Chapter Thirty Eight.
The living room at 221B Baker Street was calm and tranquil, but there was also an unmistakeable air of anticipation, as well as the lingering aroma of smoke, as the three occupants made themselves comfortable.
While Watson had taken his shower and had attended to his morning ablutions, and Holmes had had to start over again with the toast, consigning the first burned offering to the kitchen bin, Cassia Ingram had popped out to the local newsagents to purchase milk, and a few essential items that she needed, a couple of boxes of lead pencils, hard and soft, and a plastic packet of coloured pencil crayons, because she felt that charcoal would be too cold a medium for the work she needed to produce.
She had then taken a brisk walk around the cold, damp streets around Baker Street, filling her lungs with the sharp, fume tainted morning air, clearing the fog of sleep from her mind and stretching her limbs, physically and mentally preparing herself for what she was about to attempt.
Since Holmes had pounced on her with his idea that she try to draw the children, and the killer, she had thought about nothing else, and what she might be able to do to achieve their goal.
As she walked, it came to her, exactly how she could go about it, and she returned to 221B, about fifteen minutes later, feeling more confident about what lay ahead.
Over breakfast, she and John and Sherlock had had a little pow-wow, with Cassia laying down a few non negotiable ground rules, for Sherlock in particular, to follow.
He hadn't liked it, but he had had no choice but to agree.
Now they were ready.
Holmes and Watson occupied their usual seats, opposite each other, and across the room from them, Cassia sat on the couch, her sketchpad balanced on her lap, and she had placed various pencils, laid out neatly in rows and close to hand, on the seat cushion beside her.
Watson had a notepad open to a clean sheet of paper, and a pen, close to hand on the arm of the chair, ready to begin taking notes during the proceedings, and Holmes had his violin and bow in his lap, waiting for a cue from Cassia, as she had suggested that perhaps a little soothing music might help to set the mood and help to create a more welcoming and peaceful atmosphere for the children.
Holmes had not been happy about that either.
He had protested at first, fearing that his present standard of dexterity would not be up to the task, but both John and Cassia had given him pained, exasperated looks.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you big girl, it's not a concert at the ruddy Royal Albert Hall," John had pointed out in scathing tones.
"John's right, Sherlock. You will be playing for two traumatized and terrified babies. Play as many bum notes as you like, go for it, they'll probably think it's funny."
Holmes had given them both the evil eye, but he had picked up his fiddle, nevertheless, mainly because he had already agreed to Cassia's ground rules, which had included: 'Do as spirit ask, go with the flow, don't argue and don't try to boss them around. You're not running this show, Sherlock, they are, so get with the programme and keep your temper, please."
Cassia had also tried to explain to both men about some other things that they night become aware of when things got going, indicating that perhaps they night notice some tiny lights, or orbs, experience what was known as 'out of the corner of the eye' phenomenon, where they might believe that they had caught some movement just out of their line of sight, and that the temperature in the room might change.
"Look guys, I'm no expert at this. It's the first time I've really tried anything like this," she had explained in a soft, somewhat nervy voice. "I don't do séances, so I really don't know what to expect, but," she had paused for a moment. "If things suddenly start flying around the room it's more likely to be Sherlock throwing a tantrum than my friends on the other side!"
She had grinned widely then and given Sherlock a very meaningful look.
Both men had smiled back at her, although Sherlock's was more like the smile of a crocodile, all teeth and no humour.
They waited patiently.
Cassia settled into a comfortable position and closed her eyes, drawing in a long, deep, calming breath.
Holmes noticed a change in her facial expression almost immediately, more relaxed, a kind of peacefulness settling over her, and he too was inspired to take in a long, deep breath, casting a quick glance at Watson to make sure that he was ready with his pad and pen, poised to take down any salient information.
"Ok, Sherlock," Cassia finally broke the silence. "How about you give us a tune?" she invited, her eyes still closed, an expression of concentration etched into her pleasant futures now.
"What do you suggest?" he drawled, unsure what kind of 'mood' music she would think appropriate.
"Well, I have an idea that might make things a little easier."
"Oh?" Holmes' tone was suspicious now.
"Yes. Why don't you play something that your Grand-mere would have liked?" Cassia suggested softly.
After all, his grandmother was the one contact that had been coming through loud and clear, so, why not approach her and try to elicit her help. She would also be someone that the children might be able to trust when faced with a room full of strangers. A kindly, reassuring figure.
She had decided that it was worth a try, and as she had hoped, the feisty French woman had come through to her immediately.
Watson looked at Holmes and arched his eyebrow inquisitively, mouthing 'Grand-mere?'
Holmes blatantly ignored him, as he raised the violin up and positioned it under his chin, moving it around until he felt comfortable, and then he raised the bow and drew it tentatively across the strings.
Ready to begin, Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up in his mind's eye, days of yore, when he had been a boy, playing tunes for his grandmother during those blissful summer months, suddenly recalling her favourite, the one that had always made her smile and clap her hands together in pleasure.
Holmes began to play, dragging the notes required from the depths of his memory, and instantly the room began to echo to the recognizable strains of 'Sur la Pont d'Avignon,' and then, with more confidence and flair, he followed that, with the jaunty, 'Frere Jacques."
Cassia Ingram smiled.
"Nice."
Holmes continued to play.
It wasn't perfect, a few scratchy notes here and there, but he thought it somehow appropriate, playing more like the boy that he had been, showing off for his beloved Grand-mere, just starting to come to terms with the instrument.
John Watson wasn't sure exactly when it happened, but he suddenly noticed a change in the atmosphere in the room, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck were suddenly tingling and standing on end, and he could feel goose bumps rising on the backs of his hands.
He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he also thought that the room suddenly felt a degree or two cooler.
Here we go…
Making a note of the time, Watson began to scribble a brief note of his observations on his notepad.
Across the room, Cassia Ingram suddenly let out a soft chuckle, a pleasant sound, and Watson raised his eyes from the paper and glancing over at Cassia, found a broad grin on her face, and a merry twinkle dancing in her now open green eyes.
Sherlock immediately stopped playing and glared at Cassia, wondering what she found so funny.
He had told her that he didn't think he was up to the task, so he certainly did not appreciate her amusement.
"Your grandmother is saying 'even after all these years, Cherie, it still sounds like you are strangling a cat," Cassia explained on another chuckle. "Say hello, Sherlock."
"Bonjour, Grand-mere. Com en sa va?"
Again Cassia giggled.
Holmes continued to glare.
"She says, 'I'm dead, Cherie, how do you think I feel?"
"Very drool."
"Be nice, Sherlock. She's pleased to see you, the least you can do is be polite."
"Merci, Grand-mere, Ca va bien," Holmes drawled sarcastically.
"Grand-mere?" Watson spoke aloud this time, regarding Holmes with a frown and a cocked eyebrow.
"I'll explain later…" Holmes snarled, but Watson could tell from the expression on his face that he had absolutely no intention of explaining anything.
Don't mind me. I'm just the resident idiot…
On the other side of the room, Cassia Ingram grew silent and serious once again, and Watson could only assume that she was in the process of communing with the spirit of Holmes' dead grandmother.
Dead French grandmother.
"Cass?" Holmes' tone was impatient.
"I'm asking your grandmother if she can help me, Sherlock. She is telling me that the children are near, but, they are frightened," she explained, her eyes closed once more as she concentrated on the other, unheard side of the conversation.
"Frankly, I don't blame them, poor lambs. Look what happened to them the last time they trusted a stranger," she reminded them, a shudder suddenly running down her spine. "We need to try to gain their trust."
She grew silent and thoughtful for a moment, possibly continuing the conversation with Holmes' grandmother.
"How about some nursery songs? Sherlock, do you know 'London Bridge Is Falling Down?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Good. You play, and John and I will sing, and then perhaps we could have 'Oranges and Lemons' and 'Ring a ring a Roses?"
"Very well," Holmes responded through clenched teeth. "If we must."
"We must," Cassia confirmed. "I told you, Sherlock, forget how crazy or embarrassing it looks and sounds. You need to play along. Literally."
Holmes emitted a loud snort of disgust.
He had never harboured aspirations to be either a busker or a children's entertainer.
He did not have the temperament for it, and he knew it.
He was most uncomfortable with the situation, and he had the distinct impression that both Watson and Cassia were enjoying his embarrassment and discomfort.
Next they'll be asking me to dress up as a clown! He thought sourly to himself.
"Remember they're children, Sherlock, so make it light and playful, jolly, not a dirge, please," Cassia advised with a gentle smile.
Holmes drew his bow across the strings sounding out the first chord of 'London Bridge is falling down', and right on cue, Cassia began to sing.
She had a nice voice, a sweet, clear, Metzo soprano, easily carrying the melody and in perfect tune.
Watson, on the other hand, sounded like a bull frog with Bronchitis, however, he did not let that bother him, as he got into the part of entertainer and sang along with Cassia with gusto.
Don't give up your day job, doctor…
"London Bridge is falling down my fair lady!"
Watson was grinning like a fool, really getting into the swing of things, and Holmes, continuing to play, raised his eyes to the heavens in exasperation.
This was not at all what he had had in mind.
If Mrs Hudson could hear this nonsense, she would think them all completely mad.
She was already as wicked as a wasp over the smoke alarm going off and her house being filled with the acrid aroma of burned bread.
Holmes finished the tune with a flourish of his bow, then after a brief adjustment of the violin under his chin, he sounded out a new chord.
"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's…" Cassia took the first part of the verse, singing in a light, cheery voice. "You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St Martin's…"
"When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey..." Watson took up the song, in a deep, booming voice, and Holmes continued to fiddle jauntily, with a false smile on his lips, which barely concealed his clenched teeth.
"When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch…" Cassia again; with a big grin on her face, obviously enjoying the duet with Watson, who now took up the next line in the same deep voice.
"When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney…."
"I do not know, says the great bell of Bow." Cassia concluded.
The music stopped abruptly, right on cue and she and Watson took a quick breath and spoke the last lines of the rhyme in unison.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"
Cassia looked back at Holmes and nodded, giving him the cue for the next little ditty, and she could tell from his expression that he was not a happy camper.
Tough cheddar, this is my show!
Holmes once again sounded out the first note, and Cassia began to sing once more.
"Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies, A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down!"
"How gruesome," Holmes intoned with a grimace. "The things we teach our children when they are so young and impressionable," he grumbled. "Beheading and the Black Death …"
"Alright, spoil sport," John admonished now. "We were just getting into the right mood. Party pooper!"
"Why don't you sing something, Sherlock?"
"No fear."
"Then don't criticize others," Cassia chastised. "You need to loosen up and go with the flow, Sherlock."
"I thought that was what I was doing," he grumbled.
"Ok, let's try something else. The singing was good, but the children are still reluctant to come forward. How about some nursery rhymes?"
"I don't know any," Holmes grumbled again.
"Yes you do," Watson quickly contradicted, and Holmes gave him a nasty scowl. "Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear…"
"Yes, alright, I know that one."
"What's the matter, Sherlock, don't you want to get tickled under there!" Watson suddenly giggled.
"Ok, boys, chill. Nobody has to get tickled," Cassia shook her head in exasperation at the pair of them. "We're supposed to be the grown ups, here. Could you at least try to be adult about it?"
"I doubt it, John giggled again. " We don't do serious."
"So what do you do?" Cassia went along with him, noting the teasing twinkle in his eye and the pained look on Holmes face although he too was wrestling to suppress a grin.
"We solve mysteries. I write a blog about it, and he gets right up people's noses!" Watson let out a loud guffaw, and despite himself, Sherlock could not resist a soft chuckle. "Nobody said we had to be grown up about it!"
"Children, please!"
However, Cassia was laughing too.
It felt so good.
It also helped to relieve the tension that had been building up in the room.
Cassia also felt a wave of approval from the 'other side'. Holmes and Watson's antics, their bickering and then their laughter had amused the children, and made them curious.
It wasn't the kind of behaviour they were used to seeing in most adults.
Absently, Cassia reached out for an HB pencil and opened her sketchpad up to a clean piece of paper, began to draw.
"So, we've established that Sherlock only knows one nursery rhyme, his education is obviously sadly lacking in that department, what about you, John?" Cassia enquired, not taking her eyes off the sketchpad in her lap, her hand working to develop the sketch she was working on.
"Errr."
"Oh boy. How do you usually coax your younger patience to trust you?" she quizzed.
"Well, with a lollipop, or a gobstopper usually."
"I'll just bet their dentists love you," she sighed softly. "Just my luck, sitting here with the only two blokes in London who don't know any nursery rhymes. What about Humpty Dumpty? Jack and Jill went up the hill? Here we go round the Mulberry bush? Ring any bells?"
"Doh!"
"Are you taking the…"
"Sherlock!" Watson's tone held a note of warning now.
"Well, this is utterly ridiculous!"
"No, it's not," Cassia's tone grew serious now. "Grand-mere has had her fun, and she thanks you for playing along because it's done the trick," she explained, again her eyes never leaving the sketchpad before her.
Curiosity was getting the better of him now, and so Holmes carefully set down his precious violin and bow and rose from his chair, needing to stretch his legs.
He was interested to see what Cassia was drawing, but before he could make a move to cross the room, she was suddenly flipping the page over quickly, her pencil flying over the new blank page, and he could tell straight away from Cassia's expression that something had changed.
Fun time was over.
There was a look of horror on her suddenly pale face, her green eyes big and welling with unshed tears, and he guessed that she was reacting to what she alone could see.
However, her hand remained steady as she began to outline what she was seeing before her, he noted.
"Cass?" Holmes spoke in a soft voice, suddenly becoming aware that the air temperature in the room had dropped again, and just for the briefest intan, he thought he saw something move out of the corner of his left eye.
"It's alright, Sherlock," she acknowledged him without looking up, her voice soft and low, indicating her gratitude for his sudden concern for her. "I'm alright," she added for good measure. "She's here."
"She?" Holmes quizzed with a frown, suddenly noting a tiny little orb of flourescent white light dancing around Cassia's feet.
"The blue eyed, blonde haired angel," Cassia clarified.
Holmes could hold his patience no longer and he slowly made his way across the room, and finally stopped beside the couch, where he dropped to his knees, hunkering down so that he could see what Cassia was so industriously drawing on her sketchpad, suddenly aware that the orb of light was floating around his head and shoulders, before moving off to hover around Cassia's drawing hand.
On the page before him, becoming clearer and clearer with every stroke of the pencil, was indeed the angelic face of a little girl of about four years old.
Cassia had given her big, wide, innocent eyes and was in the process of shading them in quickly with a sky blue coloured pencil crayon, and the child also had a cheeky, gap-toothed smile in a chubby, round face.
Her hair was unkempt, untidy wisps escaping from a couple of ratty pigtails, one on each side of her head.
Cassia continued to fill in more detail with various coloured pencils, yellow for her hair, pink for her lips and ruddy cheeks, and a deeper, crimson colour for the livid, wide line which had opened the poor child's throat and allowed her life's blood to flow from her.
Holmes instantly recalled Cassia Ingram's reaction when she had told him about how this poor child had met her demise when she had been forced, by him, to describe the manner of her death, and he looked at Cassia now, fearful that she might be overwhelmed with emotions, but, instead, despite the fact that tears were rolling freely down her cheeks as she rapidly blinked them away, she looked calm and poised, her attention firmly fixed on creating the sketch he intended to take to Scotland Yard later.
At that moment, he felt immense pride in Cassia.
She was coping with the situation admirably.
"Angel…"
"Hmm?" Holmes frowned, and then realized that she had not been addressing him, but again describing the child she was seeing.
"Yes. Indeed, she is," Holmes agreed.
"No," Cassia snapped impatiently as she continued to draw. "It's not what she looks like."
"Oh."
"Well, yes, she does look pretty angelic, but that's not what I meant. I keep hearing it, over and over again, and that means it's important, but I don't now why."
"Something to do with where she is buried perhaps?" Holmes suggested helpfully.
"No. She's not in any graveyard, Sherlock, so there are no angelic monuments around her," Cassia reminded, still adding details to her drawing.
"Take your time," Holmes encouraged. "You're doing fine." He added, hoping that didn't sound too patronizing, for he had not meant it to come out like that.
The full length sketch was taking shape now, coming to life on the page before him, as Cassia continued to work without pause or hesitation, adding, to his relif, the clothing that she had described to him from her visions, because he had also recalled that at first, Cassia had described the child as laying naked in an open grave.
She dressed the child in the denim dungarees, patched and torn and faded and frayed, with the faded mustard coloured teddy bear motif on the top bib section that she had recalled from earlier visions instead.
"Angel…"
Cassia was muttering under her breath, mulling it over and over, as she worked.
"C'mon angel, show me, tell me. Madam, can you make her understand?" Holmes heard her breathy plea to his deceased relative, and notice the orb fade a little, then glow more brightly as it moved up towards Cassia's head.
"Oh!" Cassia suddenly exclaimed, and a smile briefly flashed across her lips. "Merci. Thank you."
Her hand suddenly stilled for a moment and she closed her eyes, allowing fresh tears to spill over her lashes and down her cheeks.
Then her hand was working again on the page, but beneath the drawing this time.
"Oh God, Sherlock, I'm such a dunce! It's her name!" Cassia exclaimed as she continued to scrawl something on the page beneath the sketch.
"Angel?"
"No. Angela," Cassia declared now with confidence as she finished writing.
"Angela. That's a good start," Holmes praised softly then turned his attention to Watson. "Did you get that, John?" and was startled to find another two small orbs orbing Watson.
"Yes."
"Good."
Holmes decided not to draw his friend's attention to the strange phenomomen. He needed him to concentrate on taking notes, just in case he himself missed something important.
"Hmmm, now she's showing me a spider," Cassia informed with a hint of uncertainty, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, briefly.
"A spider?" Holmes echoed her tone, and then, they both suddenly realized the significance at the same time, and spoke in unison.
"Web."
"Angela Webb," Holmes spoke the name excitedly, and glanced over to Watson to make sure that he was continuing to make notes, and gave a nod of satisfaction as he spotted his friend scribbling on to his notepad.
"Hello, Angela," Cassia was speaking softly to the child that he and Watson could not see, but, did not doubt was in the room with them now.
"Hello, Angela…" he responded in kind, then suddenly noticed the change in Cassia's expression.
A moment ago she had been triumphant and positive, now, she was filled with sorrow.
"She says she's with her Mommy and Daddy now."
"So, she was an orphan."
"Yes. Your grandmother is telling her she is not alone anymore."
"Poor mite…" This was from Watson now.
"Where is she, Cass?"
Holmes decided to change the direction of the conversation from emotion and sentiment, before Cassia was overwhelmed and could no longer function properly.
"Can she tell you? Show you?"
"Hang on, Sherlock. I'll get to that. She keeps going off on a tangent, telling me about her favourite toys. She's such a small child, Sherlock, you can't expect her to concentrate on one thing for too long, and I don't want to spook her now I have her confidence."
"Sorry."
And he genuinely was this time.
The picture on the sketchpad was so detailed, so vibrant and alive, it was heart breaking, especially as the injury to her throat stood out so boldly, it was beginning to affect his usually arctic heart.
The image on the page was better than any photograph, because Cassia had somehow managed to make it look as though the child were alive and might actually move if you looked at her long enough.
Suddenly, Cassia's hand stilled once more and a frown deepened, creasing her brow.
"What?"
"They're showing me a deer," she explained incredulously.
"A deer?" Holmes echoed.
"Yes, Sherlock. A deer."
"What kind of deer?"
"How should I know! I don't know a Roe deer from a ruddy Reindeer!" Cassia snapped impatiently.
"Sorry. Apologies. I meant sex, doe or stag, not genus," Holmes clarified.
"Here. I'll show you."
She began to draw another image on another clean space on the sheet of paper, quickly producing the head, neck and shoulders of a stag.
"What does it mean?"
"You're the detective, Sherlock! Do I have to do everything myself?"
"A road sign," Holmes suggested, gleefully. "It makes sense. She's buried in woodland. Our man must have used a vehicle to transport her there. Perhaps she saw a sign, warning motorists of the danger of wild deer roaming on to the road, whilst they were driving."
However, even as he finished speaking, Cassia was drawing a box around the outline a now complete picture of a stag, and was reaching for a purple coloured pencil crayon, which she used to begin shading around the animal's outline, leaving the animal its self completely white.
"Damn!"
There goes that theory...
Sherlock needed his computer.
He rose sharply, wobbled slightly, and then, almost tripping over his own feet, as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him.
He saved himself by reaching out for a dining chair, and then after recovering himself, and pulling out the chair so that he could sit down, he opened up Internet Explorer, clicked on his Favourites drop down box and selected the link for Google search.
When the page loaded, he began to type in the search box.
"It's definitely not a road sign," he announced.
Road signs in the UK invariably had a red border around them, circles or triangles with a warning of road conditions or speed limits or obstructions ahead.
"It's some kind of emblem."
"What for instance?"
"A company, or a club of some kind, or an hotel chain, I don't know yet. Google is very slow… Cass, what else does Angela remember?" Holmes demanded.
"She keeps saying something over and over, but again, I can't quite make it out. It sounds like Chas."
"The killer's name!"
"No, she keeps showing me the deer, and saying Chas, so it could be what she has named the animal for all I know!"
"Damn!"
"She's only a baby, Sherlock. She can't read yet, so she's trying her best to show me what she saw, and tell me what she heard."
"Keep trying."
"I am!"
Suddenly, Cassia let out a startled, strangulated little gasp which immediately drew Holmes attention away from his computer screen.
He fixed his eyes on Cassia and found the same horror stricken expression on her pale face that he had seen earlier, when the child Angela had come forward to speak with her.
Her face was again awash with tears, unashamedly streaming down her cheeks to drip off her chin, her hand, still poised above the sketchpad, trembling ever so slightly now.
The small, flourescent orb had moved away, hovering behind Cassia, and now, a much stronger orb of light was dancing ecitedly around Cassia's head.
Something had changed.
Holmes felt it too now.
The air in the room was very cold now, and there was an oppressiveness in the atmosphere, as he watched the new, stronger orb darting around Cassia excitedly.
"Cass?" Holmes asked softly, fearing that perhaps the killer himself had entered the picture.
"David is here now," Cassia explained in a low, quivering voice, drawing in a ragged breath.
"David?" Holmes frowned, the questoin he loathed asking in his eyes now.
"Yes."
Cassia suddenly spurred herself into action, flipping over the page she had been working on for a clean sheet of paper, and then her hand was moving quickly as she set about outlining a new sketch.
Holmes was on his feet and by her side in an instant, weaving and wobbling as he crossed the room and again dropped to his knees beside her, a glitter in his eyes and an eager, expectant expression on his face.
However, it soon became clear to him that Cassia was not drawing the face of the killer, as he had assumed.
Damn...
This time, the picture that emerged was of a slightly older child, a boy with dark hair and dark eyes.
Another victim then.
Holmes estimated the child's age at about six or seven years old.
He had a long face and sharp features, and he was clad in grey long trousers and a white t-Shirt under a bright red sweater.
Over the left breast, there was a hole in the sweater where a knife had penetrated and destroyed what Holmes could only assume had once been a school motto or emblem.
Sherlock leaned in for a closer look at the child, realizing that the orb was now dancing around his head and shoulders, and was immediately struck by the difference between the sketches, and the two children themselves.
Angela was all innocence and beauty.
This child's face was filled with anger, his dark eyes burning with rage.
Cassia was now using the red pencil to add the boy's injuries, a bloody line on his head, just above his eyebrow on the right side, and what looked discomfortingly like fingerprint marks on his long, white throat.
"He doesn't like it there," Cassia explained in a quivering voice. "He wants to go home."
"What else does he say?" Holmes prompted gently, trying to steer the conversation away from anything that might prove too emotional for both parties.
"He's in the woods too," Cassia explained softly. "I don't think they knew each other in life, but I do think that they're close to each other," she paused to take a breath. "Sherlock, when they find them, and they will, they won't be far from each other."
"Find them where, Cass?"
Cassia stopped drawing and closed her eyes, deep concentration etched into her brow now, and Holmes assumed that she was communing with the boy, trying to get more detail from him, as he watched the pulsing orb hover right in front of Cassia's face.
Suddenly, the little boy, David, made himself understood, in a very loud and clear voice inside Cassia's head.
He was very angry indeed, and he was shouting at her, because she was a dumb, stupid adult who didn't know anything.
It's not Chas, dumbo, it's chase!
He screamed at her.
Girls are so silly! You don't know anything!
Easy young man, I'm trying to help you. Cassia tried to soothe the child as his anger continued to buffet her mentally.
"Chase," Cassia spoke out loud, without thinking, repeating what the child had said.
"What did you say?"
Holmes jumped on it immediately, causing Cassia to open her eyes and look into his eager face, but her hand continued to move across the page, and when they both looked back down at the sketch, she had written the word down beneath the picture of the petulant young lad.
"Chase," they spoke it out loud together.
"But what does that mean?" Holmes quizzed. "Does he mean the killer chased them?"
"No!" Cassia answered sharply, reacting to the child's loud, clear, angry, impatient voice in her head once more. "It's a place, Sherlock. The place. He's telling me their on the Chase…"
"Chase, chase…" Holmes repeated over and over, racking his brain for the answer he sought.
Where in the British Isle was there a place name with the word Chase in it?
Damnation!
"Chase, chase…"
He rolled the word around on his tongue as he returned to his computer and added the word to his search criteria on Google search's box and then pressed enter, moving back from the screen slightly as he waited for Google to spit out the answers he desperately wanted, to his search for a deer, or more correctly, a stag emblem and the word Chase.
They were close.
So close.
He could taste it.
If only he could recall somewhere in the UK with the name Chase!
Dunderhead!
Was it possible that such a place even existed, or was the child playing with then, sending them on a wild goose chase?
Holmes then recalled the sketch that Cassia had drawn and the expression of rage on the little man's face.
No.
He was trying to help them.
"Hang on a minute," This was Watson now. "Did you say Chase?" he queried absently, suddenly drawing both Holmes and Cassia's attention.
"Yes, John. Chase. Why?" Holmes' tone was that of an exasperated adult speaking to a slow witted child.
"Sounds like Cannock Chase," Watson announced, looking up from his notes, and then ran his tongue quickly over his suddenly dry lips, uncomfortable under Holmes intense scrutiny.
"What?" Holmes demanded.
"Cannock Chase. I think it's in the Midlands, somewhere. Between Birmingham, Wolverhampton and Stafford, I believe. I shared a billet with a chap who came from there. He was very proud of his birth place as I recall…"
"Watson!" Holmes cut him off then. "You're a genius!"
Holmes grinned, somewhat manically, as he looked back at his computer screen and found the search results listed there.
He almost jumped with glee as he saw a link for Cannock Chase District, and another for Cannock Chase Forest.
It was a real place after all!
"That's not what you usually say. Normally you say I'm an idiot," Watson protested, although he was secretly flattered by Holmes praise.
"I'm making an exception on this occasion."
Holmes continued to grin as he sat down at the table and turned his attention to the computer, opening the first link, to Wikipedia, and waited for the page to load.
It was pretty general information about the area.
Cannock Chase, located in Staffordshire, between Cannock, Lichfield, Rugeley and Stafford, as Watson had already pointed out, was classified as an Area of Outstanding Beauty and was also designated as a Site of Scientific Interest.
There was only one pretty boring picture on the site, but it gave Holmes a general idea of the terrain, lots of woodland with trails for walking and cycling, with roads running through it, making it accessible, but not bustling with traffic all day and all night long.
Located on the edge of the once Industrialized Midlands in the heart of the country, it was a remote place with few inhabitants, and at night, it would be the perfect place to hide a body in the sure and certain knowledge that one would be truly alone.
"Thank you, John. Cass, David too. Well done that young man! I think we're finally on to something at last!"
Watson rose from his chair and came to stand behind Holmes at the table, peering over his friend's shoulder so that he could read the information on the computer screen, scribbling notes swiftly down on to his notepad, and then, when Holmes was sure that John had finished, he clicked on another link that took him to the home page of Cannock Chase.
When the page finished loading, Holmes saw what he had been hoping for to clinch it for him.
The park or forest area's emblem was a white silhouette of a stag in a purple coloured box, and the site gave information on how to get there and where to stay, and what to do whilst you were there, all of which Watson meticulously noted down on his pad, especially the numbers of the roads that crisscrossed the Chase land.
When he was done, Watson moved away, going back to his original seat and Holmes pushed back the chair so that he could turn around and face Cassia.
He found that she was still drawing, adding fresh details to the sketch of David, her expression tense, but again, her hand was steady as she continued to draw.
There was less tension in her body though.
She was lost in what she was doing, so the emotions and stresses of the situation were not affecting her as badly as he had feared they might.
However, he had a feeling that he was about to throw a spanner into the works.
Her work was not over yet.
There was still one more player to reveal.
"What about the man?" he asked as gently as he could. "The killer?"
"Monty," Cassia responded absently, without conscious through, her hand still moving over the page, and then suddenly, she realized what she had said and she looked up at Holmes with a startled, shocked expression on her face.
"Monty? Where did that come from?"
"I just got a brief flash of an image, something on the side of a lorry or a banner. Monty's. Like the kind of garish thing you might find on a flyer or an advertising hoarding for one of those travelling fairs or circus outfits," she explained.
"I knew it! Ha!" Holmes erupted out of the chair and did a funny little dance on the spot, briefly. "I said so, didn't I, John?"
"Yes, smart arse, you said so," Watson sighed softly, but he was amused by Holmes antics.
It reminded him of old times.
The younger man was on form today, and it was good to see.
"So that must be the name of the fair or circus."
"I suppose," Cassia responded, flipping over the page of her sketchpad, her hand poised over the paper, trembling slightly now, Holmes could not fail to notice, and she had caught her bottom lip between her teeth once more.
Now, both orbs were hovering around Cassia's head, close to each ear.
"And is that the name of our killer too?" Holmes pressed.
"Maybe."
"Good, good…"
Holmes turned back to his computer and negotiated his way back to Google, where he typed in the words Monty's+circus+travelling fair.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that there were four suggestions, one for a travelling reptile show, another for a funfair, one for a theme park and another for a travelling music show, however, all the suggestions had the word Monty's as a first name, and somehow, that did not feel right to him
"Cass, is that the surname or first name?" He asked, needing clarification.
"I don't know. I can only show you what they are showing me."
She carefully turned the sketchpad around showed Holmes the drawing.
she had drawn the word MONTY'S in bold yellow letters against a bright red background, in bubble style writing and in the style of an unfurling scroll.
It wasn't much help, unfortunately, and the expression on his face must have betrayed what he was thinking.
Cassia's face fell.
"I'm sorry Cass, but I have to ask…"
"I know. You want me to draw him," she spoke breathily now.
"Yes," he confirmed softly. "Do you think you can do it?"
"That would depend on the children, Sherlock, and how much they remember. I need to be careful not to upset them," she reminded.
"Ask the boy," Holmes told her. "He's angry. He wants to help …"
"He wants revenge."
"That too," Holmes agreed and realized that they could exploit that. "So use that, Cass. Ask him to describe this 'Monty' chap. Tell him it's going to help the police to catch the man."
"I'll try…"
Cassia grew silent once more, closing her eyes and drawing in several deep and refreshing breaths, impatiently dashing away an errant tear from her chin with her index finger because suddenly it was irritating her.
She knew that Holmes was right.
Angela was frightened, sitting on the elderly French woman's lap, her face buried in the woman's bosom, sobbing brokenly as the old woman gently shook her head in response to Cassia's request for her help.
The boy, David, on the other hand was rigid with anger and defiance, tiny fists clenched into tight balls at his side, a challenge burning in his chocolate brown eyes.
Holmes reasoning was sound.
David was older, better able to express himself, and he could probably remember more, as his passing was more recent than Angela's.
Alright then. I'm up for the challenge, young Davey. Show me Monty…
Almost immediately, vibrant, colour images began to flash through Cassia's mind and barely able to keep up, she grabbed a fresh pencil and began to draw once more.
Holmes was out of his seat quickly and came to kneel beside her, leaning against the arm of the couch as he watched her work.
A face soon emerged.
The face of a young man.
A teenager of perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen years, with a mop of curly dark hair, open, innocent features, clear wide eyes, which Cass was colouring a lighter shade of sky blue, limited by the choice of colours in her pencil collection.
The young man had a slightly deviated nose, a slight kink in the bridge, possibly due to a break, but it wasn't recent, Holmes deduced, and his easy smile was beguiling, but his clean shaven chin was somewhat weak.
Cassia, holding the pencil more tightly than she had when she had been working on the other sketches, continued to add more detail.
First, a livid scar across his brow, just above his left eye, the stitch marks still clearly visible although it was an older scar than the one the boy David bore, and there were several distinctive tiny moles on his neck, looking uncannily like the star constellation Cassiopeia in the night sky, an oddly angled and slightly elongated W.
Cassia continued to draw, giving the young man a long, lean body, long legs, no waist, but big, strong shoulders and upper body and hands like meat hooks.
He was obviously no stranger to hard, physical work.
She added denim jeans, torn at the knees, as was the fashion with young men, hanging low on his hips, and a dark T-shirt, with a faded picture of a motorcycle on the front, completed the outfit.
He didn't look like a monster, Holmes observed.
He did not look particularly sinister either.
He looked exactly as Holmes had deduced he would.
He looked like a perfectly ordinary young man.
Benign.
Innocence personified.
He looked like the very last person that anyone would suspect of such atrocities as torturing and murdering young children.
It gave Holmes no satisfaction that his prediction to Watson had been correct.
Holmes also realized that this insipid looking young man did not look like the owner of a travelling fair or circus.
"This is him? This is Monty?"
"Yes," Cassia replied in a tight voice.
"Then the owner of the fair must be a relative. This fellow is too young. A position like that would require a real bruiser, someone with real steel and a measure of power and respect to keep the other men in the group under control."
The young man in the sketch looked like someone a burly fairman would swat away and trample all over.
Holmes speculated out loud, then he remembered the tone of Cassia's voice, and as he raised his eyes to look at her, he could see the terror in her eyes once more.
"Are you alright?" he asked with real concern in his voice now.
"I'm ok," she told him in weary tones now. "I'm getting tired and the children are fretting now," she explained, and he understood that she was also beginning to feel her psychic protection weakening.
It was time to bring this to an end.
"Is there anything else that might help us, Cass? Tell David it's important. Please."
Cassia emitted a soft sigh and picked up her pencil once more, placing the tip against the paper, she added one more detail.
Just above the young man's wrist, between the cuff of his T-Shirt and the tiny hairs on his wrist, she drew a small skull and crossbones on the outside of his wrist.
A tattoo, Holmes realized.
A very distinctive tattoo.
Home made, not something paid for in a professional tattoo parlour, he quickly deduced from the crudity of the image, more like a prison yard tattoo as favoured by prisoners in the American penal system, symbolizing gang allegiances, or their prison nicknames, and the like.
It was perfect.
Just the kind of detail, along with the moles creating the odd shape on his neck, that would make identifying him easier for the police.
Holmes could not have asked for more.
"Thank you, Cass. Thank the children too, especially the lad."
"David. David Salmon," she briefly flipped the page back so he could see the drawing of a beautiful salmon she had drawn beneath the picture of the belligerent, angry young boy.
"Thank you, Angela and David," Holmes addressed the empty room, ensuring that his tone of voice was sincere and filled with genuine gratitude. "Toi aussi, Grand-mere. Merci."
"Is it enough, Sherlock?" Cassia regarded him with anxious eyes now as she set her pencils aside on the seat cushion beside her and sat back wearily in her seat.
She indicated to the sketchpad, still laying open on her lap.
"May I?" Holmes asked, leaning in a little closer, indicating that he wanted a closer look at the sketches that she had drawn, lingering in particular, over the image she had made of the little boy, and then Cassia flipped the page back to the sketch of the little girl.
"She really is a little angel," he muttered softly, finally able to understand just how emotional Cass could get at the thought that this child had been violated and defiled in such a brutal fashion.
She was real to him now.
Almost alive, those sky blue eyes dancing with merriment.
He knew how hard it must have been for Cass to depict the children with their mortal wounds, but he also knew that it would help the pathologist who examined any remains found, to identify the bodies and ensure that they had the right children.
The sketches were beautifully draw, but he would have expected nothing less from Luca, and they had vibrancy and almost an animated quality that made them seem alive, making what had happened to these poor youngsters even more appalling.
She had brought then to life for him, and with any luck, the same would happen with the police and the general public when they saw them.
They were real people, and they deserved justice.
Thanks to Cassia's bravery and perseverance, they were a small step closer to achieving that goal.
"Well, Sherlock? Are they enough?"
"Yes," he told her with a genuinely warm smile now.
"Do you think the police will act now?"
"I'll make sure of it," he grinned, rising stiffly to his feet now. "Come along, John, we have things to do…"
While Holmes and Watson made preparations to leave for their appointment with Holmes' solicitor, Cassia went back over each sketch, adding more colour and detail, unable to stop brooding over the image of the innocuous looking young man who was responsible for wreaking so much havoc in her life.
The monster now had a face.
And a name.
And, Cassia suddenly realized with a heavy heart, that Sherlock Holmes part in this adventure had come to an end.