Murder at the matinée – Part 8

Sherlock:

Tom had, as I had asked him to, arrived sometime during the afternoon, lit the fires and prepared some tea, and so, on coming home, I did as I had threatened. Helping my wife to undress, I tucked her into bed, so she could take a rest until dinner was ready.

"I am sorry, Sherlock," Harriet whispered apologetically when I had wrapped the blanket around her, throwing her arms around my neck. "I hope I have not ruined anything. I just, I really..."

Raising an eyebrow in expectation, I smiled at her. She sighed deeply, pulling me closer.

"I just think Winchester is catching up with me at last. It had to happen eventually, I suppose." she stuttered and with that, she began crying into my shoulder. "I know this is so silly of me. I am quite overcome by this all of a sudden. I have been so scared – one moment I'm a free woman trying to help out a friend and the next she is my worst enemy trying to inflict pain and force me, against all that is right and decent, to denounce my findings – at gunpoint! I had to shoot her, Sherlock. I had to. And the worst is, I am not even sorry I did. I am not sorry I have killed someone. What kind of person am I?"

Having expected this reaction for some time, I was not overly surprised by her breakdown, but for the time it had taken for her to do so. Having been threatened, abducted, beaten, nearly killed, shot a person in self-defence, having several children die in her arms and in the process having ended up married to me. And when that case was solved she had helped me to find the man who had killed my best friends son, only to go out on an invitation from her best friend and be called to an emergency which turned out to be a murder. Admittedly this was quite a bit to take in within the amount of little more than three weeks, during which she had also begun to work again. Glancing at the cot that still stood in the corner of our bedroom, I wondered, when before that, she had slept through a night the last time, without being awoken by a tiny baby wanting to be fed. It was more than natural, that she was mentally as well as physically exhausted and I told her so. It was a feeling I myself knew all too well.

"You, my dear are a wonderful and dedicated person with a good sense of what is right and what isn't. Rhea Hayward was a maniac and you stopped her and I do think that deep within yourself, you are very aware, that only her death would keep her from manipulating any more people. With her ability I dare say, she would have found a prison guard who was willing to set her free under the pretence of her being wrongfully convicted. Everything is all right, my love. You are not a heartless creature by not feeling guilty for having killed her." I assured her soothingly, holding her tightly, caressing her hair. "I confess, I had some trouble dealing with the last two cases myself. They were a little too close for comfort. Now rest a bit, while I take care of dinner."

"I am not sure I want any," Harriet answered evasively, tears still flowing from her eyes.

"You will have to eat, Hattie."

"I know. But I am not sure if I can stomach anything. I have been feeling queasy for a few days now, you are right there. Something must have upset my stomach or it might just be the stress or both. I am all right most of the time, but some smells just make me feel virtually sick."

"Like Mrs Fraser's mussels? Or my experiment? Or Mr Thompson's cigar?" I remembered, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Yes. I am quite sensitive at the moment and it really irritates me. It is as if everything suddenly smells so much stronger as before. I just wish I would get actually sick and be done with it instead of feeling nauseous at the most inconvenient of times." she sighed.

"So, what would you like to eat?" I returned to the initial problem at hand. "I insist, you will have to eat something."

"What can you cook?" now it was her, who was the one raising an eyebrow at me, the tiniest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

I chuckled at the justified question. I was well capable of producing something that was edible but admittedly was limited in the variety of dishes I could make.

"How about pancakes?" I offered.

"That, Sherlock, sounds wonderful. I think of all the dishes you could have chosen, this is the one, I might actually be able to keep down."

xxx

Harriet had tucked in with astonishing appetite, considering her previous objection and curling up in bed once again, with a hot water bottle and a book, she soon dozed off. Tom had been packed off to bed likewise by me and while now everyone around me was fast asleep, I settled myself in my wife's study just across the corridor from her and took to examining the letters once again.

Using Harriet's microscope, I first had a closer look at the first set of letters I had found. It indeed looked like the ordinary paper I had assumed it to be at first glance. The ink was equally ordinary and so I only wrote down the most prominent characteristics of the handwriting: right handed, strong-willed, bordering arrogance, energetic, physical strength, fairly educated. I wondered if a chemical analysis of the paper and ink would get me anywhere but actually doubted it, though I would have to seek reference in my extensive archive about the distribution of the brand of writing paper I suspected this to be.

I eventually carried on with examining the envelopes. Despite the lack of address, they still posed a more fertile ground than the actual letters. The paper they were made out of, was equally ordinary, but the glue it had been closed with, was most extraordinary. It was neither gum arabic, nor a bone or starch-based glue, but a substance I had never come across before in this form or with this use. It looked like a kind of resin, with its light amber colour and the intricate smell. Highly unusual indeed. And yet another thing I would need to look up.

After I had gotten as much information as I could – which was not much at all, I carried on with the second stack of letters. Before comparing them, I fared with them exactly the same way I had done with the others. And once more the microscope did not tell me much, apart from that the paper was of a better quality and from a different mill. The envelopes were closed with ordinary gumming, again indicating, that they had been slightly more expensive than the other ones, where the glue had to be applied by the user. The ink was as ordinary as the other one, though a different colour, then again, that did not say much. I knew many people – myself included – who bought ink as it was needed, never caring much if it had the same shade than the one previously used.

Once more I looked at the characteristics of the handwriting. They were most certainly not from the same person, despite equally towering upper cases and similarly sloping lower ones – but there the similarity ended. This writer had been educated, was arrogant, yet weak, was considerably younger and had less energy than the other one had had.

Then, I preceded to compare both stacks of letters with one another. And again, there was not much that caught my attention now, that had not caught my attention earlier in the day already.

That meant, after some consideration, that one writer must be the real W. W., while the other one was merely posing as him. And I tended towards the first set of letters being the original ones and the second being the ones from the imposter. But how, would the imposter have known about the threats in the first place? Had perhaps Thompson himself told him about them? Or this W. W.?

At long last, I was slowly beginning to tire, I had a look at the postmarks. Not one of them appeared twice and none of the letters had been sent more than eight months ago – another indicator, that they were written, perhaps even longer, after the first set. But then it struck me, that they all came from roughly the same area. Flipping through Harriet's desk I dug up her map of London and marked out the post offices where they had been posted. What appeared was a wide radius spanning from Clapham, Norwood, Dulwich, Peckham, Camberwell, Lambeth to Battersea, closing the circle. What caught my attention, was the conspicuous absence of Brixton, that sat right in the middle of the said circle.

Leaning back in Hattie's comfortable chair, I stuffed and lit my pipe, losing myself in my own thoughts and speculations. It was one o'clock in the morning, when I came to the conclusion, that though I was onto something, I needed more data to proceed. But a suspicion had been born, and now it needed to be either confirmed or discarded.

Undressing and washing quickly, I slipped into bed beside my wife, who was fortunately still sleeping soundly, the book had slipped from her grasp, lying on the floor. Propping the cold hot water bottle onto my nightstand, as it had ended up on my side of the bed, I snuggled up to Harriet, my hand on her upset stomach and closed my eyes.

xxx

Harriet:

I woke up the next morning to the cheerful singing of our little page boy as he descended the stairs to once more perform his duties. The slight clatter a few minutes later showed he was already busy re-filling the coal scuttles.

"Oh dear, I wish I was that cheerful in the mornings," I growled, before turning around in my husband's arms and leaned my head against his chest. My eyes still burned from last nights cry. But a few instances later I had to laugh at myself and the cheerful little imp trudging across the hallway, preparing our creature comforts.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock inquired, opening his eyes and smiling warmly at me.

"A bit. Decidedly better than last night. - Have you found out something?" I asked, being curious and wanting for some distraction from my discomfort and the dark thoughts still threateningly close to the surface of my conscience.

"Yes. But I'll need to get over to Baker Street later and look up on a few things. Are you coming or are you taking a rest from this exhausting husband of yours?" he once again employed his boyish grin, well knowing that I found it irresistible. Holding me tightly in his arms, he began rubbing my back.

"That feels good. It helps with the aching." I sighed, enjoying the relieving sensation – but unfortunately not for long, as he sat up, looking alarmed.

"What aching?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about, Sherlock. It is just this… - this… Well, you know what." I rubbed my sore stomach.

He gaped at my midsection, obviously not understanding, what I had meant and I could almost see him draw the wrong conclusion. Feeling the well-known warmth of sticky moisture trickle down my leg, I got slightly uncomfortable and decided it was time to get up and traipse into the bathroom. It certainly explained, why now of all times, I felt the impact of my adventures in Winchester catch up on me, even though normally I had hardly any trouble of the kind.

"Harriet, you are bleeding!" turning around I saw my husband stare at me with great worry, his eyes fixed on the blood stain on my nightgown.

"Yes, I know," I replied calmly. "I have actually been waiting for this to happen for a couple of days now. Everything is all right."

I refrained from adding that the lateness of the event had part of me worried while the other had been oddly hopeful.

He did not sound convinced, when he answered, but rather incredulous: "You have waited for this? … - Has it ever happened before?"

"Of course it has happened before. It happens every month. Though I am hardly ever so knocked off my feet as this time." I laughed, despite my discomfort, wheeling around to shrug my shoulders at him. The sudden movement made me feel queasy again. I really did not like having an upset stomach. I would have to see to that as it became increasingly annoying.

"You do not seem to be overly concerned." he dug deeper.

"No, it's normal." was all I could manage before covering my mouth, as I had to dash into the bathroom, feeling my stomach turn.

Within seconds Sherlock was by my side, his face white, looking almost as wretched as I felt.

"Is there anything I can do, to help you?" he, at last, enquired, when I had cleaned myself up, reaching for the uncomfortable belt I hid in the cupboard underneath the wash basin, ignoring his curious glances.

"A slice of dry bread would be greatly appreciated. I need to settle my stomach."

I felt quite embarrassed at the situation. Feeling silly for having lost my stomach contents, I reminded myself, that I had felt a slight bout of flu creep up on me for the whole of last week. I had been tired, felt often either overheated or too cold and never all too well, especially when something smelled off somehow. That, combined with the emotional exhaustion had done it and now, on top of that, I was struck down with this curse of being a woman. I felt like crying again but managed to keep the tears at bay – for the moment.

As soon as Sherlock had left, I fixed the belt around my waist with a sigh and attached one of my sanitary towels to it. Slipping into a chemise and petticoat, I dressed in my comfortable tea gown, passing on the corset for today, so I could literally slump down on the settee if I fancied to and so made my way downstairs, meeting my husband halfway up, handing me the requested slice of bread.

"I thought you might want it toasted." he offered and I bit into it carefully, even before thanking him, my stomach still quite unsettled.

xxx

"So, you said you have found something? Is there any way I can give you a hand?" I asked eagerly, feeling much better in comparison after breakfast.

"I have found something and I will actually need to go over to Baker Street and look up a couple of things. As for you, one thing comes to mind that you could do for me..." there was a sly smirk on his face and cautiously I enquired what that might be.

"Take a rest." was the offhand answer, as he put his cup to his lips and sipped some of the steaming hot tea.

"That is not exactly helping you, Sherlock."

"Not professionally, but as a husband." he deadpanned. "For it saves me the trouble of worrying about my sick wife."

Had it not been for his cheeky expression, it would have been a most unwelcome reply. But as it was, the sparkle in his eyes made it clear that he was teasing me.

"So, will you rest?" he asked, his face turning serious again.

I had to admit that I wanted to do so, very much. Once more curling up with a hot water bottle somewhere comfortable and do nothing but cry, read or doze all day long. - Oh, the vices of idleness! Sometimes they just could not be avoided.

"Then do so and I'll be back before dinner. Speaking of dinner, Tom, has there been a delivery yesterday?"

He looked at the boy by his side, slurping his milk, a white 'moustache' covering his upper lip.

"Yes, Mr Holmes, there has been from the butchers. Said it was already paid for. I brought it into the larder, I hope that was all right..." was the eager answer.

"Perfectly so," Sherlock replied and then indicated to the boy, that he sported a milksop, by rubbing his index over his own upper lip with an amused smile.

A.N.: I am sorry I had to resort to the "red curse", but I thought Harriet dealt a bit too well with everything and I needed something to trigger her breakdown. - And every girl knows this is a VERY good reason!