A/N: So after posting chapter 2 last night, it occurred to me that I may have some serious problems with the believability of this story. Such an arrangement between Blessington and Trevelyan would be possible here in the States, but with the NHS in England, I'm not so sure. Would any UK readers care to comment? I apologize for my ignorance, and I hope the story is still enjoyable, even if there are factual problems.
The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 3
It was a 15 minute drive in Dr. Trevelyan's Lexus to his home. It was a large, clearly expensive house in a tony neighborhood of London where many wealthy professionals live. The doctor let us into the large entrance hall and gestured toward the stairs.
"Mr. Blessington's rooms are on the first floor," he said, and we began to climb the stairs. Suddenly, however, all the lights in the entrance and stairwell went out.
A frightened voice called, "I have a gun and I will shoot you if you come any closer!"
"Mr. Blessington! You really are delusional! You must let me help you!" called Dr. Trevelyan.
"Doctor?" questioned the voice. "Oh, it is you. But who is with you?"
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. Watson. They are here due to your request!"
There was a pause, and the lights came back on.
"Right, right. Please come up. I am sorry, but I can't be too careful."
We then got our first good look at this mysterious Mr. Blessington, a man who looked around sixty or so. It was quite apparent to any observer that he was a nervous wreck. He was extremely pale, and seemed to be trembling. He had the look of someone who had lost a great deal of weight in a short period of time, with loose skin hanging in folds along his cheeks and neck. His thinning hair was sticking up at all angles, as if he had been running his hands nervously over his head. His threat of the gun was genuine, he put it in his pocket as we came up the stairs. I was glad to see it out of his shaky hands.
"Good evening Mr. Holmes," he said as we approached; "Thank you so much for coming. We need your advice desperately. Did Dr. Trevelyan tell you about the burglar in my rooms?"
"Yes," said Sherlock, "He did. Who are those two men and why are they after you?"
Mr. Blessington turned from pale to a sickly grey color. For a moment, it seemed he didn't know what to say. He licked his lips nervously and said, "I don't know. How could I know?"
Sherlock looked skeptical.
"Please, come to my room and you will see for yourself." We followed Mr. Blessington to his large and luxuriously furnished bedroom. There was a large, old fashioned safe standing at the foot of the king-sized bed. It was about four feet tall and three feet wide. Mr. Blessington pointed at it.
"You see that safe? That safe is my entire life savings. I have had to work very hard for everything I have, and every penny I've saved is in there. I don't trust bankers. Who does after what they did to our economy? My only investment has been in Dr. Trevelyan. I'm sure he told you of it. So all my money, everything I have in the world is in that safe. That is why I am so upset that a stranger has forced himself into my room."
Sherlock shook his head. "I can't help you if you lie to me."
"But I have told you the truth!"
Sherlock turned to the doctor, "Good-night Dr. Trevelyan." He marched out of the room and started down the stairs, I followed.
Mr. Blessington called after him, "But I need your advice, Mr. Holmes!"
Sherlock paused on the stairs and called back, "My advice, Mr. Blessington, is to tell the truth!"
There was no response, so Sherlock resumed his march to the front door, opened it, and left with me behind him.
We began walking in the direction of Baker street, and I could tell Sherlock was very irritated. After a few blocks of silence he abruptly stopped with an annoyed huff.
"I'm sorry to have made you come on this silly excursion, John. It's really too bad, because it is an interesting case." As he was speaking he was unwinding his scarf, and then he put it on me.
"There you go," he said with a smile after he was done, "I don't want you to be miserable on my account. If we can't get a cab it's a 30 minute walk back home. Although, it's not as much my fault as Blessington's." He scowled and resumed walking.
"So what do you think is going on?" I asked.
"Well, it's pretty clear that the mysterious foreign patient and his 'secretary' are after Blessington. These evening appointments are an attempt to either case Blessington's home or to make a direct attack on him. The doctor is kept busy with his 'patient' while the muscle does his work. It's difficult to say exactly what they are attempting to do. During both appointments Blessington was out of the house. Is that coincidence or planning on their part? Obviously, burglary is NOT the motive here, or they would have accomplished it the first evening. Blessington is clearly frightened, not for his money, but for his life. A man doesn't make enemies like that without knowing who they are and why."
We looked at each other and smiled.
"Therefore," Sherlock continued, "I am convinced that Blessington knows who those men are, and for some reason, he does not want to explain why they are trying to get at him. He may quickly change his mind about confiding in me though. I find it a bit ominous that no further 'appointments' have been scheduled with the psychiatrist."
We walked on in silence for while I turned over the facts of the case in my mind.
"Sherlock," I said after a bit, "Is it possible that Dr. Trevelyan is making up the story of the foreign patient in order to cover up the fact that he is the so-called burglar? After all, he did seem to be a bit sketchy on the details about the man and his secretary. And, quite frankly, his dealings with them are not the height of professionalism."
Sherlock smiled, "Yes, that occurred to me, but the carpet in Mr. Blessington's room proved that the hulking secretary is not Dr. Trevelyan or Blessington. Those footprints, I'm sure you must have noticed, could not have been made by either of those men. TAXI!"
We popped into the cab which had come down the street without my noticing. Even though we were halfway home I was thankful for the relative warmth of the car.
"I will give credit to Blessington for one spark of brilliance," Sherlock said as we settled into the car.
"What's that?"
"His genius idea ten years ago of securing a good doctor as a constant companion. Clearly, it was the best idea he ever had."
"It didn't work out so badly for the doctor, either," I pointed out, "if he can afford a Lexus on twenty-five percent of his salary."
"Yes, well, it might all come crashing down now. I have a feeling we will be hearing from one or both of them in the morning."
In a few minutes we were back in our flat and after some tea I went to bed.
Next thing I knew, Sherlock was shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see him in his blue dressing gown.
"What's going on?" I asked as I looked at the clock. It was 7:30.
"The Blessington-Trevelyan case."
"What's happened?"
Sherlock showed me his phone. It was displaying a text:
For Gods sake please come PT
"Right," I said jumping out of bed. Sherlock left.
I dressed as quickly as I could and met Sherlock downstairs. I had thrown on the first pair of jeans and jumper that had come to hand, but Sherlock looked as immaculate as ever. How does he do it? I wondered with a twinge of jealousy. His curls were slightly more disorganized than usual, but other than that one could never guess that he had put himself together in less than five minutes.
But, there was no time to ponder the mysteries of Sherlock as we hurtled via cab as quickly as we could through London's morning traffic.
"I texted him back that we are on our way, but I haven't received a response." Sherlock informed me in the cab.
"Should we call the police... Lestrade?"
Sherlock bit his lip, considering. "No, I'm sure if it were that serious Dr. Trevelyan will have called the police himself."
As the cab pulled up to the house, the frantic figure of the doctor came running out, his hands pressed on either side of his face.
"What's happened?" asked Sherlock urgently.
"Blessington committed suicide!"
Sherlock did not look surprised, but gave a low whistle.
Dr. Trevelyan continued, "He hanged himself sometime during the night."
I saw all the color drain from Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth and wordlessly mouthed, "Hanged?"
He drew a deep, shuddering breath and bent over as if he had been kicked or was going to vomit.
"Sherlock! Are you alright?"