Author's Note: I realise there isn't an excuse good enough for leaving you hanging for so long after that cliffhanger, so I'm REEEEALLY sorry about that! D: I was really happy to get this chapter finished as have had Holmes, Irene and Watson running around in my head all week! Please let me know what you think, and just a quick warning on the wordiness of this chapter :D Enjoy!
"A young woman found his body on the bank of the river," Holmes was saying as he and Watson walked side-by-side towards the outskirts of the jungle which surrounded the village. Irene walked alone a few paces behind, apparently lost in thought. Holmes had suspected she would not take the news well- Jamal had been a close friend of hers after all. Nevertheless, she had insisted on accompanying them to the scene of the crime in order to hear first-hand Holmes' conclusions as to the death of the young prince.
"Foul play?" Watson asked.
"Naturally," Replied Holmes, taking a long drag on his pipe. Watson had noticed he was smoking far more frequently of late, and it had become a rarity to see him without the clay pipe between his lips. "It is uncommon for one so young to simply drop dead by himself, Watson..."
"But not impossible," the doctor retorted. "What's the speculation on cause of death?"
"Drowning, if one is to trust hearsay," said Holmes. "But we can say nothing for certain until a professional opinion has been issued. Your professional opinion, of course, Watson..."
"And are we really expecting free, unimpeded access to the crime scene?" asked Watson, swinging his cane absent-mindedly as he walked.
"If Alcott hasn't got his men there already..." It was Irene who answered. She had crept up behind the two men while they had been talking and neither had noticed her presence.
They walked in silence through the short patch of jungle and out the other side to the river. The great body of water measured close to ten metres from bank-to-bank, but this stretch in particular widened out into a shallow bowl easily reached from the riverside. The water was by no means clean, and Watson shuddered at the thought of the locals drinking from it in much the same way as he did imagining Londoners drinking from the stagnant Thames.
Watson used his cane to brush aside the last dense clump of grasses which blocked their way, and the three emerged from the jungle completely. Here, they paused and stood still, watching what lay ahead. Not one of them knew quite what to say...
"Bugger it," Watson said finally, in perfect summarisation of their collective thoughts. "Bugger it all..."
The Indian landscape was dry and dull in colour, but the riverbank was lit up by two-dozen figures dressed in red and gold uniforms. The British Guard had beaten them to the scene!
Holmes, however, seemed unperturbed.
"Language, Watson, we are in the presence of a lady..." He set off at a smart pace, hands clasped behind his back. Irene and Watson shared a worried glance before hurrying side-by-side in the detective's footsteps.
Walking now through the clusters of Guards which littered the riverbank, Holmes knew instinctively which direction he should head. The majority of the men around him sported one stripe or sometimes none at all on the shoulder-pads of their blazers, indicating a lower military rank. Holmes was looking for the man whose several stripes he had observed from a distance. In short, he was looking to address the man in charge, and that man was not the formidable Captain Alcott...
Holmes found Sergeant Hawthorne surrounded by a group of three apparently eager young Guards. He held a pile of papers in his arms and was glancing between the documents and his deputies with the air of a harassed mother trying unsuccessfully to control a litter of overexcited children. He wore a pair of contemporary square-framed reading glasses which were noticeably too large for his face. Every so often, he would reach up with a free hand to push them back along his nose or to run a hand distractedly through his light brown hair; actions which suggested to Holmes that the man was suffering with stress.
As Holmes approached with Watson and Irene now close on his heels, he could hear Hawthorne dishing out instructions to his men, becoming clearly more frustrated with every word.
"Yes, Danvers, do it right away if you please. Of course I need you to send for a doctor, Perkins, a man has been found dead! What do you mean you don't know who the doctor is? Wilkinson, find me a doctor as soon as possible and for Goodness sake, take Perkins with you. No you don't need Captain Alcott's orders, you need only my orders, now go! Good God, I don't know how he died, Gregory! Maybe you could ask him yourself, though I doubt you'd get a sensible response...Perhaps you should try it!"
Holmes cleared his throat. Hawthorne looked up abruptly, his aggravated expression softening into one of surprised affability when he laid eyes on his three visitors.
"Well what a surprise this is! Miss Adler, I don't believe we've had a chance to speak properly since your return..." Hawthorne smiled apologetically and shooed away the four junior Guards. He caught a glimpse of Irene's engagement ring as the diamond glinted in the Indian sunlight. "It's Mrs Holmes now, isn't it..? My apologies." Balancing the pile of papers, Hawthorne reached out to offer Holmes a handshake. "Sergeant James Hawthorne. I should have recognised you from the night of your arrival, sir; you made quite an impression on our Captain!"
"I think Alcott made a similar impression on Sherlock," Irene said, watching Hawthorne as he shook Holmes by the hand. Hawthorne took her hand next and kissed it briefly, as one would customarily greet a lady. "It's so good to see you again, Jimbo," she said, grinning.
"And you, Mrs Holmes!" Hawthorne used her name as if it were a jest between friends. "Though here's hoping the next time we meet, it will be under more pleasant circumstances. I assume that's why you're here..?"
Irene's face fell, her eyes becoming shiny with tears. Watson watched her, aggrieved. He had not known that Jamal had meant so much to Irene...
"Where was the prince's body found, Sergeant?" Holmes took over the conversation.
Hawthorne shook his head. "I can't be giving away information like that, you understand...This is a crime scene which means it's off-limits to civilians. The Captain would be furious if he even knew you were here..."
Holmes looked up and down the riverbank at the chaos which surrounded him. "Well, it's pleasing to see you have the situation fully under control in his absence."
Hawthorne grimaced, but managed a wry smile. "The cadets they send us nowadays have the combined initiative of a large boulder. I do my best, but it's often not enough! Things were done very differently in my day..."
"How so?" Watson asked, intrigued.
"Well, cadets knew how to tie their own bootlaces for a start!" Hawthorne blushed slightly as he caught Watson's eye and looked away quickly when he saw the doctor smiling in his direction; a chain of events which seemed to cheer Irene immensely, though Watson had no idea why.
"Perhaps if you would allow us to be of assistance...?" Holmes asked casually, but Hawthorne was already frowning.
"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, we have procedure to consider. I can't just let you waltz in there and disrupt the crime scene before the experts have passed judgement."
"As far as experts go," said Holmes, "I am the best you've got or are ever likely to find."
"I understand that, but if Captain Alcott found out I'd allowed you to-"
"Do you still need a doctor?"
Hawthorne and Holmes both looked towards Irene, for it was she who had interrupted them.
"Yes," Hawthorne said distractedly, "But I don't see how that impacts at all on..."
"Doctor John Watson," said he, stepping forwards with a smile and offering a hand. Watson had always been dexterous, and he had guessed Irene's train of thought a mile off. The change in Sergeant Hawthorne was incredible. His expression cleared; replaced by a deep scarlet blush which he would not have managed to achieve after two hours of exercise in the Indian sunshine.
"How wonderful," he said exuberantly, smiling shyly up at Watson as he shook the doctor's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor John Watson..."
Irene used Hawthorne's distraction to slip a sly arm around the sergeant's waist and lean her head in so she could speak softly into his ear.
"Doctor Watson is the best chance you've got at getting this crime scene evaluated and cleared as soon as possible. He's brilliant at his job; far better than anyone you could expect your men to find here..." She lowered her gaze, smile falling away suddenly. "I know this isn't easy for you," she murmured. "I can see past your act, Jimbo...I know what you're feeling. It doesn't matter what people are saying, we both know this wasn't an accident. It's not easy for me either..."
Hawthorne looked down at Irene, his eyes suddenly moist.
"Don't..." he murmured.
"Let Sherlock help," Irene implored him. "When we used to walk together, and Jamal told us he was scared for his life, we promised to protect him."
"But we didn't," Hawthorne said quietly; so quietly in fact that Watson had to strain to hear his words. "We didn't protect him, and now he's dead..."
"But not in vain if Sherlock can find his killer," Irene insisted. "What if the murderer is the same person who..." she trailed off, and Watson assumed she was referring to the theft of the Sapphire. So Hawthorne did know Irene was innocent. Either that or she had him fairly convinced. Clearly both Hawthorne and Irene believed Jamal had been murdered. Though Watson would admit this seemed the most likely cause of events, he was unwilling to accept them without conclusive proof...
Hawthorne shook his head slowly.
"I must be mad..." He made up his mind.
"Oh...come along then doctor, Mr Holmes." He blinked twice and smiled ruefully. "Five minutes, mind, and no more; the last thing I need is the Captain on my case over this!"
Irene beamed up at Hawthorne, her sorrow forgotten, as the sergeant tucked his papers under one arm and began to lead his three trespassers along the path on the riverbank.
"I knew you'd cave," she said cheekily, earning herself a hearty laugh from Hawthorne.
"Only you, Irene..."
Holmes kept close to Irene, Watson thought, almost as if he sensed the next few minutes would be far from easy for her. Nevertheless, Watson wondered whether Irene was as genuinely upset about the death of Jamal as she had seemed when she had been speaking to Hawthorne. It would appear that Irene, Jamal and Hawthorne had been something of a trio when Irene had visited the province previously. Watching Irene and 'Jimbo' now as they walked side-by-side, Watson saw reflected within them the same light-hearted, rough-and-tumble friendship he shared with Irene himself. Assumedly her relationship with Jamal had been the same; so why did Watson get the feeling there was something she was keeping from them...?
A rugged pile of rocks stood in their path, blocking their immediate view of the riverbank before them. Hawthorne stepped over himself, and then allowed Holmes to help Irene. Watson stumbled slightly, disadvantaged by his limp, but Hawthorne was there and caught the doctor's forearm to steady him.
"Thank you." Watson smiled. Hawthorne, whose face had once again flushed at Watson's words, merely murmured something incoherent and clambered on to the head of the group. Watson frowned after him. The more peculiar Hawthorne's behaviour became, the funnier Irene seemed to find it. Did she know something they didn't?
From the peak, they could see out over the landscape and down once again to the great river. A tiny speck of gold lay motionless on the riverbank and upon seeing it, Irene's eyes filled with tears once again. Holmes put out a hand and Irene held it tightly. For once, he did not regret the physical contact – Irene needed support, and he felt obliged to help out. What's wrong with me?
In silence, the group continued down the rock-face and onto the flat of the riverbank. Jamal's body, clad in its golden robes, lay face-down at the very edge; the head and shoulders almost completely submerged in water. As the tides moved, small waves splashed up and over, soaking him to the bone. Before his death, Jamal had seemed proud, regal. Now, his body lay forgotten.
It was too much for Irene who began to sob quietly, her whole body shaking as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Sergeant Hawthorne was also emotional, wiping fiercely at his eyes to prevent moisture from forming.
Holmes, of course, was the first to react.
"Would you like to go?" he asked Irene in a low voice. He expected resistance, but Irene just nodded once. "Sergeant Hawthorne?" Holmes turned to address him. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort my wife back to the palace?"
Hawthorne seemed only too happy to oblige. He took Irene's arm and pulled her gently away from Holmes, catching Watson's eye once more before he left. They walked away silently, heads down, Irene clinging onto Hawthorne's arm and still sobbing.
Holmes felt uncharacteristically concerned for her, but logic told him that it would be prudent to inspect the prince's body before poor sergeant Hawthorne realised he'd been tricked into leaving Holmes and Watson alone with his crime scene.
"Did that Hawthorne seem a little odd to you?" Watson asked, slipping a leather-bound wallet of post-mortem tools out of his trouser pocket as he and Holmes began to walk slowly towards where Jamal's body lay.
"Odd? How so?"
"Well he was very red in the face."
"The heat affects us all differently..." Holmes stopped in front of Jamal's body and looked down thoughtfully.
"Do you think we should move him out of the river first?" Watson asked. He knew that removing the body from the water would make it easier to examine, but in doing so they risked damaging vital evidence.
Holmes shook his head slowly, the end of his thumb resting on his front teeth.
"Nobody said this would be easy, Watson. The heir to the throne of Kashmir is dead and many more lives are on the line. I think there's far too much at stake for us to choose what is easy over what is comprehensive."
Watson nodded his concurrence, acting as though he understood Holmes' peculiar philosophical ramblings. Together they waded up to their ankles into the river and stooped beside Jamal's body, taking care not to disturb its final resting position.
Watson lifted Jamal's head from the water, tilted his face to one side and frowned.
"His eyes are wide open..."
Holmes said nothing. He was examining the back of Jamal's golden robes where there were visible streaks of mud across the legs and as far up as the shoulders.
"Cause of death was definitely drowning," Watson confirmed, noting the bluish tint to Jamal's dark skin and the water which spilled from his mouth as the doctor parted his lips. "Less than five hours ago, it would appear." Something on the riverbank had caught Watson's eye, and he shifted on his knees to take a look. Though mud had been brushed over the top to form a crude form of camouflage, a handprint was clearly visible in the sludge of the riverbank. Watson lifted Jamal's hands from the bank and inspected them. Not only was there no mud on the skin, but the undersides of his fingernails were also completely clean.
Watson needed just one more clue to form his conclusion, and he soon found it. Beneath Jamal's hairline -just above the nape of his neck- Watson could see flecks of mud, hardened in the sun. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes, Watson had been a man determined beyond all logic to see the good in everyone. Sufficed to say all he had seen and done over the past seven years had thrown that particular ideology to the winds, leaving Watson with a demeanour which bordered frequently on the brink of plain cynicism. There was, therefore, little doubt left in his mind as to how young Jamal had met his sudden and premature end on the bank of the river...
"Well," Holmes said, straightening up, "You've seen the evidence, Watson...What are your conclusions?"
Watson had never invited Holmes to treat him as an apprentice, but the detective did it anyway. Secretly Watson enjoyed it when Holmes let him hold the reins of a case, if only for a short time. And so he too stood up and began to rattle off a list of his own deductions.
"He had to have been held underwater, and that didn't happen by chance." Watson positioned himself over the body, mimicking the position taken by an imaginary attacker. "The dirty marks on his back suggest there was a knee placed here to hold him down..." Watson pressed a knee gently into Jamal's lower spine. That was another thing he had learned from Holmes - that a concise investigation took precedence over respect for the dead.
"The killer balanced their weight with one hand in the mud..." Watson placed his own palm inside the print left by the assailant. "...And used the other to hold his head under the water; hence the flecks of mud in the hair."
Holmes nodded his approval. "Your powers of deduction continue to improve with practice, Watson. What of the prelude to the murder?"
Watson considered. "His clothes are caked with filth and there are distinct signs of a struggle," he said finally, indicating the smears and indentations in the soft mud around them. "I suppose it's some consolation to know he didn't go down without a fight."
Holmes stayed silent, and Watson realised he was thinking of Irene.
"What are we going to tell Sergeant 'Jimbo'?" Watson asked after a beat. "He's expecting a full medical report as to how Jamal died..."
"Putting word out that the prince has been murdered would spark a full-scale panic," Holmes stated, putting a lit match to his pipe. "What we need is a credible bluff to throw the Guard's investigators off the scent for the time being; at least until we can investigate further ourselves."
"I never thought it would come to this," Watson said dryly. "Conspiring against our own country's territorial army..."
"If needs must," said Holmes dispassionately.
"Do you think Irene will hold with that idea?" Watson speculated. "In fact, need we lie to Hawthorne in the first place? I think he's made it clear with whom his loyalties lie..."
"Perhaps, but if Alcott suspects we are acting out of line, he could quicken the warrant or simply take Irene without jurisdiction," Holmes said. "Hawthorne is deeply placed inside enemy lines, which means there is huge risk involved in trusting him. One slip of the tongue could cripple our investigation."
"But..." Watson was about to argue, but Holmes held up a finger to silence him.
"Sshh."
Watson blinked.
"Don't 'sshh' me!"
"Sshh," Holmes said again. "Listen..."
The doctor did so, but could hear nothing over the gentle lap of the river on the rocks.
"What?" he hissed.
"In the bushes," Holmes said, not moving an inch. "We're being watched, Watson..."
Watson rolled his eyes and tutted. "Oh, Holmes, it's probably an animal or a bird in the trees!"
"We're being watched," Holmes repeated. "I think it might be for the best if we were to continue this conversation as we walk. Come along, Watson, there's a good boy!" Holmes tucked his hands neatly behind his back once again, stepped over Jamal's body and set off back up the path towards the craggy rock pile.
"I am not your dog," Watson, snapped as he hurried after his friend. "And what exactly is your plan, Holmes?"
"Is it not obvious?"
Watson ground his teeth together in frustration. "Maybe it is to you, but perhaps it's escaped your notice that not everybody thinks the same way you do!"
"You're remarkably touchy today," Holmes commented. "The obvious lies in the objective, Watson..."
"To distract the British Guard with a false medical verdict," Watson summarised.
"Precisely," Holmes agreed. "It's a problem I've been considering since the beginning of the examination, but only now have I realised that the answer lies directly under our noses!"
Watson still looked blank, so Holmes continued.
"Perhaps if we were to use Jamal's mysterious medical condition as a seemingly legitimate reason for his death, it would satisfy Sergeant Hawthorne's enquiry...?"
"His narcolepsy?" Watson considered. "I suppose the story would be that he fell unconscious while ankle-deep in the river and drowned purely by accident?"
"You really should see the expression on your face when the pieces slide into place," Holmes said, irritatingly self-satisfied as always. "It really is quite enchanting..."
"Well it would be an enchanting idea if it were actually possible," Watson said cuttingly. "Jamal's periods of unconsciousness lasted less than fifteen seconds, Holmes; not nearly long enough for that theory to be plausible."
"Very little was known about Jamal's condition," Holmes said. "Jamal himself could not call it by name until you arrived and diagnosed him..."
Watson thought deeply. "Do you really think Hawthorne would buy it?"
"I'm sure that if you -and you only, Watson- were to explain the facts to Sergeant Hawthorne, he would be only too happy to take your word as the truth..."
Watson raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Holmes, why would he take my word above anyone else's?"
Holmes smiled knowingly.
"Trust me on this one, Watson..."
While Watson was explaining their story to Sergeant Hawthorne, Holmes set off to find Irene. She was in the palace gardens beneath the shade of a magnolia tree, eyes still red from crying.
They walked back to the rooms, closing the door behind them so that they would not be overheard. As tactfully as he could manage, Holmes began to explain the way in which Jamal had died and finally the details of the lie they had spun Hawthorne. Irene frowned at this.
"Jim's a good guy, Sherlock..."
"He is?"
"I know what you must be thinking," Irene said. "I thought the same once, but he really is a good man."
Holmes shrugged. "It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it darling..?" He cleared his throat. "I sent Watson to an audience with Hawthorne to deliver his medical opinion..."
Irene shook her head, smiling. "Because he's bound to take Watson's word. You're despicable, Sherlock Holmes..."
Holmes noticed Irene was shivering slightly, and poured two glasses of whiskey from Watson's crystal decanter.
"Shall we drink to Jamal's memory?" Holmes eyed the now half-empty bottle of vintage malt. "And to the doctor's absence, of course..."
Irene managed a smile as she accepted the glass Holmes offered her. The strong liquor helped to steady her nerves and put a rosy tint back in her cheeks. Really, she thought, it was unlike her to be so emotional. Irene Adler was a strong and confident woman, not a weeping wreck of a girl...
She stepped to the window and looked out over the Indian landscape beyond the pane. The sun was beginning to set, and Irene wondered how it was possible for such a terrible day to come to such a beautiful end.
It took her a moment to realise Holmes was standing by her side. Silently, she slipped her hand through his as a single tear gathered in the corner of her eye.
Even from afar, the cocking of a gun is a terrifying sound. Irene heard the distinctive clicking a split second before the detonation of the bullet propelled from the barrel. She scarcely had time to react before the bedroom window exploded into fragments of glass and she was slammed into the floorboards, tears forgotten, with Holmes' weight crushing the wind from her lungs.
The sound of the gunshot faded into the distance and all was suddenly silent...
Watson, who was at the end of the corridor when he heard the gunshot, sprinted to the door at the end of the guest corridor and flung it open. He had barely taken in the bullet hole in the windowpane before Holmes had grabbed him around the knees and tackled him mercilessly to the floor.
"Holmes, what on Earth?"
"Use your brain, Watson, keep close to the ground." Holmes beckoned and the two men crawled on their hands and knees to where Irene was sat beneath the window-frame. Watson smiled wryly at her, and then turned to Holmes.
"I take it this wasn't an accident? A simple misjudgement of trajectory during target practice?"
"I think you boys hit an exposed nerve inspecting that crime scene today," Irene observed.
"And I think you might be right," Watson told her. "Holmes?"
The detective had his knees up underneath his chin; his fingers entwined and his eyes closed. He did not answer Watson, but instead got suddenly to his feet and began to examine the hole in the window.
"Holmes, what if they fire again?" Watson cried, pulling sharply on his friend's trouser leg.
"Impossible. They wouldn't risk firing again, not in this light." Holmes ran his fingers over the glass, inspecting the bullet hole. "Judging by the path taken by the bullet..." He span around and began to pace back across the room. "...The shot was fired from the gardens." He reached up and -with some difficulty, for it was tightly wedged within the brickwork- pulled out the bullet which had minutes before been fired with the intention to kill.
"Large calibre bullet," Holmes said, tossing the small projectile into the air and catching it deftly with the same hand.
"Hitting the window with that level of accuracy from such a great distance is no mean feat," Watson pointed out.
"Precisely. So we are dealing with a keen marksman," Holmes said, eyes shining merrily. "In fact," he continued, "I would wager that the very man we are looking for is the same one who shot those unfortunate guards on the night of the theft..." He dropped the bullet into his trouser pocket. "All that remains now is to find the second thief!"
"The second thief?" Watson asked, puzzled.
"Oh, yes, there were two thieves."
"And you were planning on telling us this...when, exactly?"
"I room from which the Sapphire was taken from is lined with leaded windows," Holmes said, skating neatly around Watson's question. "The glass in the window fourth from the door is of a slightly different thickness to the others which would suggest it was recently replaced..."
"The guards were shot through the lockup's window." Watson nodded.
"So the shooter stood out in the Royal courtyard and fired through the glass," Irene stated. She looked up at Holmes as the pieces began to slot into place. "The shots would have alerted other guards within the palace..."
"Which is exactly why the shooter required an accomplice," Holmes said. "After the shots were fired, not nearly enough time would have remained for the same man to reach the lockup room and steal the Sapphire before the authorities arrived. Hence, they worked together – one shot the guards and seconds later, the second entered the lockup and removed the Sapphire.
"Further evidence would suggest also that the guards were shot by a second man: while protecting their post, both men were facing towards the door..."
"Hang on," Watson interrupted. "How do you know they were facing the door?"
"The Monsoon season was upon the province at the time of the theft," Holmes said. "The guards entered the lockup every day with boots wet from walking in the frequent showers. The damp soles of their shoes caused the wooden floorboards to become damp also, particularly over the many hours they spent standing motionless. Over time, damp footprints set into the wood, and from that we can determine the angle at which the guards stood; in this case, towards the door."
"Sorry I asked," Watson muttered.
"They would have seen an assailant enter through the door with the intention of shooting," Holmes continued. "No, this was a surprise attack..."
"The vault was locked," Irene pressed on. "Was the lock picked?"
"Smashed," Holmes told her. "Not a single scratch upon the keyhole, but the door swung open with minimum effort." He stretched his hands out before him. "In summary, ladies and gentlemen, we are now searching for two assailants. Both should be considered armed and extremely dangerous, are there any further questions?"
"The crime scene today..."
"With regards to the subject, I should just like to point out that I was right, was I not, Watson?"
"I'm sorry?"
"We were being watched," Holmes said with a devilish smile.
"Quite," Watson acknowledged with the utmost satire. "And now whoever it was is bent upon killing us for our discoveries..."
Irene grinned shakily and patted him on the back. "Just another day on the job, right, Doctor?"