Could he do this?
Taking on two cases and solving them both wasn't his concern. Not telling his girlfriend about them was his biggest and only worry at this stage. When they had reconciled earlier in the year, Violet had stipulated that they not keep secrets from one another.
Unless they were happy secrets, she had added.
Ah! A technicality!
If Sherlock solved both cases, Violet would be extremely happy with him!
Therefore: happy secrets!
"Of course," Sherlock eventually replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "But as I said, I'm going away for a bit. I'll get to work on it as soon as I return. Text me your contact details."
"I will."
Chenoa looked through the cab's windscreen and said, "You can drop me off here, if you like."
Sherlock bid the cabbie to pull over after the next intersection.
"Do you have somewhere to stay where you'll feel safe?" he asked Chenoa after he handed the driver a tenner.
"Yes," she replied. "I'm staying with Priyal."
"Good," Sherlock said, grabbing the door handle. "I'll contact you when I return."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Chenoa. "This is your cab."
"No, it's raining. You take this one. I'll grab another."
After alighting, Sherlock pulled up his collar against the needles of rain. He scanned the length of the street for another cab. Two challenging cases in as many days. He chuckled to himself, his eyes glistening. What other treats would await him while his girlfriend was away?
#
Violet flopped down onto the sofa and asked, "Why didn't you give me the phone when he rang? It was only five minutes ago." She checked her messages to see if Dan had also sent her a text, but was momentarily distracted by a message Sherlock had sent in the early hours of the morning, telling her he would be away on a case and probably not contactable.
"Why's he calling himself Daniel?" Mandi said, holding a nail polish brush to her toe. Her P.A. knew Danny from their Manchester days, but hadn't recognised him when he'd phoned for Violet.
"Maybe he thought you were a studio… person," Violet replied vaguely.
Where was Sherlock headed? she thought, rereading his message.
She rose from her seat. Perhaps her call to Danny was one she should make from the privacy of her bedroom.
"Well, anyway," Mandi said, "you were blow-drying your hair."
Pausing in the doorway of her room, Violet said, "From now on, can you add Dan to the list of people you can interrupt me for. You know, along with my agents…" Mandi had neglected to tell Violet that Bre Norton, her Los Angeles-based rep had phoned the other day.
"And your boyfriend," Mandi volunteered.
"Yes. My boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes."
"You know, you coming to Australia for two months is the best thing that could've happened to you."
"Mandi, what did I say?"
Violet had stipulated, before they left London, that Mandi wasn't allowed to comment on Violet's relationship with Sherlock any more. Not after Violet had thrown away the questionnaire Mandi had filled in on her friend's behalf (the result, Mandi had finally announced, that her relationship was definitely toxic and she should dump Sherlock's sorry arse). If Mandi wanted to remain Violet's personal assistant, Violet said, then she was prohibited from making remarks about her private life with Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm not talking about the awful way he treats you."
"Mandi!"
"I'm just saying it's a good thing for you, personally. Who knows… you might meet some other… interesting people."
Violet closed the door to her bedroom and tapped on Danny's number.
"Oh, eh, Vi," he answered almost immediately. "I'm not interrupting you am I?"
"No, no, I'm just getting ready for the day."
Violet enlightened Dan about her life on set since arriving in Australia.
"How's Manchester?" she then asked.
"Well, that's why I'm ringing," he said. "With all the to-ing and fro-ing to keep an eye on things at Kabuki's down south, I've now moved to London. Permanently."
Violet called almost hear Dan's chest swelling with pride as he spoke. So Jake had handed over the responsibility of the club to Danny?
"Wow… that's… that's great," she said. "You're living in London now?"
"Yeah, well, I was going to ring you to catch up for a drink — my shout," he finished, laughing lightly. "But I realised you were busy… so I googled you. Australia, eh? The land downunder."
"I'll be back in November. We can catch up then. But you know, you can ring me any time. Or text."
Violet immediately identified the source of the tightness in her chest. If Dan was no longer in Manchester, then who'd look out for Emily and Riley, the drug-addicted friends she had originally stayed with when she'd first fled London for Manchester, even before she'd met Mandi.
"So, Dan, I have to ask…"
"Yeah, I know what you're going to ask," he said. "He's fine. One hundred percent recovered from his injuries."
Dammit. He was talking about Jake.
"Oh… that's good," Violet replied.
"And he's sorted out the ringleaders. Gave them a stern talking to."
Those involved in attacking Jake, Violet concluded. On Sebastian Moran's orders. And God only knew what a 'stern talking to' meant.
"And how's Emily? And Riley?" She may as well be direct.
She heard Danny's loud exhale.
"Look, to be completely honest with you, Vi, you have to let them go. There's nowt that can be done for them. You've tried. I've tried."
Her stomach dropped. A long time ago, after she and Jake had broken up but had become friends afterwards, she had him promise to keep an eye on her heroin-addicted friends. He'd offered to pay their rent, and had Dan check up on them.
"Yes, I know," she said wearily. "And I'm sorry Jake passed the responsibility onto you. Not that he's responsible, or any of us, really. I just…" Her eyes stung and she couldn't finish her sentence. Why did she care so much? Now that she was in Australia, she was even further away from their shitty little flat in Manchester. She hadn't just physically moved away from them. They were world's apart anyway. Dan was right. She should let them go.
"Hey, I'll ask a mate of mine, a good lad he is," Danny said. "He'll go round and check for you. Okay? Maybe hit the landlord over the head with a lamp if he gets out of line."
Danny chuckled. He was teasing her about the time she'd lost it and had to call him out to help clean up her mess. The landlord. The lamp. That was all her. She'd gone out to dinner with Sherlock afterwards, and they'd had a row. He walked out on her and didn't return for five hours! Such a horrible time for them.
"Thanks, Danny," she said quietly.
"It's nothing. But, hey, I actually need your help this time."
A faint buzzing sounded in her head.
"Sure," she said eventually, busying herself by slipping on her shoes. Danny had never asked her for a favour in her life! What kind of skewed relationship did they have if she was always asking for his help and not vice-versa?
"Really it's about your boyfriend," he began, and Violet's heart jolted a little. "Sherlock Holmes," he explained, unnecessarily. "I think I need a private detective."
Violet exhaled in relief, a little bewildered. Dan wanted to hire Sherlock?
"What for?" she asked.
#
Violet would allow herself three glasses and no more. The warmth of the first drizzled through her. God, she'd be tipsy after one at this rate! There was a lot to be said for abstaining.
"And so Chelsea went to the press," Joe said, tilting his head towards Violet, his eyes already drunken slits. "An intimate interview, she told me. Bullshit. Published online so millions could read that we'd broken up before I'd even heard about it."
"Wow, that's rough," Violet remarked, taking another sip of her wine.
Joe had obviously started drinking earlier, or perhaps he had quickly guzzled his first few.
There were several reasons for the studio party that night: the birth of the Production Manager's first grandchild; Violet's co-star Brad turning 21 the day before; and thirdly, all of the cast were now on location.
And perhaps Joe had his own reasons to drown his sorrows. Or did he? The break up of Aussie actor Joseph Irkhardt and American model Chelsea Papazoglou was old news. Violet remembered hearing about it over a month ago. Or were they on again - off again?
But seeing Joe like this was a timely reminder to Violet that behind every scandalous headline there were real people involved. How could she, of all people, forget that?
Violet sipped her wine, emitting sympathetic hums which only encouraged Joe to continue. She longed to glance at her phone, in case Sherlock had replied to her message about Dan Corlionne wanting to hire him for a case. A legitimate case. She hoped Sherlock didn't think it was a setup that somehow involved Jake. Dan wasn't like that. He didn't have her ex-boyfriend's cunning. And besides, Danny would never betray Violet's trust.
"Don't let the sad puppy dog eyes fool you," said a crisp English voice.
Violet turned to see Timothy Killaney accompanied by James Moriarty. Timothy clapped Joe on the back.
"Find a seat, my friend," he said, "before you fall over."
Joe stumbled over to a table where a rowdy group had gathered, which included two of their other co-stars, Ethan and Heath, while Jim greeted Violet with a firm handshake.
"Violet Hunter. Hello again."
Violet was surprised the Etienne-Lumiere studio exec was still around after his attendance at the cast readthrough earlier in the week. She imagined he had flown back to the studio's head office in L.A.
"Jim and I were just talking about potential future projects," Timothy said. "And I can't for the life of me remember that novel you mentioned back in London, ages ago. That reclusive author? Your favourite novel, you said it was."
"Oh," Violet said, blinking a little. She and Tim had a conversation about their bucket list of roles they'd love to play some day—a very drunken conversation at Spence's birthday bash, when Sherlock had deduced that Tim and Spence were a couple. She didn't think Tim would remember the conversation about their ideal roles. "Canning Town," she replied. "By Stacia Jecks."
"Yes! That's the one."
"I've not heard of it," Jim replied.
"Jecks is a bit of a recluse," Timothy explained. "Over the years, she's shunned every request to option Canning Town."
"I'd love to play Stacey Jackson," Violet volunteered. "It's semi-autobiographical, the novel," she added with a smile. "Stacia's own life story, but she's never given interviews or made press releases."
"Violet possesses an amazing skill of inhabiting a character fully," Tim said, to Violet's surprise. "She's got an enormous emotional range and vulnerability that makes her perfect for the role." She felt herself flush and she directed a grateful smile to Tim. "Jecks put her heart and soul into this novel and hasn't written another word since," he added. "Isn't that right?"
Violet nodded, directing her attention to Jim, curious about his reaction to Timothy's glowing assessment.
Jim folded his arms across his chest, then rubbed a finger across his lips as if deep in thought. The gesture reminded her of Sherlock. How odd for her to affix somebody else's actions to a memory of her boyfriend, a man who seemed so unique in everything he did and said.
"Sounds like she just needs the right person to pitch a proposal to her," Jim said.
Violet's insides fluttered. Now her idea was out in the open, as if it was going to take on a life of its own, with no input or control from her. It was as if someone had posted her secret plans onto a billboard, for anyone to scrutinise and run with.
"I doubt she'd even agree to a meeting," she said, her throat feeling tight.
A smile spread across Timothy's face.
"Jim's got a way with people," he said.
"And every person has their pressure point," Jim added. "Something they want. Something they don't want. Easy peasy."
What an odd thing to say, Violet thought.
"Author's get so sentimental about their novels," he murmured, a comment that caused Violet's stomach to coil in knots. Was it just her, or was this man a little left of centre? She looked to Timothy for confirmation, but her friend had an odd sort of smile fixed to his face.
Jim unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.
"Well, I'd better be off," he said conversationally, as if to shrug off the ominous cloak he'd just been wearing. "I've got a flight back to London."
"Yes," Timothy said, turning to him. "I'll walk you out."
"Violet," Jim said, extending his hand to her. As she returned his handshake, he added, "Lovely to see you again. Next time we'll have a proper chat."
"Will you be returning to Australia?" she asked.
"No, I don't think so," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've got a lot going on out there in the world—other business interests. I don't think I'll finish catching up with them all by the time production wraps here. But you'll be hearing from me about Canning Town. You're rep'd by Stoper Westaway Talent in the UK aren't you?"
"Ah, yes," Violet replied. "Polly Stoper."
"That's good. Polly's a fantastic operator. Well… I'll see you later."
"Back soon," Timothy said, with a nod to Violet.
She watched the pair walk away together, heads bowed as if deep in conversation. Violet drained the rest of her second wine and looked across the room. Mandi was regaling Violet's hair and makeup artists with some outrageous anecdote. The director, Max Burnott, conducted a small gathering around him, gesturing rather animatedly.
Violet made her way to the drinks table and poured herself another wine.
That's three, she thought, taking a sip.
She'd better call it a night very soon.
She joined the group listening to Max but couldn't concentrate on his tale of working on an outrageous sci-fi movie in his student days.
James Moriarty had some kind of influence in the film industry, she was sure. He had a weird confidence and odd self-assurance. She had to find out what his background was. His title was Chief Operating Officer. Nothing to do with production. Of course, she could ask Sherlock to investigate, but then he'd worry. He'd asked her to spell Max Burnott's surname so he could find out all about the director before Violet left for Australia. And then there was the production staff and co-stars on Catherine Hilderness and Justin and Virginia from Splendor Pictures. Sherlock meant well, but his concern was a little overbearing at times.
No, she would have to put off telling her boyfriend about Jim Moriarty until she learnt a little bit more about the man herself.
#