A/N: Hi. Still not British, a writer or more than myself. -csf
Third/Four.
For once it was my friend insisting on breakfast. He chased me out of my room too early in the morning, I'm still a recently showered, wet haired, sleepy assistant in an overdressed shirt and jeans. Sherlock sits impatiently by the cafe window, flipping the pages of the second-hand novel that was the victim's best seller before she turned food critic to fancy tea rooms.
'This book bears your initials on the frontispiece, John.'
'Yeah, well. Could have once been mine, actually.'
'Hmm', he comments, gravelly. 'It is your typical turn of the letter J, indeed. I suppose next you're going to try to make me believe the H next to the J stands for John and Harry Watson, two siblings in the same household.'
I glare at him. 'You know what the H stands for.' Hamish.
He snaps the book shut. 'You would have me believe you've never seen this book before. Or these streets, or this town. What is it you're trying to keep secret from me, my dear innocent John?'
I huff through my nose, jaw tight. 'This case is not about me. A woman has been murdered, remember that?'
He instantly switched to aloofness. 'Yes, yes, I heard about that.'
'We should go question some witnesses.'
'Should we now?'
'The manager, the owner, the editor of whatever publication prints food reviews nowadays...'
'So you believe she was murdered over... crumpets?'
'I don't know, I'm not Sherlock bloody Holmes', I hiss, tense. 'We must start somewhere.'
'Where did you go to high school, John?'
'Across town. Why?' I'm confused now. Talking to Sherlock can at times be a roller coaster.
'No reason. I'll arrange for the interviews while you finish your tea.'
.
No reason. Absolutely no reason.
Sherlock and I are sat side by side at school desks, facing the modern interactive board and the teacher's desk. Both the manager and the owner of the tea rooms look daunted and confused, as they sit opposite us, facing back at us.
What happened to the rule about not interrogating more than one witness at one time?
Perhaps Sherlock thought they might turn on each other. So far they are being supportive of one another.
'We've talked to all those police officers already. When can we reopen the establishment?'
'Soon', the detective retorts vaguely, with little care for the truth.
The curly haired woman in impractical heels huffs and slumps against the back of her seat, arms crossed in front of her.
The woman with the thick glasses, the manager presumably, leans forward and asks: 'Will it be safe? I mean, I often have to stay late and close the shop. If a burglar has managed to sneak inside through I don't know where and all...'
I try to reassure her: 'Sherlock and I will make sure it's safe for you.'
She nods, looking grateful. Then she blinks, eyeing me better. 'James?'
I blink. 'John, actually. John Watson.'
'John, of course, how my word, how long has it been since— You, no, you don't know who I am, do you?'
'I'm sorry', I retort mechanically. It doesn't help jog my memory that I spot, through the corner of my eye, Sherlock going through her handbag under the table. 'You are?'
'We dated briefly. Years ago. Sorry, it was silly of me to think you'd remember— My hair was longer, and I didn't wear glasses— Not important, really.'
For the life of me, I don't recognise her.
I also don't remember leaving a girl behind as I joined the army.
So much was going on in my family home. Would I really forget a girlfriend? Was it a couple of dates like going to the movies? I don't think I remember that either.
No woman likes to feel she's not memorable.
'Yes, of course! Hmm... Mary?' Blind guess.
Her face lights up a bit. 'No, Mary's my best friend. I don't think you dated my best friend, John. I can ask her.'
'No need', I hasten to assure her.
'I'm Chandler, by the way. I know, odd name. Mum liked the noir era detective novels.'
'I'm sorry, did we—?' I blurt out. Great idea! I beat myself up, belatedly.
'Oh', she blushes. 'A few dates, John. Only enough to learn your middle name', she adds, coyly.
Sherlock has had enough, apparently, as he ruthlessly interrupts:
'Yes, well, I'll be done with John at about eleven tonight, you can have him from eleven until five in the morning, but I must warn you he has an obsession with sleep...'
We both blush, feeling scolded.
'I'm actually married', she quips meekly.
'Them lay off my assistant', Sherlock growls one moment, the next he's an angelic picture of calm as he gathers some papers on the scribbled desk to note: 'You said you locked up the tea rooms at nine forty five?'
Chandler nods, her voice eclipsed.
'And you went home, to your husband?'
She nods, bewildered.
'Sherlock', I call my friend, asking for a truce.
'The food critic, what did she say about being left inside?'
'She was okay with it.'
'No, tell me her exact words', Sherlock demands.
'I'm okay with this? That's what she said. She really didn't mind. Of course if only I thought she'd be attacked by some lunatic—'
'Enough now', the detective snaps, holding out an imperious hand. Turning to the store owner he starts with her:
'What type of tree was it?'
She looks troubled, confused and angered at once. 'What type of tree? Mr Holmes, are you serious?'
'Absolutely. Do not stall for time. The species, if you please.'
'Could have been an oak. Or a willow.'
Sherlock is not above rolling his eyes. She hastens to assert: 'An oak. I saw the leaves plastered against the windshield. An oak.'
'Interesting.' Then turning to the maître d he demands: 'At what time did you feed your child supper?'
'It wasn't me, but my husband, while I showered.'
Back to the owner: 'You spoke to the victim on the phone?'
'Yes, I explained to her what had just happened.'
'You were the last person to speak with her alive?'
'Except for the murderer, Mr Holmes.'
'Classic deflection, usually perpetrated by the murderer, but luckily I'm not prejudiced. How did you have her number?'
The woman blinks. 'I didn't', she realises. 'No, you're right, she phoned me. Chandler must have given her my number.'
The woman sat beside her shook her head. 'I didn't.'
'Then who did I speak to?' she voices in a tense whisper.
Sherlock answers quietly: 'The killer, I would presume. You spoke to her killer instead.'
.
"She stared, long and hard, at the old explorer's souvenir from exotic lands and a past bygone. A long narrow spear, painted in bright red, yellow and black stripes, and a dangling clutch of feathers at the dull end. Long she stood there, with laboured breath and trembling fingertips playing unsung music with trepidation. Finally the woman leaned over to observe the weapon carefully. That's when she saw them, a few speckles of brick red blood, dried on the weapon's handle, and she knew at once; only one person the old country house wore a garment with similar coloured sleeves that could conceal the splashing blood during the frenzied attack, and that person was herself. She looked down in disgust at the now discernible blood stains on her cuff. Wailing in desperation she quickly sought to divest herself from the blood, the crime, the dress. Soon she stood naked, panting, in the dusky library. She kicked her dress from the floor to the roaring fire on the grate, the flickering warm light of the melting polyester gracing her slight, elegant form as she watched the evidence of her crime melt in front of her eyes."
Sherlock scrunches his face. 'It's farcical, stereotypical, and a scientific mockery, John! She would cough her lungs out with the noxious fumes of burnt cheap polyester too! The public doesn't know how to appreciate a good murder! Sometimes I feel like I'm wasting my time!'
I smirk, turning a page. 'Wait until she finds out it wasn't her, but her evil twin sister in her dress.'
'How does that even work?' Sherlock huffs, all indignant and just the tiniest bit curious.
I shrug. 'I don't know. Suspension of disbelief?'
Sherlock grunts in outrage. 'If you filled your mind with this vile rubbish, no wonder you made a decision to join a war!'
For once, I don't retort. Sherlock is quick to notice my silent. He stops, derailed at once, blinks a few times, tries to croak out some vague words in a feeble apology. Accepted. I let him off at once.
'Don't mock the genre that you've built your success on, Sherlock.'
He regains control at once, and smirks.
'It trained my loyal blogger, if nothing else. We may find that heinous book some space at Baker Street.'
'But it doesn't shed light on who murdered our food critic, née crime writer.'
'Good, after all who likes a copycat murderer anyway? If you're going to kill someone, at least be original is the least we can ask...'
'Of course this is just one of her 89 published novels. Mostly successful according to most internet book club forums and— Sherlock, are you alright?'
He looks spooked. Most likely a sudden idea just hit him.
'No, that's preposterous', he mutters, 'So preposterous there's a chance it may be true. Life is rarely simple, John. Yes, I think I see it now. But why, though. Why? Unless... oh.'
I sigh noisily.
'Anytime now, if you would recognise I'm also in the room, Sherlock...'
Only half listening, he tells me: 'You're always in the room, John. Even when you're not.'
'What?'
'John, I've got it. But I need to prove it.'
'Okay. How?'
'We're going to spend the night in that locked room.'
'Oh.' I take a deep breath. 'Okay. Are we having crumpets too?'
He smirks. 'I'll see what I can do. Anything for you, John.'
.
TBC
