Chapter Six: Wild Reflection
"Why, after just getting engaged, are you interested in adopting a child," asked Lacy Berger, a social worker for Angel's Arms Adoption Agency and avid fan of the color orange, judging by her tweed suit, the bowl of phony oranges on her desk and the carroty paint coating the walls of her small office.
"Ms. Berger," Sherlock rested his hand on Samantha's knee, "when you find the one you're going to spend the rest of your life with, you want to start that life as soon as possible."
The social worker, thoroughly uncharmed and uninspired by a line Sherlock had rehearsed in the car, tucked a wisp of butter-blonde hair behind a jeweled ear. "May I ask why the two of you chose adoption?" She chewed the inside of her cheek.
"My fiancé shoots blanks," Samantha explained, tenderly patting the hand resting on her knee. She didn't need to turn to appreciate the glower Sherlock sent her way.
"I'm sorry to hear it," said Ms. Berger hesitantly, taking notes with orange ink.
Sherlock shrugged it off. "The world is overpopulated enough without our feeble contribution."
"And plenty of children born in need of good parents," Lacy Berger said as she scribbled down more notes, the dry pen scratching against the paper. "What does your families think of you adopting a baby?"
"A baby boy," Sherlock clarified.
"We want it to be a surprise, but I don't see how they might disapprove," said Samantha, wondering if the woman across the desk could see she was lying.
"You might be surprised, Ms. Watson, on some people's attitude toward the aspect of being grandparents to children they have no biological link," Berger countered.
The picture window behind her was being washed from the outside by a man in a harness and new to the job and heights, judging by the terrified way he kept looking down from the second floor.
"We, however, don't need sanction from others to raise a child," Sherlock argued, "except from the agency, of course."
Lacy Berger nodded and commended in her monotone. "Good for you." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing orange scented lotion into her hands and arms. "Whose idea was it to adopt?"
"His," Samantha said, smiling at her false fiancé. "He comes across as the type who's married to their work and closed off from human emotion, but… if you saw him with my niece—for even a moment, you would know he needs to be a father."
The social worker spared a brief smile on her young face. "I know, from the papers, Mr. Holmes has been a credit to England. It would be a lucky child to have such a father to teach him—or her—to be such an upstanding individual."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair and even blushed.
The interview continued with questions about family history, hypothetical situations and financial income. It disturbed Samantha how easy the answers came to her, true or false. Sherlock, with his deep, mesmerizing voice, painted 221B Baker Street as a warm and welcome home where chocolate biscuits were baked instead of the lung Samantha found when she had the notion to make homemade bread. It been an experiment Sherlock had been working on to see how long it would take for human flesh to disintegrate at a low temperature and how that compared to the lungs from different animals.
Ms. Berger stood, her features unreadable. "Thank you for your interest," she said. "Your references will be contacted within the next couple of weeks."
Sherlock and Samantha rose from their seats.
"Thank you for seeing us," said Samantha as Sherlock was already leaving the office. When she caught up to his long strides, she asked, "So, do you believe these guys take part in a black market scheme?"
The detective's tall form whipped around to face her, but continued his hurried trek in the direction of the lift, the collar of his coat turned up. "No. At least, that particular social worker, safe to say, isn't one of Kashuba's moles. She was too invested in the well-being of children. Her questions were about our home life and how a child would fit in it. Kashuba's men wouldn't care about such matters."
Sliding doors enclosed them in a space so small, both of their personal bubbles could pop. Sherlock pressed a button to send them to the ground floor.
"Do you think Kashuba and his people conduct business in an abandoned warehouse," Samantha asked, rhetorically. She scratched only just inside her cast, wishing for a wire hanger. "No, you're on the right track in looking for the criminals where they can hide in plain sight, I think. We'll go to more agencies, but I think we—I mean you—shouldn't put such a nice face to it; cut the charisma."
"I don't suffer from self-doubt, Watson, but go on."
"Maybe if we portray a couple unlikely to be approved for adoption, maybe it'll draw their attention and they'll see us as prospective customers," Samantha explained.
"I was on the same train of thought," admitted Sherlock. "My only point of concern is what being recognized might do, if I could be seen as an ordinary man adopting a child with his fiancé."
The lift doors parted. "Yes, I imagine it's right difficult to sneak around when your face has been plastered on just about every newspaper."
"And for your information, I don't 'shoot blanks'," he defended himself, buttoning his coat, his aquamarine eyes giving Samantha a sideways glance.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Samantha, regretting her words when he began to explain how he knew, pushed out the door. Bright sunshine reflected on snowdrifts along the sidewalks. The month of March did indeed come upon them like a lion, the late winter's roar raging through the streets of London and upsetting the hem of Samantha's brown polka-dot skirt. Her long black coat kept her from embarrassment and thick knit tights kept her legs warm.
"Where are you going," asked Sherlock, when she didn't follow him to a waiting cab but instead headed down the street. Turning back, Samantha notice how the cold gave Sherlock's otherwise marble-white cheekbones some color.
"I'm meeting with a friend at the cinema," explained Samantha, adjusting her floral scarf.
"John will be glad to hear it," Sherlock said, opening the cab's door, but letting the driver wait. "Your brother puts an importance on that sort of thing." He paused before reminding unnecessarily, "Be careful what you share."
"No need to worry about me," said Samantha, "See you at home."
The stroll to the cinema was a short distance and she was a little early for the film, a romantic comedy set in the mid-1800s, but she paid for her ticket, a small Coca-Cola, a bag of gummy bears and a medium bag of popcorn. The woman, in a sparkling red vest and matching bowtie, on the other side of the counter gave her a pitying look; she felt sorry Samantha was watching a romantic film by herself. The woman could keep her sorry and the change.
The theatre was empty when she walked in, likely the result of the film being based off a novel written by a lesser known writer and the sexiest man in America declining the lead role. It was just as well there wouldn't be some teenager behind her kicking her seat or an elderly couple narrating the entire thing with a five-second delay.
Careful, she warned herself as she chose a seat in the far back, you are sounding like Sherlock.
With that sobering thought, she hung her handbag on her left armrest and set her drink in her right. She took a sip to quench her dry throat when the lights dimmed, the screen before her brightened and the preview to a film she had no wish to see began to play. Since she wouldn't be an offense to anyone in front, she rested her feet upon seat in front of her. She clicked her boots together.
A dark figure crept up the large steps.
Samantha waved. "Over here, Jim," she called.
"Oh, there you are," he said, his stride more quick and confident as he made his way to the seat beside her. He plopped down and draped his legs over the back of the seat in front of him. Candidly and without permission, he took her bag of gummy bears and tore into it. "I like the green ones," he illuminated the reason why he took his time in his selection instead of taking a handful as Samantha would have done. "I'm glad your meeting got over with in time."
"Me, too," said Samantha. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"
He grinned wolfishly as he shoved his hard-earned prize into his mouth. "When you have to travel for work," he said with his mouth full, "the change of scenery and culture gets old, even in Heidelberg."
Since the day they met three weeks ago, Samantha and Jim had gone to the cinema on three different occasions, to lunch once and coffee at least four. She had been guarded, but after a short time, Jim proved to be the owner of a sharp wit and a personable manner—Samantha felt comfortable labeling him a 'friend'.
"It's good to have you back," said Samantha, taking back her gummy bears.
Jim snuggled deep into the red upholstered seat and rested his head against her arm.
"And," Samantha added, "If you didn't go to a pub and sing Mario Lanza's 'Drink, Drink, Drink', it was a wasted trip."
Jim chuckled and stole some popcorn, a single popped kernel tumbling to the floor.
The last preview ended and the opening credits, along with a cheery musical score, began. Having already read the novel which the book was based on, Samantha silently applauded the casting director for choosing actors well matched with their characters; Venetia and her handicapped brother Aubrey. Fifteen minutes in, they were introduced to the Wicked Baron—Dameral to his friends, a hero with the same silent strength as Austen's Mr. Darcy or Bronte's Mr. Rochester. The camera zeroed in on the handsome thespian's face so the audience, in this case Samantha and Jim, could stare into the limpid pools of blue, green and gold.
Like Sherlock's.
"Well, he isn't ugly, is he," Jim commented appreciatively.
Sputtering her Coca-Cola from surprise, Samantha laughed when she was able to draw breath and agreed, "No, he's not." She laughed and coughed, tears springing at the corner of her eyes.
Throughout the film, she glanced Jim's way to see his reactions only to see him looking for hers. They would smile or laugh and then turn their attention back to the Wicked Baron. When the ending credits rolled, she took note of the leading man's name so she could view his other works. She stood up and a number of popped kernels fell to her feet. "I loved that," she said. "What did you think?"
"It was amazing," he said, standing. He took the rubbish, empty bags and paper cup, from Samantha's hands so she could take up her handbag and sling it over her shoulder. "It's incredible to me how scandalous just a kiss was back then."
Samantha followed Jim out of the dark theatre into the bright corridor where he threw the rubbish into a nearby bin. "The kiss wasn't near as scandalous as the fit of that man's trousers."
Jim laughed, leaving a wide grin on his bearded face. "Bless the patron saint of costume design!"
"Shut up, you!" Samantha laughed and playfully pushed Jim's chest.
He made an act of playing wounded, clutching his heart.
"Do you want to get a cup of coffee," asked Samantha, wondering how much popcorn had fallen into her bra.
Smiling, Jim shook his head. "Sorry," he said in his animated voice. "Can't. I already have plans, but I'll call you."
The first paycheck from the bakery had gone to rent, a side table, a few groceries and a brand new phone with a payment plan that made Samantha nervous to turn on the confounded contraption, let alone use it.
Jim and Samantha parted ways, he in the direction of the men's loo and she out the front entrance.
The temperature had dropped though the sun still shown radiantly. The azure sky was devoid of a single cloud. The cruel wind had resorted to biting, so Samantha stood on the curb and lifted her hand to summon a taxi.
A black town car pulled alongside and stopped. Since it wasn't marked as a taxicab, Samantha moved down the street a few steps and again raised her arm. The car slowly came forward and again parked so the handle to the backseat's door was within easy reach. The driver, dressed in a suit and tie, got out of the vehicle, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. "Miss Watson?"
Samantha faltered. "Y… yes?"
"You are to come with me." The hulking man opened the backseat door. On the other side of the empty black leather seat, Samantha could see someone else sitting—someone with black and grey pinstriped trousers, one leg crossed over the other. The black shoes were polished to a perfect shine.
"What if I don't want to go with you," Samantha asked the driver.
"Your consent," said the man in the car, his voice as polished as his shoes, "is a formality. If you insist on causing a scene, Albert will not disappoint."
On a good day, Samantha suspected she could outrun the big man, but with the ice and the wind against her, the final outcome would land her flat on her bottom and dragged off back to the car. Knowing the odds, she ran anyway.
Her worn black boots, the tread on the bottom eroded by regular use, slipped and slid along the patches of ice on the sidewalk where business venders missed with the rock salt. But, she was ahead. Turning a corner, nearly falling on her ass, she chanced a glance behind her. Albert was nowhere in sight.
Her relief was short-lived if conceived.
The black town car drove right onto the sidewalk, blocking her path. Samantha darted across the busy street, causing an upset among the Londoners who had to grind their brakes to keep from hitting and killing the small, crazed woman. Horns bleated their annoyance. She ran down a shadowed alley, lined with wooden crates. Her heart pounded its rhythm in her ears, her veins as frosty as the icicles hanging from the fire-escape—an escape she would happily take if she were tall enough to pull the bottom rung down.
She rounded the corner, only to be scared out of her wits when her ears met with a loud, pained screech. The scraggly gray tabby fought back with all claws and got one of its little daggers stuck in the fabric of Samantha's ruined tights.
"Let me help," she said to the cat who wouldn't see reason. The cat hissed and bit while receiving aid, then sprinted down the alley and up a stack of empty crates.
By those crates was a gray door ajar with the admission of 'employees only'. Open doors allowed exceptions, Samantha decided, sneaking inside what she was to discover a busy kitchen complete with chefs yelling out orders, cooks following them and waiters balancing trays laden with hot, steaming dishes of food—all of which were too busy to even look at her. She nearly made it through to the other door when she came face to face with a young man in an expensive suit, holding an IPad. Likely, he was the maître de.
"Took a wrong turn finding the loo," she lied.
The young man lifted an eyebrow in doubt, but stepped aside so she could pass.
The restaurant was near full capacity, patrons looking for an early dinner before setting out for their evening plans, and the air was thick with noisy chatter and rich aromas. A couple, sat at a small table set just for them with a single rose to make it a romantic ordeal, eyed her with amusement.
Samantha brought a hand to her hair and came in contact with a windblown mess. Definitely looking a fright, she scanned the area in actual search of the loo, wishing the maître de had done his job when she had lied to his face and told her where it was. A kind waitress finally pointed her in the right direction.
A couple of ladies gave her odd looks on their way out after washing their hands and demurely wiping their hands dry.
Facing her wild reflection, Samantha dropped her handbag by the sink and turned on the faucet. She washed her face and hands, noticing a black smudge of her cast she didn't where it came from. Long, bloody tracks along her fingers and her right arm was the 'thank you' she got from the mangy alley beast. Face and hands clean and dry, her breathing returning to a normal pace, she took out her comb and brush from her red, tasseled handbag and attacked her wild mane, forcing it into detangled compliance.
All the while, she kept asking herself why. Why did that man, a man whose face she didn't see, want her? She had nothing anyone would consider valuable. A shudder ran down her spine at the thought maybe this man wanted her for sex. She felt lucky—blessed—she damned the odds and was able to outrun and lose the town car if that was truly the man's motive.
Her appearance somewhat mollified, Samantha returned to the dining area. Not ready go back outside where she could run into Albert and his town car, she found an empty barstool at the end of a bar, tended by a scruffy-faced but well-dressed gent. It took two tries to climb up to her perch.
"What's it to be," asked the barkeep, wiping down the blue granite.
"Water, please," said Samantha, placing her handbag on her lap.
"You look like you could use something a lot stronger than water," he commented, but filled a clear glass with ice and water, and set it on the countertop before her.
Samantha drank the cool liquid gratefully, despite the ice cubes adding shivers to her unease, for fear had dried her throat. Resting her chin in her cupped hand, Samantha's gaze dropped to stare at the blue and green paisley floor, waiting for her courage to restore itself. She was considering texting her brother or even Sherlock to ask one of them to take her home when a pair of shiny black dress shoes stepped into her line of vision.
"You did admirably, my dear," said the owner of those shoes.
Samantha lifted her eyes, taking in the man's tall, willowy build and air of grandiose self-importance. "The only way I'm leaving here with you is kicking and screaming," said Samantha.
The stranger scrunched his lips to one side in an attempted smile. "The venue for this conversation isn't significant, Ms. Watson." He told the patron sitting next to Samantha, a working man, to leave, a request met without argument as he and his party departed from the bar after Albert appeared to show his support. "You need not have fear of me," he said, taking a seat.
"That lie might have been a comfort if I hadn't just been forced to run into traffic to get away from you," Samantha said, planning her next escape. "Tell me who you are and what you want."
"My name is Mycroft Holmes; I'm your flatmate's brother and I hold a minor position in the British government," he said, taking a large brown envelope from a silent Albert and extracted a photograph, slapping it on the blue granite counter. "Do you know this man? Bear in mind, I already know the answer."
Looking at the picture of the face of a dead man, Samantha looked into the blue eyes of the man she used to love. A bullet hole marred his broad forehead. Tears filled Samantha's eyes as she took note of his long, blonde hair falling gently on the stainless steel table and the oxygen-deprived blue color that took over man's tanned flesh. "He's Heinrich Vessar," she acknowledged with a shaky voice. "He was my fiancé. We dated for a few years before I ended it."
"I believe he nearly ended you," said Mycroft. "He was found in his mother's flat in Germany." When he saw her start to build her defense, he added, "Your alibi is air tight. You were at work when it happened and seen by a good number of people, so at least we know you didn't pull the trigger."
"I wouldn't—" Samantha began, a duo of tear making identical journeys over her round cheekbones. She swiped at the droplets with her finger.
"You are what links two murders together," said Mycroft after ordering a brandy alexander. "Going through the hell you have had, it isn't a huge leap to think you've hired someone to ensure your safety."
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Samantha said, "I wouldn't do such a thing. I wouldn't harm him even if I had the means to do so."
"If that's the case," Mycroft put the photo back inside the envelope, "someone has taken it upon themselves to correct the wrongdoers in your life. Do you know anybody who would be capable of murder?"
Samantha shook her head.
"Do you know anyone have an intelligence rated above average or someone who shows insincere emotion? Someone who doesn't follow a life plan?" He thanked the bartender when he was served his drink and promptly paid for it.
"Sounds like your describing Sherlock." Hell, she got at least one out of three.
Mycroft chuckled and raised his glass. "Practice caution, Ms. Watson, and pay heed to those around you. This killer may be within your circle of acquaintances." He rose from his seat. "If I offer you a lift home, would you—as you said—go screaming and kicking?"
Samantha stood. "Why are you telling me this?"
"The manner of which your former fiancé was killed," said Mycroft, "by an ace sniper from long range."
She followed the men she'd just tried to escape out onto the street, thanking the driver when he politely held the town car door open. Though still hesitant, she got into the vehicle.
When the car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street, instead of leaving Samantha at the steps, Mycroft followed her inside the front door, welcomed by the warmth radiating from the electric furnaces. Samantha unwrapped her scarf from her neck.
Halfway up the staircase, Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Chambliss bustled into corridor, dressed in enough layers to face the arctic confidently. "Oh, Samantha! Mycroft! You gave me a start," said Mrs. Hudson, smiling. "We're off to visit Gladys' son Harvey."
"It's his birthday," said Gladys, donning a knitted cap. "Which birthday, I can't honestly remember. But, anyhow, he wants us to spend the night if the weather worsens, so don't worry about us if you don't see us in the morning."
Uninterested in the exchange, Mycroft moved past Samantha and continued upstairs.
"Do be careful," Samantha cautioned. "Its bitter cold, icy and I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was another blizzard coming our way."
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Remember to lock the doors before you go to bed."
The landlady and her new best friend left, gasping when the arctic wind slapped them about in the face. The door was flung wide open and Gladys struggled to close it behind her when Samantha rushed down to assist. The contrast between the cold chaos outside and the warm stillness inside was keenly felt.
Samantha ascended the stairs and bypassed the open door bleeding out bits of conversation she didn't bother paying heed. The red track up her arm stung, so did her ankle.
Her bed looked so inviting and fluffy, Samantha was tempted to dive in—dirty clothes and all—and take to her quilted igloo until late spring. She stretched her arms over her head and yawn, breathing in a good reason to grab some pajamas and go downstairs for a bath.
Like always, the hardwood floor squeaked when she crossed the threshold of her room. The volume of the conversation between brothers paused, then continued in hushed tones. The dialogue came to a full stop when she entered the room, the bull skull lamp judging Samantha as the two men sitting in the two armchairs turned their heads to acknowledge her presence. Sherlock, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers with a burgundy robe, eyed her with the same look on his face he had when examining a dead body.
Warm pajamas in hand, she wordlessly walked the straight path to the bathroom. She didn't miss Sherlock's low chuckle.
When he heard the door to the bathroom lock, he waited for the sound of rushing water before saying, "I wish I'd been there to see it."
"You would have thought I was on the street trying to sell candy out of my trench coat," Mycroft sniffed, offended.
"You would have to work on your people skills to get up to that level," Sherlock commented, hearing the faint sound of a contented sigh. He took a sip of chamomile tea, a slice of lemon resting at the bottom his ivory teacup.
"She narrowly missed getting hit, the car just grazed her left arm," said Mycroft.
Sherlock heard water drip. "She is wary of men in general."
"Except," Mycroft argued, "for you. She would only listen after I told her I was your brother."
After a moment to ponder that bit of information, the curly-headed detective shrugged. "Her brother is my best friend. She probably puts me in the same nonthreatening category she puts him."
"Yes, John," the elder brother smiled knowingly. "He hasn't been around lately."
"He has new obligations," Sherlock excused his friend. Yes, he missed John, missed having his feedback on his theories, his comradery. Despite what Mycroft may think, Samantha Watson—though pleasant in nature so far—kept to herself, as did he, except when they were playing their parts as fiancés. "Right now, he seems very happy living a boring existence with his wife and child."
"I've read through Ms. Watson's background check," said Mycroft, frowning at the dirt he'd found on the end his umbrella—something he could avoid if he stopped using it as a walking stick. "It doesn't shed a lot of light."
"I know," Sherlock agreed. "I read it, too."
"So, you know why you didn't see her at her brother's wedding," Mycroft concluded, wiping the dirty end of the umbrella on Sherlock's Oriental rug.
Sherlock frowned.
Sighing impatiently, the eldest brother clued him in. "The date on the report was two days before the nuptials."
"John knows nothing about it," said Sherlock.
"Be aware, brother," said Mycroft. "Someone out there sees themselves as some type of hero. If they see you as a threat—"
"Do you think Sherlock could be in danger," asked Samantha, dressed in lavender thermal pajamas, overlarge wool socks, fleece lined slippers she'd left in the bathroom earlier and a fluffy, blue towel wrapped about the top of her head. She brought in the scent of strawberries and mint. A warm, rosy glow brightened the apples of her cheeks.
"Rubbish," Sherlock said. "Whoever this is preys on people who have hurt Samantha. She needs not to worry about that."
Leaning back in his chair, Mycroft smiled at his brother as if he'd just uncovered a treasure trove and wasn't going to tell anyone about it. "I think my brother needs to take every precaution." Before Samantha could leave the room, he asked, "To better understand the motivation behind these killings, would you mind telling us what happened last May?"