Chapter 6: In Which Sherlock Demonstrates an Unusual Degree of Patience with Lestrade
Sherlock gestured impatiently towards the powdery floor, expecting, or perhaps just hoping, that Lestrade could read the story he saw sketched there. Lestrade was impatient: "And?"
Sherlock sighed and tossed his head, then began to move around the room as if reenacting the earlier events of the evening. "Bartholomew here found the treasure, not on the grounds as he had expected, but in the drop ceiling of this, his father's room. He -more likely the security guards—is – are - responsible for this great hole in the ceiling. The small-footed man climbed up the outside – do you want to see?" Lestrade shook his head curtly —"then pulled up the One-Legged Man with a rope." Sherlock opened his hand to show the bits of hemp fiber he'd found on the roof. "They came through the hole which Bartholomew here had so kindly prepared for them."
Lestrade interrupted: "Who are these small-footed and One-Legged Men? How do you know that?"
Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders and maneuvered him into position: "Your foot; his footprint. Look, not only is his foot shorter and narrower than yours, he wears no shoes. That, and his stride" -Sherlock gently walked Lestrade backwards - "tells me that the small –footed man is himself small, about one and a half metres high."
"And the One-Legged Man?"
Sherlock oriented his slow friend to another pair of prints: "See these prints? The left is an ordinary shoe, old and heavily worn, dragging on the toe and instep, but this print—that's not a shoe."
Lestrade grunted, "Prosthesis?"
"And an old one, too. Look how the edges are worn away. He's stopped putting shoes on it, and it drags – here – almost like a peg-leg." Lestrade followed Sherlock around the room as he continued his story. "So, the Small Man was here when he killed Bartholomew." He looked across the room towards the body, "and the One-Legged Man tackled him … here."
"All right, I can see that," Lestrade answered, his A's broadening as he became annoyed, "But how did he kill him from all the way over here?" Sherlock's eyes twinkled as he held up a small leather packet.
"What's that?" Lestrade's A's threatened to consume his entire sentence.
Sherlock grinned. "Poisoned blow darts. See the tips? Don't touch. The Small Man is probably African – the San sometimes still use blow guns - so these should be tipped with poison from the beetle Diamphidia, but that would be hard to find in England and it doesn't work that fast. Probably Oleander – easier to find, and it can work like strychnine."
John, who had followed all this with an ever-widening grin, turned to Lestrade, expecting him to enjoy Sherlock's demonstration as much as he had. Instead Lestrade seemed to find the story ridiculous, "You expect me to believe that this man was killed in his locked bedroom by… by a Bushman? This is peculiar, even for you."
John's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the text while Sherlock and Lestrade argued over the body.
What's going on between Donovan and Anderson?
She could do better. Anderson is a clod.
MM
John chuckled at that, earning himself a glare from Lestrade and Sherlock. Before he could explain, the phone buzzed again, and he read:
They suspect the housekeeper.
MM
John waggled his phone at Lestrade: "You suspect the household staff?"
"It's an inside job, and they are all on the inside."
Mary was becoming anxious, to judge by the rate of her texts. The phone buzzed in his hand, and he turned it around to read:
They suspect me, too. They aren't very good at this, are they?
MM
John was upset by this, and he shook his phone at Lestrade: "Now, there's no call for your people to be harassing Mary, Lestrade. You'd better go down there and sort it out."
Lestrade shrugged and went downstairs, where he found Mary waiting for him in the kitchen. She gestured to him to sit down at the kitchen table, and put a mug of tea in front of him. He sensed her caution: "You don't like the police, do you?"
"I'm trying to keep an open mind here, but all of my instincts tell me not to trust you. I was tempted to run for it after I made the 999 call."
"I'm sorry to hear that. You must understand that I have a job to do here." Lestrade kept his voice and language neutral.
"I do, and I've stayed to do my bit. I was a bit of a wayward youth, and old habits try hard." She smiled apologetically. "Do you mind if I knit while we talk? It calms me."
The frankness and the knitting surprised Lestrade, and he was hard to surprise. He'd already cased her; he knew what kids who came through the system were like, cagey and mistrustful from years of abuse and neglect. Most of the ones he encountered grew up to be criminals of one sort or another, but he supposed that there had to be some who turned into ordinary folks. He'd just never met any in his line of work. Still and all, the knitting was odd. The domesticity of the moment struck him, as he sat in the kitchen, drinking tea while she sat across the table from him, knitting.
"Well, isn't this quaint," Lestrade offered, with a little gesture between them. She tilted her head, hesitated, then smiled a little.
"Positively cozy, except for the horrible murder upstairs. What does Sherlock say about it?"
"Something farfetched about a small man climbing onto the roof, hauling up a One-Legged Man, killing Bartholomew Sholto, then making off cross-country with a load of diamonds. I'd say he was watching too much late-night TV, if I could imagine him watching TV."
"So, where does he think the One-Legged Man went?"
"You're not taking him seriously?"
She shrugged. "You've got a better explanation?"
"Well, I can see where the foot-prints bear out the One-Legged Man theory. But it makes much more sense for one of the help here to have let him in. They knew the brother was coming for the diamonds tonight, and wanted to make a grab for themselves. It could've been Thaddeus himself – we know the brothers disagreed about what to do with the diamonds."
Mary dismissed Lestrade's theory as handily as Sherlock had. "That's ridiculous. For one, I've been with Thaddeus Sholto for much of the evening. He's useless, completely useless. And I don't see any of the people here doing it either. They were very upset when John and Sherlock opened that room. You don't kill a man an hour before his guests arrive, then stand around and invite the guests in to find the body. Nope. I'm going with the weird theory. Everything else about this situation is weird – my father, the diamonds, Thaddeus Sholto, John and Sherlock, this house, me sitting here having a peaceful, almost pleasant conversation with a cop – I say it must be weird all the way through."
Lestrade tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, but John and Sherlock came into the kitchen before he could reply. John moved to stand protectively behind Mary's chair, and Sherlock addressed himself to Lestrade:
"We need dogs, Lestrade."
"Dogs?"
"Yes. If we're going to find the One-Legged Man and his small companion, we will need dogs. The One-Legged Man was clumsy; he picked up a bit of tar off the roof. Should be easy enough for a good police dog to pick up the scent."
Lestrade leaned back and looked at Sherlock, considering. Sherlock always seemed so sure of himself; how was he to tell when Sherlock was sure, and when he was making a wild leap? John looked down at Mary's knitting; Mary glanced between Sherlock and Lestrade.
"All right. Dogs. Just this once. Maybe it'll be fun," was his reply, and Lestrade picked up his phone and went outside to make the call. Mary exhaled, and John sat down beside her and nodded towards the knitting in her hand, thinking he should make small talk while they waited.
"What are you making?"
"A hat. I make a lot of hats. They don't use much yarn, and everybody needs one."
"Who is it for?"
She held it up next to his face, then nodded in satisfaction. "This one's for you. The green's just right." He blushed slightly. She noticed, and teased him a little. "It's just a hat, John."
John jumped up and went outside to look for Lestrade. Sherlock paused in his pacing to glance at Mary, who kept knitting.
"Don't worry," she said, without looking up at him. "I won't make you one." Then she looked him in the eyes. "There's just something about John that makes you want to take care of him, you know?"
Sherlock met her gaze, then faltered a little - but only a little - murmuring, "Yes, I know," before he went out to find the other men.
After a few minutes, Mary went out to the drive, where she found the three men. Lestrade was busy overseeing the process of loading the housekeeper, Thaddeus Sholto, and Bartholomew's bodyguards into a police van, and Sherlock and John were trying to stop him. She watched them quarrel like boys; they stopped when the dogs arrived. Sherlock hung back a little, inspecting the dogs from a respectful distance, but John and Lestrade rubbed the animals' ears while Lestrade described the situation to their handler. John looked up and noticed Mary watching them and walked over to her, rubbing his hands together.
"Lestrade's got dogs," he said.
"And now you three are going to take off over country, trailing the dogs, chasing the One-Legged Man? Lestrade's right – it is like a late night TV movie."
John grinned a little, anticipating the chase.
"Well," Mary said, "keep warm and safe, John Watson." She put the finished knit cap on his head, rolled the brim, and patted him around the ears. He smiled again, leaned towards her, hesitated, and was called away by a bemused Lestrade: "We're ready when you are, John!"