Chapter Three
There were four sets of tire tracks imbedded in the mud by Mrs. Hudson's driveway. Three of them were identical in diameter and print, two of which came from the same car. The other one was hers.
I'd seen the police car from down the block. It was sitting in the driveway, attracting remarkably little attention for a quiet street. The neighbors must have grown bored of spying by now. Mrs. Hudson and an officer in uniform sat on the front porch, their cheeks and noses tinged red from at least an hour waiting in the cold. The twenty one to twenty five year old officer's eyebrows lowered with disapproval. The double piercing scars over his right brow wrinkled in kind. The streaked discoloration of partially-removed tattoos formed indents on his knuckles. Former punk turned police. Still proving himself, most likely; explained why the notepad he was clutching was only on the third page.
The officer approached me as I neared the driveway. He held his chin just high enough to look down at me in spite of the fact I was at least 10 cm taller than him. "Sherlock Holmes. Officer Jones of the PAPD. I need to ask you some questions. Where were you between the hours of 11am and 1pm-?"
I reached into my pocket, pulled out two ticket stubs from this afternoon's bus and flashed them both in his direction. "On the Clallam route 14 at 9 and 2 to Forks, respectively. The drivers will corroborate, I'm sure. Even with a car, it'd be physically impossible to go there, come here and go back between times."
"How convenient," Jones sneered.
I strode onto the front porch, placed the tickets in his grasp and turned to Mrs. Hudson. Aside from the wind chill on her cheeks, she looked healthy enough. "I take it you were at your appointment, then?"
"I came back when they called. It was about noon, I think," she answered.
Jones squinted at the tickets. He shifted his glance from them to me. "Why the heck did you go to Forks in the middle of a school day?"
"Because people here know it's a school day. I prefer not to be caught."
Somehow, Jones' eyes managed the miracle of narrowing even further. "Then why would you keep the bus receipt?"
"Because I was listening to the police scanner. Knew I'd need proof. Did you change notebooks mid-investigation?"
"No, I…" Then he didn't have much to go on.
"What have you reported missing?" I interrupted. He glowered back.
"Are you a police officer? No? Then I'll ask the questions and you answer. That's how this works."
"Your primary suspect has an alibi and no motive. That's not working."
"Did I tell you who the suspects were?"
"When you started questioning me before providing a context, yes. How much nothing have you found that you're still speaking to me?"
"They broke a window coming in," Mrs. Hudson interjected. "That's all he knew to tell me." Since I hadn't seen any damage, the window was at the back or the left side of the house.
"Do you know anyone who might want to harm you or your caretaker?" Jones asked.
"Everyone who talks to me."
There was no benefit to continuing this discussion. I needed to leave.
Jones crossed his arms defensively. He raised his chin, subconsciously struggling to look superior. I stared at the front window. The curtains were open. Pots, spoons and tattered packaging were scattered across the kitchen. A crock pot sat in the corner.
I turned from the window towards Mrs. Hudson. "The roast is burning. You may want to check that," I lied.
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled. Whether it was one of appreciation or understanding, I wasn't sure. In either case, she took the cue to cross the porch. She paused in front of Jones and the door. "I hope you don't mind."
"It's fine, ma'am. You've been plenty helpful already."
While Mrs. Hudson was opening the door, the surface blocked Jones' view of the opposite side of the porch. I sprinted to my left. By the time she had walked inside, I was around the corner. It took at least twenty seconds before I heard footsteps following.
"Hey, get back-!" Jones shouted. I ignored it.
The first wall had been clear, so I continued to the back of the house. The point of entry was obvious. A large rectangle on the ground floor had been sealed with tape and blue painter's tarp. Flecks of glass were scattered across the patio and partway into the grass. I tore through the tape and cast the tarp aside. A circular hole about twice the width of a baseball gaped through the top-right corner of the window. Each crack spread like a web across the panel. Someone had smashed it with a circular weapon, direct contact unlikely.
I placed one hand on each side of the frame, propped a foot against the lower ledge and climbed atop it. Large shards of shattered glass pooled beneath the window, unusually close together for a break of this size. The interior latch at the base of the window was still unlocked. The break was large enough for an arm, but unless the culprit was dual jointed and two meters tall, they'd never reach the latch from this angle.
Jones' footsteps stomped to a stop. "Step down! You're contaminating evidence!" he shouted across the porch. I didn't budge.
"Did you sweep the glass in the interior?" I asked casually.
"No, it's a crime scene. We don't touch crime scenes. Get down!"
"And the front door, was that unlocked?"
"I'll have you arrested for obstruction of justice!" Likely a no, but context made it difficult to tell.
I let go of the window frame and slid down to the pavement. Officer Jones glared at me so intensely it could've recharged some small electrical devices. I kept my hands raised above my head with my palms facing forward, bracing for further berating. Instead, I heard Mrs. Hudson.
"Sherlock! It's time for dinner!" she called through an open window. I'd owe her for this.
Jones lifted his head, presumably towards her. His expression softened. I stepped as far away from Jones as five seconds would take me and stopped at the edge of the patio. A sliver of glass, barely thicker than a needle, glistened beside my foot. I had to ask.
"One more question. Why do you think they broke the window?" I spoke to the floor.
"Because it was easier to smash than a door."
"Wrong. The glass wouldn't spread in the same direction as the impact, not to the extent of reaching grass. They dumped the debris back inside as a ploy. They deliberately broke the window to tell you they were here, and possibly to skew the time of incident." I tilted my left hand to gesture at the back yard, specifically towards the fence. "Dust the fences for prints. Check the locks for damage. Interview the three adjacent neighbors for the exact time the alarm was set. One of them may know."
"I don't take orders from teenagers."
"Then consider it a suggestion."
Before he could reply, I rounded the corner and rushed for the door. I had expected to hear a shout behind me, possibly stomping footsteps. Only silence followed.
I slowed my pace to a casual stroll as I approached the front door. No need to alert the neighbors if I wasn't being chased. I removed a key from my interior pocket, unlocked the door and stepped inside. The savory, vaguely iron-tainted scent of beef filled the foyer. A few imprints of footprints pressed into the carpet-professional shoes, both the same type, one the same size as Officer Jones'. Nothing appeared especially disturbed, otherwise.
I veered to my right and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson stood over the dining table, setting silverware beside two empty plates. I marched directly to the sink, drew the curtains across the window and continued towards the stairs. The subtle clinks of silverware came to a pause as she noticed I was there.
"You should wash up. Dinner will be out in a minute," Mrs. Hudson offered. I didn't stop.
"Not coming. Investigating."
"Alright. Just don't touch the broken window. One hospital visit per day is more than enough." She set another piece of silverware on the table. I walked away.
If nothing had been stolen, at the very least something would be misplaced or left behind. It wasn't as if people broke into someone's home for entertainment, unless they were me, and if that were the case, they wouldn't summon the police about it.
One by one, I inspected each room in the house. Family room – nothing. Foyer – nothing. Mrs. Hudson's bedroom – a faux pearl necklace had fallen behind her dresser. Two years old, not of any particular value. Aside from that, still nothing. The last room left to search was my own. My fingers brushed against the doorknob. The metal was cold, more so than it should have been. I twisted it open.
From an objective standpoint, my room was a mess. This also made it easier to tell what had been tampered with. There was a small indent in the pile of clothes by the door, so I could presume someone else had been inside. That the clothes were gone implied that was Mrs. Hudson doing the wash. The wall adjacent to the door was covered in papers, threads and notes in marker, the residue of attempts to organize my thoughts, none of which were touched. Clothes, books, beakers, electronics and various supplies spilled over the drawers of my open dresser and onto the unmade bed. This wasn't the disarray I'd left this morning. There were two possibilities, neither of the good, though one was clearly preferable. Either the police had come inside and failed to find the only valuable item in my room, or the intruder had.
I slammed the door behind me and sprang towards my bed. I closed one eye and peered into the space beneath it. A few shirts I recalled putting there and one I didn't blocked my view. I reached my arm in, brushed them out of the way and looked again. A pair of old trainers sat in place, seemingly undisturbed. I grabbed the right one by the laces and pulled it out regardless. I sat back against the bed, plopped the shoe onto my knee, picked up the insole between my fingers and tossed it aside. The bottom had been hollowed out to form a hidden compartment. My needles and solution were still inside, untouched. Yes. Good.
I pressed the insole back into the shoe, shoved the shoe under my bed and leaned against the mattress to relax. My eyes drifted across the ceiling was undisturbed, as was my fencing sword, my violin and my tea kettle. Then, I saw something. A copy of the Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe had been stuffed upside-down on a bookshelf it was too crammed to fit on. I hadn't put it there.
Without budging from my spot, I pried the book from the shelf. There was a slight gap between the pages where another one had been enclosed. I opened to the new page. A handwritten letter on torn notebook paper rest inside. The narrow, miniscule scrawl was smeared, presumably by the author's left hand, as he struggled to write with ink that hadn't dried between words.
"Dear Sherlock,
Do not show this to anyone after you've read it. Burn it, if you can. More importantly, forgive me. Had I a choice, I would've never left you.
Seven years ago, I became involved with a monster in human form. It was my eventual intent to take revenge. Instead, he forced me into hiding by threatening my family, including you. He has come to Port Angeles. I know something is at work. I pray it doesn't involve you, but have too much sense to assume otherwise.
Do not look for me. Should the time be right to meet, you will know.
Beware James Moriarty.
- Guess"
It was my father's writing. Fainter imprints of the same color ink were smudged across the adjacent page. The notebook paper was flimsy but unmarred from folding or travel. This letter had been written inside this room, today.
I rummaged through my dresser drawers until I found my father's journal. The weathered leather book was in the exact spot I left it with no new creases on the front from being opened. I flipped through to a random entry and compared it to the script on the page. A near-perfect match, with the exception of the 'y's—they were more lopsided this time. That could be excused. Whoever had been writing did so under duress, and to not have any changes in penmanship in seven years would be unusual. Though, admittedly, no more so than receiving a note from someone who was supposedly dead.
I held the book between both hands to analyze the note more closely. This could be a prank. There were redacted documents with his signature online. It's possible they could have copied his writing from there. No, it was too much effort for a joke. No one at school would be capable of this. The writer would have had to be ambidextrous or left-handed, and familiar enough with my father to create a passable forgery so quickly that the ink wouldn't dry between words. Or the letter was genuine.
I folded the note in quarters, set it in my pocket and put the book back on the shelf. There was somewhere else I should be.
Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, washing a stack of dishes. She turned her head just enough to look at me as she spoke. "Ah, that's where you were hiding."
"Did my father ever mention a James Moriarty?" I asked quickly.
She lifted her hands from the water, wiped them on her dress and opened up the fridge.
"If he did, then it's no one I remember. He rarely mentioned friends at work. You could always ask your mother," and I could also always go impale myself. Anything mother knew, she wouldn't say, or at least, she wouldn't say so to me.
I turned towards the stairs to leave once more. Before I could, Mrs. Hudson pulled a plastic-covered plate of pot roast from the fridge. The wrapping was still coated in condensation from the steam. She held the plate so close to me that the rim poked my arm. "You should take this. Eat it. It won't do either of us any good for you to waste away," she said sternly. I didn't budge.
She looked back at me with subdued incredulousness. "Is there a reason you're asking about this person now?" she asked.
I took the plate from her grasp and stared at her blankly. "Yes."
"Can you tell me what that reason is?"
"Wasn't planning to."
A brief silence followed.
"The plate's cold. You could use the microwave, heat it before you leave," she suggested.
"I know."
My eyes shifted to my right as I veered towards the stairwell. A clock sat on the family room's mantle. Ten twenty nine. For all purposes short of a medical crisis or attempted murder, the city was dead. I was limited to skimming father's journal and the internet for now. The search could start tomorrow. I turned forward and continued upstairs to what was sure to be a restless night. It was more likely than not my father was still near Port Angeles, and I was going to find him.