Chapter 11
If Sherlock Holmes was in bad mood, the only thing to do was to keep quiet and let him cool off. His old friend and colleague John Watson knew this well. His wife, Mary Morstan, also knew this well. But unlike John, she was disinclined to indulge the consulting detective's grumpiness. That's why John was sitting quietly on the sofa, sipping in silence his warm tea and his wife Mary did not.
She stood straight in front of their friend, hands on her hips. Since Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, had left the Baker Street's flat, she had not stopped urging him to put the previous bad day behind him and resume his investigation to find Miss Potter. Her cerulean gaze occasionally wandered towards her husband in a sort of silent prayer for him to bolster her in shaking Sherlock out of his mood. But John just gave her a you-don't-have-a-chance shrug.
All things considered, in John's humble opinion, his friend had every reason to be at least vexed. And who wouldn't been if he had spent an entire night and an entire day scouring the dusty and un healthy streets of Whitechapel far and wide in search of a witness, a clue, anything that would help him establish with certainty that the young woman whose deceased body lay on an autopsy table in St Bart's mortuary, was Miss Alma Potter, and then found himself empty-handed?
Not only that. Insult had been added to injury considering that the person who had provided the aforementioned information, was the person who got on Sherlock's nerves the most, that is his older brother, Mycroft.
The two had a relationship of open conflict and barely concealed tolerance towards each other. At the beginning of his friendship with Sherlock, John had tried to moderate between the two brothers but had quickly realized that settling their arguments was a waste of time and breath.
Which is why when half an hour earlier he had seen the figure of Mycroft standing out at the door of Sherlock's apartment, John had expected the consulting detective's already gloomy mood to worsen.
The eldest Holmes loved to show his little brother how much smarter and cunning he was. And he had clearly gloated in letting Sherlock know that he had never had the slightest chance of discovering the identity of the deceased young woman because she was some kind of Crown agent. She was working for him. Undercover.
All Sherlock could do was squirm as his brother reeled off every minutiae pertaining to the mysterious lady, even if after the first basic information – her name was Sarah Acker, twenty-two years old, daughter of a milliner and a baker, well educated, extremely intelligent and good looking – apparently none of them had listened to him anymore. Each of them had gone back to what they were doing before Mycroft entered the room.
Sherlock had resumed his thoughtful position, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin. Mary had picked up Lord Byron's book of poetry temporarily abandoned on her now voluminous lap – she and John were expecting their first son or daughter.
And he himself, John, had started scribbling notes again about the very case Sherlock was working on. Once solved, because one way or another Sherlock would have figured it out, the detailed story would have come to life on the pages of "The Strand".
Lamentably their disinterest had seemed not to be a deterrent to the eldest Holmes who had gone on babbling about a printing works and its owner, a Mr Moriarty involved in illegal activities – possibly counterfeiting money and forging documents - reason why Miss Acker had been recruited.
How from here Mycroft then came to tell the young lady had managed to make Mr Moriarty fall in love with her and to describe the spectacular engagement ring, John really couldn't say.
The next time he looked up from his notes, Mycroft was eyeing them with disdain and in an equally disdainful voice he was saying that he hadn't heard from Miss Acker since her missive the day before informing him she would obtain evidence of Mr Moriarty's involvement, primarily in the trafficking of false identity document.
And then suddenly…puff, he left the way he came.
Thank goodness…finally a bit of silence. This was the thought that crossed Sherlock's mind as soon as he heard the unmistakable gait of his older brother heading towards the door. The last twenty-four hours had been totally fruitless and frustrating. Despite all the work he had done, he had not managed to get blood out of a stone, dammit!
And Mycroft, like it was nothing, had shown up at his flat to hand out information about the nameless corpse, without having had to make the slightest effort to obtain it. Hell, if that wasn't twisting the knife!
But…but he had said something interesting. Something related to Miss Potter's case, Sherlock was sure of it, although the connection wasn't clear to him. Not yet, at least. All he needed was to delve himself into his Mind Palace and think.
As usual information and clues he had gathered up to that moment would have floated from the deepest places of his brain. They would have mixed up. Some would have been discarded, others retained, others kept in abeyance. Then slowly, almost magically, one of them would emerge, revealing the connection.
He sat more comfortably in his black leather chair, anticipating the little journey in his mind and the moment when…
"Sherlock…you don't seriously plan on spending the rest of the afternoon like this, do you?". The telling-off came from Mary, his friend John's wife. Sherlock sensed she was crossing her arms over her chest as she deliberately rolled her eyes.
Farewell silence and peace, he muttered to himself. Mary wasn't one to leave him alone until he answered her. And as proof of this, she prodded "That young girl is out there, somewhere…God knows she'll be scared! Stop brooding and get back to work".
"John, will you kindly tell Mrs Watson to be quiet?" he said, just because he enjoyed vexing Mary, and as expected her annoyed retort was not long in coming, "I beg your pardon". Oh, it was so easy to inflame John's wife!
Sherlock slightly raised the eyelid of one eye, making a huge effort to hold back the amused smile hovering on his lips. If it hadn't been for her baby bump, the posture assumed by Mary and her look of veiled threat would have really been a cause for concern for Sherlock.
"Hush, Mary!" he insisted, "I'm not brooding. I'm thinking". "Oh" was all she said before falling silent and sitting down in the chair across form him.
Sherlock began to breathe deeply, focusing his thoughts. His mind slowly walked through all the information, clues, snatches of conversation, bringing to light everything he could connect with what his brother had just told.
Sara Acker. Undercover work. Mr Moriarty. Illegal activities. Engagement. Ring. Engagement ring. Spectacular engagement ring, Mycroft had liked to specify. Why, why was it spectacular? Wasn't it the usual acrostic snake-shaped jewel? No, obviously it wasn't. Its gems, its material, its shape? What made it so peculiar?
Simultaneously and suddenly his eyes snapped open and he gasped as an image finally clicked into place with Mycroft's words.
Sherlock rose abruptly from his chair, and Mary instinctively jumped in surprise, "What got into you?" he heard her ask but he didn't pause to give an answer, he had the utmost urgency to recover proof that there was a connection between what his brother had said and Miss Potter's disappearance.
He returned to the living room holding a piece of paper between his fingers and waving it like a flag. "John" he proclaimed, but his friend, teacup in his left hand, right hand busy scribbling notes, barely looked up at him. "We need to talk to…" Sherlock gave a quick glance at the paper looking for a name, "Well, TL…whoever he is".
Before John could open his mouth, Mary stood and came over to Sherlock's side, "What is this?" she couldn't help herself from voicing her curiosity, tilting her head from side to side, trying to read against the light what was printed on it.
"This" he waved the paper again, "This is the sketch of a jewel". Mary's eyes danced with such curiosity around that little piece of paper that Sherlock decided to take pity on her and handed it to her. "It's a ring" Mary stated plainly.
"Precisely" he agreed as he strolled up to the fireplace. "More precisely an engagement ring" he pointed out and filling the chamber of his pipe with tobacco, he asked "By some accounts, a spectacular ring. Do you think so, too, Mrs Watson?".
Sherlock watched her intently.
"Spectacular" she murmured under her breath, her fingertips brushing the outline, "S-shaped ring, made of platinum and sapphires as gems". Instinctively she looked at her husband who in the meantime had gotten up from the sofa and was now next to her, then her clear eyes fell on Sherlock and parting her lips ever so slightly, she whispered "This is Sara Acker's ring".
At that Sherlock gave her a toothy grin, "Very well, Mrs Watson. I appreciate that, unlike your husband, you paid due attention to my brother's words" he stated motioning for her to return the sketch to him and slipping it into his waistcoat pocket.
"It's time for us to set off, John" he said and grabbed his coat, thus urging John to put on his own. "But…" she muttered as she nibbled on her fingertip, and that little objection stopped Sherlock halfway to the door, "How did you get hold of it? And who is TL supposed to be?". Mrs Watson was a persistent woman and she would never allowed the two men leave the flat without Sherlock answering her questions first.
"As for the sketch, it was a considerable stroke of luck. Seeing such a tiny thing stuck in the branches of a small rose bush right next to the back door of the Potter house, well…it was pure luck, wasn't it John?", Dr Watson couldn't forestall to roll his eyes.
"And regarding TL, I believe he is the goldsmith who designed and created the jewel" Sherlock responded as he put on his gloves and secretly hoped that Mary had run out of question. But, alas, no! She sat down again, with her hands folded calmly in her lap and her eyes were intense and focused.
"So is there a possibility the goldsmith is involved in Miss Potter's disappearance? And perhaps he might also have something to do with Miss Acker's murder? Could it be that guy…that Mr Moriarty, is in charge of everything?". Sherlock felt almost dizzy. Her questions were perfectly relevant, "She's better at this than you" he stated glancing at his friend, "What do you think, shall we take her with us?".
"Ah, ah, that's funny" John bit off, strongly tempted to make a face at him, who mock-thoughtfully opened his mouth to add something but was interrupted by a slim, scruffy young man with blondish hair who appeared in the doorway at that very moment, "Mr Holmes? Mrs H said I could come up".
"Oh, Wiggins! Do come in" Sherlock waved him over. The youngster stepped across the threshold, but froze when he saw that Holmes was not alone, "Don't be afraid. You already know Dr Watson, right? The lady sitting over there is his wife".
Wiggins, leader of the Irregulars, the unofficial cadre of street boys and girls that help Holmes on some of his case, acting as his eyes, ears and information gathering service, took a few uncertain steps, looking around cautiously.
He then took off his cap and nodded awkwardly at Mary. "Well…do you have any news for me?" Sherlock asked him, rubbing his gloved hands together, as if anticipating the young man's confirmation of some of his suspicious, "We followed Miss Hooper as you asked".
"And?" he prodded. "She left this morning an hour after her brother returned. She went grocery shopping and then home again. A man called on her around noon and she…"
"A man?" Sherlock put in with a high-pitched squeak, earning an astonished look from Mr and Mrs Watson. He cleared his throat and, returning to his usual self, asked "How can you be sure he went to see her and not her brother?".
A decidedly cocky smile lit up Wiggin's face, "Mrs Cowper, her landlady that is…is a big talker if you know how to handle her". "Really" he simply said. A barely perceptible hint of sarcasm. It was clear he hadn't known how to handle the old lady the previous evening.
"Go on" he urged offhandedly, "So a man came to call on her. Did he come up to her apartment?" Sherlock asked, curious to find out whether the stern Molly's landlady treated all men who wanted to go up to the first floor of the building fairly.
Wiggins shook his head vigorously, "Dr Hooper was resting, she said". At those words Sherlock couldn't help but smile with satisfaction. Whoever the man was, he had been no luckier than himself. In this connection he inquired "Since you have become so familiar with Mrs Cowper, did she confide in you who that man was and why he wanted to see Miss Hooper?".
"A shopkeeper, Mr Holmes" and then he hastened to add "He went to return an item Miss Hooper had commissioned him to fix". Sherlock couldn't help but frown. Why would a shopkeeper personally go to the customer's flat to return repaired goods? Was he a friend of Molly? Or her brother's? Or was he a suitor who, under the pretence of returning the item at issue, had secretly hoped to be welcomed into her flat?
This last very idea gave him an unfamiliar squeeze in his stomach. But to be honest it was the whole thing that made him restless. He felt something wasn't right but he still didn't understand what.
"So the two of them met? And, for heaven's sake, lad, what kind of item are we talking about?" asked Sherlock, his voice dripping in annoyance. "They met in the foyer…not alone, of course, Mrs Cowper was there" Wiggins explained, "Oh, and the item is a necklace, it belonged to Miss Hooper's grandma".
"A necklace?". No. No, that couldn't possibly be true, Sherlock thought, shaking his head. Because if the man Molly had met was really who Sherlock thought he was, it meant that she was either an accomplice in Miss Potter's disappearance, something he had suspected from the start. Or, far worse, that this man had come to her to demand a ransom to free Miss Potter.
Either way you looked at the whole thing, Molly was in trouble anyway.
"Was the man a goldsmith, Wiggins?", the young man nodded, "His name is Langdon. Thomas Langdon".