-Day 4.
College Street. Ipswich waterfront. St. Paul's Church stands tall, and Wolsey's Gate erects by its side. Before dusk, when the afternoon sun is kind enough to grace the world with her presence, the church and the Gate are transformed into a dream-like impressionist artwork by gentle strokes from the soft, orange paintbrush of skylight.
Something about the painting is off this afternoon, however. Most who stroll by the ancient, sixteenth-century Gate pinch their noses and quicken their steps away. There is a strange stench seeping through the crevices of the wooden structure, disturbing all who perceive it. Several nosy passers-by yank curiously at the knob on the wooden gate to no avail. They soon tire of it and walk away, figuring that they probably don't want to know the source of the smell after all.
Some of them are still within earshot, when a heart-wrenching scream pierces the air and shatters the peace within Ipswich.
When Detective Sergeant Barbara Bateson arrives at the scene, she sees Constable David Green from Suffolk Constabulary, a new recruit straight from military college, comforting a weeping Mr. Guillaume Dubois. Mr. Dubois has just been resuscitated, after having collapsed by the side-gate of St. Paul's Church during a fervent attempt to flee from the horrific sight of a body.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," the white-haired Frenchman sobs into his palms and repeats his call for deity like a broken recorder.
"It's all right now." Green rubs the man's back and consoles softly, handing him clean tissues as he soaks up old ones with tears. "Would you like to go with me into the church and lie down, Mr. Dubois?"
Mr. Dubois nods feebly and tries to stand up, but his legs give in and he collapses on his knees again. Green hastens to his aid and soothes him some more.
Bateson walks with a frown to an idle Constable Evan Daniels, who has been leaning against a wall and observing Green and Mr. Dubois for a while. "So this old man must be Dubois."
"Obviously," is the cross response from Daniels. "Janitor of the church. Found the body 'bout twenty minutes ago."
"I know that. I don't need anything beyond a simple confirmation." Bateson represses her temper at his rudeness and demands, "You're on my CSI team, Daniels; you should be at the crime scene. What the bloody hell are you doing out here with Green? It's his first time at a crime scene, and we're going easy on him, not you."
Mortification clouds Daniels's grumpy face. "I'm... showing cordial care for our witness."
"Pure bollocks," Bateson hisses belligerently at him. "I don't care if it's the most gruesome crime Ipswich has ever seen. Grow a backbone and get back to the crime scene within the next ten minutes, or I'm reporting you to the Detective Inspector."
Daniels grumbles and turns his heels toward the Gate, and nudges himself a few tiny steps forward, before spinning around in recollection. "Oh, yeah, speaking of the Detective Inspector. DI Franklin received a call from London. Apparently our victim was under watch of the Secret Services, and they're sending an agent our way to inspect the case."
Bateson rolls her eyes. "Simply tragic. I can imagine the snobbishness in such an agent already, and likely incompetence. A man who works so closely with the government has to have such traits for the amount of money he gets paid. Where's DI Franklin? I might want to ask him a little more about this after I inspect the crime scene."
"He drove to the train station to pick up the agent."
"What?" Bateson throws her hands in the air in exasperation. "For God's sake! The case was just reported twenty minutes ago! It'd take at least two hours for the agent to get here from London! And he drove? The station is bloody ten minutes away on foot!"
Daniels smugly smiles and shrugs, makes no effort to respond.
Bateson slaps the man's shoulder and groans. "Fine. Fine! You've got more backbone than DI Franklin, happy? Now get your behind back to the crime scene with me or I'll - "
"Erm, could one of you help me with Mr. Dubois?" Green's voice interrupts, and the two investigators turn to his embarrassed, good-natured countenance. "He's really weak from shock, and a bit, well, heavier than I thought he would be."
"I'm right on it, David," Daniels exclaims all too gladly and rushes to the shaken witness's side. Bateson growls in frustration and spins around, walking swiftly toward the crime scene alone.
Her firm steps pause as she catches her first glimpse.
Wow. This sure is something.
-Chapter 4-
Impeccably Clean
-Day 4.
"Agent Hooper. I'm Detective Inspector Franklin. Nice to meet you."
The heel of Sherlock's left foot barely scrapes the ground of the platform, when a middle-aged man, clad in a suit that barely envelops his gigantic beer belly, approaches him and nods, flashing a badge clasped by his round fingers. Sherlock shakes Franklin's greasy hand and takes a single glance at his dark, curled moustache, and the consulting detective swallows, with difficulty, his urge to remark on Franklin's disappointing career and his wife's terrible culinary skills. "Greetings, Detective Inspector Franklin," he chooses to say simply, as he grumbles to himself: it sure is inconvenient being dead.
Franklin eyes Sherlock's tacky sweater and casual footwear with skepticism. "I was told by my London superiors that they are sending a very capable and professional agent my way, Agent Hooper."
"Sigmund Hooper" straightens his glasses and frowns. "I suppose your London superiors have not told you, then, that they have interrupted a holiday familial visit of that very capable and professional agent, who only happened to be travelling this way when they first received news of the crime. Take me to the crime scene and let's not waste any more time, Detective Inspector. I should like to get this done as quickly as possible."
Franklin turns around and leads him away without a word. Sherlock could hear his quiet growls.
Who could blame him? It's probably the first time a Londoner under Secret Service's watch has ever been murdered in his division. Sherlock is certain that Franklin, much like himself, Lestrade, and the other officers of Scotland Yard, isn't too anxious to associate with Mycroft's minions.
They walk silently to Franklin's old, shabby car. Sherlock opens the door and, on seeing... questionable wrinkle patterns in the leather seat before him, scowls and scoots uncomfortably to the seat on the far side. Franklin eyes him strangely and starts up the car.
Sherlock squirms on his seat for a gruelling few minutes before they arrive at their destination. The detective inspector really couldn't have walked?
Sherlock rolls his eyes as he exits the car and inspects the Gate, the only remnant of Thomas Wolsey's substantial college built in the sixteenth century. By itself, it seems grandiose and antique, its lone wooden surface framed by an impressively symmetrical structure constructed from irregularly arranged red bricks of the distant past. The Gate, however, is dwarfed by the tower of St. Paul's Church directly to its left. In the dark of the night, the silhouette of the tower is almost formidable.
"The crime scene is, well, inside," Franklin points out, after parallel-parking the car absolutely terribly on the roadside. "We'll have to go through the grounds of St. Paul's Church to get to it. The Gate... well, it won't open."
Sherlock nods and follows Franklin through a side gate of the church that leads into the yard and behind the aloof Wolsey's Gate. A sergeant intercepts them, and demands that they wear disinfected protective clothing. Sherlock is about to refuse vehemently, until he remembers that he is currently not Sherlock Holmes but Agent Sigmund Hooper from Secret Services. With an exasperated sigh, he complies.
He almost smiles the moment he steps into the view. This is almost too good.
Arendale has been taped onto the shut wooden Gate, his arms stretched roughly in the directions of the two top corners, his legs taped together perpendicularly to the ground. The man's hands dangle loosely from the pieces of duct tape that holds him in place, and his head is wedged awkwardly under the wooden door-bar near the top of the Gate.
Crucified on a door, Sherlock remarks darkly to himself as he inspects the strangely-positioned body further. The neck is obviously broken; fortunately, the ashen face is still recognizable. Sherlock pulls up Arendale's profile on his phone and compares the face to the picture. Definitely the same man.
He stares pensively into the complexion of the man and begins to deduce, when, suddenly, a chilling imagination of a similarly crucified Molly crosses his mind. He shudders and inhales sharply in distaste.
Franklin has been observing him closely and, at such a movement, scoffs. "Are you scared, Agent Hooper?"
Sherlock's temper flares. It is with difficulty that he represses the urge to fire back with an attack at Franklin's... questionable night-time activities which he's deduced from the state of his car seat. "No, Detective Inspector. I've simply been reminded of something much more frightening than this. Well, what has your little CSI team found?"
Ignoring the hostile glares from the CSI team, Sherlock steps forward and begins to examine Arendale's bloodied shirt. Franklin follows him with an exasperated groan, and tries to restrain him with a hasty grab at his arm. "That, I believe, is our business. You've been sent here to confirm Arendale's identity, and you'd damn best stick with that."
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, his voice dripping with scorn, "Please. You honestly think my superiors would've sent me here for a simple identity confirmation that could've been obtained easily from his wallet or his family members? We've been keeping a close watch on him. We're interested not just in who he is, but how he died. I find it intriguing that I need to inform you of that at all." Somebody who could top Anderson in idiocy; I've never before thought that possible.
Franklin, apparently, is not only not very bright, but also easily intimidated. The man's large face reddens, and he twirls nervously at his moustache and looks uncertainly at his team. "Erm... Bateson?"
The sergeant steps up, not bothering with concealing her displeasure. "Detective Inspector. Agent Hooper. It is strongly suspected that the victim died from a trauma at the side of the head, causing severe subarachnoid hemorrhage. However, I have checked the crime scene eight times, and notice that there is no blood anywhere, save the blood on his shirt."
"No blood on the gate either?" Franklin intervenes as he grabs a notebook from his fat pocket and starts jotting down notes. Immediately deducing that Franklin has been wasting time waiting at the train station rather than hovering over the crime scene as he ought to have done, Sherlock gives him a glance of disgust.
"No," Bateson rolls her eyes, apparently in agreement with Sherlock's silent distaste. "Clearly, the murderer did not kill him here. The body was transferred from elsewhere."
"Right," Franklin says with a nod, "We should tell the search squad to begin scouring for possible initial crime scenes in this city - "
"Oh, please don't bother," Sherlock can bottle his frustrations no longer, and points at the body's crumpled shirt with a sigh. "Evidently, the victim was not murdered in Ipswich."
Bateson's gaze at Sherlock morphs from one of indifference to one of interest.
"Excuse me?" Franklin exclaims as he curls his moustache with a trembling hand, "Agent Hooper, I believe that I am the most competent detective inspector here - "
" - Then I trust you ought to already have noticed the state of his shirt," Sherlock cuts him off flatly and motions dramatically at the body. "Enlighten me then, my competent Detective Inspector."
Franklin straightens his collars, clears his throat, and whips out a magnifying glass from his pocket. He hovers the glassware over the shirt for minutes.
"Well, his shirt is of the brand Hugo Boss. Authentic, too, it seems. We can conclude that he's a relatively wealthy man, which is to be expected for a pathologist of his calibre. There is blood spilled over the left half of the shirt, and the stain is continuous with the wound on the side of his head which killed him. As Bateson pointed out, he must've died from subarachnoid hemorrhage caused by a ruptured posterior cerebral artery - "
"Middle meningeal artery," Bateson corrects dryly.
Franklin coughs uneasily. "Yes, middle - exactly that. Given his wealth, I must conclude that this is a robbing attempt gone wrong. No wallet on him, I presume; the murderer, while struggling to rob our victim, accidentally killed him - "
"And instead of fleeing the scene immediately with what he came for, the robber risked being publicly seen and took the trouble of transporting the body all the way here - from out of town, I might add - only to tape it up neatly for the public to find. Makes perfect sense." Sherlock derides with a sardonic smirk.
"Also, DI Franklin, we did find his wallet. It's in his pocket. All the cash is inside." Bateson adds mercilessly, repressing a chuckle.
Franklin's round face turns into a large purple beet. "Well, if you're so clever, Agent Hooper, why don't you share your professional opinion with us?"
Sherlock takes the offer only too gladly, as he leans towards the victim's shirt and sniffs. "Look at the way his shirt wrinkles, not just on the bloodstained side, but on the clean side as well. It's quite dry now, but it's certainly been wet in the past; I'd say four or five hours ago. The shirt smells nothing like the Ipswich waterfront, the scent of which I unwillingly indulged on while Detective Inspector was driving me here; nor does the shirt smell of chlorine. The wetness was therefore not from the river, nor was it from a pool. Where can it possibly be from? Rain. Has it rained in Ipswich this afternoon? From the humidity in the air and the state of the ground, I would deduce not. Moreover, there's a distinct scent of tobacco I spy, and it's of a different type than what they normally sell here in Ipswich. From the states of his fingers and his teeth, I deduce he's not a smoker. The only reason for his shirt to smell of this strain of tobacco would be that he's recently been to a factory which isn't in Ipswich. All such details considered, he did not die in this town, and I strongly suggest you, Detective Inspector, to spare yourself the effort of calling together a search squad."
Franklin scratches his head in confusion, while Bateson's eyes shine brighter. "But how do you know that the scent wasn't from the murderer? Maybe the killer liked to chew tobacco."
Sherlock smirks. "Of course, you people wouldn't know this. This particular type of hybrid tobacco, Y1, is extremely high in nicotine content and was a subject of controversy in the 1990s. It was banned from the market at the turn of the century, and now, only a few factories across England still store some of it. Besides, the scent on the victim's shirt has lingered for hours, meaning that it must have been quite strong to begin with. He wouldn't have been able to retain so much of the smell, if it came only from a chewing murderer."
"And you figured out the exact strain of tobacco simply by smelling it," Bateson says incredulously, making a statement more than asking a question.
Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly, "Agents of the Secret Services are trained to do certain things. We don't get paid a ridiculous salary for nothing." I'm giving Mycroft's people way too much credit, he remarks disgustedly to himself. "I suggest Detective Inspector Franklin to start researching which factories still store the Y1 tobacco, and deduce about the initial crime scene from there. Now, what else have you discovered in this crime scene?"
"The victim has been dead for approximately five hours, but we're not sure when the body was transported here, because, unfortunately, this ground is not under surveillance," before Franklin could intervene with an angry shout, Bateson swiftly answers as she leafs through her notebook. "Whoever taped the body here didn't climb through. Dust lines over the brick walls haven't been disturbed recently. There was no service in the church today, and the grounds were locked. There have been no signs of forced entry, nor have we detected any picking attempts at the lock. The janitor, Mr. Guillaume Dubois, is the only one who has the keys, and he was also the one who discovered the body at 5:45P.M. The last time he checked these grounds was at 9:00 in the morning. Also, there's one curious thing," she pauses and glances uncertainly at "Agent Hooper", who has begun absentmindedly probing at the victim's pants pockets.
"Go on, I'm listening," Sherlock urges impatiently with a dismissive wave of his right hand, as his left hand feels the wallet and the keys inside.
Bateson clears her throat. "The crime scene is impeccably clean, and there are only two sets of footprints that came from Mr. Dubois, from the two times he checked on the Gate. He has cataracts and had to closely approach the body before he fully understood what was happening. No blood, no witnesses, no footprints save those of the discoverer of the body. An impossible crime, I believe."
"Yes, I should get to those footprints now, shouldn't I?" Sherlock drops the wallet back into the pocket and spins around. Bateson points to a taped area to his right, and Sherlock crouches and stares skeptically at the isolated, faint depressions on the soiled ground.
His expression drops into an angry frown. "Where's this Mr. Dubois? I hope you've been keeping a very close eye on him."
"Green - one of our new recruits - took him into the church. The poor old man was in shock and couldn't say a word."
"'In shock,'" Sherlock mouths incredulously, his sharp gaze fixated on Bateson's countenance. The sergeant hesitatingly repeats, "Yes, in shock."
The consulting detective snorts and steps away from the body, stripping his gloves and tossing them away. "You've all been fooled by sentiment. I'd say you forget about the shock and interrogate the man. You'll find it very useful."
Bateson is a bright woman, and it takes her no more than a second to realize his meaning. "Are you suggesting that - "
"Of course that's what I'm suggesting," Sherlock rips the protective coat from his body and stuffs it away in the waste bag. "Look at his prints. The freshest ones from this afternoon pointing in the direction of the Gate are much farther apart than the ones from presumably when he inspected the grounds this morning. This means that he was taking larger strides than usual this afternoon. Now look at the even fresher footprints that are turned away from the Gate in a run. They're a good two millimetres thinner than the ones from when he approached the Gate in large strides. He was carrying something fairly heavy when he walked towards the Gate, and he abandoned it before running away. What could it be other than the body itself? There is no such thing as an impossible crime. Locks can only be perfectly opened by someone who has the key - oh."
A realization suddenly dawns on Sherlock, and for a moment he stands, stunned, staring at the church tower in front of him as if he were struck by lightning.
Oh, dear, God.
The consulting detective whips out his phone from his pocket and begins frantically texting London.
Franklin calls in vain for his response, and Bateson, after discerning that "Agent Hooper" has finished speaking, turns hastily to Daniels and whispers harshly, "Green is looking after Dubois in the church, yes?"
Daniels, who started collecting blood samples on the body after Sherlock left its side, suddenly catches the meaning in all of the previous verbal exchange and, in a moment of realization, slits his finger slightly with the bloodied scalpel in his hand. "Oh, Jesus. Dubois said that he wanted to go into his room to rest and have some privacy. We let him. Green's standing guard at his door and - "
His speech is cut off when a scream from the church slices across the air.
Having finished his text, Sherlock is wakened rudely from his daze, and without further hesitation, he bolts toward the church. The rest of the Suffolk Constabulary forces swiftly follow.
They barge into the chapel, turn a few corners, run up a flight of stairs, and find the young Constable David Green standing in front of a shabby iron door, face ashen, fingers tremoring as he points them weakly at the dirty small windows atop the door.
Sherlock throws the door open, and all behind him gasp.
Mr. Guillaume Dubois hangs from a rope fixed to the ceiling, his nearly opaque, diseased eyeballs bulged from strangulation, his mouth twisted into an almost inhumanly crooked smile.
A Guy Fawkes mask lies ominously on the floor, beside the chair he has kicked aside, straight below his dangling feet.
-Day 3.
"Chief. There has been... disruptions in our surveillance system in the homes of some of our... friends."
Molly sits up from her shabby bed and listens intently, pressing her ear tightly onto the thin wall.
"Has there?" The slick voice speaks, one she knows only too well by now. "It doesn't matter. Our friends are already here, anyway. Some of them have chosen to... leave, but we know that they won't be going back home, don't we?"
Molly hugs her pillow and shivers.
"Yes, but Chief, I do think we should be a bit more cautious with this. We might've gotten some difficult people sniffing our tracks."
"Be more cautious? What for? You know that we will win this no matter what. Let them do what they want for now. Let the game begin."
"...Understood, Chief."
The conversation in the adjacent room ceases. Molly turns around and bites her thumb nail. Their surveillance system has been disrupted; that is a good sign. Did Mycroft do this? Was it Mycroft's hirelings? Did Mycroft notify him? Did he actually...
She inhales sharply and tries to repress her racing heartbeats as she thinks of his name.
She surveys the plain room she is in, and hopelessly sighs. What more can she do now? She doesn't even know where she is. Besides, she's done her best to leave clues. If he... if he truly came back, he'd see the hints she left, and he'd understand it, because he's Sherlock. If he didn't come back... then somebody else must've seen her hints too, and Mycroft, Mycroft just might...
The data and diagrams she read yesterday in the interrogation room flash in her mind, and her body quivers in a mixture of strange excitement and absolute terror.
No. The clues in her flat aren't enough. She needs to tell him more, tell them more, tell more to whoever it is that has begun meddling with the schemes of the sinister Guy Fawkeses holding her hostage - a terrible scheme from which she doesn't quite want to escape.
A click from the door frightens her into a jolt. Guy Fawkes the Chief walks in leisurely, his smile morbidly wide as usual. "Good morning, darling Miss Hooper. We did say we'd reward you today for being so... docile yesterday and agreeing to stay. So, what reward would you like?"
Molly takes a deep breath and stands up. "I have a request."