Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people.
AN: I should warn you that there is some violence in this chapter. Nothing too nasty but I thought you might like a heads-up.
Chapter Six – Blind
Holmes awoke in a far more uncomfortable position a few hours later. He was sat up in a hard, wooden chair which he seemed to be stuck to and he was completely blind thanks to the rough, dark cloth that was covering his eyes.
He could sense that there were others in the room. There was someone knelt beside him; he could feel the heat radiating from their body, he could hear the laboured breathing of a heavy smoker and he could smell the rich aroma of expensive cigarettes.
There was a sudden sharp pain in his wrist as something thin but strong was used to tie it down to the arm of the chair. The material bit into the soft flesh of his wrist as it was pulled tighter and tighter, cutting off the circulation. His other wrist had been bound while he was asleep and it had already gone numb with the lack of blood. Fear struck him and he struggled against his restraints. He knew it was useless but instinct had kicked in for a moment and had pushed logic to one side. The restraints dug further into his flesh and he felt the skin break in his right wrist. This made him stop struggling but as he sat back and accepted the reality of the situation he began to tremble uncontrollably. He was going to die in this chair. Sherlock Holmes was not ready to accept his fate so soon.
"Sir Edward?" he asked, reasoning that the man who smelled of expensive cigarettes would be someone of means and not a servant.
The man said nothing. He merely stood and, judging from his footsteps, which were heavy on the cold stone floor, he had moved to stand a few paces in front of him.
"I'm not sure you want to kill me," Holmes continued, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice. "If you just wanted to kill me, you would have done so by now. Keeping me here is dangerous."
Again, the man said nothing. Instead he began to move about and Holmes kept his sharp ears trained on the sound of his footfalls on the stone floor. He was circling him silently. Holmes assumed that he was trying to frighten him, to make him feel on edge.
And it's working.
Inspector Lestrade sat at his desk in his office at Scotland Yard. It had been a long day and at five o'clock in the evening it was far from over. This was an important case and his every move was being scrutinised by the Chief Inspector, so taking his mind off it, even for a moment was not an option. The burden weighed heavy on his shoulders and by only the second day he was exhausted.
Most tragically of all, Lestrade had witnessed the evidence of his own inability to solve this case as they dragged Ethel Parkinson's body out from under West Pier. She had been horribly mutilated and beaten before she had found relief in death. He felt ill just thinking about it.
It's a cool criminal who places the body in so public a place.
Now, to further complicate matters, Sherlock Holmes had vanished without a trace when Lestrade was most in need of his assistance.
He re-read the reply telegram from Mrs Harris, which informed him that Mr Holmes had not been back to the house.
Lord, his head hurt. And his neck. And his shoulders. He rubbed his temples slowly in circular motions and went through all the information in his head again for what felt like the hundredth time.
Anna Harris disappeared on her way to see Lady Wells for a piano lesson. She never arrived.
Two days later three other girls from the village go missing. One of them has been murdered so surely the others will be murdered too.
The only common link between them is a girl called Mary who also worked for Major Morrison before he died.
The link was clear in his head, but he wasn't sure where Anna Harris fitted in to this chain. The mysterious Mary had left well before Mrs Harris and her family came to live at the house, so she would never have even met Anna Harris.
He had gone back to see Charlotte Harris' staff to get a description of this Mary person.
Small, thin and pale with flaming red hair and bright green eyes, he read from his notebook.
It was a start. He felt an exasperated sigh escape his lips and he sat back in his chair. He hadn't slept well; not with the image of Ethel Parkinson appearing to him whenever he tried to sleep. His eyes were starting to burn and everything he looked at seemed to be blurry around the edges. His mind was too active. Every new piece of information seemed to shed a tiny bit more light on the problem but he was still blind to whole picture. For everything he had learned the answer to the main question burning in his brain was still eluding him.
Why would someone even want to kidnap these girls?
He was brought out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. "Come in," he said and was appalled at how weak and worn out his voice sounded.
The door opened and in walked Dr Watson looking exactly how Lestrade felt. The doctor was a handsome man, but almost no one looked attractive when they were worried.
"Any news?" Watson asked, choosing to forgo the usual polite greeting. Lestrade didn't care. Tired as he was, he was passed caring about the little formalities of life.
"I'm afraid Mrs Harris hasn't seen Mr Holmes since he left with me yesterday." The Doctor's shoulders sagged. Lestrade hadn't known the man for long, but his sympathy went out to him all the same. He could just image what a wonderful but exhausting life it must be for the man who was best friends with Sherlock Holmes.
"This case," Watson said with a shudder as he stepped further into the office and closed the door behind him.
"I know," Lestrade agreed as he rubbed his tired face with the palms of his hands. "It all seems so simple, yet at the same time I'm completely baffled."
The inspector looked at Watson carefully. His brow was furrowed and he could tell by the movement of his eyes that he was contemplating something serious.
He knew something.
Damn it, if you know something tell me!
"Inspector," Watson finally began, his tone hesitant, "there's something I think you should know about Sir Edward and his wife."
Holmes was still sat in the chair. By his own reckoning he had been sat there for half an hour and so far his captor had done nothing more than walk around. Sometimes he would circle him; sometimes Holmes would be able to feel his body heat as he stood right next to him. When he felt his breath across his face he realised that he must be watching him very closely.
He had attempted to talk to him again, but the man said nothing.
Holmes was beginning to get used to being in that chair. He had lost all the feeling in his hands and wrists so thin cord that bound them to the arms no longer hurt. His back hurt a bit from sitting so still in such an uncomfortable chair and his muscles ached from being so tense for so long.
Then, completely out of the blue, Holmes felt something heavy strike the side of his face. The pain and shock of this sudden violence made him cry out, which earned him another smack across his face.
Then nothing. No further blow came and Holmes was left sitting there breathless, his face throbbing with pain. The object had been blunt, but cold and heavy.
"Why," he started but he wasn't allowed to finish. Another blow came down and hit him dangerously close to his left eye and spots appeared behind his eyes, flashing bright in the darkness.
Before he could utter another word the heavy object smacked him in the stomach, knocking
the wind out him completely. As instinct made him double over the felt the restraints cut deeper into his skin. He tried to hold back the yelp of pain but the room was so quiet that even the smallest of noises boomed out and echoed all around.
In response his captor brought the object down once more, knocking all consciousness from him.
"No wonder Holmes always solves these cases before I do," Lestrade said as Watson finished his story. "You two keep all the pertinent information to yourselves."
"I think it's Holmes' view that all the information is there to be gathered by anyone," Watson replied, leaping gallantly to the defence of his friend. "If you actually know what you're looking for."
Despite Mr Holmes' assessment of his abilities Lestrade was sharp enough to realise when he'd been insulted. He felt a tingle of anger in his chest but he ignored it, pushing any personal feelings away to the back of his mind. He fixed Watson with a cold, warning look but did not say anything. I've been insulted by better men than you, doctor, Lestrade thought acidly.
"So," Lestrade said, changing the subject, "the events that took place in Bengal are taking place again in Brighton."
"Have other girls gone missing?" Watson sounded shocked and his eyes widened in horror.
"Three girls disappeared a few days after Anna Harris. We found Miss Parkinson dead at three o'clock yesterday afternoon." Watson bowed his head in sympathy for the dead girl.
"Did they know Sir Edward or Lady Wells?" Watson asked. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.
"Not that we know of," he replied, "the only link we have between all three girls is another girl named Mary."
Lestrade watched as a mingled look of horror, fascination and excitement came over the doctor's face. "Mary?" he asked, making sure that he had heard correctly.
"Yes, Mary," Lestrade clarified. "Why?"
"One of the young women who left India with the Wellses was called Mary Sanderson." Watson had barely had time to finish his sentence before Lestrade was on his feet and searching through his official documents for a warrant request.
"We have to hurry," Lestrade said as he scribbled the relevant details on the request form, his hands shaking as his heart pounded furiously with nerves and excitement. "I don't want to be dragging any other bodies out of the Channel."
Sherlock Holmes awoke as he was being dropped onto the bed in the windowless little room he had been kept in. The blindfold had been removed but his vision was so blurred that he couldn't see properly anyway. The person who had put him there left swiftly, closing the door behind him. The light in the hallway was turned off again and Holmes was left as blind as he had been when he wore the blindfold.
He lay on the bed, the pain that had spread through his body leaving him incapable of moving about too much. Lady Wells had told him that they were going to kill him. So why hadn't they? The blows that Sir Edward had rained down on him would have been enough to kill him eventually, so why had he stopped short?
I don't understand, he thought desperately to himself.
He found it hard to concentrate on any rational thought, between the pain and the raging thirst he felt. It was then that he remembered the glass of water that Henrietta had left for him. He groped around on the floor in the dark for the glass and when he found it he had to stop himself from downing the whole glass. He wasn't certain whether they would give him any more. After a few sips he put the glass down and lay back on the bed, exhausted.
He must have dozed off for a few minutes, for the next thing he knew the light from outside was back on and pouring in through the open door. He looked up at the silhouette of a young woman who was very dishevelled. He sat up quickly, ignoring the twinges of pain, not keen on being taken back to that room again, but as he went to say something she put her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet. She shut the door and knelt beside him.
"I haven't got long," she whispered to him, "they'll realise that I'm gone soon. I came to bring you this." She pulled a large chunk of bread out of a pocket in her ragged dress and handed it to him. "You mustn't let them know you have it."
"Thank you. Are you Anna Harris?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, "I heard them bring you back. You lasted longer in there than Ethel did." She paused and he felt her cool hand against his forehead as she felt his temperature. "You're coping with it all much better than she did."
"Have you been here for over a week?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm in the next room, that's how I knew you were in here."
"Where are the other girls?" Holmes asked.
"In the room next to mine," she replied, "I'm afraid Ethel died two days ago."
He felt a momentary sadness, but he pushed it aside. It wasn't going to do him or her any good getting too emotional. "Why were you brought here?"
Anna paused for a few seconds then answered cautiously. "It's complicated. I can't quite explain it. They collect young women, they're like their followers. Like disciples of some horrible religion." Her voice cracked as she stifled a sob.
Holmes had a hundred more questions to ask but there was a noise down the corridor, one that sounded remarkably like a baby crying. Anna Harris gasped then stood quickly.
"I have to go," she said as she turned to leave. Before she left the room she turned back to him. "If they come back for you, pretend you're still unconscious. They won't take you unless you're awake."
Then, before he had time to say anything else she closed the door and he was left in darkness again. There was quite a bit of noise outside now. It seemed strange to him that he hadn't heard any noise before, but then he had spent the majority of his time there asleep.
He gratefully took a bite of the bread then did as she instructed and hid it under his pillow. As he lay back he realised that if Anna Harris had been able to get into his room, then maybe it wasn't guarded. Miss Harris knew where he was and where the other girls were, meaning that at certain times of the day she had been able to walk about freely. This all seemed rather promising.
He lay very still and listened out. For the first time he was glad of the darkness, as it made his hearing much more acute. His mind was definitely made up. The next time it went quiet he would make his attempt.