The Yellow Faces
Part IV
Mrs. Macdonough wasn't an entirely disagreeable woman. However, she was not happy about having her privacy invaded and made her displeasure truly known to the detective and Molly.
"I'll not have strangers traipsin' through my lounge," she cried as Sherlock strode purposefully into the room and gazed about. Molly watched his eyes darting back and forth, seemingly at random, but she knew he was absorbing every detail of the room. He was noting and cataloguing everything from the manufacturer of the drapes to the patterns of the water stains on the side tables. Done with his initial sweep, he turned back to Mrs. Macdonough.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes and that is Molly Hooper," Sherlock said gesturing to Molly. "I know that you are Mrs. Evelyn Macdonough. Now we're no longer strangers."
He paused and waited for Mrs. Macdonough to say something else and when she didn't, he continued.
"Your neighbor, Mr. Bramby, told us that you and your daughter moved in here about three weeks ago. Is that correct?"
"I don't see how that's any business of-" Mrs. Macdonough tried to respond, but Sherlock cut her off.
"IS THAT CORRECT?" he shouted.
"Yes!" cried Mrs. Macdonough. "There's no need to shout!" She sat down nervously in a chair by the window. Sherlock noted that she quickly peeked out the window before returning her gaze to him.
"Where did you live previously?" he asked.
"I—I mean, we lived in Inverness."
How old is your daughter, Mrs. Macdonough?"
"She's fourteen next June," she answered.
"Is she at school now?" asked Molly.
"Oh, no." Mrs. Macdonough stared at the carpet. "She doesn't go to school. I teach her at home. She has some…problems."
"Problems?" Molly questioned sweetly. She stepped toward Mrs. Macdonough and Sherlock marveled at how she could intrude upon the woman's personal space, yet make it seem so non-threatening. If anyone else had done so, Mrs. Macdonough would have clammed up completely or worse, ordered them out. Yet there was Molly leaning forward, so close she could have touched the woman's hand, and the lady only sighed and motioned for her to sit beside her. Molly obeyed, crouching down on the floor beside Mrs. Macdonough's chair.
"Lucy, my daughter, has many problems, dear." She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. "She's a sweet girl," she continued, "but she can be difficult to manage. She suffered quite a lot of trauma as a small child and I fear it's affected her."
"How so?" Molly gently coaxed.
"She has behavior problems. That's why she doesn't go to school. She has emotional issues as well."
"Where is the girl's father?"
"Gone."
"You said she suffered trauma as a child," Sherlock asked. "What kind of trauma?"
Mrs. Macdonough glared up at the detective. "I'd rather not speak of it," she told him. "It's not Christian to speak ill of the dead."
"Right," muttered Sherlock.
"May we meet your daughter, Mrs. Macdonough?" asked Molly.
"Yes, I'll just go and get her," the lady said as she rose from her chair and headed toward the stairs. "Please don't ask too many questions though. She's easily rattled and may throw a fit if you alarm her."
"Molly…" Sherlock began when Mrs. Macdonough had disappeared up the stairs.
"I'll question the girl," Molly informed him and he sighed with relief. Children had never been Sherlock's specialty, and certainly not ones who may throw violent fits if he asked one too many questions.
After several minutes, Mrs. Macdonough returned, followed by a young girl with fiery red hair and bright green eyes. "This is Lucy," she told them.
"Hi, I'm Molly," the pathologist said as she stepped forward and extended a hand to the girl. "This is Sherlock. We're going to ask you some questions. Is that okay, Lucy?"
Lucy looked at Sherlock and giggled. "Sherlock. That's a silly name."
Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and glared down, offended, at the girl. Molly placed a hand on his arm and gently shook her head at him and he relaxed. Lucy giggled again and flopped down on the floor of the lounge.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock," she repeated in a sing-songy voice.
Molly sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the girl and smiled. It was apparent to her that while the girl had the appearance of a fourteen-year-old girl, she had the mind of someone much younger.
"So what do you like to do, Lucy?" Molly asked her.
"Dance. Want to see?" She jumped up from the floor and did a pirouette and Molly clapped. Lucy bowed proudly before sitting back down on the floor.
"You're pretty," she told Molly. "I like you." Sherlock had to stifle a chuckle as Molly flushed pink and fumbled for words.
"Thank you, Lucy," she finally managed. "I like you too." Molly looked up at Sherlock and he nodded in encouragement. "Lucy," Molly began slowly. "Do you like to paint?"
"Oh yes!" Lucy cried emphatically. "I like to paint. I paint all the time!"
"Do you like to spray paint?" Sherlock broke in. Molly glared at him as Lucy fell suddenly silent.
"Lucy, what Sherlock means is-"
"No!" yelled the girl, jumping up from the floor. She began to cry. "No! I'm a good girl now. I said I was sorry. I don't want to get in trouble with the police!" She ran to her mother and fell sobbing at her feet.
"I tried to warn you," said Mrs. Macdonough. Molly moved toward the girl again and reached out a hand to stroke her hair.
"You're not in trouble with anyone, Lucy. We just want to know the truth. You can trust me. I need you to tell me about the faces."
The girl stopped sobbing and lifted her face to look at Molly.
"Did you paint the faces, Lucy?" Molly asked quietly. The young girl nodded and then began to cry again.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I found the paint can and there were so many places to paint. It looked so pretty…"
"What about Mrs. Munroe's kitchen?" asked Sherlock.
Lucy nodded again. "Those walls were so white," she said simply.
Molly smiled and patted the girl on the hand. "Thank you, Lucy. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your secret is safe. Just don't do it again, okay?"
Lucy smiled and wiped her eyes with her forearm. "I won't," she replied.
"We should be going then," Sherlock told Molly. She nodded and tossed her multi-colored scarf around her neck and moved toward the door.
"Goodbye, Lucy. It was nice to have met you," called Molly.
"Bye, Molly," the girl answered as she moved toward the stairs. Sherlock watched as she hopped two steps at a time up the stairs singing a snippet of a tune that sounded oddly familiar.
"How do you do that?" Sherlock asked when they were back outside.
"Do what?" Molly questioned, confused.
"How do you get people to open up to you like that? Is that a female thing or just a Molly thing?"
Molly shook her head and laughed. "No, Sherlock. It's a human thing. If you're open and kind to people, most of the time they'll respond in kind to you."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not the touchy-feely type. I don't the time or patience to coddle and cajole answers from people. You though…" he paused and stared at Molly. "You don't even have to do that. There's something about you. I came to you. I opened up to you. I felt as if I could. You feel safe, Molly Hooper."
Molly shifted uncomfortably as his eyes seemed to bore into her. She didn't like it when he looked at her like that, as if she were a piece of evidence to be broken down and examined under a microscope. She tried to change the subject.
"You were right," she told him at last. "They are just faces. They don't mean anything."
"Simple answers, Molly," Sherlock replied with a wry smile. "It's no fault of yours though. It's a trick of the human brain to see patterns and connections where there are none."
"But isn't that what you do?" Molly asked. "You see patterns and make connections."
"I-" Sherlock started to give Molly a very long and detailed lecture on how much more adept his brain was at reading subtleties and deducing the truth from the simplest and most ordinary of facts, but he was interrupted by the blaring of "Oh Baby, Shake That Thing" from Molly's phone.
"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "Gotta get that." She pushed the talk button and stepped away to talk.
Sherlock walked toward a big yellow smiley face that was painted on a nearby fence and studied it. The crude face smiled back at him and he thought of Lucy Macdonough happily painting yellow smiles all over the neighborhood. He unconsciously hummed a little tune as he turned away, but a sudden thought stopped him cold in his tracks.
"Molly," he called. "We need to go back to the Munroe home."
"What for?" she asked, ending her call and sticking her phone into her pocket. "I thought we were done. Mr. Munroe's having an affair and Lucy painted the face on the wall, right?"
"No," replied Sherlock. "There's something else. Lucy was humming that tune, the one from the MP3."
"So? I told you, it's a popular tune. I've got it on my phone. Everybody's singing it," argued Molly.
"There's also the medication, Molly. Methylphenidate, remember?"
"ADHD meds." Molly thought for a moment before the answer dawned on her. "Lucy?" she asked.
"It makes sense," said Sherlock.
"Not really," Molly told him. "Why would Mr. Munroe be buying medication for a neighbor child who moved in only three weeks ago?"
"Why indeed…" Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "We need to speak to Mrs. Munroe. There may be more to this than a simple affair."
"Like what?"
"Blackmail."
A/N:
I'm really super surprised and pleased at the attention this little story has received! I hope you're all enjoying it. We're nearing the end and I'm wondering if anyone has figured it out yet. PM me with your guesses/theories and I'll let you know if you're right. Thanks for reading!
Comments/Reviews are welcome and encouraged!