From Stutley Constable: A blue flower
"…which is why I do not plan to attend. I see no reason to waste an afternoon on such an obvious conclusion."
I did not need to look up to know he scowled his irritation. Holmes' most recent murder case had thus far been an exercise in futility. We had no witnesses, no scene, and barely even a body—if one could count the results of several weeks in a barrel in the Thames a body. The third such barrel found this month or not, the entire riverbank had heard Holmes' opinion of this murder case—including a very colorful query as to why Gregson had called him to deduce a puddle.
"Would an inquest not provide further clues?"
That sounded like a half-aborted snort of derision. "Not when they do not truly investigate anything. You know the inquest is nothing more than a procedural meeting for the Yard to receive permission to dig further into a case. They will present the details of that debacle at the river, belabor the lack of any true identification, and leave with very little more than with what they started. They do not need me."
I ducked a wildly gesturing street musician without answer. While I could not claim to have followed many investigations from crime to conviction, I had thought the inquest rather more important than simply a confirmation of ignorance. No wonder Holmes so infrequently attended the court proceedings.
"Do you have any leads?"
"One, though I doubt it will go anywhere." He detoured around a large family. "Most coopers do not use maple."
And that barrel had clearly been made of maple staves, I finished. That would give him a place to start.
"You noted the brand on the side?"
A sharp nod confirmed he had, but a sudden frown halted a verbal reply. His pace slowed marginally, and the intense concentration he directed through the ground announced the question had made him connect some other piece of information. He would acknowledge no further conversation until he finished thinking through whatever had struck him.
Not that I minded. The last months had revealed a weather ache in my half-healed injuries, and I appreciated the chance to slow down without Holmes studying me. A spring storm would not make me relapse again.
The resulting ache would make me search for a distraction, however. Hawkers competed for volume on every corner, calling everything from food to flowers to children's toys, and our slower pace let me browse. Some displays caught my eye as we passed—such as the tailor advertising several suits on clearance—while others provided simple diversion—like the rubber band powered train among the toys. I made no attempt to stop, however. I did not have the funds for extra shopping this month, nor would I interrupt Holmes' thoughts.
"Hot chestnuts! Get your hot chestnuts here!"
"Murder on the Thames! Breaking story of yet another life taken on the river!"
"Novels for sale! Adventure! Romance! Science fiction! Discounted prices today only!"
Except in front of a bookstore. Even that resolve would not quicken my speed when penny dreadfuls, adventure novels, editions of The Strand, and other interesting covers filled so many shelves arrayed outside the shop door. I slowed just enough to skim titles as we passed. Did I want another book?
Yes, always, but I did not need another, nor could I pay for it. Firm determination turned away from the novels to avoid losing my friend in the crowd, and that same decision kept my attention on the people instead of the shops. I saw nothing else to make me pause our leisurely journey home.
Until we reached the flat. A small, blue-tipped stem rested in front of the door, the next in nearly a week's worth of messages, and I picked up my pace. What had they left today?
A flower I had never seen. Strange. The blue hyacinth's message of 'constancy' did not match the theme the others had established.
No matter. The sender would reveal themselves in time, and I reached to claim the bloom. Messages aside, Mrs. Hudson had commented on the spots of color more than once over the last week. She would probably enjoy such a bright flower in the kitchen window.
"Do not touch that."
Holmes' sharp words froze my fingers less than two inches from the stem, then a hand landed on my collar to nearly drag me backwards. My questioning glance found a significant amount of anger in that grey gaze, all directed at the flower by our door.
"Holmes?"
"Did you touch it?"
"No," I answered quickly, wondering at the fear tracing those words. "What's wrong? It is just a hyacinth."
"That is aconitum," he corrected. "Stay here. Do not touch any part of that plant."
He cast another glower at the step—as if the wordless order would prevent the poisonous plant from running away—and disappeared into the nearest alley. Less than ten seconds saw him returning with a thick collection of litter. Several newspapers and two paper bags completely surrounded both stem and flower, then he shoved the bundle into another thick bag. A rope held the paper closed.
"How many flowers have you found?"
"One or two every day for nearly a week. How did you—"
"You sped up on sighting the flat," he interrupted, still obviously irritated that someone had left a poisonous plant outside our door—or perhaps simply that I had misidentified it. He unlocked the door to lead me inside. "What have the others been and how certain are you?"
"Dogsbane, lilac, rhododendron, yellow rose, rosebay, sycamore, and…" The list trailed away as slow movements took off my jacket. Had the first not been a spice of some kind?
"Peppermint," I finally remembered just before he would have said something. "I had to look that one's message up at the library. And completely," I answered the second part of his question. "I have seen all the others wild before."
He hummed a reply, but whether acceptance or skepticism I could not be sure. He voiced another question before I could call him on it.
"Where have you stored the notes?"
The…notes? Keeping my balance on the stairs provided adequate reason to frown at my feet. When had we discussed notes?
"Watson?"
"What notes?" A glance backwards caught a frown twitching his mouth. "They haven't left any notes. Just the flower."
"You said you had to look up a note's meaning." He edged closer when a twinge in my leg made me grip the banister. "They did not add a message to the other flowers?"
"They used the flowers to send the message. Have you never studied the language of flowers?"
A long stare clearly announced he had not—and that he thought I was messing with him. I could not help but laugh.
"You mean you can identify a spot of dirt from anywhere in London, but you do not know that someone who gives you a pomegranate bloom thinks you're conceited?"
As a client's relation had just last week, but true consideration appeared instead of the annoyance I half-expected. He did not reply until we reached the sitting room.
"What did they mean?"
"Cordiality, curiosity, beware, friendship, danger, confidence, and deceit," I listed in order of arrival, wondering at the realization banishing the anger with every word. "I have been trying to decipher the full message behind them, but I'm beginning to wonder if there are two senders rather than one. What is it?"
He ignored me, of course. My question sent him nearly diving across the room to rapidly flip through one of his many indices.
"Holmes?"
"Ha!" The book thumped a nearby table as he lunged for the stack of notes he had left on his desk. Equally rapid skimming sparked another noise of triumph, then he disappeared—with the wrapped flower—through the door and down the stairs.
And out of sight before I had a chance of following. I could only shake my head and take an old novel to my chair. Maybe he would tell me what he had found when he returned.
Thank you very much to those who have reviewed! RL is making me choose between writing the next chapter or personally answering everyone, but I greatly appreciate every comment! :D