Turn Left – The Veteran's House
by Soledad
Summary: What if John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park on that fateful day. Would his and Sherlock's path ever cross?
Author's notes: This part of the story has been inspired by the ACD short story "The Three Garridebs". Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are taken from the unaired "Sherlock" pilot, though.
Chapter 10
"And who, pray tell, is 'Killer" Evans?" John asks later in the afternoon. The sale has run its cycle and is closed. Sherlock, who – naturally – kept out of the noisy crowd, is sitting with them and Mrs Hudson in Mrs Holding's drawing room, while Miss Morstan is entertaining their landlady and Mrs Murray somewhere in the village.
"A man of impressive reputation – if you're impressed by a criminal record longer than your arm," the consulting detective replies grimly. "I knew he had to have one, seeing as he used to work for Mrs Hudson's husband, and mailed his photo to New Scotland Yard, to Detective Inspector Lestrade," he draws an envelope from his pocket. "Here, I printed out the information for you while in Winchester."
John opens the envelope and unfolds the sheets of paper within.
"James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias 'Killer' Evans?" he reads with a frown.
Sherlock nods. "He's a hired gun; a professional killer. Aged forty-four, native of Chicago. Known to have shot three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political influence, supposedly, although I suspect that he's freelancing for the CIA and that's why they let him escape."
"But what is he doing here?" Bill Murray asks. "You said the thing with the Agra treasure was a red herring…"
"Precisely," Sherlock says. "But Evans's last known job before leaving the States some six years ago was to hunt down Rodger Prescott, the infamous forger who was thought to have moved from Chicago to Florida roughly ten years previously."
"Did he find the man?" John doesn't doubt that he did. Jungle Jones, or whatever his name might be, strikes him as one who never leaves a job unfinished.
"Apparently, yes. But something has gone wrong. The official version is that the house in which Prescott was hiding burned down and the man himself was killed in the fire, with his forging equipment completely destroyed."
"But you don't believe it," Bill states.
"Human bodies don't burn to ashes by a simple house fire," Sherlock replies. "Machines perhaps; they're made mainly of plastic nowadays. But even so, forensics should have found at least some molten residue; and definitely some charred human remains."
"They have not?"
"None at all."
"Perhaps they did sloppy work?" Mrs Hudson, now with some more colour in her face, suggests. "You keep telling me how incompetent the police are."
Sherlock waves off her suggestion. "I was talking of Lestrade's band of idiots. The CSI in the States are much better trained and equipped."
"So you believe this Prescott character has left, together with his stuff, before 'Killer' Evans burned down the house?" Bill tries to clarify; but Sherlock shakes his head.
"I don't believe he'd taken his equipment to Florida at all. I believe he sent it to England, to an old acquaintance well in advance when the FBI came too close for his comfort. Then he went to Florida with his generous supply of forged money to sit out the crisis and move on to England once he felt it would be safe enough. If you remember, Mrs Hudson, a considerable amount of false money was in circulation in Florida six or seven years ago."
"True," she agrees. "Frank – that was my husband –, " she adds for John and Bill's sake, "was very angry about it."
"Angry enough to hire 'Killer' Evans?" Sherlock asks and she shrugs.
"I don't know, Sherlock. All I know is that Evans did work for Frank at that time; but I don't know what kind of job he was hired for. Well… I can imagine what kind of job it was; I just don't know exactly what it was."
"I think that's fairly obvious," Sherlock says dismissively. "He was after Prescott; and I believe he burned down the house in which Prescott was trapped – or so Evans thought. His job was most likely to get rid of Prescott; finding Prescott's equipment would have been just an additional bonus."
"Yeah, but did he truly get rid of Prescott?" John asks slowly.
That earns him an irritated look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Prescott might have escaped he fire, although probably horribly burned," John explains. "Such wounds need time to heal: months, sometimes even years; and extensive reconstructive surgery. Without that, the victim remains disfigured beyond recognition. Which leads us directly…"
"To our so-called zombie who first appeared in your house four years ago and was described by our homeless friends as somebody who may well have been the victim of savage burns! "Sherlock claps his hands in delight. "Oh, brilliant! John, you apparently aren't the complete idiot I thought you would be!"
"Well… thanks, I think," John replies dryly, although he does know that from Sherlock Holmes this was a compliment indeed. "So, what's the next link?"
"Well, we must go tonight and look for that," Sherlock decides. "I've already told the young people that we will keep watch tonight – that is, if you're with me, doctor?" he looks at John.
"Oh, God, yes!" John replies with feeling. He hasn't felt so alive for a very long time. Not since his return. Sherlock seems to have that effect on him, and he's secretly grateful for that.
The detective nods. "Good. If our Wild West friend tries to live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him, though; so make sure you'll have that illegally kept pistol on your person tonight."
"I don't know what you're talking about," John says blandly, studiously ignoring Bill's badly concealed snort of laughter.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, please don't insult my intelligence! I'm not one of the unobservant fools you're surrounded by."
"I still don't know what you're hinting at," John replies, completely straight-faced. "But if I had an illegal weapon in my possession, which I absolutely don't, I wouldn't come to our little man-hunt unarmed tonight."
Sherlock gives him a long, unnerving look, and then he nods. "Good enough. I'll give you another hour of rest; then we'll meet at the garden shed."
"What about Doc and Leon? Won't we endanger them with our action?"
"I sent them to Stockbridge with some money to buy themselves a decent dinner and stay out of the way tonight," Sherlock tells him.
"You really think this Evans bloke or what's his name will come to John's house tonight?" Bill asks.
Sherlock nods. "Oh, yes. He probably knows that Mrs Hudson has recognised him, so he's got to act at once. He cannot afford to wait, in case we alert the police."
"You won't?" Bill clearly finds that a stupid idea.
Sherlock grins like a shark. "Oh, I will – after we got him!"
"Then I'll go with you," Bill declares, but Sherlock shakes his head.
"No. The fewer people are involved the better. But I'd ask you a favour if I may."
Bill gives him a measuring look. "That depends on the favour."
"Stay here, in John's room tonight and keep an eye on Mrs Hudson. We don't know if Evans has any allies in Nether Wallop; she might be in danger," Sherlock says.
"I can do that," Bill agrees – and that's that. Mrs Hudson seems supremely content with her personal bodyguard, and as Bill's wife is going to spend the evening in Winchester with Miss Morstan – they have theatre tickets for a play Bill definitely won't be interested in – there is no need to get her involved. Or to tell her why her husband chose to stay in John's room tonight.
Mrs Murray and Miss Morstan leave for Winchester at half past four. It's just five o'clock when John and Sherlock reach The Veteran's House, but the shadows are falling already. The people who helped cleaning up after the sale are all gone; since the front door shuts with a spring lock now – the first and so far only improvement John has done was having the locks changed – there was no need to wait for them to finish.
John fishes the new key from his pocket and opens the door; now he and Sherlock are alone in the lower floor of the house.
"Now what?" he asks.
Sherlock shrugs. "Now we wait."
"You sure he'll come?"
"Absolutely. He believes this would be his only chance to get what he wants – and he's right. Because tomorrow Reno Reyes and his workers will start the repairs and they might find it – unless Evans gets it tonight."
"So you believe Reyes and Evans are after the same thing?" Sherlock nods. "Which would be – what exactly?"
"I can't tell."
"Can't or won't?"
"Can't," Sherlock admits. "I do have a theory, of course; a fairly plausible at that, I think, but it's just that: a theory. I need proof. And I'm quite certain that tonight we will find that proof."
"In which case we'd night a good hiding place," John suggests," lest we warn our bird before it would fly into the trap."
Sherlock makes a rapid examination of the premises; not that he hadn't seen them before, but never with the intent to hide in there.
"See that cupboard in the corner?" he then says. "The one that stands out a little from the wall? There's just enough room behind it for us to crouch down, out of sight."
John eyes the claustrophobic little place doubtfully, thinks of his bad leg and suppresses a sigh. He'll just have to man it up if he wants to learn the guilty secret of his own house. They make themselves as comfortable behind the cupboard as possible under the circumstances and began their vigil.
John has the uncomfortable feeling that it's going to be a long one.
To his relief, he soon proves to be wrong in his estimate. They've barely been there for fifteen minutes when they hear the outer door open and close. Then comes the sharp, metallic snap of a key, and in the next moment they can make out the dark outlines of a man enter the room. By his size and shape John is quite certain that it is Jungle Jones… or 'Killer' Evans... or whatever his true name might be.
The man closes the door softly behind him, takes a sharp glance around him to see that all is safe and walks up to the small cupboard in the corner dangerously near John and Sherlock's hiding place with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushes the cupboard to one side, tears up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolls it completely back and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he kneels down and starts working furiously on the floor.
From their hiding place John and Sherlock soon can hear the sound of sliding boards, and an instant later a square opens in the planks. Jones… Evans… whatever switches on a small torch and vanishes from their view.
Sherlock touches John's wrist.
"Clearly, our moment has come," he mouths soundlessly, and John nods his understanding.
Together they tiptoe across the room to the open trap-door. Carefully though they move, the old floor creaks under our feet, and the head of the American suddenly emerges from the open space. His genially handsome face turns upon them with a glare of baffled rage; this is the very first time John sees his charming mask fall, and he understands that they're dealing with a dangerous and merciless predator.
He is glad to feel his gun pressing into his flesh, stuck in the waistband of his trousers – but somehow he's got the uncomfortable feeling that Jones – Evans – is aware of him being armed. The manner in which the man reacts to their presence, with his rage gradually softening into one of his thousand megawatt grins that never quite seem to reach his icy blue eyes, only underlines that feeling.
"Well, well!" Evans says coolly as he scrambles to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and tried to play me for the idiot you thought me to be. That's the problem with you, self-proclaimed geniuses, you see: you eventually come to believe your own PR. Thinking everyone but you is stupid, ain't you?"
"People usually are," Sherlock replies, completely unfazed by the man's obvious readiness to kill them both.
"Perhaps," Evans allows amiably, which is more unsettling than if he were raging about; it gives them a glimpse of madness and of the total lack of conscience. "But that great brain of yours won't be of any use with a bullet right in the middle of it, would it?"
Without waiting for an answer, he whisks out a revolver from his shoulder holster and fires two quick shots at Sherlock, aiming for his head. He is a trained killer; under normal circumstances the world's only consulting detective would be stone dead by now.
If he hadn't John Watson on his side, that is.
Because John Watson might be just a crippled ex-Army-doctor now, but less than a year ago he used to be Captain Watson, the best marksman of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. One that, fortunately, has trained with his right hand on the shooting range in all his years in the Army. With his non-dominant hand, that was spared when he got his crippling injury.
And he still has the reflexes of an excellent marksman. Reflexes that are faster even than those of the professional killer. Not by much, granted, but that tiny little advantage makes all the difference.
John manages to draw his gun just a second or two faster than Evans draws his. And his trigger finger is quicker, too. The two shots aimed at Sherlock's head go askew, one of them grazing his temple almost harmlessly; but Evans himself falls backwards with a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead, that cold grin frozen grotesquely on his face.
John checks Sherlock's wound quickly, reassuring himself that it's quite superficial; then he leans over Evans, feels his neck for a pulse – and finds none.
"He's dead, Jim," he says in a sudden moment of insanity and can't suppress a fairly hysterical giggle. Sherlock stars at him blandly, clearly not getting the joke and how is it possible to be ignorant towards such a Star Trek classic? Granted, it is an American classic but still…
John briefly wonders whether Sherlock wouldn't get a TARDIS joke, either.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock demands, apparently concerned that John has lost his mind and he's now trapped in here, injured, in the company of a dead killer and an armed madman.
John looks at him in surprise. "Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?"
"You have just killed a man," Sherlock points out and John can't help but shake his head slightly. For all that great brain of his, Sherlock Holmes so very obviously has no idea what it means having spent years in the front line.
"I've seen men die before," he says softly, thoughtfully. "And good men, friends of mine. Thought I'd never sleep again," he meets Sherlock's eyes, his face calm. "I'll sleep fine tonight."
For a moment Sherlock stares him in almost-shock; he's probably used to very different reactions from people who've just shot somebody dead, even from the police. But again, being a police officer isn't the same thing as having served in various war zones for a decade and a half, either.
After a moment Sherlock nods decisively. "All right. Give me your gun!"
"What for?" John asks with a frown.
"We'll say that I shot Evans in self-defence," Sherlock casually fires a shot into the wall, in the vague height where Evans's head might have been before john shot him. "So, that would provide the police with the power burns they'll need. Evidence and all that. They love having solid evidence."
"I still don't see the point," John says. "What difference would it make which one of us shot him? He had tried to kill you!"
"Yes, and the police will find his bullets in the wall; and it will makes forensics very happy," Sherlock replies dismissively. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."
"What about you? Aren't you taking the same risks?"
"Not really," Sherlock whips out his phone and starts texting furiously. "Mycroft can take care of the clean-up for me."
"Your brother?" John remembers a casual remark from not so long ago. "He can do that?"
"Mycroft can do anything he wants," Sherlock drops his phone onto the central table. "I think we better alarm Detective Sergeant Bradstreet… if the neighbours haven't done so already."
He walks out, his temple still bleeding a little. John can't resist the temptation to take a look at the text message he's just fired off. It says:
Killer Evans is dead. Need a clean-up team in NW, ASAP. SH.
John shakes his head in amusement and jogs after the madman. He still has to dress that wound, after all.
Sergeant Bradstreet arrives in no time and together the three of them go to look down into the small cellar that has been disclosed by the secret flap. Sherlock has found the light switch, and in the vague yellow light of a single light bulb their eyes fall upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and – neatly arranged upon a small table – a number of neat little bundles.
"A printing press – a counterfeiter's outfit," the sergeant realises.
"Obviously," Sherlock replies, with the smug expression of someone who's figured it out already. "The greatest counterfeiter England ever saw. That's Rodger Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. No man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England; he could have flooded London with them and nobody would be the wiser. Well… if I say nobody…" he adds with a tight little smile.
"That would have been a disaster," Bradstreet agrees. "Why hasn't he, though; and where is he now?"
"I imagine he knew he was being hunted; and that not just by one party," Sherlock shrugs; then he corrects himself. "Or rather his equipment was, since he was believed to be dead. Besides, he couldn't get into the house either, as long as Mr Garbler lived in there. Not until Reno Reyes did him the favour of killing the old man."
"But I've sealed the house after Mr Garbler's death," Bradstreet protests. "How did he get in in the first place?"
"He must have had a detailed map of the house," Sherlock explains. "I believe he was an old acquaintance of Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby and sent his equipment to his business friend for safe-keeping when the waters began to heat up around him."
"But why would Mr Ponsonby senior hide these things in a house that he sold to an uninvolved third party?" John asks.
"Exactly because they were uninvolved," Sherlock replies. "Who would suspect a counterfeiter's outfit to be hidden in the house of such a harmless old fool? I'm quite certain that Prescott could have got his stuff without Mr Garbler's knowledge, though."
"Had he not been caught in that fire, back in the States," John adds, starting to understand the whole idea. "Since he couldn't show himself openly, he needed a hiding place, and in the empty house he could work undisturbed – and thus the legend of the zombie in The Veteran's House was born."
"Not entirely undisturbed," Sherlock corrects. "Clearly, the people for whom he used to work have figured out the connection to Mr Ponsonby Senior and suspected that either he or his equipment would be hidden here, in Nether Wallop. And so the agents of the various parties followed the trail, in the hope of finding either Prescott or his stuff – or both."
"And Mr Reno and his Manolo represented one of those parties?" John isn't particularly surprise. Sherlock nods.
"Oh, yes. I've checked his background through one of my contacts in the States: Reno Reyes used to work for La Hermandad, one of the rather minor drug-dealing gangs in Florida, although the police could never actually prove his involvement in any of their major crimes. It's believed that he and his cousin Manolo were usually sent out to beat up people the gang wanted to intimidate. They were muscle, nothing else; and I presume the same was expected from them here."
"Only that Prescott probably killed Manolo with an axe in self-defence," John guesses. "There were enough tools lying around for him to grab one and break Manolo's head."
"And hid the body in the secret chamber," Bradstreet continues. "But that still doesn't tell us where he is."
"Somewhere around here," Sherlock says without hesitation. "We've already found two hidden rooms joining the main one. There could be more."
"Yeah, but how are we supposed to find them?" John asks. "The first one we found by accident; the other one by watching Evans. There is no way to know where and what to look for."
"Not to mention that Detective Inspector Athelney Jones will probably seal the entire house off as a crime scene," Bradstreet adds with an unhappy expression.
"Hardly," Sherlock replies with a snort, listening to the noise of a rapidly approaching car – make that several cars – outside the house. "I think the cavalry has just arrived."
Bradstreet steps to one of the windows and sees three nondescript black cars – complete with tinted windows – pull up to the kerb. Half a dozen men, looking unnervingly identical in their black suits and clearly wearing shoulder holsters under their jackets, get out of the cars and head towards the front door. They are followed by a stunningly beautiful young woman in a charcoal grey trouser suit who's texting away furiously on her BlackBerry phone.
"Very James Bond," Bradstreet comments dryly. "What is this, the Secret Service?"
"Close enough," Sherlock, the graze on his temple still bleeding a little through the makeshift dressing John has put on it, opens the door for them and greets the young woman with an icy nod. "Anthea."
She ignores him and hands Bradstreet a file instead. "Orders from higher-up, Detective Sergeant. We're taking over the case."
Bradstreet is not the least impressed. "Really? Who the hell are you?"
"That is confidential," she replies and ignores him, too, afterwards.
Bradstreet looks into the file and grimaces. The orders are valid, so he has no other choice but leave the crime scene to the spooks… or whatever else they might be.
In the meantime the Men in Black have already spirited away the body of 'Killer' Evans and odd-looking equipment has been wheeled into the room. The latter has some vague resemblance to an MR-machine, John finds, and serves a similar purpose, one of the Men in Black deigns to explain: it seeks for empty spaces in the walls with the help of magnetic resonance.
To be perfectly honest, John doesn't truly believe that to be possible at all, but he proves wrong with his scepticism. While having examined the walls and the floor of the large room inch by inch, the machine beeps four times. They find two other hidden chambers (that don't really hide anything), another trap door to the basement, and a narrow little door, cleverly covered by the wallpaper, that opens to a narrow spiral staircase, which leads them to a tiny room in the attic. A room which cannot be entered from any other rooms up there.
And in that room, lying on a hard and narrow pallet, they find the late Rodger Prescott, the involuntary source of Nether Wallop's zombie legends. He is wiry, almost emaciated, horribly discovered due to the burns suffered when 'Killer' Evans burned down his hiding place back in Florida – and quite dead.
"Killed?" Sherlock asks, but John shakes his head.
"Not impossible, of course, but I don't think so. My guess would be chronic malnourishment leading to slow starvation, but we won't know it for sure before the autopsy."
"He starved?" Bradstreet repeats, unbelieving. He might be out of the actual case-work, but he refused to leave which, in John's opinion, is fully justified. "How is that possible?"
"He couldn't leave his foxhole too often since the house has been watched so closely," John points out. "And ordering take-out wasn't really a choice in his situation, either."
"That is possibly true," the sergeant allows. "Still, I'll send the body to Winchester and have it obducted, just in case."
"We will be taking care of the necessities," the pretty lady in charge of the Men in Black corrects coolly. "We'll take advantage of the fact that Doctor Joseph Bell is currently working there; if there was any foul play, he will find the evidence for that."
Bradstreet pulls a face but doesn't say anything. Clearly, he's made some experience with the spooks in the past. He waits until they clear the premises and only then does he turn to John.
"Doctor Watson, whatever Mr Holmes may think, I'm not an idiot. I know it was you who pulled the trigger. What I'd like to know is why."
"He fired at Sherlock; twice," John replies simply. "What we've told you was the truth – save for the fact that I fired."
"Not that you'd be able to prove it," Sherlock adds haughtily.
"I don't intend to try," Bradstreet says. "Whichever of you shot him, did mankind a favour; and I'm sure it will be a glad day at the Yard when they learn that Prescott's outfit was discovered. A counterfeiter of his format stands in a class by himself as a public danger. Now if we only could get rid of Reyes as well, life in this village would return to normal again."
At this moment Sherlock's phone makes a ping sound, announcing an incoming text message. He glances at it – and smiles thinly.
"Well, Detective Sergeant, your wish has just become reality. Reno Reyes was seen to board the train in Winchester, heading for London."
"Dammit!" Bradstreet jumps to his feet. "That was not what I meant. We can't allow him to leave the country; we'll never lay hand on him again!"
"Rest assured, Sergeant, he won't be allowed to leave the country," Sherlock replies calmly. "He's not alone on that train; and if he had something to do with Mr Garbler's death, I will find the proof."
"I'm sure you will," John says tiredly. "I'm just no longer sure that I want to know. I mean, yeah, Mr Garbler was my uncle, but I didn't really know him – and all I want is to be done here and return to London."
"That may take some time yet," Bradstreet warns. "Reyes might be gone, but you've signed a contract with his firm; a legally binding contract. His workmen are counting on that job, so you'll have to pay them, even if you decide to break the contract. Besides, you won't be able to sell the house in its current state anyway, so the best solution would be to go with it."
"Great, just great!" John grimaces unhappily; rural life, not his first choice to begin with, has become a great deal less appealing during his stay in Nether Wallop. "Now I'm trapped here for God only knows how long!"
"I believe I can help you with that, Doctor Watson."
They all but jump at the unexpected voice coming from the small antechamber. None of them has heard Justin Parker-Smythe enter the house, so wrapped up they were in their discussion.
"What are you doing here?" Bradstreet asks.
"I had some official business in Andover that took longer than expected," and indeed, Justin is wearing a charcoal grey, pinstriped three-piece suit instead of his casual jeans and hoodies, clearly signalling that he's just come from work. "I saw the ominous black cars and the Men in Black swarm the house and become curious. So, what happened here?"
"We found the zombie – dead – and Jungle Jones, who was actually a professional killer from the States and tried to shoot Sherlock. Sherlock's brother dispatched MI5 or some other top secret agency to deal with the aftermath and Mr Reno is on the run," John summarises the events for him.
Justin is impressed and envious at once.
"Just my luck!" he mutters angrily. "I leave Nether Wallop for a couple of hours, and the only interesting thing in decades must happen during my absence. It's not fair!"
"Be glad you weren't here," John replies grimly. "I could have done without all the dead bodies. Trust me; it isn't the fun bad action films try to make us believe. And getting killed for a bunch of false money is the stupidest thing a man could possibly do."
"Perhaps," Justin allows reluctantly. "I still would like to learn everything about this case. We've all been waiting long enough to figure out the secret of The Veteran's House."
"I'm sure Sherlock will be all too happy to explain you how he succeeded where everyone before him had failed," John says dryly because he's come to know well enough the eccentric detective by now to realise how much Sherlock loves to show off. "Tell me, though, how do you intend to help me with the bloody house?"
"I intend to buy it," Justin replies simply, and everyone present stares at him in shocked surprise.
"You must have gone soft in the head," John finally says. "The place is a disaster."
"Besides, you don't have that kind of money," Bradstreet adds, because everyone in Nether Wallop knows everything about any given inhabitant of the village.
Sherlock, however, looks the young man up and down and that great brain of his almost visibly kicks in high gear.
"Oh, I don't think that would be true, Sergeant; not any longer. Our young Mr Parker-Smythe had official business in Andover, where the senior branch of his firm is seated. Official business; he can afford to buy a house now, which he wouldn't have been able to do before, ergo: inheritance. You were there to witness the opening of a will, weren't you?"
Justin nods. "Sort of. The execution of my maternal grandfather's will, actually. I inherited a neat sum of money from him but could not tap into my funds before the age of twenty-six. Which I reached last week; we were just too busy to throw a party."
"That explains the means," John says. "But why would you want the house? You saw the shape of it; calling it a ruin would be a compliment."
"But it's interesting, with all its secrets and its history; and it is large enough for a family with children," Justin replies, looking at Bradstreet defiantly. "And Kate happens to agree with me."
~TBC~
