Sherlock bolted out of Bart's and onto the street with Moriarty filling his head. The driver of the first carriage he found scoffed at him like he was insane for wanting to go all the way to Lambeth and clucked to his horses before Sherlock could negotiate. Sherlock shouted, "Idiot!" after him in frustration and stalked back and forth on the edge of the street making other pedestrians scatter.
The second offered to take him as far as the Thames, suggesting he'd be better off hiring a punt from there. Sherlock agreed with a clipped, "Hurry, then," and climbed in the carriage, since forward motion was better than no motion, and pondered his next move. Following the curve of the Thames would take much longer on foot than it would by water, but as his destination was rather inland, Sherlock dismissed the river entirely. From Blackfriars, he could take Surry Street and cut into Lambeth from that direction.
The congestion approaching the bridge convinced Sherlock to disembark from his carriage and cross on foot. He dashed across the stone-paved arches, dodging the other foot traffic and avoiding skittish horses pulling the occasional fancy gig. Once on the far side of the Thames, he paused, getting his breath and bearing. New Surry Street, onto which bridge traffic flowed, intersected with Charlotte Street. From there, it was a jaunt along to the terrace end where the Professor lived.
Sherlock walked briskly, perusing his memory for anything he could remember about the streets. A short cut would be welcome, but the streets thinned due to commercial properties which frowned on trespassers and the marshland that hadn't yet been reclaimed. The main streets were a better choice. He found another carriage as he neared Charlotte Street and settled back into the seat in a fugue of deducting.
By the time Professor's home appeared in the window of the carriage, he was strung tightly. His mind had been spinning through probabilities and implications since leaving Bart's, and none of the conclusions were comforting. The sun was distinctly lower in the sky by the time he paid his driver; and Sherlock was contemplating the front door when the carriage rumbled off.
No lit lamps or candles were visible from the street. This was not terribly unusual as the Professor kept to his rooms near the back of the house for his experiments. However, no smoke wafted from any of the several chimneys; the kitchen fires would burn even in summer, and with the chill damp of winter upon them, several fireplaces should be blazing. It made Sherlock consider that the place was either vacant or the inhabitants had no further need for warmth.
He approached warily. His first option was to march up to the front door and announce himself as he would any other day. However, this action could be dangerous. It gave him no foreknowledge of the occupants of the house and what they were doing. Best case scenario was that Marley's ancient presence would reassure him that everything was as it should be and Sherlock would be no further with this case. That hardly seemed likely, however.
His second option was to sneak around the building peeking in windows like a housebreaker. It was a bit early in the day for reconnaissance as neighbors would be about. Sherlock's lingering presence in the street was already making passersby walk a little faster. Decision made, he strode to the door and up the few crumbling steps.
Sherlock slammed the knocker against its plate, making a sound that reverberated through the hall on the other side of the door. He waited a moment, listening carefully, but he heard nothing from inside to indicate anyone was intending to answer his knock. He pounded again, his hand already on the handle to attempt opening the door. Marley was old, but he wasn't so old that he couldn't shuffle to his master's door.
The door, however, was locked securely. He could pick the lock, but the window latches would be quicker and he could observe the room into which he was breaking beforehand. Sherlock checked the nearest ground floor window. The outer shutters were open and only the sheer drapery was drawn. He could see the emptiness of the room beyond through the diaphanous material and the closed door leading to the hallway. The window was one with a simple latch he could jimmy open with the tip of his knife. He slipped the knife in along the frame and popped the latch. The Professor really must invest in some iron bars for his ground floor windows.
If anyone on the street was bothered by Sherlock climbing into the open window, they raised no alarm. He shut the window behind him and refastened the latch. The heavier drapes he left open so the weak sunlight could assist his search.
The interior of the Professor's house was dusty, as it always was, and cold, as if often was. Still, lamps were unlit and empty, as if allowed to burn out and no one had bothered to refill them. Candles were stubs in their holders. Sherlock glanced at the floor; in this sitting room, one of the few rooms actually used by Professor Moriarty beside his laboratory, there was usually a path on the carpeting of footprints from door to chair to fireplace. The dust and dog hair would be kicked up and disturbed, as the few servants he employed were too aged to regularly take out the carpets to be beaten.
The amount of dog hair had not increased since Sherlock's last visit with John, but the dust had settled into the path; the location of which was still noticeable in the wear of the carpet fibers. Sherlock sniffed deeply – the house was stuffy and stale. The wind howled in the fireplace, the damper still open though the fire was nothing but ash in the grate. He placed a hand on the brick and it was completely cold.
Sherlock moved cautiously into the next room, the one which had housed the massive electrostatic generator with which he and John had been so fascinated only a few days before. The large room was comparatively empty and utterly silent. No sign of the generator or the Professor's presence remained, no Leyden jars, not a single gear or wire. Sherlock examined the floor, the door jambs, the edges of tables and countertops. To examine the hallway, Sherlock lit a candle stub with a tinderbox he scavenged from the sitting room and knelt on the marble floor to make his observations.
"Several men disassembled the generator and removed it through the servants' entrance," he muttered aloud. "This must have happened within twenty-four hours of our visit, given the general disorder of the house, the lack of rain residue on the hallway marble, and the specks of dust within a fresh chip on the edge of the long countertop on the north wall."
Moriarty had been gone for up to four days, his generator with him. It hadn't been the Professor's generator at the warehouse, Sherlock was certain of that. Yet the Professor's had been moved prior to that discovery. If it was meant to replace the one now in His Majesty's custody, then the exposure of the warehouse was something that had been premeditated.
Sherlock dashed through the rest of the house, examining each room. Most of the evidence showed that the rooms had not been touched in years, nor did they hide any bodies (well, human bodies anyway). Even the servants' quarters were abandoned, the kitchen doors and windows locked and shuttered.
Servants, servants. Marley was not the only one, as he did not do the kitchen work. Moriarty had a woman that came in to cook, when the man could remember to eat, and take care of the shopping. She did not live in, he remembered, though her name escaped him. No matter. That was easily found.
Sherlock took one last look around the lab to see what else might be amiss. Several jars and bottles were missing: coal tar, oxymuriate of mercury, phosphorus (possibly yellow, probably red), and a few that he couldn't quite remember since the stores were out of their usual order. Tucking away this information, he left via the kitchen door and emerged into the courtyard behind the building. He could exit unnoticed through the courtyard gate onto a side street.
However, perhaps a bit of discussion with the neighbors first was most appropriate. The terrace's servants often worked in the yard and gathered there for gossip. Servants, like children, often went unnoticed but knew everything. He'd have the best luck finding out when the Professor had last been seen from someone in the yard.
Sherlock's gaze alighted on a man covering cut-back roses for winter, twine and burlap in his hands. When Sherlock cleared his throat, the man, middle-aged with sun and work-toughened skin, started to see a stranger suddenly in the yard.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked gruffly once he'd gotten over his shock and had given Sherlock the once over.
"I believe you might, though you clearly have not worked at your household more than a year or you would recognize me as a regular visitor to old Professor Moriarty."
"Right you are. I hired on this summer. Didn't see much of the gentleman himself, but his cook makes a fine cuppa."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly the cook was not as aged and infirm as the rest of the household and this gardener had courtship on his mind when it came to the woman, likely a widow. Well, at least he may know her direction.
"The cook is precisely to whom I desire to speak. Can you tell me her direction? It is urgent business."
"Why does a" (and his pause here certainly made it sound like he was repressing the word 'toff') "gentleman such as yourself need to speak to a cook?"
Sherlock had his lie in a blink. "She has a marvelous recipe for a fig and almond tart that my husband simply loved last time we visited. He's a bit out of sorts at the moment and I thought to cheer him with them, but the ones our cook makes are simply not the thing."
The gardener raised his eyebrow, while sweeping his eyes down Sherlock's fine clothing once again. Running such an errand was rather beneath him.
"Newly married?"
Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, playing up his pitiable face. "My John's utterly homesick for figs."
"Well," the gardener said, scratching at his chin through his beard. "I'm sorry to say it might have to wait. Mrs. Stratham mentioned something about visiting her daughter in Plymouth. First grandbaby."
"Oh dear, I was really hoping to see her. Did she say when she would return?"
"Couple of weeks, I think. The master left her the money for the trip in an envelope the other day with his well-wishes. A right good chap, that gentleman."
"Have you seen his butler, Marley? Perhaps if Mrs. Stratham has the recipe written down, I might still have a chance to cheer my John." Chances were better that she memorized every ingredient, but Sherlock viewed lies during questioning as utterly acceptable risks.
"I think him and the master went on a short trip. Didn't close the house proper, so it can't be for more than a couple days. Didn't say where he was going, not that Marley's a chatty fellow, mind you."
"Did you see them leave?"
If the gardener thought this was a strange question, he wasn't inclined to ask about it.
"Saw a carriage come and go after dark, and a bunch of boxes followed on a wagon, three days ago now. 'Twas the next morning Mrs. Stratham found her note and she was on the post chaise the same day."
Sherlock nodded, thinking instead of thanking the gardener for his time. He strode off and ducked through the courtyard gate.
Well, John as a young husband came in handy. He'd have to remember that tactic, since young love apparently made people sentimental and helpful.