A week later, another case came: A portly, middle-aged man with shockingly orange hair sat in the arm chair, as John and Sherlock listened to him with rapt attention.
"Jabez Wilson," he introduced, holding out his hand. Watson awkwardly shook it. "I was hoping you would be willing to investigate a disappearance, Mr. Holmes."
Beta. Diabetic. Near-sighted. Second-hand clothes.
"Family, pet, object?.." John started, noticing Sherlock was already beginning to look bored.
"None. A business, actually. One day, it just disappeared. No explanation, not a foreclosure sign or anythin'. Just a post-it saying, 'The Red-Headed League has been dissolved.'"
"If it's been dissolved," John asked, "why exactly do you need us?"
"It's foul play, has to be. It's the only explanation."
Thus began a long narrative by Mr. Wilson, in which he detailed a business comprised solely of ginger-haired men.
"My assistant, Vincent, found it first: an advert in a local forum, asking for ginger-haired men with experience in transcription and research to update current databases for pay."
"Sorry, but why did the men need to be ginger?" John asked, not following.
"Personal quirk of the league's founder, Duncan Ross. He'd been turned down for many jobs, he said, because of his bright orange hair. Said they figured he was an immigrant from Ireland or Scotland, and that 'British jobs were for the British'."
"So he turned the tables, then. But if this was done online, couldn't anyone pretend to be so? Just doctor their photo or dye their hair?"
"He warded against that. Required multiple age photos, met candidates in person at the building, the 'Red-Headed League.' When we met he pulled my hair, to insure I hadn't worn a wig. He was an old coot to be sure, but he paid well."
"Go on," John urged, noticing Sherlock had perked up a bit at the last bit of information.
"I was paid to scan old medical journals, and to fact-check the 'ginger database' – an open source website related to all things ginger. I'd just finished fact-checking a page on gingers of note at the end of the week, and went to the League to collect my pay-cheque. Ross was keen on giving them to us in person."
"Us?"
"Me and the other blokes. There were two others when I started, although I seemed to be the only one as of late…"
"And your assistant, Vincent was it… at this time was?" John asked, hoping to get the man's mind back on track.
"Watching the business, of course. He does all right – even installed the buzzer feed to the basement so he'll always hear the door."
"Sorry, the basement?"
"Yes, the chap spends quite a bit of time down there. Photography hobby, see. He's made a dark room. Might be a bit much, though… he looks ill lately. Ought to see the sun more, I tell him."
Sherlock suddenly asked, "Have you a picture of your employee?"
The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flip phone. He scrolled through the contacts until he got Spaulding, Vincent and clicked on the name. A picture filled the small screen, and he handed it over.
Sherlock took the phone, committing the picture to memory, then handed it to John. He also looked at it carefully, before returning it to Mr. Wilson.
"He's always been a bit of a worrier, you see. Seems anxious lately, and only sees a friend or two on his days off. But anyway, he's nothing to do with this. When I went to get the cheque that was when I saw the post-it."
"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, thinking. "So you said there were others – how do you know? Did you see them?"
"Well, no, not exactly," he began. "Mr. Ross told me, and another day, I saw cheques for them to pick up. He said he saw them less frequently, because they had laptops at home."
"And you don't?"
"No, just the old desktop, and I haven't been able to afford internet for some time. I've been doing all of my work for the league at the local library, about three blocks from my place. Bit of a pain to get to, really – no buses and a cab's out of the question, so I've been walking. On the plus side, in the last month I've lost about two stone."
"Congratulations," John remarked, his doctor's concern showing through momentarily.
He nodded in thanks, before Sherlock posed another question. "How long would you say you were out of your flat on a given day?"
"For the League, probably nine or ten hours a day; I would leave at seven in the morning and get back around five in the evening."
"And you wouldn't come back for lunch?"
"No, the dear boy would pack me a sandwich or two every morning while I read the news. I'd come home for supper, though."
"We'll look into it," Sherlock agreed, although the bored expression remained. "My associate, John Watson, will contact you when we've solved it."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to it." He let John escort him out.
"All right, let's have it."
"Have what?"
"What have you deduced?"
"Not much… The man is a beta, although he spends a fair amount of time around a young alpha. Not a family member, no, there's no indication of that: no wedding ring, no mention of children. Most likely a stranger, someone he's employed – the assistant. He said he runs a small business, but it's not doing well. His clothes are second-hand, and have been tailored poorly to fit his large frame. The cuff on his trousers is one and a half centimeters higher on his left side than his right side. But considering he sits favoring his left side, the discrepancy cannot be from his posture. He's diabetic, and near-sighted."
"Diabetic?"
"He favors his left side because an insulin pump is clipped to the right side of his belt. He's a forgetful man by nature, which is one of the reasons he would opt for a pump. It also explains why he wasn't wearing his glasses, although it's obvious he wears them, going by the indentations on the bridge of his nose. Near-sighted because he'd notice he wasn't wearing them if he were far-sighted."
John's lips quirked into a smile: "Brilliant."
Sherlock just smiled, and gave him a wink.
John sat down and seemed to remember something as he looked around nervously, before starting, "Um, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John." He had reverted to his thinking position on the couch.
"I don't mean to… rush you, but do you think we'll have this wrapped up within a week? I have to visit Harry. It's… very important."
"Yes, of course. I, myself, will be away from Baker Street in a little over a week. Estate issues."
"So you'll be staying with your mum?"
"For a week, yes. I intend to wrap up our case work by then, and will pass this along to Lestrade. I will be quite unreachable during this time."
"I see. Well, I'll probably be at Harry's for a week, as well."
"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will manage without us," Sherlock quipped.
"Right," John agreed, glad he didn't have to explain. Sherlock was usually in his face, asking or deducing where he was off to at all hours of the day. But Sherlock seemed pre-occupied by his announcement. John wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The next day, John and Sherlock found themselves outside the residence of Mr. Wilson. Sherlock circled the block, paying close attention to the alleyway between his flat and the next. He shined a flashlight along the foundation, before arriving at the doorway. He took off his gloves, and sprayed his palm with a small spray bottle, then knocked on the door. A few moments later, some clattering and cursing could be heard from inside, and the door opened.
Alpha. Peaked appearance. Lost a stone since picture taken. Hiding something.
"Mr. Wilson isn't in," the young man answered, sniffing the air experimentally.
"Vincent Spaulding?" Sherlock asked, holding out his hand. The man shook it, then wiped his hand on his dirty slacks.
"Sorry, clammy hands. I just wanted to ask you where Mary's Fish and Chips is? Your neighbor Mr. Dortmund said you go there often, and I'm hopeless with maps."
"Just use your mobile, yeah? I've got work to attend to, mate." His eyes darted back to the house, and his brow creased.
"I'm a friend of Mr. Wilson's actually, and he said you'd be happy to help," John volunteered, realizing Sherlock was getting nowhere. The man started at this, wringing his hands together.
He began to gesture as he spoke and the detective noticed the dark grime under his fingernails: "Right… Turn left at the light, and then right on Edom for a block. Can't miss it."
"Thanks," John acknowledged, and started heading down the steps.
"Nice to meet you," Sherlock added, as he fell in line with John. The man closed the door behind them, and he heard a lock being turned.
Sherlock looked down at his hand, and frowned, before reaching in his coat pocket for a handkerchief.
"What was that, then?" John asked, watching Sherlock scrub the spot clean.
"Simple reagent test. Potato starch stains purple in the presence of iodine. I think I know why the red-headed league has been dissolved."
Within twenty minutes, Lestrade had been summoned to Jabez Wilson's residence. Lestrade turned toward the detective and said, "You had better be right about this, Sherlock. We don't even have a warrant."
Sherlock just looked at him derisively. They rang the bell, and the bright-maned man answered the door. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, noticing the police car parked in front of his house.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he greeted, holding out his hand. The man shook it. "May I have a look inside?"
The man looked stunned, but opened the door. Lestrade walked through the doorway, followed by Sherlock and John. Several forensic workers trailed Anderson, who followed John closely. "Which door leads to your basement?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the many doors in front of him.
Mr. Wilson tried one of the door handles and found it locked. He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a pair of keys, unlocking both locks. He opened the door, and as he pulled the cord to turn on the overhead bulb, a noxious odor assaulted their senses. The man reeled back, getting a handkerchief from his pocket and covering his nose. Lestrade made a motion to Anderson, who ordered one of his workers to get masks. He came in carrying several respirators with an olive-colored stripe along each cartridge. They all affixed the masks, handing the spare to Mr. Wilson. As they descended, they could hear the hurried shuffle of feet along the unfinished floor.
When they turned from the staircase, Vincent was anxiously trying to unlock the clapboard door to the alleyway, a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. He was shaking and his hands were dirty from the hole he'd dug in the floor some ten feet away.
"Vincent? Oi! What's all this, then?" Mr. Wilson asked gesturing to the large baking sheets stacked in a corner, crumpled foil clinging to their edges, and an empty shoebox at the bottom of the hole.
The man attempted to jump through the window, but his arms were shaking and he missed the hand that was extended out to him from the other side. "Archie, help!" the man cried.
"John," Sherlock gestured, and John took the stairs up to meet Vincent's accomplice from the other side.
From the alleyway, they heard a loud "Oof!" John had tackled the accomplice.
"What's going on?" Mr. Wilson cried, as Sherlock bent down, using his gloved fingers to pull a small crystalline structure off of the tin foil. He held it up to the light, and retrieved an evidence bag from his pocket. After depositing it into the bag, he handed it over to Anderson, who was watching him curiously. Sherlock licked his finger, and made a face.
"Lestrade, arrest this man immediately. He's in possession of a Class A drug." By this time, Vincent had abandoned his futile attempt to escape, and was huddled in a corner, clutching the rucksack to his chest.
Lestrade's eyes widened and he moved forward, brandishing his handcuffs. After a scuffle, the man succumbed and the cuffs clapped his wrists. Anderson recovered the rucksack, and opened it. A gloved hand pulled out a large Ziploc bag of cloudy crystals, and a hush fell over the group. "You'll need to wait for lab confirmation, but I certain that what Anderson is holding is a kilo of poorly-dried methamphetamine. I'm sorry to report Mr. Wilson; contamination is probably the main source of your recent weight-loss. One really shouldn't let another make their meals… But on the plus-side, your headaches should cease once the house has been sufficiently aired out."
"But how did you know about the headaches?"
"The curious smell your jacket left on the chair in our flat, combined with your missing glasses clued me in. For one such as yourself, a beta, the irritating chemical smell might be mistaken for dry-cleaning treatment. And your glasses are new, meaning you're still getting used to the stronger prescription. But with the headaches cropping up after this purchase, it only made sense you would blame them."
"But I'd forgotten them when I went to your flat..?" he argued, still at a loss from all that had happened.
"That was how I knew they were new - indentations on the bridge of your nose. For a man that takes great pains to have his clothing accommodate him, I assumed the same would be true of your accessories. And your wristwatch proves it."
The man looked down at his watch, his confusion evident. "You've attached a band to the watch-face that you bought at the local chemist: A faux-leather band, although a watch of that type originally came with a metal cuff. Your joints swell after a hard day's work due to fluid retention caused by your diabetes and your wrists must pain you after typing for hours on end. Libraries aren't known for ergonomic design, leading to mild carpal tunnel."
He turned towards Lestrade and stated, "When I met Mr. Spaulding earlier this afternoon, my hand was damp with a potato starch solution. This reacts with iodine by turning purple. I hypothesized that his hands would have traces of iodine on them from handling the drugs without gloves. The drugs were manufactured and inadequately dried at Duncan Ross' before being transported to Mr. Wilson's basement for further drying and packaging. I believe Mr. Spaulding was the 'brains' of this outfit. Or, the closest you can get to brains while struggling with a serious meth addiction."
He took a second to clear his throat, then continued: "The plan was clear – use Mr. Wilson's basement as a storage space for the drugs while Mr. Ross went about selling the product. They'd need the man out of the house, or he'd suspect something was up. Vincent knew Mr. Wilson was strapped for cash and they figured they could dip into the 'petty cash' to pay him. He used the ruse of a photography hobby to explain his lengthy visits to the basement. An unfinished basement is the perfect hiding place – just dig a hole in the ground to store the narcotics."
He gestured to the hole, which had since been markered off: "When Mr. Spaulding – not his real name, by the way – gave John directions to the chip shop earlier, I noticed the dirt under his fingernails. He'd been digging, probably hiding the newest batch. This was also evident from the dirty knees of his trousers, suggesting he'd been kneeling. I knew Mr. Wilson's flat had an unfinished basement as soon as he'd told me the address – all the flats on this block do."
"If Vincent Spaulding isn't his real name, then what is?" Lestrade asked, as John led the other man down the stairs. He began coughing immediately.
"Detective Inspector, I believe it would be wisest to finish this line of inquiry in fresh air."
Lestrade led "Vincent" out, with John still strong-arming "Duncan". Out in front of the flat, Lestrade motioned to the policeman arriving from a recently-parked car. The man moved to John, taking his captive and clapping cuffs onto him. He shoved the man into the closest police car and then pushed the other man into another car.
"The man that headed the red-headed league is not actually Duncan Ross, but a low-level criminal named 'Archie'. This is undoubtedly a nickname of Archibald Grossman, a street-chemist with one prior and a warrant out for his arrest. As I'm sure you've noticed inspector, he's gone to great lengths to conceal his true identity by growing a beard and dyeing his hair ginger. His employer, no doubt, has taught him how to do makeup, applying freckles and lightening his skin to add to the look. But he's not the one you should be interested in."
Sherlock turned to the recently arrived policeman and said, "Inspector Jones, correct? I believe we met once before, at Lestrade's last birthday celebration." The man gave a curt nod of recognition before he turned back to Lestrade.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade here has just caught the notorious John Clay," Sherlock remarked, and both inspectors' eyes went wide. Sherlock turned towards Mr. Wilson, and explained, "Don't be surprised you didn't recognize him – that was his aim. Color contacts, dyed hair, clean-shaven – not to mention the weight loss from his increasingly serious addiction… You couldn't have known unless you'd been looking. John Clay, as I'm sure you all have seen, is ordinarily a black-haired man with tan skin, blue eyes, a strong build, and a handlebar mustache. The man before you is a pale, thin, green-eyed man with no facial hair except for the mutton chops growing along his gaunt jaw. This man has hair that has been permed and dyed the most inconspicuous shade of brown. Unlike the handsome visage of the mastermind criminal, this man has a countenance most would go so far as to say is ugly: bent, bulbous nose and snaggle tooth. Those are prosthetics, I assure you. John Clay was classically trained in theatre and is thus quite knowledgeable of stage makeup and accents. His cockney tone is another lie."
He paused, and then addressed Mr. Wilson again: "You wouldn't be the first beta he's tricked, Mr. Wilson. John Clay is an embarrassment to Alphas everywhere, preying on the trusting and conciliatory nature of betas to accomplish his crimes. I'm sure testing of Archibald has told you he is a beta, as well?"
Lestrade hedged, "Well, yes… But Sherlock, that's classified."
"Not to anyone with a nose, I'm afraid," he replied, and winked. At that moment John Clay chose to cause a ruckus, banging against the window of the squad car with his shoulder. As attention was turned towards the criminal, Sherlock and John took the opportunity to slink away.
After they'd gotten a few blocks, John exclaimed, "That was… stupendous."
Sherlock smiled: "Was it?"
"Magnificent, really. And all that from dirty hands… Wow."
"Angelo's? My treat."