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: "Private Investigations" by Dire Straits.
Arriving in Lewisham twenty minutes later, the team went to work. They parted ways, with Watson going into the main offices of Hither Green and Holmes slipping into the stables beyond. The yard was quiet, with only two drivers tending to their cabs and horses before setting off for work. One carriage was untouched, sitting in its stall and gathering dust.
Gripping a passing mechanic's arm, Sherlock asked, "Whose cab is that, in the corner?"
The bloke shrugged. "Not sure, sir. I just come along whenever one needs fixing; I don't know names. I will say this though- that one's been rotting in the back for a couple weeks now. Driver musta up and quit, and only after payin' me half of what he owes me."
Letting him go, the detective scanned the dirt and the surrounding stalls for clues before heading back for the Landau.
'Seat brought forward, meaning driver is of shorter stature…patch of ragged material caught on the edges of driver's seat. Obviously has not had this vehicle polished and mended in a long while…hmm,' he observed, laying on his stomach and glancing at the undercarriage. A bit of cloth was twisted into a joint, and on removal Sherlock realized it was a scrap ripped off of Madeline's dress. This was definitely the right coach. 'Wonderful.'
Slipping up to the main building, Holmes darted through the back door, and banged right into his partner.
"…And as you can see, Mr. Watson, we run a tight ship here in the office," the manager, Arthur Davis, concluded the tour. Watson had been posing (per Holmes' plan) as an auditor, asking for any information on the firm's practices within the last three weeks. The single-story building was squat and low, divided into four rooms with no doors save for the front and back. The walls were whitewashed and incredibly tidy; Mr. Davis, being a retired naval officer, had to keep it that way. The stables were settled behind the offices, he told them, and he employed upwards of twenty drivers. "We've been very successful this year, so I was able to take on a few more drivers four months ago."
"Yes, yes…I thank you for showing my friend this fine establishment, but what I really wish to see are your records. It is imperative to the inspection," Holmes cut, his eyes running over the hallway that led to the counting office and the two young men tallying papers within.
"My partner, Mr. Holmes," Watson introduced formally, allowing the men a moment to shake hands.
"I've taken the liberty of observing the goings-on in your stables, and things appear to be satisfactory. Now, we need employee names, past auditing reports, and the like to complete the survey."
Davis motioned them towards the front. "Right, right…can't deny you that, sir. You'll find everything you need in the main room in the farther cabinet to the left."
Inclining his head in thanks, Holmes dashed away and flung open the cabinet while Davis excused himself to see to other matters. The detective perused the accounts and log books he found, pointing to names every so often and indicating that Watson should record them in his notebook. Once the remaining souls in the office had exited the building as well, Holmes dropped his guise of busy perusal and tore away to the counting room. He left his companion momentarily flabbergasted.
"Holmes, what on earth…?"
"Those are just generally accounts you are handling, my friend. I need to see repair costs, accident reports…and the one place they would keep those is in this office," he responded, scanning the ledgers within the accountant's desk quickly and pulling one out from the middle. "Here we are, the expenditures for the last month."
Watson tramped down the hall towards his compatriot. "Would Mrs. St. James have damaged the carriage much when she was trampled?"
After a moment's silence, Sherlock tapped his finger against a recording in success.
"Enough to fracture the elliptic springs on the front and back left-side wheels, as with what happened to this one that was brought in only one day after the accident. What does this tell you, Watson?"
Thinking on his feet, the doctor replied, "That the coach had to have been one of the older ones for her to have snapped the springs that easily."
Holmes grinned. "Precisely. And therefore it was under the care of one of the elder workers here. He's also one of the poorest working here."
"What makes you say that?"
"Carriage drivers, old chap, are responsible for the wear and tear of the coach assigned to them. Ergo, if it gets damaged, the driver has to pay for the repairs out of his own pocket. However, as it is indicated here, Stall Number Fourteen's driver has had to extend the payment date on the spring's repairs until approximately four days after it was fixed. The fresh parts on the abandoned Landau in that same stall illustrates how worn down it is as a whole. He had to scrounge up the money somehow, until he could be paid off for his part in the twisted murder plot. It appears that this same man was unable to pay off the mechanic I met earlier, most likely because he is gone to ground. According to the pay dates on the wall, he had his funds advanced."
He inclined his head towards the papers tacked up beyond Watson's head. The other man spun on his heel, examining the figures closely before letting out a low whistle. Given that the chap was making around £23 a year, he was pulling his money out too rapidly.
"His bills must be so much that he couldn't have afforded the repairs for his carriage unless he knew for certain he'd be refunded for the accident, and now he cannot pay because he thinks he will be caught," Holmes commented lightly, his lips pulled down into a frown briefly. "And so here we have our first concrete suspect."
Leaning closer, John tsked under his breath. "Unfortunately, it appears that the employee in question has had his name scratched out. There goes your concrete suspect."
The detective shrugged. "That's easily rectified."
"Going to the employment records again, are you?"
Before Sherlock could answer, the front door banged open. Sneaking around the corner, the duo looked on, unseen by the intruder. A shorter man decked out in clothes that were more patches than original material rushed at the cabinet in the main room and began sifting through the files. His ruddy face sported reddish stubble and his eyes were practically covered by a tweed cap. A tarnished Albert chain drooped out of his pocket. Upon finding the file he needed, the man pulled out a handful of matches and prepared to burn the papers.
"You see, Watson? Easily rectified," Holmes murmured, stepping out from their hiding spot. "Excuse me!"
The red-faced man let out a shriek of shock. Once he regained his breath, he snatched up his folder and ran back the way he came from. Groaning, Holmes immediately gave chase and sprinted after the mysterious stranger. Watson was stranded for a moment in the empty building, huffing in displeasure.
"We can never avoid this, can we?"
xXxXxXx
Five alleyways and six main roads later, the pursuit continued. Sherlock had dodged innumerable pedestrians, several cabs, and at one point ran straight through the first floor of somebody's home. Maids and footmen yelped at the rush of men parading across the house, linens and silver decorating the floors as they passed out the kitchen door and jumped a low fence. The man that managed to stay just ahead of him was beginning to finally lose wind, his steps lagging slightly as he rounded another bend.
'Time to think of a plan…right, first point: snatch up apple from vendor twenty-five feet ahead,' the detective thought, following through on the idea. 'Second point: dodge overturned crates, gain approximately three feet of ground.'
Choosing to execute a massive leap, Holmes easily hurtled the wooden boxes and got a little closer to the runner. His grip tightened on the apple as he pumped his arms in time with his legs.
'Third: wait until man prepares to turn for the next alleyway, then aim for head and throw projectile at precisely three feet in front of him. Make contact in three seconds.'
The job was done easily, the fruit's meat splattering everywhere and felling the man instantly.
'Unfocused, he will flounder on the ground for ten seconds. Descend upon him immediately. Escape: doubtful.'
Pulling the man back onto his feet by his frayed lapels, Holmes pushed his back up against the nearest wall.
"Who are you?"
The man coughed and wheezed, nodding his head frantically. "Albert Courdray!"
"Why were you trying to burn that file?" Sherlock asked, jerking his head in the direction of the papers littering the cobblestones. He suspected that he already knew the answer, but a suspicion was not evidence. He needed a straightforward confession.
"I didn't want to be found! I knew the police were after me for hurting that woman!" Albert cried, struggling against Holmes' iron grip. "I thought I could leave work, disappear, take my family and run…Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes. I represent the woman you tried to kill," was the response. Releasing one lapel to point a finger in his face, Holmes grunted, "Explain yourself. Now."
Courdray shook his head in assent. "I will, I will. Sir, you have to understand: I'm not proud of what I did. I was desperate…I have my wife and three kids to feed. Me wife's been ill for months, and not able to work. My girl and two boys are too young to even be in school yet, sir. I've been doing without; letting my uniform go to seed, patching up my cab meself, just so the extra money can go towards food and such. My father was a gambler, and left all his debts to me when he died, and so I have to pay for those, too. We've extended rent for over three months."
"Yes, it appears that you are suffering heavily," Holmes croaked, eyes flicking over the man's clothing again. "How did you come to the act of attempted homicide?"
"I'll tell ye. So I'm down on me luck, finishing rounds and putting the cab away about midnight a month ago, when I am approached by this lad. I think it was a lad; he sounded quite a bit younger than me at least, he hid his face underneath his tall hat," Albert trailed off. The detective shook him to return his attention to the present.
"Go on."
"Right. So this fellow grabs me arm, scares the living daylights out of me and nearly getting clobbered. He says he needs me to do a special job, that only I can do. I asks him how he knows I'll do it. 'Yer desperate,' he says. 'You need the money. Simple as that.' He got me there, but I still was sketchy about it. I asked what the job was. He handed me a photograph of a woman, told me to study her face 'til it was stuck in me mind. Decent-looking woman, it seemed...the face was the important part to remember. 'What d'you want me to do about her? Give her a ride somewhere?' I asked. 'No. I want you to kill her,' he says. At first I refused, but then he started mentioning my family, my children, and how they needed more than the scraps I'd been throwing at 'em. Those words cut me deep. I couldn't let me kids go hungry…I couldn't let them live this bad anymore."
A shake of the head reflected his remorse at the treachery, the shame.
"Then he completed the job by threatening to find me family and harm them if I didn't do as he asked, or if I tried to turn him in. So I agree, and after a week of that woman's image haunting my dreams…I do the job. And the day afterward, I find the money sitting in my broken cab. Almost a hundred pounds, sir! Even after paying me debts, it was enough to get me family to a new place, away from strange people requesting dirty deeds in the middle of the night. After pocketing the money, I brought the cab in, and told the mechanic to fix it. We haggled over payment until I gave him half of me wages to start and the rest to be paid at a later time...and then I left. Haven't been to work since. I've been moving me family out to Liverpool," Courdray finished in a rush. "Getting rid of those files was the last piece of the puzzle."
"You never saw the man's face…how tall was he?" questioned Holmes, forcing Courdray to look him in the eye.
After hemming and hawing, Albert squaked, "Around my height actually. Five feet-six inches, five-foot-seven, thereabouts."
"Anything else about him come to mind? Did his clothes fit him?"
"They seemed a bit baggy, but they were fine clothes, I remember that. I assumed it was a lad who got spurned by the lady. I didn't care much to find out," the ex-driver went on. That earned him a harsh glare from the detective.
"Of course, it hardly mattered that you tried to murder a woman you never knew," he grumbled, throwing him to the ground. Ready to deal him a hard kick to the stomach, Sherlock caught sight of Watson, leaning casually against some nearby barrels. He paused, and then simply picked up the file instead of acting rashly. "Here's the driver the police are searching for."
"Indeed," John muttered, having heard the whole story and quickly recording it as evidence. Casting sympathetic eyes towards Albert, he wondered, "Shall we turn him in?"
Holmes was torn between two decisions. One, he could simply hand him over to Lestrade, and deprive a struggling wife and starving children of their provider for years, assuming he didn't get the noose or transportation as a sentence. Or he could let him go, make sure he never returned to London again and become a memory that would fade into the fog of the damp city nights. Then he would carry the guilt of not apprehending the tool that had been turned to destroy Madeline.
"Get out of my sight," he remarked, hauling the accomplice onto his feet once more. "I never want to hear, see, or smell you in this city again, sir. You can bear the burden that you were almost a murderer for the rest of your life."
Surprised, Courdray could only stare back for a moment. "What?"
"Begone!" Holmes growled, hooking his thumb behind him. "Leave, before I change my mind!"
Seconds later, Courdray was a dot in the distance, running his heart out. John felt deep down that Holmes could never stoop to condemn a man who was only a diversion. Albert had no idea that he was being used until it was almost too late. But he also knew that it would gnaw at his friend's mind that he'd let the man go without a fight. Latching his blue eyes onto his friend's dark brown ones, they mutually cleared their throats.
"If anyone ever asks—" the consulting detective started.
"He outran you," the doctor finished for him. Turning to walk back onto the street, he continued, "What will you tell Madeline?"
Taking a deep breath, Holmes just lolled his head to the side.
"The truth. He's not her real assailant; he was just part of a grander plan. The real criminal is still waiting to be captured."
Author's note: Last Friday I got "Sherlock Holmes" for my birthday…and I squealed with joy! Ah, this has been a great week…oh, and the pound-payment was a rough estimate pulled off of a website that listed a couple of annual payments for servants in the 1800's. And everything is starting to come together now…Alright, it's really late and I need to get some sleep, so I'm glad you read this, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be seeing you guys again in about a week. Sayonara!