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CHAPTER 21: CRACKS BEGIN TO SHOW

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 2015

TO: john. .uk
FROM: Samantha_Hillock
DATE: 17/02/2015
SUBJECT: Re: Please respond

Dear John,

Forgive me for not answering your emails before now. I just couldn't. I could barely even bring myself to open them. I have spent many days now agonising over how I could possibly respond. It hardly needs saying, but these past months have been exceedingly difficult for me and my family. I know you'll understand. You lost her, too. And you must believe me when I say that I appreciate how dearly you say you loved her and miss her. I really do. I know we are both hurting, and we both think about her every day. But being constantly reminded of Mary's death is only making things worse. So I'm going to ask you to please stop writing.

I cannot in good conscience send you the photographs you have asked for. Please don't ask me anymore. They were hers, not yours. I know that sounds harsh, but you knew her for only fifteen months, which you must agree is not very long at all. I know she meant a lot to you, but in the end, you were not her family. We were. It wouldn't feel right, giving you those photos. I don't think it would be good for you either, to be truthful. I think it would be best if you just moved on and let us grieve in our own way.

What you went through was so horrible, it's beyond words, and I'm so sorry for that. But I have to do what is best for those of us who loved her most, and right now, maintaining any sort of connection to you will only bring us more pain. I can't bear it anymore. Every time I see a new message from you, I'm reminded of who she was with when she died, and I don't mean to be cruel, I really don't, especially because I know you suffered, too; but Mary always said she loved me for my honesty, so I have to be honest now. I can't help but feel that she got involved with the wrong person. If these men were after you, then maybe there was nothing you could have done. But it didn't have to happen to her.

It hurts my family even more to hear that you are still associated with Sherlock Holmes. After what he did to Mary, it is appalling to me, not only that you would maintain an amicable relationship with the man, but worse, that you, according to the papers, would choose to live with him. As long as this continues to be the case, I cannot imagine how our association can ever be repaired. At this time, we do not desire it. All the same, we would urge you to sever your ties with Mr Holmes, for Mary's sake. If you truly wished to honour the memory of my sister, you would not be shacked up with the one man who brought this upon her.

My only comfort is in my hope that my little sister is with God now, and that she is at peace. But again, I'll be honest. Most days, that is of little comfort at all.

On behalf of my family, we wish you well, John. We hope you find healing. May the Good Lord grant us both a measure of peace.

Sincerely,

Samantha

Sgt Donovan threw open the door to the lab where Molly sat alone on the opposite side of the room, running PCR analyses, sans enthusiasm. Without preamble, she came striding down the aisle between tables, her dark brown spirals flouncing on her shoulders. She looked like a cat about to pounce, and, unprepared, Molly stiffened and her eyes grew wide.

'Hiya,' said Donovan, suddenly smiling. Her eyebrows rose and her head cocked to one side. 'Busy?'

Molly stared at her like a guppy.

'I'm taking you to lunch.' Then, without further explanation, she linked arms to pull Molly to her feet, forcing her to abandon her work, and frogmarched her out the door.

Lunch turned out to mean a tray from the cafeteria, and Molly, who wasn't remotely hungry at only half ten in the morning, grabbed a cinnamon-and-raisin bagel with cream cheese and—just to give the appearance of a proper meal—an apple. She was embarrassed, then, to see the police sergeant waiting for her at the table with nothing but a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

What she was doing there Molly had yet to fathom. She had nothing against Sally Donovan, on a personal level, but she couldn't quite say that she liked her either. Their interactions were few, and limited to strictly professional, often terse exchanges in the morgue. Molly knew Donovan to be a hard woman, stiff in manner, pithy in speech, and generally not very personable. Intimidating was the word that came to mind. Greg often used inflexible. Still, Greg Lestrade admired Sally Donovan for reasons that had nothing to do with her personality and had even called her the one person still working at the Yard who merited his full respect.

Something was slightly off about her today, though. Donovan was not the sort to flounce. She was barely the sort to said hiya. And she certainly was not a woman who went on lunch dates with her girlfriends.

Molly wondered if she even had any girlfriends.

'I think, Molly,' said Donovan familiarly, grinning unnaturally at her from across the table, 'we ought to have a little chat about your boyfriend.'

Molly eeped a little in her throat. Her eyes went wide as saucers and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Her boyfriend? Had . . . had Greg said something to Donovan? A boast? A complaint? The details?! Oh god! He didn't seem the sort! She recalled, in vivid detail, in whose bed she had spent the night, and how. And that morning had been so lovely, waking up in his arms, not because of any alarm or a cat walking over her face but because his fingertips were lightly stroking her bare shoulder. She had kept perfectly still, not wishing to break the spell of utter contentment she could not recall ever having awoken with before. When at last she did move, she rose up to kiss him, a kiss so warm and welcomed and natural she wondered why she had ever been so shy to think he might discourage her.

She could still see him smiling at her, their two heads sharing one pillow as they faced one another. It cracked his face as though he hadn't smiled in months. Not truly, anyway. It was a smile free of doubt and full of joy, as it was for her. She touched his face, kissed him again—she simply couldn't stop herself. He made no protest.

And he'd been a perfect gentleman, letting her shower first while he made them a breakfast of eggs, tomatoes, and bacon. He hadn't been an overexcited cad or anything of the sort, even though it had been, by his own admission, something of a long time since he had . . . well, not since Angela, he said. (Molly had shyly responded by alluding to her own limited, erm, experience.) So maybe he couldn't stop himself from bragging a little, let the fact of it slip into a morning debriefing or while standing around the water cooler. He was a man, after all. Maybe he just couldn't help himself.

Molly wanted to melt into a puddle, or drown herself in her coffee. Her face was surely as bright as her apple. But why would any of this be of any concern to Donovan?

Molly hung her head a little, picking a raisin from the bagel. 'Why? Has he . . . said something?'

Donovan narrowed her eyes a little, her artificially open expression closing off somewhat. 'Who?'

'Greg.'

'Gre— Oh god no, not Lestrade!'

'But you said . . .'

'I don't care two figs about that. Sorry, let me try again. Let's chat about ex-boyfriends, yeah? Here. I'll start: complete wankers, am I right? The lot of them.'

'I swear, there was never anything between Sherlock and me. That Kitty woman made it all up, twisted everything I said. I didn't even want to talk to her—'

Donovan laughed shortly, humourlessly. 'I'm not talking about Sherlock. I know you two never dated. No girl in her right mind would give that nutter half a chance. But come on, Molly, let's dish, you and me. Exes, bad dates, the lot. Did you know Anderson has a foot fetish? Revolting.'

Molly blinked, but relief flooded through her. She wanted to laugh, but she contained herself to a small twitch of the mouth. 'You don't do a lot of girl talk, do you?'

'Never.'

'Right. Then let's skip the female bonding, and just ask what you've come here to ask.'

She was a little shocked by her own forthrightness, but Donovan looked nothing short of relieved. 'Thank god,' she murmured. She moved her Styrofoam cup aside and leant into the table on her elbows. 'I need information on Jim Moriarty.'

Molly felt her appetite disappear entirely. Even that morning's warm memories felt suddenly cool and illusory, like they hadn't really happened. 'I barely knew him,' she said.

'I'm not interested in anything intimate. I wouldn't trust anything he told you anyway. If he had anything in common with Richard Brook, it was acting.'

'Then what do you need?'

She was rather disinclined to be talking about Jim at all. She regarded the whole episode as one of shame: a mousy and often overlooked girl, eager for attention, affection, she had been so easily and swiftly duped into believing the smooth flattery of a virtual stranger. But she'd been nothing more than a pawn. Granted, she had been using him a little, too. She recognised but did not appreciate the irony, now, that they had each been using the other in an effort to get closer to one Sherlock Holmes (so humiliating! she thought), but her purposes had been far less nefarious. When he was done with her, he hadn't given her a second thought. In hindsight, she knew that his disregard of her as entirely inconsequential had likely saved her life, and Sherlock's, too. But it still stung, even now.

'If you can believe it, Ms Hooper'—she was back to being Ms Hooper now—'there are those in the media and therefore the public who still believe Jim Moriarty never existed. I have been tasked to prove otherwise. This would be a non-issue if only the Brooks would give their permission for the exhumation of a corpse that isn't actually their son. But they're being stubborn. I need to dent their confidence, and to do that, I need to establish a time line for Moriarty that is demonstrably different to Richard Brook's.'

'Okay . . .'

'The thing is, he was a tricky bugger, your Jim. The Brooks are convinced that it was their boy who, playing the role of a master criminal, stood trial for crimes crafted by Sherlock. They've been taken in by Ms Riley's story, hook, line, and sinker. I cannot find evidence of where the real Richard Brook was at that time. So I have to cast back further, to other actual sightings of Moriarty. Holmes and Watson claim to have encountered him in a swimming pool in Stratford, but there was no CCTV evidence for this, nothing that proves he was there. And Sherlock's word isn't worth much these days. But you. You dated him. You must have some kind of evidence that places him in London at that time.'

'Like what?'

'Dunno. Maybe receipts? Did he take you out to restaurants or the cinema? Maybe you have ticket stubs?'

'From five years ago?'

Donovan shrugged. 'Some women are sentimental like that.'

'Well, I'm not. Not with him, at least. And no, he never took me out. We had a night in, watched telly. That was all.'

'Did you ever get your photo taken together, perhaps?'

'No. Honestly, Sgt Donovan, we went out on three dates, and they were hardly worthy of being called dates at all. He asked me out online for coffee, couldn't even be arsed to come talk to me in person, and, knowing now, it was all about Sherlock, after all—'

'Online?'

'What?'

'You said he asked you out online.'

'Yes . . .'

'Through email?'

'No, in the'—she laughed shortly and rolled her eyes at her own foolishness at being so easily won over—'comments of my old blog.'

Donovan pulled out a small notepad and pen, which she clicked open eagerly. 'What's the address?'

'Of what?'

'The blog!'

'Oh! God, I haven't touched that thing in ages. It's simple, it's Molly Hooper dot co dot UK.'

She scribbled it quickly. 'The comments, they're all time-stamped? The date and hour?'

'I think so, yes.'

'And you've not deleted anything?'

'No.'

'Cracking.'

And the lunch date was over.

Donovan strode out of the hospital cafeteria eager to get to a computer. This might work out perfectly. She was getting superbly annoyed by the dead man who had left almost no trace of himself: IT had no record of ever having employed a Jim at that time, and none of the staff remembered seeing him; though she didn't doubt the swimming pool incident had occurred, it had happened so long ago that any CCTV footage that might have captured his image was long gone; and all the other crimes of those few short days never once placed Moriarty at the scene. Molly was her only hope of verifying his presence in London to the Brooks and the Sussex police.

Her phone sounded in her pocket, and she answered it on the second ring.

'Donovan,' she said as she exited St Bart's into the frigid London air. Snowflakes whipped through the air but didn't land.

'You need to compile a list,' said the voice on the other end, 'of all homeless men and women you can find with the initials OT.'

She stopped in her tracks, pulled the phone back, and checked the caller ID, not because she didn't know who it was—she knew exactly who it was—but because she was slow to comprehend it. He'd never called her before. Never. The number was unfamiliar, but the voice was not.

'Holmes?'

'O as in orange, T as in tea. Should I text it?'

'What the hell are you doing calling me?'

'You have resources.'

'I'm busy.'

'Too busy to stop a murder?'

'Okay, first of all,' she snapped, 'you're not on this case. Any case! Was that not made clear to you?'

'Start with missing persons archives,' he said, ignoring her objection, 'and shelter registries. You might also think of putting the word out into the network, though I would caution against it. It wouldn't do to let them know we're onto them.'

'I'm hanging up. I swear to god, Holmes, I'm hanging up right—'

'The pattern has so far been consistent that the bodies are discovered on a Friday, so get me the list before the day is out so we can start looking for them. We have only a few days, and sometimes these people can be hard to track.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Dear God, are you even listening to me? The Slash Man will strike again, and he'll go after some homeless creature with the initials OT. Do you plan to sit back and wait for that to happen?'

To vent her anger, she threw a hand into the air as if the falling snow were personally offending her, though he couldn't see her physical manifestations of annoyance. 'How do you know this?' she demanded.

'You'll have to arrest both me and John if you intend for our investigation to stop, and even then you'd be unlikely to do it. You need intelligence; we have it.'

She didn't miss the most certainly intended double meaning, and she riled, a dozen scathing retorts rising in her head and pushing their way to her tongue. But she quashed them with a quick snap of her teeth, saying instead, 'Why are you telling me? Don't you usually take your boasting to Lestrade?'

'He's testifying in an inquest right about now, so I understand. But I still needed an audience. Thought you'd do nicely.'

That's right, she remembered now. And she was due to do the same next morning.

'I'm not your errand girl.'

He ignored that, too. 'I would also caution against spreading the word too widely at the Yard. Gregson may be lauding transparency, but let's not forget the seating chart during our game of London Bridge.'

'You mean for me to play subterfuge? Are you trying to get me sacked?'

'Text me the names, if they are few. If not, drop the list off at the flat with any pertinent information that may help me find them.'

'You're not serious.'

'Before day's end, Sally. Spit spot.'

And he was gone. She grit her teeth and squeezed the phone hard, nostrils flaring in irritation, not just because he had called, not because he had ordered her about like a superior officer, but because she, Sally Josephine Donovan, against all her good judgement and despite her intense personal feeling, had every intention of complying. She wanted to scream.

A moment later, he texted:

Ring the bell if you want
to be let in: ••• –••
Memorise and delete
this text.
SH

'Please state your name and rank for the record.'

Lestrade inclined toward the microphone on the table. 'Gregory Lestrade, detective inspector.'

'How long have you been with the Metropolitan Police, detective inspector?'

'Twenty-three years.'

'And for how many of those years were you acquainted with Mr Scott Anderson?'

'Fifteen.'

'Would you say you know him well?'

'I would, yes.'

'Professionally as well as personally?'

'Yes.'

'And what has been your opinion of him in that time?'

'Professionally?'

'Professionally.'

'I have found him to be competent, methodical, very textbook. Effective in his approach, if lacking innovation. Until recently, I have had little reason not to want him on my team.'

'And what little reasons might you have had?'

'Like I said, he was very by the book, as it were. Some crime scenes do not yield up their secrets when working on a checklist. And Anderson has little creativity beyond that checklist. But he knows the list well. His expertise in criminal forensics is hardly to be questioned. He would not made Head of Forensics otherwise. But that's not what this inquest is about, is it?'

'What is your opinion of him personally?'

'Shall I speak of my opinion now or before Saturday? Or before October?'

'Perhaps you can speak to its evolution.'

'When I first met him, I knew we would never be best mates, but I had nothing against him. Sure, he could get under my skin on a long, stressful night, but we all wore each other's nerves raw one time or another. But it was fine. He did his job, I did mine, and we solved murders. Ours was a professional relationship more than anything. We never, say, went for a pint or chatted about our home lives. We got on well enough that way. In the beginning.'

'When did that change?'

Lestrade had no desire to recount their entire rocky history, as their difficulties really only began once they had become jointly acquainted with one Sherlock Holmes, who had pulled them into orbit and made them into satellites swinging around a planet with an incredible, inescapable gravitational pull. Sherlock's grand entrance into their lives and work was really where their differences of opinion, to put it mildly, originated. But Lestrade had already determined that he would make this inquest as little about Sherlock as was possible. 'Gradually, over the course of years,' he said vaguely, 'my patience for his sarcasm and pithy aspersions grew thinner and thinner.' Now to pull it into the present. 'Then, last October, he gave an unsanctioned interview to the press, an action that directly violated orders.'

'Whose orders?'

'Mine. Under the direction, or should I say, with the approval of, then-Chief Superintendent Pitts. I have the memo here. If I may?'

'Please.'

He read from the printed memorandum: 'No unauthorised officers are permitted to speak to any member of the press regarding these crimes. Specifically, all officers and Yard personnel are prohibited from offering details of either fact or opinion regarding the abduction of John Watson, the murder of Mary Morstan, the hunt for Sebastian Moran, or the return of Sherlock Holmes. The only officer authorised to represent this institution is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Any violation of this edict will result in a professional demerit.'

He looked up from the page. 'Anderson did give interview, regarding his opinion on Holmes' involvement in the whole affair, fully aware that doing so was in violation of the edict. I believe it was the beginning of his collusion with Kitty Riley.'

'How was his reprimand handled?'

'In a timely fashion. I interrogated him on the matter the very day the paper came out and submitted the paperwork to add the violation to his permanent record.'

'Did he offer any defence?'

'Only ignorance. I don't know what I was thinking, were his words, as I recall. He said he was upset and flustered. God knows he's never had a favourable opinion of Holmes. But worse, he made unfounded conjectures about the extent of Holmes' involvement.'

'Do you have any further evidence, besides this interview, that Anderson has been working with Kitty Riley of The Sun?'

He knew that the board was currently conducting its own investigation into what might turn up on Anderson's mobile or computer, and they had not been forthcoming with their findings. 'No hard evidence,' he admitted. 'Just suspicious behaviour that should not be lightly dismissed.'

He began to detail it: the verbal attacks on John Watson stood at the forefront, of course, as signals that he had interest in upsetting Sherlock when direct digs at Sherlock's own character and past had not provoked a response. But there was also the shiftiness in his behaviour, the way he turned up late to meetings and left before anyone could stop him, rather than hang around to chat, as he had always done before; the way his mobile sounded, and he distanced himself to check the screen, warily, before answering, and visibly relaxing when the caller proved to be innocuous; the way he never joined in on conversations about Kitty Riley's articles but participated enthusiastically when any other paper was mentioned; the way he glared at Lestrade from across a room but never approached of his own volition.

'These are all very subtle markers, detective inspector.'

'I've an entire career in reading people at a glance. It's even easier to note when a well-known colleague begins to act funny.'

'Do you have a personal vendetta against Mr Anderson?'

'A vendetta?' He grinned wryly. 'No. I don't need one.'

'Why is that?'

'Simple. I trust that you will not find him an innocent man. I trust that this board will see justice done.'

On her way to Southwater in Sussex, Donovan, turning the phone call over and over again in her mind like a pig on a spit, was analysing every facet of tone and vocabulary when she received another, this one from Officer Dryers.

'Are you there yet?'

'Nearly. What have you got?'

'Ms Hooper mentions watching Glee with Moriarty on March 29, right?'

'Right.'

'Well, that same night, Richard Brook appeared in a small production of Adventures in Wonderland at the Watermill Theatre in Berkshire. I found the billing, which lists him in the role of the White Rabbit. It ran for three weeks.'

'What were the dates?'

'Uh, let's see . . . March 19th through April 4th. I rang the director, but she wasn't very forthcoming on the phone. Probably didn't trust I was who I said I was. But the Mad Hatter would hardly shut up—Henry Wainwright's his name—and he confirmed that the whole cast was there for every showing, all three weeks.'

'Excellent. And did you verify that Glee aired on the 29th?'

'Yes, and it did.'

'Brilliant. That may be enough. If not for the Brooks, then at least for the Sussex Police. But I'll talk to the family first, try to get them on our side. They're our biggest hurdle.'

'Anything else you need from me?'

She was on the cusp of saying no, but her tongue froze to the roof of her mouth. Her jaw hung open and her mouth began to dry.

'Donovan? I lose you?'

'Actually,' she said slowly, 'there's one more thing.'

'Yeah?'

She grimaced. 'I need you to look for any homeless men with the initials OT. Or women.'

'OT?'

'O as in orange, T as in'—her fingernails sank into the steering wheel like talons—'tea. Anonymous tip.'

There was a pause, as though waiting for further instruction or explanation, but she wasn't giving one. 'Sure, I'll get right on that.'

'Great. And Dryers.'

'Yeah?'

'Let's . . . not mention it, all right? For now.'

Mrs JoAnna Brook was a severe woman steeped in a tradition of cool British courtesy. Her mouth pinched tight when Donovan flashed her credentials, but she invited her inside an overly warm house all the same. Nevertheless, she refused to have a proper chat until tea was set. She led Donovan through the front room and to the parlour and left her with instructions to make herself comfortable. Then she disappeared to the kitchen.

The air was so warm, in such contrast to the outer world, it was almost suffocating. Donovan started peeling layers at once, regretting that morning's choice of heavy grey jumper. She tossed her coat over the armrest of an ugly, brown tweed sofa, straight out of the 1970s. In fact, the whole room had a distinctly seventies' design, replete with avocado curtains, lettuce-green lampshades, and white shag carpet. It had been decorated once and never again, apparently. On the faux-wood walls hung dozens of framed pictures of the family, which she stepped closer to examine. There was Richard as a little boy, dressed as a shepherd in a local nativity; and another when he was a bit older, maybe twelve, wearing plus fours and a Norfolk jacket with a red flat cap, leaning on a golf club; and another with Richard a little older still, maybe eighteen or twenty, standing in front of the Queen's Theatre in London, smiling broadly, arms spread, as though claiming the place as his own.

The resemblance—Richard Brook to James Moriarty—was almost supernatural. Donovan, who had seen Moriarty in person only briefly, had studied photos from the trial very closely, but even she had trouble spotting the differences. Brook's eyebrows were a little thicker, she thought, and his eyes a little wider set. The nose was a slightly different shape, broader at the base, and a mole near his left temple—or was that a scar?—had not graced the face of James Moriarty. But they were so alike in every other way, in physique and facial structures and skin tone and hair style, that in death, and to the eyes of two distraught parents, she could see how easily they were fooled.

'My Richard,' said Mrs Brook, coming into the room bearing a tea tray, 'always wanted to perform in that theatre. Ever since he was just five years old and we took him to see My Fair Lady. He was going to be a star.'

Donovan put on her game face. 'I've seen his clips from that kids' show he did,' said Donovan, joining her at the coffee table. 'He was good.'

'Such a lovely presence. That's what they call it in the industry, see. A presence. He stole any scene he was in. So. Ms Donovan. Or is it Mrs?'

Sergeant, she thought. 'Ms.'

'Ms Donovan, then.' Her tone was a sign of disapproval. She poured the tea and handed Donovan a cup. 'Which are you?'

'Pardon?'

'Are you a condemner or defender of Sherlock Holmes? That's what it comes down to, isn't it? You can be only one or the other. I do hope you are here on behalf of the London police to offer an apology for ignoring what he has done. I have been waiting, ever since I heard that he'd been arrested, to hear those words, and to hear that he'd been charged, at last, with the murder of my son. I guess that's what happens when he goes after one of your own, isn't it? You finally see him for what he really is.'

This was going to be trickier than she thought.

'Mrs Brook,' she said, 'you and I want exactly the same thing: justice for Richard.'

Mrs Brook nodded stiffly. She brought the teacup to her lips. 'Why do I get the feeling, then, that I'm about to hear something I don't want to, Ms Donovan?'

Donovan set her cup in the saucer on the coffee table. 'Did you see all of Richard's performances? All the theatre work he did?'

'Of course. He was brilliant. Made us so proud, Roger and me.'

'Do you remember seeing Adventures in Wonderland at the Watermill Theatre? Back in 2010, this would have been.'

She smiled sadly. 'He should have been cast as the Mad Hatter. The other lad was rubbish.'

'That play ran for three weeks, and Richard was there for every show, wasn't he?'

'He was very dedicated. He once broke a toe onstage during a production of Millie Miner. It happened during the first act, but he didn't say a word, just kept right on going. Nothing would stop him from making curtain call.' She laughed a little to herself.

Donovan pulled a blue folder out of her bag. Inside were several loose pages printed off from the computer a little over an hour before. She handed them to Mrs Brook. 'These are communications between a London woman and a man named Jim, as you can see in the comments section of her blog. If you'll note the date, you'll see that these exchanges took place at the same time your son was in Berkshire.' She gave Mrs Brook a chance to glance through the short notes to get a sense of them.

'Jim,' Mrs Brook read.

Donovan nodded. 'This woman had a date with Jim on one of the nights Richard was performing at the Watermill. She's an eye witness. She can confirm that Jim Moriarty and Richard Brook are two different people. And if that's true—'

'Stop. Stop.' She dropped the pages to the coffee table and took up her tea again with trembling hands.

'If that's true, Mrs Brook, then that means that your son didn't die on that rooftop.'

'How dare—'

'It means that Richard's fate is still unknown. Don't you want to know what really happened to your boy?'

'I know what happened! I've known for three-and-a-half years! You think knowing makes it any easier to lose a son?'

'You want justice for Richard.'

'I thought there was justice for him, back when I thought his killer lay dead himself. But he was a liar, just a liar! And you! You let that man go free months ago! How dare you!'

'Sherlock Holmes and your son are victims of the same man. You want proof? I can prove it to you. But I need your permission. Let me exhume the body of Jim Moriarty.'

Mrs Brook set her teacup in its saucer with a loud clink and put it on the table. She stood and walked briskly out of the room. Donovan, momentarily stunned, stared after her. Then she gathered the pages and shoved them back into her bag, snatching up her coat as she followed Mrs Brook back to the front room where the livid woman stood with the open door. Donovan did not pass through.

'This can all be over in a matter of days,' Donovan said, ever the practical one. 'If a DNA test confirms the body really is Richard, I'll arrest Sherlock Holmes myself. But if it is not—'

'I know he's my son! I'll not disrupt his grave! Richard will have a peace my husband and I cannot.'

Donovan let out a long breath, fighting the urge to throttle the woman.

'Now, Ms Donovan, you are no longer welcome in my house.' She gave a sharp gesture of her head toward the door.

'I'll go,' she conceded. As an officer of the law, she could not refuse. Not without a warrant or other legal justification. 'But please. Think about what peace really means for Richard. And when you change your mind, call me.'

She pulled her card out of a pocket of her bag and held it out to Mrs Brook, but the woman only glared at her, making no motion to accept the small card. Donovan's arm dropped to her side. 'I'll leave it for you then, shall I?' she said, and she turned back to the room and walked over to the mantle perched over the hearth. She set the card there, and as she did, her eye caught sight of the pictures hanging there, too. Old photographs, black and white, and sepia-toned. Ancestors, and many of them in full military regalia. And in one, on the far side from where she stood, a soldier from what she was sure was the Second Anglo-Afghan War, given his uniform. She'd lately spent a bit of time researching the period, with a particular focus on firearms.

And on the mantelpiece was a glass case, empty.

'Ms Donovan, if you please.'

She took her hand away from the mantel and backed away. Buttoning her coat, she gave a clipped good day to Mrs Brook and returned to winter.