Pecunia non olet – Part 2

Harriet:

Slumping down on the sofa I desperately fought the unwelcome onslaught of tears and was glad that I could keep them at bay just long enough for Sherlock to say good-bye and kiss me properly. He had not closed the door when I could not hold them back any longer.

It was not that I did not want Sherlock to leave, I did not mind him going and helping the inspector. It was not even the fact, that he had told me to stay at home and rest – it was sensible and I knew it and in his stead would have insisted on it as well. So what was it? I did not know.

Exhausted after my weeping, but a lot calmer, I went over to my dressing room, changed into a nightshirt once more and slipped into bed. - My husbands side of the bed. The pillow smelled of him and gave me a pleasant feeling of comfort and security. Not long and I drifted off and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

When I woke up about an hour later, the world seemed a whole lot brighter and with much enthusiasm, I slipped into Sherlock's dressing gown and went to read through the notes, the inspector had left us. But not before asking Martha to bring me a pot of tea and some cream biscuits. I was famished and craved something sweet.

With a mug of tea and the plate of biscuits, I sat down cross-legged on my chair, to keep my feet off the draughty floor and began reading. It was quite fortunate, that the inspector's handwriting was less daunting than my husbands and less scrawly compared to my own and turned out to be quite easy to read, despite its minuteness.

Trenton had lived in Hampstead, not far actually from where the Fraser's lived. I knew the area fairly well and could picture the noble villa's and prestigious semi-detached houses, like the one Anne lived in, without any difficulty. From the notes, I assumed, that Gilad Trenton had lived in a larger abode standing in its own grounds, which would account for the fact, that no-one had heard any cries for help or the robber rummaging through the place in search of the valuables.

Kershaw had been adamant, that he had found nothing of any consequence and had left with little more than a few pounds, that he had found in one of the desk drawers of his victim. The old man had not died immediately, but only shortly after his charwoman had found him, being already unconscious at the time. Had she been earlier or the attack been later, there was little doubt, that Trenton would have survived. The injury was not deadly in itself, it had been the loss of blood, that had killed him in the end.

It made me quite sad to think, that this old man, Gilad Trenton had been in his mid-seventies, had died such a slow death and all on his own. Once more tears threatened to fall and once more I got fairly annoyed at myself for being so emotional. Something I did not like in others and certainly not in myself. And yet, no matter how much I tried to pull myself together, I could not control my feelings at all. As a doctor I knew this to be fairly normal after such a breakdown, I knew even men behaved like crying ninnies at such a time, but I was desperate to be back to my old self. And so, taking a deep breath, I swallowed the tears and carried on, focussing hard on the facts and little else.

It was fortunate, that the rest of the document was a mere description of the place and a description of the missing jewellery. And to actively engage my mind, I tried to draw a plan from what I read and was surprised to find, that I was quite able to reconstruct a floor plan of the three-story house. It was not very neat and did not show any furniture, windows or fireplaces, but it was a start. Something to go on. I identified several rooms and marked the one, where Kershaw seemingly had entered, which was given as the scullery, and the one, where the late master of the house had been found, which had been the dining room. I also noted, that dining room and kitchen, that was adjacent to the scullery, were connected by a dumbwaiter.

Without the reports of my husband, this would be as far as I could possibly get in regards to the house. Reading through the description of the gems, I was stunned. They must have been extremely precious and outstanding. But if they were as outstanding as the report suggested, then they would be hard to conceal, hard to sell and impossible for a potential buyer to wear or have worn - unless of course, he would live in another country. It also was a surprise to find, that Trenton had not bothered to insure items as valuable as the ones he had kept in his house. He had even cancelled a previously existing insurance after his wife's death and the worth of the insurance sum took me by surprise as it came close to forty thousand Pounds Sterling! No wonder Everett Trenton wanted to have the items restored to him. They would be worth more than the property and what the bequeather had left in his bank account.

At last, I took out my map of London, found first to my dismay and then to my amusement, that Sherlock had already drawn on it. Sighing I erased the pencil marks and then scribbled on the plan myself, marking the place of the crime and the place, where Kershaw had been caught. - Another place I knew all too well. He had been found at Lisson Grove two streets down from Saint Anne's. It seemed London was a small place after all. Looking at the distance between Hampstead and 'The Wheat-sheaf', I wondered, why would he go there of all places? The man did not have a permanent address, so most likely he rented his bed there every night, in one of the boarding houses. If he could afford it. There was one such facility two houses down from the said inn.

xxx

It was already getting dark when I heard Sherlock return. Descending the steps I smiled at him and helping him out of his overcoat I suggested a hot bath.

"That my love would be absolutely wonderful. I am frozen stiff. It has really gotten cold these past few days." he rubbed his hands together to warm them. "But for the moment a cup of tea would suffice."

"Then I can send Tom upstairs in the meantime and have the bath prepared and you can tell me all about your adventures."

"You seem to feel better." he smiled, pulling me close to kiss me. "And are as curious as ever."

"Did you think I would be any less curious?"

"No. My dressing gown suits you, by the way. But I doubt I will manage to squeeze myself into your waisted one with equal grace."

"No, and I doubt dusky pink is your colour." I laughed at the image turning up in my mind.

"Probably not..." he replied dryly.

"So, what did you find out, my dear?" I asked him eagerly, intrigued by what I had read so far and keen to have my findings confirmed.

"That it was very wet weather out there." he deadpanned, grinning. "It is good to see you are feeling better, Harriet."

"The rest did me a world of good, I have to admit."

"I told you so."

"And are you not loving it?" I teased, raising an eyebrow in mock challenge.

"Very much so. Almost as much as I love you." Once more he pulled me close to kiss me.

"I love you, too." I smiled, ruffling his hair, much to his chagrin. "And now for a cup of tea."

We pushed two chairs towards the stove in the sitting room, each a mug in our hands and sat down in front of the blazing heat emanating from there, I still in my nightshirt and his dressing gown and he now in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, with his hair ruffled and a content smile on his face. For a while, he said nothing and I knew he was thinking over the information he had gathered.

Eventually, he spoke: "Everett Trenton is a tempestuous man, Harriet. A man of action, but not necessarily of education, there is a natural cunning about him though. He was as expected very eager to have me look into the matter, but oddly enough not very keen on letting me into the house."

Taking a sip of tea he smiled slyly before continuing: "Admittedly, I would have hesitated to let anybody into my house, too, if I had my mistress lounging scantily dressed only with a pink feather boa on my dinner table."

"On the dinner table? Wearing only a boa?" I almost choked laughing at the image. "You surely cannot be serious!"

"No, I am not serious. But it is so good seeing you laugh again." he grinned, before turning serious again. "But he had his mistress in the house and she was not very subtle in her departure through the back door."

"Is he married? I could not determine that from the notes."

"He is not married, but there seems to be an engagement to an heiress, from what Lestrade and I have gathered. A Miss Hannigan."

The name rang a distant bell.

"Not Miranda Hannigan, surely?" I cried out.

Sherlock looked surprised. "You know her?"

"No – well, not really. I have met her though. She is a rather, let us say 'exceptional' person."

"In what sense?"

"Politely put, or preferably honest?"

He raised his eyebrows in exasperated expectancy.

"I take it, you prefer me to be honest. - Well, let me put it this way, she is the most hapless creature I have ever come across. Miss Hannigan volunteered at Saint Anne's. - I might be deceived there, but I think me to be a rather patient person..."

"You are married to me, you have to be a patient creature." came his deadpan reply.

"Well, thank you. But I have lost it with her after not even two hours and have sent her home again."

"What did she do?" my husband was now sitting on the edge of his chair, looking bemused.

"I asked her to dish up the food and she threw out the broth that was supposed to go with the bread for the weaker patients and gave them the bones instead. And mind, we are not speaking of decent marrowbones here, but of whatever the butcher chose to give us for charity."

Sherlock Holmes stared at me aghast, the corners of his mouth twitching. At the time I had not found it funny at all, needing to feed my patients, but more than a year later the humorous side had taken over.

"Anyway, after this disaster, I requested something simpler from her and asked her to empty out the bedpans, which she did without any hesitation, I have to give her that. She may be simple, but she is eager in all she does – and that proved to be the problem."

"Do I really want to know what she did?"

"Presumably not," I concluded, leaning back in my chair, shaking my head slightly.

"Well?"

"You know Saint Anne's is not in one of the parts of town that has a decent sewer system and fresh water supply. But, we are quite lucky to actually have two taps in the hospital itself and two flushing toilets at the back, across the yard. But, so the patients don't need to go outside, we have several night commodes - and Miss Hannigan managed to empty all the bedpans into one of them, having it overflow..."

"That really is extremely..." he did not finish the sentence but instead pulled a face.

"Yes, but that was not all."

"If that was not enough for you to send her back home, you are even more of a saint than I have taken you for. Well, if our children are going to be anything like I used to be as a lad, that is quite fortunate..." Sherlock mused, stuffing his pipe, his eyes sparkling. "So, what did she do next?"

"Miss Hannigan put a bed on fire by spilling the embers to light the stoves from their bucket. It was lucky, that the poor girl occupying the bed had the sense to use her blanket to smother the flames before the whole incident turned into a catastrophe."

"Oh dear!"

"After that, I feared for the safety of the people put under my care and decided, that it was probably safer to send her home, with the promise of informing her, when we would need her help. I could not bring it over me to slight her and tell her, I would rather be short staffed than have her around again." I finished my report, dryly.

By now my husband was laughing out loud and I with him. It did not take long for us, however, to calm down again and while still chuckling Sherlock continued: "So, Miss Hannigan is not a very practical person from what I have gathered. Is she pretty? I only saw her from the back."

"She is not unsightly. It is hard to describe her actually. She is rather small and a bit stout but has a very pleasant face with large blue eyes – her most prominent feature. Her hair is slightly darker than my own and she usually wears it in a plain bun. She is not vain and eager to lend a hand. I do like her and I felt truly sorry to have had to put her down."

"How old would you say she is?"

"In her early thirties, if I remember it correctly."

Sherlock sat back in his chair once more, deep in thought, tapping absent-mindedly against his lips with his extinct pipe.

It was only when Tom informed us, that the bath was ready, that my husband moved again.