Another hour later they were seated by the kitchen table, Hayter having prepared a hearty, traditional breakfast. Sherlock had smiled at John's blush when they came downstairs. He couldn't understand what it could possibly matter, whether Hayter had actually heard them having sex or not. The man had to know that gay men have gay sex (surprise) and had even given them just the one bedroom. However to his coy lover's chastity it apparently was of importance. Judging by Hayter's manner he hadn't witnessed anything. Not until he saw John's face, that is.
When Hayter's phone rang, Sherlock put John at ease assuring him of Hayter's ignorance. Not that he usually lied to him, but it would be a bloody uncomfortable visit for John otherwise. John was only happy to believe him.
"Well, fellas, there's been another burglary," Hayter told them as he returned to the table.
"Really?" Sherlock was surprised.
"Yes, at Cunningham's, just down the road here. And this time someone got hurt. The Cunninghams rent out rooms occasionally to construction labourers working in the village and their current lodger has been shot. Wasyli, I think, is the lad's name. Willy, we've been calling him."
"How is he? Dead?" John asked.
"I'm afraid so. The villain was breaking in through the kitchen door at midnight, when Willy came on him. Shot him, in cold-blood. A polite and friendly young man he was, not like some… Helped me fix a couple of roof tiles – and on his day off that was," the Colonel shook his head. "I promised to drop by later. Cunningham's a decent fellow, he sounded shaken. It must be the same crooks that were over at Acton's."
"And stole that strange collection of items," Sherlock said thoughtfully.
"Exactly," Hayter affirmed.
"Huh. It may turn out simple enough, but it seems odd, doesn't it? Burglars tend to change their scene of operations and not hit two houses in the same neighbourhood in a matter of few days. I thought this would be the last area that needed to worry about this particular lot. Well, live and learn as they say," Sherlock mused uncharacteristically docile.
"Must be someone local. Acton's and Cunningham's are the biggest houses around here."
"And richest?"
"Ought to be, yes, but they've been fighting over the Cunningham estate. Acton thinks he has a claim on half of it and lawyers have been at it with both hands. It has been draining both their funds, I'd wager. I doubt the Cunningham's would be taking lodgers otherwise."
"A local burglar shouldn't be difficult to find in a place like this," Sherlock yawned. "No need to give me looks, John. I'm not going to meddle."
John turned his eyes to his plate. Damn the man. But lucky the case was boring.
At that the doorbell rang. Hayter returned to the kitchen with an Inspector Forrester. Hayter looked a bit embarrassed as he glanced at John, guessing why the police were here.
The Inspector was a smart, fresh-faced young man.
"Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry to intrude on your breakfast, but I just had to pop by, when I heard Mr. Holmes would be here."
The Colonel waved his hand towards Sherlock, and looked apologetically at John. John shrugged, admitting his defeat. Either Sherlock would insult the Inspector's intelligence, as John hoped, or dig up some details that made the case interesting. It was out of his hands now.
"We thought with the lads that perhaps you'd like to lend us a hand," Forrester blurted enthusiastically.
"Not your lucky day, John," Sherlock grinned. "We were just talking about the burglary. Let's have the details then."
"You've heard of the Acton case, I take it." All nodded. "We had not much to go on there, but now the man was seen. We have no doubt it's the same bloke. He was off like a deer after having shot at…" the Inspector turned to his notes.
"Wasyli," Sherlock filled in.
"Right. It so happens, that Mr. Cunningham saw the perp from an upstairs window and his son Alec saw him from the back passage. We got the call just before twelve."
"What were they doing at the time?" John asked.
"Mr. Cunningham was…" again Forrester looked at his notes and John could see that Sherlock was getting frustrated, "yes, he'd just gone to bed and Alec Cunningham was smoking through the window. Tobacco, he says, but we're thinking weed. Already in his dressing gown he was, getting ready to kip down for the night. Anyway, the bloke called out, Willy, that is and Alec ran to see what was going on. He saw two men wrestle outside the door, heard the shot and saw Willy drop. The shooter rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham saw from his window how the man gained the road, but lost sight of him then. Alec…" again a glance at the notes, Sherlock turning to look out the window and count to ten, "well, he stopped to help Willy, of course, so the shooter got away. The description they gave was of a man of average height, lean figure, dressed in black," Forrester closed his notebook. "That doesn't help much in the end, really," he concluded sounding defeated as if suddenly realising his eye-witnesses probably wouldn't be much help after all.
"No gun found? Any last words?" John quizzed.
"Nope, unfortunately not. The kitchen door had been forced, but there's not much to go on… except this," Forrester took out an evidence bag with the corner of a post-it note in it.
Sherlock examined it closely. " 11:45 pm", the remains of the note said. He gave a dry chuckle: "Crude," and seeing the puzzled faces of the others added, "but whatever works. Where did you find it?"
"It was in the grip of the deceased, the rest of it obviously torn off," Forrester noted.
Obviously. Sherlock rolled his eyes. If this was the peak of the Inspector's deductive prowess his help most certainly would be needed.
"Either he took it from his killer or the killer tried to tear it off his hand. As you see, that's just around the time the crime happened. Could be an appointment. We're working a theory that this," (the notes, again), "Wasyli was perhaps one of the burglars and was helping the other into the house. Maybe they got in to a quarrel… one thing led to another and the one with the gun took his chance."
Sherlock placed his palms in front of his face and contemplated a minute.
"Yes, perhaps. The note however suggests other scenarios, don't you think?"
No, the Inspector clearly didn't.
"Well, there are some intriguing aspects to the case," Sherlock sprang to his feet with all his old energy, eyes bright. There was no sign of fatigue in him. "Let's go and see the body then, shall we?"