Chapter Nine.
"What is it with you? Do you get out of bed every morning wondering who you can insult, belittle degrade and generally piss off, or what?"
There was no reply, and Watson emitted a long, heavy sigh.
He hadn't really expected one.
"So, what happened there, Sherlock?" He asked, changing tactics, nursing a liberal splash of brandy in a balloon glass.
Holmes too was sipping at a similar glass of the dark amber liquid, pulling a face briefly as the strong alcohol burned his throat as he swallowed.
"I've seen you go off on one before, but you've never been quite that bad," Watson remarked, swirling the brandy around his glass.
He was sitting in the chair recently vacated by Cassia Ingram, watching Holmes carefully, relieved to see that the colour had now returned to his cheeks.
"People like her prey on the recently bereaved, in their weakened emotional state. They are all con artists and some of them are even criminals, bleeding people dry, a kind of blackmail, and the idiots' part with their money just so they can get some pathetic message from their loved ones beyond the grave. Other people seek people like her out to find out their future, and get their hopes raised that a lottery win is in the cards, or they are going to find Mr or Miss right around the next corner. It's all utter nonsense!"
Holmes' tone was scathing.
"I've outted many such frauds over the years. Perhaps that is why LeStrade directed her to me. He knows how I feel about such leeches. Perhaps he wanted me to look into her, see if she was up to something criminal, and at the same time he probably thought that it would be fun to wind me up."
"Besides, people like that give people like me a bad name. They go to the police claiming that they can help solve crimes, and muddy the waters, so when someone like me goes to them with valid information, they get treated like any other nutter wasting the police's time."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Yes."
"Bollocks! You are so full of it. People like Cassia Ingram are no threat to what you do, Sherlock. The police never take them seriously any way. Now you, they might not like it, but ..."
"Thank you, Watson," Holmes looked up from the contents of his glass and smiled softly at his friend's back handed compliment.
"I don't want to say I told you so," Watson couldn't resist the temptation.
"Then don't."
"Look, Sherlock, just because you don't believe in that sort of thing, it doesn't mean that it is all bunkum. She seemed pretty sincere to me. She didn't make any outrageous claims, indeed, my friend; she didn't really get a chance to say much of anything after you got on your high horse. What happened to hearing her out? What happened to empathizing with being in her position with the police? What happened to 'when I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad, must be the truth?"
"Doesn't apply to the supernatural, John. That can neither be proved nor disproved." Holmes scoffed. "It's subjective. Emotional. Either you are inclined to believe, or like me, you think it's a load of old codswallop. Flip the coin one way and you'd believe anything you're told, the other side of the coin, you wouldn't believe it if it hit you square between the eyes. Some people refuse to believe what they see. I am not one of those. I trust in my senses, that's all."
"You say it can't be proved, but there are those who say they prove it every day, and many that believe in them."
"Deluded."
"So what exactly did she say that made you lose it like that?"
Holmes shrugged absently and then drained his glass, his brain still trying to process the words that she had chosen to mutter into his ear before taking her leave.
"You have such strong opinions on the subject, I don't think, short of hitting you over the head with a shovel and beating it into you, she could find anything to convince you that she's on the level. At least she had the sense to withdraw, live to fight another day."
"Hmmmm."
And she had left a rather intriguing parting shot across his bows, Holmes recalled once again.
"I would have thought this was right up your street, the wackier the better usually."
"Not the supernatural, John. I have never dabbled in that. Indeed, I have often gone out of my way to prove that there are no such things as genuine mediums, clairvoyants or psychics."
"What if Cassia Ingram happens to be the first real psychic you've come across?"
"Then I'll eat my scarf!" Homes snorted.
"What did you make of her? How did you know? Not telepathy, obviously. Did you peg her as a fake clairvoyant as soon as she walked into the room?" Watson quizzed, smirking. "I mean, it wasn't the flowing gaudy robes and beads and the waft of incense that did it."
"What did you make of her?" Holmes swiftly turned the tables back to Watson, not appreciating his amusement.
I knew this was coming ...
"Actually, I rather liked her. She has guts. I thought she did really well in the face of your sarcasm and hostility. When you're in full flow like that it's akin to being in the path of Hurricane Katrina, but she stood her ground," Watson grinned, but Holmes refused to rise to the bait.
"Ok, first, she was obviously upset about something. I think she'd probably been crying before she came here. Red eyes, croaky voice, very flat emotionally. Calm, almost too calm, as though she had stiffened her resolve, and although she was nicely dressed, she hadn't paid attention to her appearance, the toothpaste drip on her chin that she failed to wipe away ...'
Holmes frowned.
He had missed that one.
He must be slipping.
Good old Watson.
He was improving.
"No make-up, not even lippy, when most women wouldn't be seen dead out of the house without their mask on, and no jewellery, just a cheap watch, functional but not fancy. And her hair was a bit untidy."
"Not her usual style, she was distracted and in a hurry," Holmes concurred, finally pulling his thoughts together. "And no purse, or handbag."
"Nor crystal ball either, for that matter," Watson could not resist a grin.
"The dream." Holmes mused. "Whatever she dreamed, it definitely frightened her," he conceded in a low baritone voice.
"She couldn't get back off to sleep, probably not until just before dawn and then she slept heavily, awoke late, was a little slap dash in her ablutions and careless about her appearance. She had no doubt selected her clothes before retiring, but something upset her so profoundly her mind wasn't on her usual morning routine," he elaborated, grateful to be back on familiar ground.
"I've had nights like that myself," Watson recalled.
Many nights filled with nightmares about the fighting in Afghanistan and the friends he had seen killed, and more recently, Holmes himself, falling through the air off Bart's roof, arms and legs flayling, his brains splattered all over the pavement.
Holmes voice broke into his thoughts, and Watson was grateful.
"But dreams are just that, our subconscious mind dealing with difficult things that we cannot face while awake. Just because it was vivid and disturbing it doesn't mean it really happened," Holmes dismissed logically.
"Interpreting dreams is notoriously difficult, because things that happen in dreams are misleading, people think they mean one thing, when in fact, they often mean the opposite, or nothing at all. Basically, dreams lie, and people read into them what they want."
"Remind me not to share any of my dreams with you."
"You said that you thought she was in shock?"
"Yes. Her pulse was elevated; her respiration rapid, pupils dilated and her skin was clammy to the touch."
"That could be from the exertion of the walk here and the climb up those stairs."
"No, she was cold to the touch, if it was just perspiration, she would have been warmer. When a body is in shock, the blood travels away from the extremities to protect the major organs. That's why people shiver when they are in shock, and lose their colour."
"Yes, she was trembling," Holmes also recalled now that her hands had been cold too.
"After the way you went after her, I'm not surprised."
"I'm not unaware that my behaviour was less than perfect," Holmes sighed deeply, his tone irritated, and then he raised the balloon glass to his lips and took a gulp of his brandy with a grimace. "I'm not proud of myself, just in case you were wondering."
"Another?" Watson offered but Holmes quickly shook his head, realizing that alcohol did not mix well with the medications that he had been prescribed; he probably shouldn't have accepted that one.
And he needed a clear head.
"So?"
"So, what?"
"So, is this going to be your latest crusade? Revealing to the world that Cassia Ingram is a sham?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock; are you really that cold hearted? Did anything that she said penetrate that ice block you call a heart by any chance?"
"I've told you before, I'm reliably informed that I don't have one, or a good nature to appeal to," Holmes reminded, then continued. "Yes. A couple of things, actually," he added, sighing tiredly, the fingers of his right hand fluttering upward to pinch the bridge of his nose briefly.
"Oh?"
There was surprise in Watsons' voice.
So maybe there was hope for his friend after all.
Watson had once accused him of being a machine, but since his return, Sherlock had put some effort in to trying to understand emotion and sentiment and how his life affected those around him, not asking for, but accepting nevertheless, the affection and respect he got from Mrs Hudson and Watson, and, somewhat grudgingly, even Mycroft on occasion.
He didn't fully understand it, didn't claim to feel anything himself, but at least he wasn't the iceberg he had been when Watson first met him.
The Moriarty experience had changed Holmes perspective in that regard, for the better.
Holmes wasn't alone, and his very existence had a knock on affect to those around him, and now he knew it.
But then there were times when he reverted back to type, as witnessed recently by Cassia Ingram.
"Suffer the little children, John."
"Yup, I thought she scored a direct hit with that one," Watson smiled softly.
Her words had affected him too.
As a caring, compassionate man, there was no way he could tolerate the idea that children were being slaughtered just for some maniac's pleasure, and even if he didn't show it, Holmes was not immune either.
"Everyone goes gaga at the thought that a precious little child might be in danger," Holmes sneered again.
Did I say there was hope for him?
Maybe not then...
"But she is right. I can't take the chance that she is, God forbid, actually genuine. I can't risk that there is a child killer out there on the loose, just because I'm a cold, cynical, heartless, unfeeling bastard."
"Just one problem, there's been no report of a child's body turning up, anywhere."
"Not in London, granted, but London isn't the centre of the universe, John, and the thing about clairvoyance is that it is global. Spirit does not recognize countries, borders. If there has been a murder, and I'm still not convinced there has been, it could be anywhere in this country, or the whole world for that matter."
"Bloody hell!"
When did Sherlock have time to find out about these kinds of things?
And why would he even bother if he was so certain that it was complete nonsense?
"It's no easy task. Not only do we not have any idea where to start, we have no body, and therefore, no physical evidence to follow. We have no time frame. We do not know if this murder is recent, or happened years ago. We have no idea if or where this murder happened, and no idea of modus operandi to lead us to the killer."
"We're buggered. But, if you'd heard her out, Miss Ingram might have been able to fill in the blanks."
Holmes threw Watson a sour look.
"I can't help being who and what I am, John. Miss Ingram was right about that too. I have a logical, orderly, analytical mind. I believe in tangibles, the things that I can see and hear, taste and touch, not smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand or incantations or bell, book and candle," Holmes scoffed.
"She didn't actually say she was a witch, Sherlock," Watson reminded. "She could have parked her broomstick downstairs, I suppose, but I didn't spot any warts or hairs on her chin."
Watson grinned, Holmes sour expression indicating that he had scored a hit this time around.
No, just a toothpaste drip, which I missed.
"In fact, we don't even know for sure that she is actually a working medium. You said there was nothing about her on the internet. If she was working as a psychic, fleecing people for cash, that's one of the best places to drum up business."
"She could be using a professional name. Gypsy Rosalea or Madame Arcady."
"She gave you her card."
"So she did."
Holmes extracted the thin white card from his jacket pocket and glanced at it quickly. However, there was nothing there except a mobile telephone number etched in silver along with the name, Cassia Ingram.
"Anything?"
"Nothing helpful, but it was worth a try."
"And anyway, Sherlock, even if she is a witch, we stopped burning them at the stake a long time ago. You know, some people actually find spiritualism and clairvoyance comforting."
"Did you visit one when you thought I was dead?" Holmes snapped.
"No. I was too shocked, and, if you must know, too bloody angry with you. I didn't much want to hear anything you might have said in your defence of what you did, and I was certain you wouldn't want to hear my thoughts on the subject. And, I was too much of a gentleman to say those things out loud in company."
"So you went to see your therapist instead. Did it help?"
"Visiting a psychic is the same as seeing a therapist to some people," Watson side stepped the question. "People seek and find comfort and reassurance wherever they can."
"And there are those who prey on the bereaved, extracting money to produce those words of comfort that people so desperately want to hear."
"Cynic."
"Realist," Holmes corrected sharply. "If there really is something beyond this life, then why hasn't some high profile decedent come back to rave about it all over the television, gushing about how wonderful the afterlife is? I'm sure there are scores of Elvis fans who would be delighted to rush to join him over there," Holmes scoffed.
"So, I ask again, what are you going to do, Sherlock?"
"Well, actually, I thought I might return my cardiac muscle to the freezer and fiddle while London burns," Sherlock drawled acidly.
"Pillock."
"What would you do in my place, John?"
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Watson sighed deeply. "Well, one thing's for sure; I'd not sit around biding my time and contemplating my navel. I'd hit the internet and try to find out if there are any missing kids."
"A pointless venture. Where do you begin? The way the so called psychic gift works, this murder could have happened yesterday, last week, last month, last year, last Century."
"Yes, yes, I get your point, but I'd have to do something!"
"Or it may not have happened at all ... Yet."
"No, she said there has been a murder. Definitely past tense."
"Very good, Watson."
"There is a chance that it could be recent, and it's entirely possible that the body simply hasn't turned up yet. At any rate, I wouldn't be able to rest until I'd at least tried to find out if a child has been reported missing."
"Well then, John, it seems we are in agreement, after all, even if it doesn't mean much. We still don't have a time frame as a point of reference. However, if we assume that it is recent, a child could have just got lost, wandered off, or just stayed out later than normal because it's lost track of time. Not every missing child has been snatched by a maniac, or even been taken by a stranger."
Holmes reminded, recalling a very high profile case from a few years ago when the mother had arranged for her son to 'go missing' and had milked the situation in the press, only for it to be discovered later that the child was with a distant relative, and it had all been about reward money offered by the newspapers.
"People get divorced and when one parent gets custody, some times out of desperation, the other parent decides to take things into their own hands," he added thoughtfully.
It was fast becoming a trend for angry husbands, especially foreign Nationals, to spirit their children away to their homelands to spite their former spouses.
"Or, perhaps a child has been kidnapped, the police are aware and have asked for a D notice to be issued, so no word of it gets into the newspapers, and they don't tip off the kidnapper that they are on to him, but I am sure that that is the first thing that LeStrade would have checked into, with other forces, not just the Met. Or, a child could simply have wandered off and the parents haven't notified anyone yet. Nevertheless, it is a start, I suppose."
Watson knew that Holmes was right.
There was any number of reasons why a child could go missing, not all of them sinister.
Yet he could not get away from the fact that Cassia Ingram had said murder.
"And where do you suggest we start first? What country?"
"Here. The UK."
"Why so?"Holmes was genuinely curious to know why Watson was so sure.
"Well, it doesn't seem logical to me that the spirit world would be giving Miss Ingram messages and information about a murder in a country she doesn't know and couldn't interpret clues about."
"Interesting."
"If it were in another country, surely the spirit world would choose a medium from that particular country, not someone from thousands of miles away who would struggle to find any point of reference. No. I say it's here, somewhere in Britain."
"Very good, Watson. You're thinking for a change."
"Besides, she didn't say it wasn't in this country. She could have said, 'there has been a murder in Siberia'." Watson added. "But she didn't."
"No, she didn't, but that doesn't mean anything. As you pointed out, I didn't give her much chance to say anything."
Holmes made a sour face.
"Is a body turning up the only proof that you will accept, Sherlock?"
"I don't follow."
"Well, you could always swallow your prejudice and your pride and speak to Miss Ingram again, find out what she believes she saw in her dream, what scared her out of her wits, and what makes her think she has information that can help catch a killer."
"No matter what she said, Watson, she can only prevent further murders if she can predict the future. She used the past tense, as you so rightly pointed out, so that means she is coming to that particular party late. If she is for real, and I am not ready to accept that she is, she is only able to see what has passed, not what is ahead," Holmes surmised. "But, I won't need to seek her out."
Watson frowned at Holmes.
"You heard what she said. Unfinished business, and all that. Besides, she made perfect sense when she said that we can neither of us ignore our own particular gifts, or curses. They also hold certain responsibilities for us both. She will be back, because she has to. I have no doubt, for if there is anything I have learned in dealing with mediums and people who claim to have foresight, there is one fundamental rule that they always follow."
"They have to pass on the message they are given by the spirits. Just as I have to tell the police my ideas, even if I look foolish and they laugh me out of the building. Like me, they are compelled to share what they know. Miss Ingram failed to do that, and I doubt that she will have a minute's peace until she does so. So, you see, Watson, I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that we have not seen the last of Miss Cassia Ingram."