From Stutley Constable: The housewife's jewel
Directly follows Tinsel 29: Anchors
Finally.
He lowered the violin, a sigh of relief escaping at the deep, even breathing coming from Watson's place on the settee. Hours had gone into calming his friend, providing various grounds when Watson slipped, and trying to distract him from the memories dominating his thoughts. Less than two hours before dawn had finally succeeded in letting Watson get some sleep.
Dreamless sleep, for now, though Holmes would watch to be sure that did not change. He had no interest in repeating the night's first regression, and the ones that started as nightmares seemed harder for Watson to throw off than the others. The instrument fell to rest in his lap as he leaned back in the chair, wishing yet again that he had found a different way of protecting his friend all those years ago, a way of including Watson in his flight. He would do anything—had done anything—to keep Watson safe, but this—
Watson had never been in physical danger during Holmes' absence, but the lack of a bullet did not negate the continuing danger of Holmes' foolish plan. He should have taken Watson and Mary with him. Should have done something to ensure Watson did not grieve so deeply, did not see a need to retreat, did not slip this far.
Did not still live with the consequences, years later.
He could not change the past however, and a deep breath consciously shifted his thoughts to the case. Perhaps by the time Watson woke, Holmes could figure out just what Mrs. Deighton had hidden from him.
A quiet day in the sitting room. Mary's voice. Holmes, asking me once more to move back to Baker Street.
A crashing waterfall. Holmes! Where—
A concert. Holmes on my left. Mary on my right. She finished an amusing account with an offhand deduction regarding another guest, and even Holmes struggled to suppress his laughter.
An interesting case. A tedious patient. Nonsensical images. Parts of a book I wanted to write. Where had I put my pen?
There, next to the puddle. Who had left their notes on my desk?
I had no idea, but music drifted lightly through the room, as if raindrops had been set to string. They tickled the ceiling. They ran down the walls. They formed puddles on the floor. Dancing, swirling, energetic puddles with a beat that morphed and changed with every moment, until the notes turned red and the rhythm became the steady beat of a drum. The high tones of a flute called the charge. I needed to run. Needed to fight. Where was—
A lullaby. Low, soothing sounds pressed me deeper into a soft mattress. I had nowhere to be today. No reason to get up. The crackling fire promised continued warmth. Mary had mentioned wanting to show me something later, but we could do that this afternoon. I wanted to doze for a while.
Ocean waves. A rocking ship. Gusting wind held the flag where I could identify Her Majesty's banner. We pressed up one side of a wave, then raced down the other, speed increasing until I felt as if I might fall into the crashing sea. The sky darkened. Drenching rain fell from the sky, then lightning shot across the clouds.
Gunfire! I lunged upright, nearly falling in my haste to leave my cot. Faceless Afghans stormed the camp. Khybers slammed into men before they identified their attacker. My bag. My weapon. I needed to help. Needed to join. Needed to fight.
Needed to sit. A soft tune cut a wide canyon between me and the battle. They still fought. Over there. But I could not reach them, and if I could not help, I might as well go back to sleep. A low settee appeared behind me. How had music brought this to the Afghan desert?
I did not know, nor did it matter. The notes created a cool breeze to sweep the heat of battle away, then the tune became the familiar sounds of home.
Low murmuring roused me. I stretched and rolled against the pillow. Where was I?
Sleep-blurred vision slowly cleared to reveal the sitting room. I lay on the settee, a quilt I did not remember grabbing pulled up to my chest, and Holmes sat sideways in his chair. His entire focus rested on the sheaf of papers in one hand. The top sheet tucked behind the others, my friend muttering something I could not discern.
Nor did I need to. I stretched again and sat up, gingerly working the sleep-caused stiffness out of my shoulder. Memories in daylight and nightmares every night meant I had not truly slept in weeks, and while I had not intended to sleep downstairs, I could not deny that I had needed the rest. I felt much better.
I would have to decide how to make up for the time, though. Holmes had evidently postponed his thinking to help me, and no matter his promise—or my own—I would not burden him with my ghosts. Monopolizing half his night meant I should probably make myself scarce today.
If he let me. Steady reading paused, then he flipped back two pages.
"Ha!" Papers slapped the table on his way to his room. "Get dressed, Watson! We have a burglar to catch!"
He had a burglar to catch. I would only get in his way, but an attempt to decline only produced an order to "hurry." I sighed and pulled myself to my feet. He never listened in this mood, and the argument was not worth the trouble when I did want to go. A few pieces from the platter of cold cuts on the table—obviously left when I slept through our normal breakfast time—killed what little interest I had in food, and less than ten minutes saw us out the door. I finally hazarded a low question.
"Where are we going?"
"The Chapman manor." He thrust his notes into my hand, one finger pointing out the relevant section. "Mrs. Deighton hired me yesterday to track the burglar that had emptied her employer's safes. See if you can discover what information she omitted."
I frowned but scanned the pages. Mrs. Deighton née Browning occupied a minister's home while he and his traveled the continent. Her own peculiarities had made her booby trap every possible entrance on the manor's lowest floor, but someone had still managed to enter through a jimmied window. Jewels and a large sum of money had disappeared with them. Genuine interest read everything he had compiled, but I did not try to answer his challenge. Another moment offered him back his notes.
He refused. "What do you make of it?"
Plenty, none of which he wanted to hear. I did not see how someone could have avoided a trap they had not known existed, nor could I make anything of the fact that the trail had started at the window. As he had proven the trap worked later, why had it not worked that night?
He undoubtedly knew, but he had not written the information. His expectant look eventually forced a single query.
"Does Mrs. Deighton have any family?"
"A son, a brother, and two adult nephews," Holmes replied, sounding faintly impressed. "She mentioned a possible apprenticeship soon for her son. Why is that your first question?"
I merely shrugged. Holmes' notes explicitly stated that the traps required several feet of clearance to evade capture. If Mrs. Deighton had placed these traps herself rather than at the minister's request—as Holmes' notes also indicated—then I would expect only someone that knew her personally to both recognize the trap and know how to avoid it.
Evident to me meant extremely obvious to him, however. He did not need me pointing out the lead he had probably already chased. When he again refused to reclaim his notes, I used the rest of the cab ride to skim the pages, looking for whatever he thought she had omitted from her account. I still had not found anything when we lurched to a halt in front of a large manor.
"Mr. Holmes! Did you catch the thief already?"
A matronly woman opened the door before Holmes could ring the bell, waving us both into a large entry. Her dusty apron and the broom against a nearby wall spoke of housekeeping duties abandoned to greet us, though the worry lining her eyes suggested the work kept her busy more than truly needed doing.
"My friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," Holmes introduced shortly. "I need another look at the room. You have not moved anything?"
"Haven't even entered," she promised around pleasantries, "and I have avoided the path they took between the bedroom and the safes. Everything should be as you left it."
"Excellent. Come along, Watson." He spun as if intending to leave me to follow with Mrs. Deighton, but a brief hesitation let me walk beside him. He silently studied the floor and walls all the way across the manor's sprawling ground floor.
Elaborately sprawling. Luxurious wall hangings told a story in so many tapestries, lush carpet silenced our every step, and glinting chandeliers caught the sunlight in every major room. No wonder the minister had wanted someone to stay here while he traveled the continent. Such a house, left empty, would be a prime target for looters.
Holmes stopped outside an unmarked door on the left. I easily noted Mrs. Deighton's trap around the window, but Holmes' gesture bid me wait in the hall as he started scouring the floor at six inches' distance. Several minutes passed before he stopped with a noise of satisfaction.
"Mrs. Deighton, is your son close with his cousins?"
A puzzled frown announced this rather unexpected. "I don't believe so, no. They see each other frequently enough, but there's at least a ten-year age gap. Charley usually plays with our other neighbors."
"And what did you personally have in that safe that they stole?"
Bewilderment became growing realization, then clear anger. "My late husband's cufflinks. Are you saying Charley cleaned out those safes?"
"Not quite." He took one more look at the floor then addressed Mrs. Deighton directly. "I do need to speak with him, though, and I believe the conversation would go better with you present. Are you permitted to leave the manor at this time of day?"
"Oh, that boy…" The murmur trailed away with a shake of her head. "Of course I can take you. Let me just change clothes. I will meet you back at the entrance."
She disappeared around the next corner as Holmes matched my pace toward the front of the house. We came in sight of the door before he broke the silence.
"What do you make of it?"
I thought the son had probably mentioned his mother's current situation in front of the wrong cousin, but I simply gave another half shrug. Everything I gathered had undoubtedly occurred to him sometime yesterday. I would not bore him with observations apparent to everyone but me.
He frowned but did not try again, directing a thinking frown through the floor until Mrs. Deighton bustled into the entry.
"Alright. Charley should still be at home, so we will try there first."
The cab ride passed in silence. Mrs. Deighton worried her sleeve, probably wondering if her son had broken into the minister's house, but Holmes spent most of the time failing to hide that he studied me. While less than an hour meant I probably had not yet worn out my welcome, we reached a small, run-down cottage before I could decide to invent a reason to leave.
A boy of about thirteen sat on the front step, fingering something small and shiny. The object disappeared into a pocket on sight of us.
"Mum! What are you doing here?"
"Hello, Charley." Holmes' glance received a wave of permission, and he stepped closer to the suddenly nervous boy. "My name is Mr. Holmes. I asked your mother to let me speak with you."
"Mr. Holmes," he returned quietly. "Why'd you wanna talk to me?"
"I work as a consulting detective." Trepidation became clearer fear. "Would you like to tell me why the patch in your boots matches the prints I found in the minister's house?"
"I—" He glanced behind us, then at his mother, and shook his head. "No, sir."
Behind us stood another small cottage, one with a man silhouetted in the window. Holmes never looked away from Charley.
"I think you probably should." His tone remained the one he used on errant Irregulars. He did not believe Charley fully at fault. "Several thousand pounds of money and jewels means most of your life behind bars, but a confession and your age might plead that down to a few years' hard labor."
"Several thou—" The exclamation broke behind another glance at that cottage. "I think you have the wrong house, sir. I didn't steal anything."
"Except the cufflinks in your pocket."
"Oh, Charley."
"I didn't steal anything!" he insisted, desperately trying to wipe the disappointment from Mrs. Deighton's face. "I swear. I didn't steal anything. He said—"
The sentence broke behind another glance behind us. A flinch revealed an eavesdropper before a single footstep made instinct scream its warning.
Danger!
I sidestepped, using my cane to trip the young man trying to creep up behind Holmes. The man stumbled right into Holmes' waiting grip.
"Your cousin said he would beat you again if you did not disarm your mother's trap," Holmes finished, a twitched grin revealing his pleasure at capturing his target so easily. "The cufflinks ensured you did not tell your mother. Hello, Guy."
Fruitless struggling failed to loosen Holmes' iron hold. "Let go of me!"
"Why would I do that?" A pair of cuffs from Holmes' pocket further secured his prisoner. "The Yard has been looking for Guy Browning for months. I did wonder when you would finally get yourself caught, though I did not expect you to use your cousin to do it. The other inmates will appreciate the creativity."
Only if "appreciate" meant "consider him barely one level better than a child predator." Of all the crimes punishable by imprisonment, anything that injured a child put a large target on that inmate's back.
Not that Guy would learn that except through experience. I said nothing as Holmes finally forced Guy to sit on the curb. A foot on his cuffs held him in place while Holmes returned his attention to a shocked Mrs. Deighton—now with one arm wrapped around her son's shoulders.
"He—"
She could not finish, shock and grief and a mother's pain lining her face and tightening her grip. Holmes focused on the way Charley kept his eyes on the ground.
"How long has he been abusing you?"
The quiet question produced an aborted flinch. "It's not—"
"Charley," Holmes interrupted, the word still calm. Tranquil. I doubted the boy heard the steel beneath. "Take off your jacket."
Mrs. Deighton's shock flipped to an instant of confusion, then utter fury. She let go of her boy before one smooth movement peeled Charley's jacket off his shoulders. The fabric fluttered to the ground at the fresh handprint coloring Charley's upper arm.
"I'm going to kill him."
"That will not be necessary." Holmes' pointed look ensured I saw one of the Yard's four-wheelers stop fifty feet down the street. "Considering the five other burglaries in the last six months, I do not believe you will have cause to see your nephew again for a good many years. Late as usual, Lestrade."
The inspector nodded a hello at the rest of us but scowled at both Holmes and the man still fighting his cuffs. "Try sending your telegram earlier, then. I take it this is Guy? Have you located the jewels yet?"
"Most are in his father's house," Holmes replied with a wave toward the cottage. "On top of the other theft charges, you can add blackmail and abuse of a minor, but the Yard will need to gain entrance to the home. I believe Mr. Browning is at work."
"They will let him leave for this," Mrs. Deighton promised, deadly fury in her tone fully directed at Guy. One arm reached out to hold Charley against her. "We'll be just inside."
Lestrade's easy agreement joined Holmes' wave of dismissal to send her toward the cottage, Charley still firmly beside her. She barely closed the door before starting to coax the entire story from her son. Holmes passed Guy to a constable and moved to stand next to me.
"I can bring my notes by the Yard later," he told Lestrade, casually taking my arm as if he did not make me lean on him instead of my cane. "Do you need anything else from us?"
"Do you have anything on Mr. Browning's workplace?"
"Accountant," was the short answer. "His office is a block north of The Strand's. Mrs. Deighton can take you to it."
"And gladly," Lestrade returned. "Any other questions can wait until I see your notes."
I murmured the pleasantries Holmes ignored, waiting until Holmes had flagged down a conveniently empty cab to voice the only question I would ask.
"How did you know he was innocent?"
"His reactions." Holmes leaned back in the hard seat to better watch me. "Two pairs of feet entered through that window. The thief crept down the hall to the safes and returned by the same path, but a second person left only two prints, both several feet from the window and too small for an adult. Only a close family member would know the trick of Mrs. Deighton's trap, and Charley's reaction to my question proved he had not known Guy's intention or actions. We both saw him shove the cuff links into his pocket."
Yes, we had, though I had not caught a clear enough glimpse to positively identify them. Holmes let the silence stretch for only a moment.
"What do you think of Simpson's for luncheon?"
A bad idea. Even the morning's distraction still had not returned my appetite, and a restaurant made concealing how little I ate quite a bit harder. Between that and my thin wallet, I much preferred to eat—or not eat—at home.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"We could go to the university concert afterwards," he mused as if I had not just declined. "Their symphony is rather good, and that would spend the day until Lestrade will start looking for me at the Yard."
It would also either force me out of the flat all day or leave me home alone—both equally bad ideas. I did not trust myself to stay in the present when surrounded by countless strangers, and a regression in a crowded theater spelled danger for everyone around me. I made no answer. Perhaps ignoring him would convey my response better than words.
Or not. That sounded like a promise to leave "if something came up," followed by an indirectly admitted desire for a quiet day doing very little with company. Only when he exchanged the concert for an hour or two at Regent's did I finally murmur a hesitant agreement. An empty park at least did not risk someone too loud behind me.
And I always appreciated time with my friend. If he wanted to spend the day in quiet company, I could always make myself scarce tomorrow.
Hope you enjoyed!
And thanks to mrspencil for your review last chapter :)
Happy New Year, everyone! :D