Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Lonelier Than This" by Steve Earle.
May 28th, 1891
Hailing a cab early the following morning, Holmes sped over to Cavendish Place and, with little persuasion, employed Watson in the hunt for evidence.
"What have you discovered, Holmes, that requires my assistance?" the doctor had to ask as he clambered into the carriage. The detective leaned forward in his seat at once.
"With Mrs. St. James finally explaining her side of the case, I can bring this matter swiftly to a close. Provided that I can find the evidence I am expecting to find at her home," he murmured, launching into a shortened version of the tale Madeline spun for him. Upon seeing the doctor's eyebrows jump halfway up his forehead at the mention of the brother affinity for his sibling, he had to stifle a chuckle.
Thankfully for Watson's tender sensibilities, the trek over to Sloane Street was only a good ten minutes. Upon pulling in front of number one-seventy-three, the men hopped out, tossing some fare to the cabbie distractedly. Rapping smartly on the front door, Holmes' eyes swept around the stoop and patches of grass constituting a yard, and he smirked lightly. Before Watson could ask any more questions, the door swung open and revealed a disheveled maid.
"Can I help you?" she stammered, clinging tightly to the knob on her side. The distress rolled off of her in waves, hitting the duo swiftly.
"Pardon me, miss. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson. We are here on behalf of Mrs. St. James. Would you…?"
"Who's there?" a male voice rudely called out, causing the maid to jump a foot. Leaden steps heralded the approach of the caller, and suddenly the door was wrenched all the way open. The young girl curtseyed and scuttled away, disappearing in a room down the hallway. In her place now stood a towering man, his blonde hair slicked down and his black eyes cutting through them. "Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, acting for from Madeline St. James," Holmes grunted, hating to repeat himself. Watson drew himself to his full height, refusing to be intimidated by the bigger man. But the man moved away, ushering them in without posing a threat. Rather he guided them into a decently furnished sitting room adjacent to the entry and bid them sit. He introduced himself as Lawrence St. James, and told them he was the temporary caretaker of the house.
"Where is Madeline?" he asked bluntly, throwing propriety out the window. Another maid, quite a bit older than the last one, and bearing a caddy with teacups, bustled around him. "She has been gone for almost three weeks, battered and broken, and as I am her only family, I am concerned for her."
Holmes shrugged, motioning politely to the maid. "I'm not privy to that information, sir. She has communed with me by letter, asking me to take a closer look at her 'accident'."
Lawrence raised an eyebrow, oblivious to Watson glancing guiltily at his partner. Taking a cup, St. James addressed the woman as Millie and dismissed her abruptly. She cast a miffed look in his direction before disappearing around the corner. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the duo.
"I read in the newspapers that the case was ruled correctly. Have you evidence to the contrary?"
"That is the very reason why I am here, Mr. St. James," confessed Sherlock, almost spitting the man's name out. The tone reverberated in his ears, and he ignored both John's perceptive blink and his own rushing discomfiture. Rising from his chair, he remarked, "The lady requested me to look into all possibilities before letting the matter lie. Tell me, sir, why you are occupying a sick woman's home without her consent or knowledge."
"I wanted to make sure everything is in order. In truth, I am…connected to this place," Lawrence muttered, his eyes fixing onto the mantle behind his "guests". Daguerreotypes of an older couple were set off-center, flanked by two photographs. One was of him, and the other of Madeline and the late Simon. His gaze softened significantly, once it latched onto his brother's image. "I wanted to at least set foot in here once more before she comes back. She's essentially banned me, because of jealousy, I suppose."
"Jealousy?" the detective queried, seemingly interested.
"Indeed. She and I have had words in the past, over my brother no less. She accused me of trying to destroy her marriage by taking up his time, but I only wanted to protect Simon and be with him. Our parents died when we were young, and I was used to being the first person in his life. But…"
He swallowed hard, shaking his head.
"…Perhaps it was petty of me to fight back. With Simon now dead, it hardly matters. I keep telling her it is time to set aside the old grudges, but she pushes me away."
Holmes tucked a bit of his lip between his teeth, indicating to Watson his irritation. Smoothly the doctor interjected his sympathies, and reiterated the purpose of their visit. Lawrence nodded, never taking his eyes from the pictures. He granted them access to the entire house, with no hindrance from him. Once safely climbing the stairwell, Sherlock let out a deep sigh of relief.
"God bless you, Watson, you've saved us from a dreadfully boring afternoon. I am going to investigate upstairs. Go to the other housemaid straight away, and find the butler. Ask her about Lawrence, and his personal attendant Millie, starting from when they arrived here and invaded the home. Make sure she spares no detail," he half-whispered, leaving the doctor to the task and treading up the last few steps. Turning the handle to the first door to the right, he was greeted with the sight of an office, orderly except for a pile of papers gathered on corner of a desk facing the window. Careening right past the bookshelves and pulling out the chair, he descended on it. Opening all the drawers and noting the ledgers positioned in them, he pulled out one, scanning its contents briefly. He tucked it under his arm, intending to take it back with him.
Turning his attention to the letters, he filtered through them, looking for anything particular. Securing the most recent letter from Lawrence and an older letter from Ruth Bray, he turned on his heel sharply. Millie appeared before him, leaning against the door's frame and watching him intently.
"Oh…" he mumbled, not fond of being caught off-guard under any circumstances. Millie's shook her head, limp brown curls escaping her bonnet.
"Apologies, sir. Just heard a noise and I wondered who was in the Missus' office," she responded, blue eyes narrowing slightly at the thought of Madeline. Schooling his expression carefully and noting this, he shook his head.
"No harm done," he said, tapping his foot lightly against the floorboards. Just as she dropped into a curtsy, she was stopped by Holmes' preemptive hand. "Hold, for a moment, miss. I have a question for you."
"Yes, sir?"
"You can read and write, I presume. I noticed you trying to read the letters I'm holding in my hand upside-down. Will you write down your master's address for me, so I may keep him up-to-date on the case?" he inquired, hoping his ploy would work. After studying him for a long moment, she darted over to the desk and snatched up a fresh piece of paper and pen. Scribbling sounds echoed in his ears briefly, and then the scrap was pressed into his full hands.
"There you are, sir. And if I may be so bold, may I ask where Mrs. St. James is? It would put Law—Mr. St. James' mind at ease," she commented, taking advantage of the moment.
Looking her squarely in the face, Holmes told her, "I do not know where she's staying. She wouldn't tell me."
The lie hung in the air as he left her behind in the office, tripping quietly down the stairs. Millie's icy glare pelted him as he went, but he suppressed the urge to comment and instead went on the hunt for Watson. A stifled cry stopped him short in the halls, and he risked a peek around the corner.
Lawrence was inches away from the pictures now, gripping the mantelpiece hard enough to make it splinter. Tears were freely flowing down his face, and his body was wracked with held-in sobs. Breathing hard and heavy through his nose, he blindly pulled out a handkerchief and swiped almost uselessly at his eyes. Once his vision cleared, he spotted Holmes glaring at the floor, and both began to mutter ineffectually at each other.
A pregnant pause passed before Lawrence asked, "Do you have any family, Mr. Holmes?"
"One brother," he let slip out, praying silently that Watson would come back that second.
"Just the one person. Then you understand my plight, somewhat. Do you speak with him often?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and opted to just shrug. The teary man snorted derisively.
"No, then. You should, since he's your last link," he choked, folding the rag in his hands.
'Mycroft is not my only family, but if this man wants to think that, I shall let it pass…this one time,' the detective mused privately.
"Have you any idea what it's like to lose your family, Mr. Holmes? First you watch one parent die slowly, wasting away from some strange illness the doctors can neither identify nor treat. You watch them get swallowed up into the abyss; once he disappears it's the next one's turn. She goes quickly, starving herself, trading her life for a place with her husband. Then you're forced to be raised by your brother, and all the time you wonder if you're going next. Then you begin to think that it would be acceptable to be the next to go, so you can be spared the pain of losing yet another person. Life, however, deals you a brace of hands you never expect, and the next thing you realize is that you're running away from your own brother while he's dying. You just want to escape the curse…Having your parents being ripped away is awful enough, but your brother too? Indescribable. It's horrible to be left with no friend in the world, truly it is."
As the other man finished speaking, Sherlock felt his chest tighten with repressed emotion. Behind his cold, collected exterior, he felt warm memories that he'd hidden long ago invade his mind. Finally catching the sound of laboring steps and the thump of a cane against wood, he almost jumped for joy at Watson's return. Grabbing his friend's arm roughly, he bid Lawrence good-bye and nearly caused both of them to tumble out the door and onto the sidewalk.
Ignoring Watson's agape look, Holmes soldiered on, "What have you found out from the maid and butler?"
"Well, they both told me the same things: Lawrence St. James had arrived back in London five days before Madeline's…er, tumble. He has not been to the house since his being ejected on his brother's birthday years ago and generally respects the terms that had been set before him. He barged in to ensure that the household was carrying on well without their mistress, but has exceeded his stay. They both complained of his drinking habits, which leads him to carousing with the maid Millie and to random acts of violence. Those are directed towards chairs and end tables mostly."
"Pity the furniture, then. Other data?"
"Janet, the younger maid, also told me that she saw Millie poking around the house the days before and after the accident. At least she thought she saw her; the woman was there and gone so fast Janet believed she could've been mistaken. In any case, the older maid let herself in four days ago, with her master in tow, and they've been there ever since," Watson concluded. Holmes didn't even crack a smirk, or announce how the facts were lining up exactly as he thought they would. "Holmes?"
"I thank you for your time, doctor," was the curt response from Sherlock. Tugging at his collar, he croaked, "I must admit, the air in that home was absolutely stifling. I believe I could do with a brisk walk through the City."
John hurried along, trying to keep up with his friend's fevered gait. "Have you any need for further assistance?"
Holmes had his eyes trained on the building-clad horizon, and his mind was on a different plane entirely. He remembered a house not too far from there…he could see a family, the parents posing beside the hearth in the study, and two boys cavorting through the building…and then darkness clouded over the children's eyes as they sat together, heads bowed and hearts hammering…each unable to comfort the other, each lost in themselves.
The emptiness in Holmes face was beginning to worry his friend. Gripping his shoulder and causing Sherlock to pivot on his heel, Watson saw him descending back to earth. The detective stuffed the letters into the ledger under his arm, and ran his now freed hand through his hair.
"Dreadfully sorry, old boy, I was distracted briefly. If you'd like, you may accompany me to the carriage office by Hither Green in Lewisham."
Mollified for the moment, Watson pondered, "Should we not look at a nearer carriage office to find her assailant?"
"We would, if he had come from this area. However, the mud sample I lifted from Madeline's dress indicates that, although a cab can go almost anywhere in the City, that its primary travel circuit is indeed in Lewisham. When she bounced along underneath the Landau, she knocked enough loose for me to easily identify the largest donor. The color and consistency of the dirt is equivocal of the substance in that area of London," Holmes murmured, flagging down another cab.
"So the quasi-murderer hired someone away from the area to avoid suspicion," Watson thought aloud, pulling out his notebook and jotting down a few lines. "The person knew they would be too easily caught if they'd searched for someone around here, and if someone clever was on his trail."
"Quite so. And that is where Mr. Lawrence St. James's currently abandoned residence is as well. The Hither Green office is the closest one to his house."
Holmes drew out the address Millie had written for him and handed it to John, allowing him to examine it before a carriage eventually slowed to a stop in front of them.
Boarding the hansom cab, the doctor continued, "It seems to me that Mr. St. James is drawing the noose around his own neck with this."
Flopping down beside his partner, the detective clicked his tongue in a denial. What he said next jarred Watson far more than the rocking cab ever could.
"I am not convinced of anything at all. The evidence required to complete this investigation is still to be obtained, and-"
"Yes, I know, facts and theories, and so on," John crooned, stopping his companion's blather dead in its tracks. "But he has a large stack of accusations up against him: public drunkenness, breaking and entering, and harassment for starters. Whatever 'facts' you find, they better be sound, or the police will simply throw this case away."
"I know that," Holmes replied, settling the leather-bound book in his lap and flipping through the pages again. "The confidence you show for me is overwhelming."
The doctor crossed his arms, pretending to be miffed. "No need to be facetious, I was merely being realistic. One of us needs to be."
The other man smiled wryly. "And for that, I say again, 'God bless you, Watson'."
Author's note: So this is relatively shorter than last week's, but it's nice to have little ones here and there. The evidence is building…hope you guys had a great week, glad you read this chapter, please review, and I'll see you guys next time (Madeline's taking a bit of a break for the next couple of chapters, but she'll be back soon)!