Hello, at last here is the next part and finally I got started on the actual case. Wow, it only took me three 'chapters'. I do hope I haven't made too many mistakes, but as always as of late, I haven't yet polished this up. - Aside from changing 'Stanford' to the correct name 'Stamford' – I am bad with names, I better admit to it.

As always, thank you so much for all your support and the kind words. Have a lovely weekend

Love

Nic

A study in bruises – Part 3

Harriet:

I had to smile a little, as Sherlock subconsciously reached for my hand while recalling the case that had taken place so long ago before actually retelling it. As yet no-one noticed our intimacy. My husband often did claim that as soon as a case was closed he would forget about the particulars and only 'store away the facts' in his 'brain attic'. I knew better. If he wanted to, Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly good story teller, and today he was obviously was inclined.

The soup had been cleared and the main course brought in and we had all started to eat again, when he thus began: "Well, it was in the early winter of 1879. I had just come to London, much like you did now Mr Bertram, as stranger trying to make his way in as yet uncharted territory. I had finished my obligatory studies at university as presumably ever young man of noble descent does and had taken a room in Montague Street. By then I had already decided on my line of profession, as a matter of fact, I had liked to solve riddles and mysteries from childhood – which, needless to say I presume, often got me into trouble – and so there I was now, trying to figure out how to make a name for myself and at the same time how gather more knowledge. The latter I achieved by joining Barts as a student, though it naturally was never my intention to become a doctor. But it did provide me with a good place where I could learn more about human anatomy and chemistry. The basics about how to interpret certain circumstances, I had already been taught by my father, and also to be cautious not to make conclusions before the fact."

"So your father was a policeman?" Mrs Stamford threw in looking baffled.

"No, he is an archaeologist, Madam," Sherlock smiled. "One could say, it is the same difference, considering that both professions try to solve cases – just that the one has to deal with matters that are a couple of hundred years old, and not necessarily a crime, and the other has to deal with more recent occurrences."

"Oddly enough I have never thought of it that way," Watson mused.

"And why should you, old friend? Yet, my father patiently taught me all the basics, everything that lay foundation to my methods as they are today."

"He must have been a great man to raise such a son," our hostess remarked.

"He is."

"Is? And your mother?" Dr Stamford inquired stammering.

"I thought you wanted to hear about me beating corpses on the slab?" Sherlock evaded the question with a grin, though I could see that the topic was an uncomfortable one for him.

"Well, yes. But I must admit that I have some difficulty thinking of you as a little boy with a mother and father and possibly siblings."

This now had Sherlock laugh.

"And how do you think I came into being, Stamford? I did not just drop from the skies and there I was all grown up and ready to become a detective. Just as this little one will be born soon," he continued, laying his hand gently on my stomach, "I was once born into this world to parents who then had no idea what was in store for them once I had learned how to move around on my own."

Shocked both Stamfords and Mr Bertram stared at us while the Watsons grinned widely, Mrs Watson inconspicuously toasting her glass.

"Well, neither do I," Sherlock continued. "I have to admit as much. But at least I have a father who can give me advice on how to raise children and cheeky little rascals in particular. It was more than he had – my mother died when I was little and there were no grandparents."

"You?" our startled host stammered.

"Yes, me. I think it is time to enlighten you, before we carry on with the actual tale you had requested to hear. This, Stamford, is my wife. I have to admit that I could not quite resist the temptation to spoil your little attempt in matchmaking – no don't deny it! And as you can see, it was unnecessary at any rate."

"Obviously..." Mrs Stamford now laughed. "Well, I told my husband not to meddle, especially since he himself ever so often tells me not to do so. So, my dear, I think we both have learned our lesson, haven't we?"

"Yes," was the wry answer of her spouse.

When we had had stopped laughing at last, Sherlock helped himself to another slice of roast and then started again: "As said, I had just moved to London, and though I was optimistic all would go well for me eventually, I had not much of a clue how to go about things. I presume a man of twenty one never really does. However, I was lucky when one day I went to the scene of a robbery to see for myself what I had read about in the papers. It was there that I first met with Inspector Lestrade, then only a Sergeant. He was kind enough to show me around and we got talking. That had been in late summer and we stumbled across each other fairly frequently in the subsequent weeks and months. Eventually it became colder as winter approached and one day, Lestrade came actually knocking at the door of my humble and dingy chamber – I might add that it was also freezing."

"So you have known the inspector for a good while now. I had always wondered how you met him and how you got to work with the police," Mary threw in while Sherlock took a couple of bites.

"Yes. Well, the reason why he came to me was, that a boy had been found dead on the grounds of the school he attended. It would not have roused much suspicion, for apparently he had taken a fall from an upper window and broken his neck. However, Lestrade was puzzled by the extent of the bruising, some of which he was sure could not have come from the fall. We set off towards the morgue and I inspected the body myself and had to agree. Something was off. Now there is a fairly simple rule: if a body part is raised, such as the cheek, the forehead, the nose – they are more likely to sustain an injury in the case of an accident, while when a person gets beaten, injuries are most common around the eyes, the side of the face, the jaw. And even though one can injure one's jaw in a fall, it is hardly ever at an angle. Yet having said that it greatly depends on the scenario. Such patterns may vary, depending on what exactly happened. In this case I had to agree with Lestrade. The injuries were far beyond what one would expect from a fall, and though he had obviously hit his head, for his skull was also fractured, it oddly enough showed no bruising around that particular area. While on the other hand he had a black eye as well as several bruises on his lower arms and the lower parts of his upper arms as well as his hands, just as they are common when a person tries to ward off blows."

"But he might have tried to lessen the brunt of his fall," Bertram, who had listened intently, theorised.

"No. It doesn't make any sense that his trying to stop the fall would lead to bruising, while smashing his head on the pavement below his window did not. Besides, considering the circumstances, he probably would have broken his wrists from the momentum, but to only have bruises to the underside of his arm, extending to the upper one, no scratches, no fractures, in short nothing, would have been highly unlikely from such a height."

"Is that why you wanted to know if bruises form after death?"

"Or at the time of death. Yes."

"And then there is, of course, the fact, that bruises have different stages," I remarked quietly.

"Exactly, my dear. They go from light red at first, to purple which is gradually deepening in colour before they turn to green and the yellow just before they fade again. I am sure we've all observed it in ourselves."

"And what stage did the bruises on the boy's body have?"

"Various. Some where fresh, others were old and the conclusion was an easy one, that he had been mistreated over some time. Now, did he really fall out of that window? Or had he been beaten to death? To the inspector working on the case, it was clear that it was the former. What matter did it make that some parts had bruised while others had not? The school had a good name, the boys attending were all well-bred. Tto assume that something sinister was going on, was preposterous."

"But if you already knew all this, why did you have to beat a dead body?"

"Because the inspector bent every fact in such a way, that it would suit his theory, I needed definite proof. - As then, I had as yet only seen the body, I asked Lestrade to bring me to the scene, and he did, much to his superior's dismay. But since I was a nobody back in the day, a green young man and an amateur in the field he thought himself a master of, he at last agreed. I believe it is needless to say, that he mocked me all the while I was on my hands and knees, searching the ground, trying to figure out, what really had occurred. Already, I was certain that the boy had not died from a fall."

"And what did you find?" Watson asked, just when the maid came in to clear the main course, asking whether she should bring in dessert straight away or rather wait.

She was told to wait for a quarter of an hour and then sent back to the kitchen.

"You asked what I found, Watson, well, what did I find? He had fallen from the window of his room on the second floor, landed on the pavement below."

"But did you not just say that you were sure he didn't fall?"

"I beg your pardon, I should have been more specific, for there was, in fact, little doubt that he had gone out the window and plummeted to the ground. The question at that point remained, whether it was a fall, or if he had been pushed. Or was he already dead even before he made it out of his room in such a horrible way? Now, first of all, a boy of thirteen would hardly just fall out of a window. He would know the danger of leaning out too far. Did he try and climb down the trellis then? After all, it was damaged and parts of it lay scattered on the ground still. And if so, why?"

"Seriously, this gets more confusing by the minute," Bertram cried out, running his hand through his hair. "It seems that with everything you've found out, it roused more questions than brought you answers."

"Most certainly so. And at that point it should. I think I once told you that asking the right questions is the key to solving a crime – and finding these questions is the first step to succeeding. - Remeber Lucia?"

Bertram nodded: "Yes, she hadn't told me anything, and then you questioned her and suddenly she revealed many an interesting fact."

"Exactly. There is hardly a point wondering about completely irrelevant things, like what he had for breakfast, or whether he liked sports, but perhaps whether he had trouble at school or at home. If he had friends, and who they were. If he had a tendency to do daring things to impress others and so forth."

"And, did he have a tendency for daring things?"

"No, he was a rather shy lad, not popular with either the teachers nor the other students. He was intelligent, and often got scorned for being ahead of lessons."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!" I exclaimed, shaking my head.

"It most certainly is, Hattie."

"But why? Could they not simply have put him in a higher class?" Watson inquired, just as astounded as myself. "It is frequently done."

"Ah, there is the rub. They could have, and probably would have - but then I found out one more detail. He was the son of a noble widow who upon finding her in somewhat of a quandary had recently remarried and his stepbrother, the son of an earl no less, also attended this very school. Now, that boy was an altogether different matter and it was that which made the principal hold back the one in order to not upset the other. - For the sake of story-telling I wish I could have used my methods properly and give you an account that is not quite so unconnected, but as it is, I was given one bit of information at a time and every time I thought I got closer to solving the mystery, some new fact was thrown at me. It was exasperating to say the least."

"Then perhaps we should summarise what we know as yet," I suggested.

"That is a very good idea, for I have to admit that you've lost me. This is all so confusing, I can't think how anyone could make much sense of this," Mrs Stamford sighed.

"So?" Sherlock asked, indicating that it was us to recall the facts he had given us.

Not that there were many.

"A thirteen year old boy was found underneath the window of his room, dead. He had his skull crushed, his neck broken and his body showed several bruises, few consistent with a fall. He had been intelligent and a good student, but was not popular, his stepbrother was the same age and attended the same class as him, but with decidedly less success. He could have attempted to climb down the trellis that adorned the wall of the building, and which had broken. But he could also have been pushed out the window either dead or alive," I took on the task.

"That is not much to go on at all!" Bertram stated matter of factly. "There surely has to be more to it?"

"Yes. But for now, I think we should enjoy the dessert," Sherlock replied pointing towards the door which just then opened to reveal the maid bringing in the tray.