Chapter Nineteen.
After Cassia Ingram had departed 221B Baker Street, Holmes and Watson had sat in silent contemplation for quite a while, listening to rain battering against the windows and another round of thunder rumbling ominously, intermittently, in the distance.
The air was still oppressive and sultry outside, and inside Holmes living room, there was still an atmosphere of surprise.
Both men were stunned by Cassia Ingram's revelations of the past hour, and both were also equally shocked and moved by her bravery, and by the look on the poor woman's face as she had taken her leave.
Abject horror and embarrassment at what she had confessed, in those unusually deep green eyes, along with a plea from the heart to help her, to make it all stop.
Actually, she had bolted like a hunted animal, and both men had quickly realized that for her, there was no relief, no respite from the relentless horror of her waking dreams and night terrors, despite the fact that she had unburdened herself.
It wasn't over.
Not by a long shot and she was living on her nerves, unable to rest or garner any kind of peace from the onslaught of emotions that bombarded her.
When she wasn't actually feeling them, she was thinking about them, dwelling on them, unable to get the vivid images out of her head.
It was eating her alive.
There was also another element to it, Holmes realized.
Poor Cassia was terrified of what she might do whilst engrossed in one of her dreams, or visions.
She was petrified at how strong, how utterly overwhelming the killer's emotions were to her.
He had no control over his own emotions, and that made controlling her own that much more difficult, so much so that she feared what she might do under his influence, if she lost control of herself and he somehow managed to take control of her mind, what he might be capable of forcing her to do.
Most of all, she was beside herself with fear that she might go mad before this was done.
Still, Holmes had quickly realized that what she had told him was a real game changer.
It could be used to their advantage, but he would have to be patient and very gentle with her, if he was to coax the information that he needed from her, at their next meeting.
She was right to be concerned about her mental fragility.
High emotion and lack of sleep and nourishment were sure to weaken her mental control, and whatever controls and protections she had learned to manage her psychic gift, and her ability to remain detached.
Eventually, as the thunder passed on and the rain stopped, Watson made coffee and encouraged Holmes to nibble on a slice of Madeira cake that Mrs Hudson had bought with some other groceries the previous day, while Holmes reviewed Watson's scribbled notes, not to refresh his memory, but to gain a different perspective to his own.
"I wanted to thank you, for speaking to Mrs Hudson. I shouldn't have burdened you with that, John, but ..."
"It's alright, Sherlock. I understood."
"Was she terribly upset?"
"No, she went home laughing her bloody head off, you tosser, of course she was upset! She's been through it before too, remember?"
"Yes. I do appreciate it, John."
"I know."
"I can't have been easy for you."
"It wasn't."
Watson shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, recalling the deluge of silent tears from Mrs Hudson as he had held her frail body in his arms.
"Can we move on now, please?"
"Of course."
"How do you feel?" Watson asked as he regarded Holmes carefully. His friend was rubbing his brow with his fingertips, a pinched expression on his face.
"Like my brain is too big for my skull," Holmes confessed with a weak smile.
"Fancy that," Watson sighed.
The pain meds were obviously wearing off, but he couldn't safely give Holmes any more for at least another couple of hours.
"I thought that was how you usually felt."
"Very drool," Holmes gaze suddenly found Watson's. "You remember I once told you that my mind is like an engine, constantly running, burning out of control, like a rocket on the launch pad but going nowhere. Do you think ...?"
"No!" Watson cut him off. "No, Sherlock. You have a tumour. It is real, solid, and physiological, a growth, and it has nothing to do with your intellect or your mind racing out of control, so put that out of your head."
"Thank you."
"For a bloke with a superior intellect, you can sometimes come out with some complete crap," Watson grinned now, devouring his cake with obvious enjoyment. "What do you think?"
He glanced at the notepad resting on Holmes knee as he took a sip of his coffee.
"Comprehensive, as usual, and insightful. Thank you."
"You were wrong."
"I beg your pardon?"
"We were both wrong," Watson corrected himself when he saw the reproachful look on Holmes face. "We both thought she was picking up information from the victim."
"Hmmmm. I made an incorrect assumption."
It was as close to an admission that he could be wrong that Holmes was ever going to get.
"You can say that again. By the way, did you find your scarf palatable?"
Holmes made a face.
"Very attrractive. If the wind changes direction you'll stick like that," Watson quipped. "You never did tell me what she said that made you change your mind."
Watson had a feeling that Holmes never would either.
"A few home truths," Holmes confided, surprising Watson.
"Oh?"
"If you must know, she successfully predicted Mrs Hudson's scratch card win. She also knew that I was feeling ill and diagnosed my condition before Sir Frederick called with the news. She even told me I would hear from him that night, and I did."
"She also told you that you're going to live to a ripe old age."
"Mmmm. That remains to be seen, however, she was pretty accurate with everything else, however, prefer to I live in hope rather than expectation."
And that was all Watson needed to know.
"Impressive."
Watson meant it.
Yet, he quickly realized that it would have needed to be something drastic like that to make Holmes change his rigid mindset.
"Let's just say that it was sufficient to sway my mind more in her favour. I can be open minded when I need to be."
Both men were suddenly thinking of Holmes upcoming surgery and just how 'open minded' he really would be, and they shared a wry smile.
"So, what have we learned?" Holmes asked, licking his finger then running it over his plate to pick up the last of his cake crumbs before licking them off his finger with relish.
Here we go again...
"More cake?"
"No thank you, and please don't avoid the question. I'm interested to know what you think, John. You may have picked up on something that I missed."
Oh sure, and tomorrow I'll wake up and find out the Queen has knighted me for services to the country, not!
There was no getting out of, and Sherlock had asked nicely.
Damn him!
"Ok, the killer, is male. He works alone, has a penchant for little girls and smokes Marlboro fags," Watson summed up succinctly with a nasty sneer twisting his lips as his imagination conjured up the brutalized and violated body of an angelic blue eyed blonde haired little girl.
"Marlboro Lights," Holmes reminded, but there was no sarcasm in his tone.
"Sick bastard." Watson ground out between clenched teeth.
"Indeed. What else?" Holmes probed, taking a sip of his sweet black coffee to wash the cake crumbs from his throat.
Watson thought for a moment, fearing that Holmes was still hoping to catch him out.
"He's clever. He's also very careful. He has a plan that works and he's confident of not getting caught. Other than that, I really don't know what else Cass said that could help us."
Watson let out a deep sigh as he recognized the look in Holmes' eyes now.
Alright smartarse, take the floor ...
"Actually, we don't know that his penchant is just for little girls," Holmes corrected, but not unkindly. "And he's probably the last person anyone would think capable of doing such things," he deduced. "He's also young."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"I don't. Not for certain, but it stands to reason that he looks young, or is at least able to pass himself off as young, child like, and is in no way frightening or threatening. Think John!" Holmes declared. "He was able to approach a child without frightening her, and gain her trust. He knew exactly how to entice her without making her wary or frightened."
"Ok." Watson conceded.
"He probably comes across as a kindly older brother type."
Watson had to agree that that made sense, as far as it went, but he still didn't know how that helped them.
He didn't really know how anything that Cassia Ingram had told them would help them root out a child killer, it had all seemed so vague, except the emotions involved of course, and the very obvious affect this was having on her body and her mind.
"And he's particular about his victim," Holmes continued, sipping more of his coffee. "He knows the kind of child to target. Vulnerable babes, neglected, unloved, lonely, ignored, the ones he knows won't be missed, or worried over."
Holmes let out a deep, ragged sigh, obviously disturbed by his own conclusions.
As a doctor, Watson was aware of the darker side of so called family life in Britain and that even in this day and age there were still many such children.
For example, the off spring of parents hooked on drugs and driven by their own selfish needs to maintain their habit, ignored and neglected, left to fend for themselves while their parents got high.
Abused children, trapped at the whim of cruel men and women with mental illnesses, who used their children to compensate for their own inadequacies and make themselves feel superior and worthwhile, or to simply satisfy their own sick needs to control, using violence and mental torture to maintain their control over their victims just because they could.
There were other kids too, the ones whose parents set out wanting them, loving them, but circumstances ground them down, no work, no money, no hope, and so the children somehow got forgotten and abandoned along the way, left to their own devices, playing in the street without supervision because no-one could afford adequate child care.
Kids having kids.
Young girls who were no more than babies themselves, raised in loveless homes with no real role models and no idea how to take care of their little ones, looking for a way to escape their miserable existences, but really only succeeding in making their lives, and those of their babies, worse.
Any one of these kids would be easy pickings for a predator.
And that is what they had, or so it seemed.
"He's methodical. Compulsive, not impulsive. He's patient too, he watches and makes his plans, yet, he doesn't stand out from the crowd. No-one would ever suspect him," Holmes added, absently running his finger around the rim of his coffee mug.
"And I don't think he comes from a city or urban area. He takes these children with ease and they are not missed. In the city, someone would notice, nosy neighbours, little old ladies twitching their net curtains, but in the countryside, where neighbours are more spread out, it's more probable that a child could disappear for days and no-one would even notice, especially a child who was not of school age."
"A four year old would be in school, Sherlock. Either pre-school, or reception class."
"Then that narrows the field even more. We should be looking at close communities that live outside of the usual rules and laws."
Watson frowned.
"Think, Watson," Holmes coaxed, noting the frown drawing down his friend's brow.
"I am thinking." Watson growled. "Are you talking about immigrant communities?"
"Perhaps. It's one option, I suppose."
However, he did not sound convinced.
"What are the others?"
"Those who choose to live on the fringes, Watson. Communities without any real roots. Those who move around to find work or simply because life gets too difficult for them to stay in one place too long," Holmes explained his line of thinking. "Gypsys. Romanys, Travellers, whatever they call themselves these days, following ancient traditions and ways of life. New Age Traveller communities, environmental protestors who travel around the country to campaign against things like the destruction of ancient woodland to build yet another new road, or Fracking for oil or gas, or those who operate travelling fairs, carnivals or circuses."
"That's brilliant!" Watson declared, obviously impressed, for he would never have thought about any of those things.
Even with the grand daddy of all headaches and fears for his own mortality on his mind, Holmes was still on fine form, and it never failed to amaze his friend.
"Thank you. It is one theory worth investigating. Our man probably travels around the country, picks his victim, does the deed, then moves on before anyone is any the wiser, probably before anyone even notices that a child is missing, and no-one ever suspects."
"Oh, eventually someone might put two and two together and connect the fact that strangers were in the area, but then they might put it down to coincidence, after all, nothing could ever be proved without a body, and our man knows how to dispose of a body in isolated spots, where there is little or no chance of them being discovered. He choses places that are remote, but probably have fairly good access roads, after all, he needs to get them there. There are still such places in this country, remote, desolate places unsuitable for habtitation, but with small communities living on the edges. Remember Dartmoor?"
Watson nodded, then he rememberd how bleak and empty the place had been, save for a few villages, and Baskerville, and knew that could not fit the bill, because Cassia Ingram had been adamant that it was dense woodland.
"Not moorland, Sherlock."
"No. That narrows our search parameters even more. Woodland. It may not even have a name, or even be on the map. Have you driven around this country much?" Watson nodded. "All those miles of motorway with only trees as far as the eye can see, miles and miles of pine forest, some of it old, remnants of ancient forests, some of it used for commercial purposes," He speculated now. "Great swathes of it cut through to make way for the motorways. That is more likely to be the kind of place he finds convenient, and that is why there has been nothing in the papers or on the news. He commits the perfect murder then moves on, functioning normally until the need to kill gets too strong for him to control."
"There's just one problem with that, Sherlock, those kinds of communities don't travel in the winter, from what I understand. Don't they hole up in static winter quarters?"
"Indeed they do, well done, my friend." Holmes sighed. "But in the early Spring those with fairs or carnivals or circuses start preparing for the season, gathering together to work on their equipment, carrying out repairs to rides and the like, and to take on fresh labour."
Holmes paused for a moment, worrying on the inside of his lip with his teeth, briefly, then his expression changed to one of triumph, an expression that Watson easily recognized.
"Houston, we have a mistake!" Holmes declared, and Watson recalled the very first time that he had accompanied Holmes to a crime scene, where he had declared that he hated serial killers because you had to wait for them to make a mistake.
"How so?"
"He couldn't control the urges any longer, after all it had been a long, hard winter, holed up, and having to bide his time. Perhaps our man got impatient and he took a child from somewhere close to his winter camp, knowing that it would be months before he would be back, and that they would be long gone before the child was missed."
"And he could be just about anywhere by now."
"Indeed," Holmes concurred.
"And Cass is certain that he is getting ready to strike again," Watson emitted a deep sigh.
"I know."
"So you believe her?"
"I have no reason not to. You saw her, John. You were right about that. She isn't faking how badly this is affecting her, both physically and emotionally. That is why we need to get her back here as soon as we can. I need to get her to focus her thoughts more on the killer, to see if she can give us any kind of physical description, something that might help us to track him down."
"I know you're right, Sherlock, but I'm worried about her. I'm not sure how strong she is."
"I too have thought of that, but we don't have any other choice. I know that she is very frightened of losing control, and, she is irrationally wracked with guilt, because she somehow feels that she is doing the killing, or at least is convinced that she should be able to stop it somehow, but can't. She feels responsible, and that she has a duty to try to stop him before he does it again."
Watson nodded.
He had got the same impression.
"However, despite her fear, she understands the importance of her role in this. She is very brave and very tenacious. She won't give up."
Watson gave Holmes a meaningful look now.
"I will be gentle with her, I promise, but we need her insight, John. You will be here to protect her if I overstep the mark," Holmes gave Watson a wry smile now.
"I would give her a couple of days, Sherlock, time for her to get her equilibrium back and see if anything else develops, and give yourself time to get some rest too."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
"I mean it. I'm worried about you too, Sherlock. I know what you're like when you've got the scent, and you're really not up to gallivanting around the country right now."
He also knew that Holmes wasn't telling him the whole truth about he was really feeling, trying concealing how bad the pain was, and soldiering on, but it was clear for Watson to see, written all over his pale, pinched face.
The headache was getting worse.
"That is where you and the computer come in, my friend. We've done it before; we can do so again, if necessary."
The look on Holmes face told Watson that he did not find the thought very agreeable, he really needed to be there, in the thick of things, but, he also realized that he had no choice in the matter.
Watson was right.
He wasn't up to it, physically, but he could still put his eyes and his mind to good use.
He didn't need to be there, when John was familiar with what he needed to know about any crime scene or body that might be discovered.
Thank God for modern technology.
"You know, John, Cassia has given us something to be going on with, but what we really need, what would really help to break this case is a body, with lots of lovely physical evidence."
Watson knew that Holmes was right, but had the horrible feeling that that wasn't going to happen any time soon, although, a nagging little voice in the back of his head wanted to tell Holmes that he should be careful what he wished for, because it might just come true.