amner
16th Jun 2003, 15:19
‘I am inclined to pop along to the Albert for a swift half. Fancy coming along?’ said I.
‘Don't worry about me, Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I’ll admit that I was annoyed at him. ‘Christ, Holmes,’ said I severely, ‘you are a little trying at times. I was only trying to be friendly.’
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at a CD case, paused, and then tapped it steadily against his long, aquiline nose. Then he took the case and held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap. He indicated the stereo, from which a choir sang a song of ethereal, unknowable beauty, flooding the room with an incandescent glow.
‘Do you know this?’ asked he thoughtfully. ‘I myself have never heard it, but I know you have listened to much church music, fascinated as you are by the Christian faith. Come, Watson, what do you say?’
The music was indeed fascinating, as was the admission that, some higher forms of chemical analysis aside, there was a subject he knew very little about. However, this small victory for modesty aside, I had to declare that I had never encountered this particular composition before. It's form, however, was familiar: ‘It is a Nunc Dimitis,’ I said, ‘but I am afraid its origin escapes me. Thomas Tallis perhaps? Why?’
‘Well, Watson, it's a nom-de-plume, or more accurately I fear, a nom-de-guerre, a mere identification mark and perhaps even an invite; behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. This CD came in the post today; Mrs Hudson has just brought it up to me. There was no letter or note included, no cover notes even, just the CD and of course -’ he indicated the glorious chorus once again, ‘- this. This, my old friend, is important, not for itself, but for the man behind it. I am unsure, which is a state you have rarely seen me in, but this is extremely sinister, and I know not why.’
Holmes had lost me big style. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I said. ‘Do you have to get your big ol' brain going every time something odd comes through the post? Remember that trouble we had when the gas bill came? Embarrassing or what?’
Holmes finally broke into a smile. ‘You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. No, I'm not certain as to my next move, but I can assure you that this music is a message, and I must do my best to decipher it, or I will be woefully ill-prepared for the devilry to come, and devilry there will be.’
I could not let this pass without some explanation, but Holmes put his hand up to block my protests.
‘Watson, old man, this is of a vast importance, and I need to understand why. Pray, where can we discover the identity of this fabulous music?’ I thought hard. We had lived in Ely just a few months and the world's most famous consulting detective had been criminally [sic] underused. I was, therefore, lacking in practice myself and knew not of the best place to uncover the origin of the CD. Holmes was getting impatient. I thought as quick as I could. ‘We might try the museum, or the library, I guess, but as it's church music then we ought to start in the cathedral?’
‘Watson, you excel yourself!’ said Holmes, smiling ‘Come then, The Cathedral Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Ely it is!’ We bundled our coats on and rushed out of the door. I could barely contain my excitement, for I know not what reasons, but surely because the game was clearly a-foot once again. The air was bitterly cold and took my breath away for an instant, but the sun was bright, and we warmed to our task immediately. Had I known the horrors and amazing turns that awaited us at the start of this particular endeavour, I would've stepped out onto Silver Street with a little less enthusiasm...
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***
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Sherlock Holmes positively bounded along Silver Street, his great black overcoat billowing out behind him. I tried to display a modicum of dignity in my gait, but ended up taking short and long strides in an effort to remain in his wake. He finally stopped outside the door to the Fountain and for a moment I thought he may be softening, and be ready to buy me a drink.
‘Come, Watson, come! The forces of evil do not stop when we wish to. We must persevere!’ And then, off he went again, heading down the Gallery, cathedral bound, his cane and cape and arms flying around his head in a mad dervish. I smiled faintly to myself. After the rigours of London's vile Victorian underclass, and many life-threatening adventures, I never thought to miss this unpredictable life. But miss it I did, and Holmes' current antics were proof of the same feeling within him. I was as confused as ever by him, but pleased that the enthusiasm of old had returned.
I finally caught up with him, as he stood underneath the huge West Door, looking up at the cathedral's magnificent frontage. Holmes was not one for expressing admiration in anything but his own abilities, but even I could discern within him a sense of wonder as we gazed at the ancient stonework, which ran it's complex geometric patterns along the face of the mighty church.
‘Strange,’ he said, to himself.
‘Strange?’ said I, ‘what's strange?’
‘Nothing, Watson. Come, let's begin our quest in earnest.’ and with that he bounded into the alcove and vanished into the dark recess of the cathedral. I followed, stooping through the small wooden door and entering the enormous, cavernous nave. For a moment I was so taken aback by the splendour of the place that I did not notice that Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I approached the ticket booth and asked the lady behind the counter if she had seen my friend.
‘Oh yes, dear. Just a second ago? Tall chap, long nose, high forehead, clutching a magnifying glass? Yes, you just missed him. I told him he couldn't smoke in here. He disappeared off to the Choir, humming away to himself.’ Amazed as I was at the old lady's observational skills, I had already guessed that the Choir would be his first port of call. I headed off down the centre of the aisle, stumbling over my shoes as I kept gazing up at the magnificent painted ceiling. Holmes was stood in the centre of the Choir, holding a tuning fork out in front of him. He looked round at me and popped the tuning instrument back in his pocket.
‘Glad you could make it, old friend,’ he said, as if we had been parted for hours. ‘I may be no expert on the composer of our mystery piece, but I can tell you that, acoustically, it was not recorded here. I suggest we try elsewhere.’
‘There is a shop, Holmes. Maybe they sell CDs there?’ Holmes smiled with delight at my suggestion and bid me lead the way.
The shop, adjacent to the entrance had more people milling around it than were presently in the cathedral. Holmes and I stood in a queue for several minutes until an elderly lady asked us if she could help. Holmes presented her with the blank-looking CD and asked if he might be able to divine its mysterious origins.
‘Well, I don't know,’ she said, cautiously, ‘what a peculiar request! I have an idea, but can you wait a little while? I will need to try and see if the Music Director is available.’
‘Madam,’ said Holmes in the best obsequious manner he could muster, ‘that would be marvellous!’
When the charming lady had vanished he turned to me and ushered me out, back into the main body of the church. His tone had become conspiratorial, ‘Watson, we must split up. Take yourself off to Cromwell's House, the Tourist Information Office, and see if you can find anything that relates to Ely and church music. I shall wait here and see what this alleged expert can tell me. Go, Watson, go! I shall meet you - yes, I acquiesce - in the saloon bar of the Prince Albert in one hour. Now go!’ And with this he virtually pushed me out of the huge West Door and onto the street.
Cromwell's House, just across the cathedral close, and no poor relation in a historical perspective, to the cathedral was fascinating, but it held no information with regard to Holmes' vague research instruction. After a good forty-five minutes of endeavour I repaired to the pub, as arranged, and bought myself a well-earned drink. As I found a seat, removed my coat and lifted the teak-brown draft to my parched lips, Holmes burst forth into the inn. He was in a state of high excitement.
‘Watson, away! Come with me my faithful friend, for I have grave news.’
We rushed, I with more than one mournful glance back at my virgin pint, out of the 'Albert' and once again helter-skeltered along Silver Street. Then into the cathedral, but this time towards a side door at the North side of the church, which I had not realised, was there. Holmes was talking all the time:
‘Well, I have had a most fascinating hour Watson. First, I met with the Musical Director, who listened intently to our sung message, and who informed me that the recording was of the lost works of one of Ely's foremost church musicians, John Amner. He was the choir master, or similar, here in the early 17th Century. The music has not been performed in some time, but when it was played most recently, it was here-’ and at this point we were walking into the most beautiful open space I have ever witnessed in a medieval church ‘-the Lady Chapel.’
Holmes's demeanour became more reverential, a major change of mood indeed, considering his earlier explosions of enthusiasm. ‘Here, it was recorded for the CD which we received today. The question is why, why have we been brought here. The answer, as is so often the case, is all around us. Watson, pray, look at the statues that ring these beautiful walls, tell me what strikes you.’
I looked at them, and it was obvious. ‘Holmes, why they're all headless.’
‘Indeed Watson, a legacy of the Lord Protector, so I'm told, for these are our monarchs,’ he gestured grandly around the room, ‘and just a few short years after Master Amner's passing, Cromwell's men, in some sort of republican frenzy, set about beheading these monuments to the great and the good. So far, so tourist-style claptrap. The thing is, as I was walking and talking with the present maestro, just a half hour ago, he noticed something, and this is why we've been brought here, and why we must now take care, for our very lives are in danger.’
Holmes beckoned me across the room and in the furthest corner pointed out one of the royal figures. In a rather macabre fashion, a head, of different coloured stone, but with sharp chiselled features, had been crudely stuck back on one of the statues. Holmes glared at it with a suddenly gloomy and dark, brooding eye.
‘Do you recognise that face, Watson? The cruel lips, the poisoned sneer? Do you know what this signifies? Which king has come back to life?’
I was aghast, for I recognised that fearsome visage only too well. ‘You surely don't mean?’
‘I do.’
‘My God, Holmes, it's impossible! He has returned?’
‘Yes, my dear friend,’ and Holmes closed his eyes with weary resignation, ‘Moriarty is here in Ely!’
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***
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Holmes accepted the pint that was offered him with grace.
‘Thank you, Watson’ he said and sipped the top thoughtfully.
I paid for our beers and coached him gently across the lounge and out of the patio doors into the beer garden. We sat at one of the two trestle tables. There was no one else about, which is precisely what I wanted. I could always rely on the Tinker to be quiet, and quiet it most certainly was.
Holmes had suffered some sort of seizure following the events in the cathedral's Lady Chapel: what ladies might politely term 'an episode'. Although he had already witnessed and used his methods to deduce the meaning of the chapel situation long before I saw it, I believe that it was not until I had made the connection about Moriarty for myself, that the full emotional impact of the moment befell him. As we left the cathedral, he had collapsed against me, though not to an unconscious state. It was as I helped him regain his footing that I realised, since he was my greatest ally and asset, I must get him to safety. He had whispered to me that we must not go back to our home on Silver Street, but that he needed to rest far away from the curious gazes of tourists, shoppers and who knows what ill-meaning individuals. I suggested the Tinker and enquired as to his mental and physical readiness for the journey. He nodded and we headed out on the Lynn Road, my arm supporting his elbow, and it was this very hostelry that we now found ourselves.
‘Chin up, old friend!’ said Holmes, catching me by surprise, ‘my, you are in the spell of a powerful reverie indeed. Is there anything I can do or say to help you?’
I nearly fell off the chair in amazement. I had, as Holmes rudely suggested with his interjection, been far off in thought, though I could not tell you what those thoughts were, so suddenly shocked was I. I looked across at the man who exhibited a fine but faintly annoying grin.
‘Holmes, damn you, an explanation please! Why, I thought you were almost expiring on me back there. But now you radiate the rudest health. A phrase that suits this situation down to the ground, I might add! An explanation sir.’ I was most perturbed by Holmes's games playing and he could tell.
‘Watson, Watson, do calm yourself. I can explain. Cheers!’ He raised his glass and drank a healthy portion of the IPA. Forgive me, but I did also. ‘I was shocked beyond belief, more so than you my trusty companion, that the signal in the cathedral pointed so shockingly at the Professor. That initial shock gave me the idea of feigning such a deep and physical despair: if Moriarty had his spies in operation and I could give them an impression that I was ailed and an easy target, it may be good enough to present a minor advantage. I'm sorry that I took you in, but I needed your reaction to be genuine. Don't pout! I should be annoyed with you for bringing me to the bloody Tinker!’ He smiled and I had to concede the point, though my pride remained a little dented.
He was continuing: ‘Actually, a walk along the Lynn Road was an excellent idea, for any followers would've had to have shown themselves along such a straight and open thoroughfare if they were to keep up with us. We can, I think, consider ourselves alone. I realise that such a scheme was not your intention, but it has worked well Watson!’
It was typical of Holmes to offer appreciation at one moment and snatch it back the next. But he hadn't finished: ‘our fight atop the Reichenbach Falls may have resulted in one miraculous escape, but two! It's preposterous at best, but that is the deduction that presents itself. Odd that such a huge event, well, huge in the amusing memoirs you pen of our exploits, should ultimately come to nothing. Still, if the Professor is at large, we must ask ourselves two questions. Firstly, why is he here? And secondly, how do we combat him?’
‘It must be to gain revenge, Holmes,’ I suggested, ‘to avenge the supposed vanquishing of his criminal talents and prove to the world, why, that he's superior to you.’
Holmes's eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I had worked that one out. I am certain that our lives are in danger. Watson, pass me the moby, I need to make a couple of calls.’ Holmes punched at the buttons of the Nokia. He was connected almost immediately. He spoke a name I had not heard in a long, long time. ‘DS Sholto Lestrade, please. Yes, it's urgent.’ - a wait, then - ‘Lestrade! How are you? How's the Met? DCI? Goodness, things are looking up. Lestrade, I need your help, yes, yes, that's right. Yes, the Silver Street address I gave you a few weeks ago. Yes. An hour? Thank you, I am, as ever, indebted. Goodbye.’
Holmes switched the mobile off and said, ‘We wait, Lestrade will phone a few cronies and do a supposed drugs raid on the flat. It will scare any of Moriarty's bunch off and allow us access back to our equipment. In the meantime, we need to organise a way of flushing Moriarty out in the open, or at least divining his scheme. And I know just the man to help us. I think the Professor would jump at the chance of offing two Holmes for the price of one, don't you?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Got it in one, big guy,’ said Holmes, ‘can you remind me of Mycroft's number?’
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***
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There was no answer at Mycroft's number and, not knowing if his sibling had a mobile of his own, Holmes decided it was best to try later. We agreed that Lestrade's arrangements (a call to Parkside police station in Cambridge or even the Ely cop shop, and then the so-called raid on our flat) might take considerably more than an hour to implement and thus decided that further refreshment was required.
Holmes returned from the bar with a half for himself and a pint for me, with the disconcerting justification that he would require a clear head that afternoon!
‘Thanks,’ I said, with a note of some small indignation. ‘Nice to know my opinion will be eagerly sought-after. Honestly Holmes, I sometimes wonder if we are a team at all.’
‘Do you feel undervalued then, my friend?’
‘Well, no, not really, but you do tend to dismiss me on occasion. My trip to the Tourist Information was erroneous, wasn't it?’
Holmes smiled as he poured the half-pint into the dregs of the larger glass. ‘I was worried about our situation. The CD acting as an invite was my first clue that something sinister might be in store for us. All our cases come along as referrals from the victims of crime, yes? This-’ and he stopped to jab a finger at me pointedly ‘-was clearly a perversion of that request. Why approach us in this way if it was all above board? Moriarty knows I am not a regular churchgoer and that my interest in a subject such as cathedral music, which I know little of, would be piqued. It was as we entered the cathedral that I realised this. I suddenly became overwhelmed by the sensation that something was amiss and that I needed to exculpate you before I appreciated the full impact of my suspicions. I'm sorry if it appeared a little rude; my intentions, I can assure you, were of the most altruistic kind.’
As usual I was left with a somewhat hollow feeling once the great man took time to explain himself. I was, I can say with all candour, the luckiest of men for having him as my friend.
We chatted on this and that for another half hour. Holmes was all set to launch himself once again on the thorny subject of European unity when the mobile phone, which had lain on the table between us all this time, began to wiggle bizarrely across towards me, seemingly of it's own accord. I pulled away from the bench in horror, placed my hand firmly at Holmes's shoulder and pushed him as hard as I could, away from the table. ‘It's a bomb, Holmes!’ I shouted and clattered headlong into the fence, all the time awaiting the explosion.
Holmes picked himself up, sporting a few grass-stains on his cloak, and a disgruntled pout, and calmly walked back to his seat. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it's just on throb mode.’
I rose gingerly to my feet, feeling more than a bit foolish, and thanked my stars that we were the only people in the beer garden. Holmes punched the talk button.
‘Holmes. Ah, Lestr... sorry? What? When? My God, are you sure? Any idea who it might be? Clues, man! What are the clues?’ Holmes was seriously agitated and shouted at full volume into the handset. Inside the pub, I could see the barmaid glance in our direction; her eye already caught no doubt by the sight of us throwing ourselves gracelessly to the ground a few moments earlier. Holmes was continuing: ‘...that which is left is, yes, that's it; yes yes yes, the answer, that's it. That's the method I have implored you to use, but you ignore it like a child! Just tell me. No, on second thoughts let me go there. No, I won't hear of it. Goodbye.’ And with that Holmes emptied the rest of his glass and slammed it down.
‘Good Lord, Holmes, whatever is the matter? Is this one of your blasted tricks? Has something happened?’
‘Yes, you might say that,’ Holmes grumbled as he stood. ‘We have another problem. This is turning into quite a day. Excuse me a moment; I need to get the number of a cab firm. Please, finish your pint.’ He stormed off into the bar and began talking to the lady behind the counter. After a moment he returned to the table. I drained my drink.
‘Whassup, then?’ I said as jovially as I could.
‘Watson, things have become even more complicated. Let's go, the taxi will be here in a moment, so they said. I'll fill you in on the way.’
‘But Moriarty's spies!’ I protested.
‘May have to wait,’ said Holmes with some authority, shutting me up immediately. We walked out of the front door as a green and white Fen Cab pulled up at the kerbside, Holmes opening the door in an easy smooth motion. He gave the driver the instruction for Silver Street and offered him an extra five pounds if he could make the journey in less than three minutes. As we squealed away from the 'Tinker' and sped off into town he turned to me and relayed Lestrade's message about the corpse. The corpse the police had discovered. Twenty minutes ago. In our flat.
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***
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The taxi driver swung us into Silver Street and easily won the extra incentive that Holmes had offered him in return for a speedy delivery. We exited to the pavement just as the cathedral clock struck 2pm and Holmes approached the constable who was standing in front of our front door.
‘I must congratulate your senior officer!’ he exclaimed, with much confidence and a smile that took the young man aback. ‘I take it DCI Lestrade is not here?’
‘Er, no sir, we're acting under his instruction, so I understand, but he's not - hang on - who are you? Er, sir?’ He was gabbling, confused, but trying to be polite.
‘We live here, young man, well, share the upstairs apartment I should say. It makes us, I'd imagine, people your superiors would like to have a word with. And I shall want to have a word with them, in return, to praise them on the discretion they've shown: Lestrade would've cordoned off the street, scrambled the police helicopter and called a state of national emergency. C'mon Watson.’ He moved toward the door.
‘Well, I don't know. Just a sec. Are you Mr Shylock Jones? No, I mean, have you got any ID on you. Passport, driving li-’
‘This'll do young man,’ said Holmes and planted his key into the Yale lock. He turned it and said: ‘Now even if I don't live here your boss,’ he pushed the door open, ‘will want to know about someone who can gain access to a flat where a body's been discovered won't he?’ Holmes eased himself past the PC and indicated for me to follow. I was amazed at his assertiveness and could only fall into step behind him.
‘She,’ said the man as he resumed his guard. Holmes hadn't caught what he said, thundering as he was up the steps to our quarters.
We burst into the room and the peace of the street we'd left below was thrown into sharp relief. The place was a shambles, anarchy even, a symphony of chaos. There must have been twenty people packed into our living room, and there were certainly more policemen in the kitchen and bedrooms. Scenes of Crime Officers in all-white body suits crowded, some kneeling some standing, around one corner. Flashlights popped and people chattered incessantly. The composer of this tumult of noise and activity stood in the centre of the room and barked instructions, waving and pointing all the while: a woman, very smartly dressed in power suit and striped tie. I noticed that everybody else within the four walls was a man.
Holmes slammed the door behind us and cut the riot dead. All faces turned to us. It was the sort of moment that my erstwhile colleague relished, and he did not disappoint.
‘DS Cassandra Merripit, welcome to my home. I am Sherlock Holmes. This, as you will probably be able to guess, is Dr John Watson, MD.’ Holmes strode forward and offered to shake the startled young woman's hand. It was clear that she was suddenly self-conscious and fought quickly to regain her composure. She took Holmes's hand briefly and cast a nod in my direction.
‘I know who you are sir, and you Dr Watson, what I'd like to know is how you know me.’
Jeez, what a mistake. Holmes enjoyed, more than being the centre of attention, the ability to show off his redoubtable deduction methods. I settled into watching the great man explain himself. DS Merripit regarded him carefully, aware that she had knocked a ball back into the court of a particularly hard-hitter.
‘It's really rather straightforward, my dear. You are in charge, which, in a fairly major police operation as this, means you must be DS or above. There are so few woman of that standing in the Cambridgeshire constabulary, and I believe that I have met most of them, that my field of choice is pretty narrow. You're also young, so DS is the best you can hope for at this stage. You have a Thanet and Margate College tie, and so must still be fresh off the graduate programme; your performance is a little too bold, and so probably backs this up. And, unless the latest copy of the 'Police Review' is incorrect, the only person who fits all those criteria and has just been assigned to this area is DS Cassandra Merripit.’ He ended with a flourish, which was a little too much for the DS whose cheeks coloured a tad. I could see one or two of the older men behind her trying to conceal their delight at Holmes's over the top explanation.
‘Very clever, Mr Holmes, very clever indeed,’ she countered immediately, much to her credit, ‘however, I must say that I'm looking forward to your erudite view on precisely why you have a dead body lying in your apartment.’ She stepped to the side, like a theatre chorus revealing the play's first act, the SOCO boys moving apart also, to reveal a man lying on the floor. He was clearly as dead as it is possible to be, a huge hole gaping at the back of his head, from which Holmes's prized Turkish rug was taking a rather astonishing soaking of blood and brain. Holmes leaned forward.
‘He's about thirty, unshaven, and his clothes, taking into account recent events, are pretty tatty. He's been shot between the eyes, hence the exit wound to the back. If I could be allowed a few minutes' uninterrupted observation I could tell you a lot more. As long as your people haven't disturbed too much I could probably give you all the information you need to know.’
‘Mr Holmes, all we need to know is what on earth you've been doing this morning, where you've been and who with. I'd also like to know what my colleague in the Met is doing sending us to an address where we find a serious crime scene. And finally, I'd like to know if you'd accompany us to the station. The rest we can take care of. It is, after all, our job.’
‘Ms Merripit, perhaps you don't appreciate my position. DCI Lestrade will assure you that-’ ‘DCI Lestrade is stuck in bloody London,’ bit back the visibly angered DS, ‘and has no idea what is going on here! You can be assured, sir, that I shall make a full report to him as soon as we settle down to questioning you. Oh, and Dr Watson too, of course.’
‘You're welcome, Ma'am,’ I said, ‘we'd be only too pleased to help the police in this matter. Please forgive us; we're a little shocked by this. My colleague-’ I shot an admonishing look at Holmes, who now seemed curious and rather bemused to hear that I was apologising for his behaviour, when all around him hell was breaking loose ‘-is merely trying to shed some light on all of this.’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘for some of us, dear lady, it's not the first time we've seen a dead body.’
This was uncalled for, even from Holmes. His social skills, I should know, had not always been impeccable, especially around the fairer sex, but this bordered on the misogynistic.
‘But it may be the first time you have encountered one at your own address, Mr Holmes. Constable please show the gentlemen out.’
We were taken out of the room we had so recently entered and led down the stairs into the street, where a couple of patrol cars had now arrived. Although they showed the greatest politeness, I noticed that we were now separated and would presumably remain so until the police had spoken to us. And yet, despite this, I was impressed with Cassandra Merripit. She had recovered her nerve following Holmes's patronising little lecture and taken control of the situation. I was equally impressed with her fellow officers who at that point had stopped smirking and begun to look at her with a little more respect. The dreadful sight that had greeted us was shocking indeed, and we, as journeymen of crime and detection, had seen our fair share of horrors; but I shuddered to think what had gone on in our home.
More pressing still, and something which I was now desperate to discuss with Holmes, was the fact that I had recognised the young man lying on the carpet.
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***
.
I sat on a plastic moulded chair in a bright but otherwise featureless corridor in the police station. Holmes had vanished, deep in one-upmanship with DS Merripit, who had asked me to stay put for a few minutes. They had disappeared off through the fire doors to my right over an hour ago and only half a dozen people since had disturbed me as they blundered through on their way somewhere else.
I was confused by the events that had shaken my world today. A bizarre musical message from Moriarty, a macabre and veiled threat in the centre of a very holy place, pursuit by a person or persons unknown and then a body, violating our accommodation. The body of a man I recognised. It was too much to take in. I could only be thankful that Holmes had removed us from the flat on the strength of his suspicion that something was gravely wrong, yet I had never imagined we would could come so close to the danger he detected.
I longed for a friendly face, but the only people I knew in Ely were Holmes and Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper. My God, Mrs Hudson! I panicked briefly. What of her welfare? I needn't have worried. Mrs Hudson, who had once upon a time lived with us in the rooms adjacent to our old Baker Street address, now resided along the West Fen road and popped along to our apartment on weekday mornings for cleaning and preparing our lunch. As long as I contacted her before the day was out, we could avoid any confusion regarding the police at the flat and, of course, the blood in the carpet. Holmes still had the Nokia, and so I made a mental note to call her this evening.
The fire doors swung again and I turned toward them in the hope that it was Holmes, but instead I encountered a young man. He was dressed in t-shirt and jeans, sporting a pair of bright sandy-coloured suede boots, and he wasn't looking where he was going. He came closer and closer, veering absent-mindedly towards me as he counted the pile of change in his palm. I had just made out the legend ‘Bradford City AFC, The Bantams, Pride of West Yorkshire’ writ across his shirt when he stumbled into my chair.
‘God, sorry mate, not looking where I'm going.’
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘Er, are you sure you should be here, I think this might be a restricted part of the station? Don't want to see you getting into difficulties with the local law.’ I tried to be as helpful as possible, not out of any particular fraternal bonhomie, but mostly because I was in need of some conversation. The young chap reached round to his back pocket and pulled out a baseball cap, which he jammed somewhat indignantly onto his head.
"Actually, sir, I am the local law," he said, looking a little quizically at me. "But I'll admit I haven't been here very long. So I should be the one trying to be helpful."
I was a little taken aback to know that someone who wouldn't have looked out of place in Holmes's urchin street army, the Baker Street Irregulars, was now one of the Thin Blue Line. Still, he seemed amiable enough, even if the lunchtime pint was evident on his breath.
"My mistake," I said. "But you could let me know if there's a drinks machine nearby."
"Yep, just back where I came from," he said, pointing behind him through the doors. "But don't have the cappuccino, that much local colour I have picked up." And off he went, still counting his change and apologising to the wall when he brushed up against it.
I pushed through the doors and espied the machine. I was just waiting for the tea (whoever drinks coffee in the afternoon?) when Holmes appeared at my shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The machine burred and rumbled and spat out a spray of hot water against my trousers. No cup appeared.
"Seems we move from one mess to another today, Watson!" laughed Holmes.
"Holmes, you really are the absolute limit! I am as confused as I can possibly be. We have travelled the world and dealt with some of the most bizarre problems human imagination can invent, but today I profess I'm at the end of my tether. Why do you look so cheery? What have you and DS Merripit been talking about? Do they want to see me? Why is Irene Adler's brother lying murdered in our flat? And why can't I get a decent cup of tea at 3 in the afternoon?!"
I was, I truly believe, knocking on the door of suffering from shock. Although much of my frustration originated from Holmes and his not infrequent patronising remarks, he was the only oasis of calm rationalisation I had to draw upon. He was, thankfully, rather contrite for once.
"Watson, I'm sure that I will be able to answer all your questions in time. For now, we must away. I fear that Ely is no longer safe for us. I have second guessed you, I believe, imagining you sat here and thinking of all those people you needed to be concerned for, and have called Mrs Hudson. She is now on the 2.49 train to Kings Lynn, where her daughter will pick her up and take her to the cottage in Cley. I suggested 3 days, things will have resolved themselves by then."
I was astonished, as usual, by Holmes and his amazing foresight and frightening certainty. But he continued: "Now, as for questioning by the excellent Cassandra Merripit. Do not worry, she will not need to talk to you at this stage. I underestimated her, she has an excellent mind considering that she is of a lower rank than Lestrade! But enough of that. She is aware that we must act quickly. We need to leave Ely immediately, no packing, we must go as we stand."
We stood on Nutholt Lane. Holmes strode off in the direction of the alleyway that leads into the Waitrose car park.
"We can cut through the Cloisters shopping arcade, Watson, and then down to the station-"
"But Holmes, Terrence Adler. What of him? Did you tell the police we knew him?"
Holmes stopped and turned. He grabbed my shoulders and looked intently at me. "Terrence was a good man. It was a terrible sight and we both held our emotions in check. But there was no need. The Police had to be told, of course. They also know about my connection with Irene. Moriarty, it seems, is trying to draw us out, or at least destroy our sanity, and he has absolutely no qualms about using people from our past to do it! We must go. There is a Cambridge train in eleven minutes. Come on!"
Irene Adler. Or, should I say, Irene Norton, née Adler: to Holmes she would always be the woman. His agitation, when previously he had shown intense restraint at even the most startling events, indicated to me that his feelings for her had not changed. As he rushed to the station I ran behind him, and wondered if we were rushing headlong towards the great man's breaking point.
‘Don't worry about me, Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.
I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but I’ll admit that I was annoyed at him. ‘Christ, Holmes,’ said I severely, ‘you are a little trying at times. I was only trying to be friendly.’
He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at a CD case, paused, and then tapped it steadily against his long, aquiline nose. Then he took the case and held it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and the flap. He indicated the stereo, from which a choir sang a song of ethereal, unknowable beauty, flooding the room with an incandescent glow.
‘Do you know this?’ asked he thoughtfully. ‘I myself have never heard it, but I know you have listened to much church music, fascinated as you are by the Christian faith. Come, Watson, what do you say?’
The music was indeed fascinating, as was the admission that, some higher forms of chemical analysis aside, there was a subject he knew very little about. However, this small victory for modesty aside, I had to declare that I had never encountered this particular composition before. It's form, however, was familiar: ‘It is a Nunc Dimitis,’ I said, ‘but I am afraid its origin escapes me. Thomas Tallis perhaps? Why?’
‘Well, Watson, it's a nom-de-plume, or more accurately I fear, a nom-de-guerre, a mere identification mark and perhaps even an invite; behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. This CD came in the post today; Mrs Hudson has just brought it up to me. There was no letter or note included, no cover notes even, just the CD and of course -’ he indicated the glorious chorus once again, ‘- this. This, my old friend, is important, not for itself, but for the man behind it. I am unsure, which is a state you have rarely seen me in, but this is extremely sinister, and I know not why.’
Holmes had lost me big style. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I said. ‘Do you have to get your big ol' brain going every time something odd comes through the post? Remember that trouble we had when the gas bill came? Embarrassing or what?’
Holmes finally broke into a smile. ‘You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. No, I'm not certain as to my next move, but I can assure you that this music is a message, and I must do my best to decipher it, or I will be woefully ill-prepared for the devilry to come, and devilry there will be.’
I could not let this pass without some explanation, but Holmes put his hand up to block my protests.
‘Watson, old man, this is of a vast importance, and I need to understand why. Pray, where can we discover the identity of this fabulous music?’ I thought hard. We had lived in Ely just a few months and the world's most famous consulting detective had been criminally [sic] underused. I was, therefore, lacking in practice myself and knew not of the best place to uncover the origin of the CD. Holmes was getting impatient. I thought as quick as I could. ‘We might try the museum, or the library, I guess, but as it's church music then we ought to start in the cathedral?’
‘Watson, you excel yourself!’ said Holmes, smiling ‘Come then, The Cathedral Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Ely it is!’ We bundled our coats on and rushed out of the door. I could barely contain my excitement, for I know not what reasons, but surely because the game was clearly a-foot once again. The air was bitterly cold and took my breath away for an instant, but the sun was bright, and we warmed to our task immediately. Had I known the horrors and amazing turns that awaited us at the start of this particular endeavour, I would've stepped out onto Silver Street with a little less enthusiasm...
.
***
.
Sherlock Holmes positively bounded along Silver Street, his great black overcoat billowing out behind him. I tried to display a modicum of dignity in my gait, but ended up taking short and long strides in an effort to remain in his wake. He finally stopped outside the door to the Fountain and for a moment I thought he may be softening, and be ready to buy me a drink.
‘Come, Watson, come! The forces of evil do not stop when we wish to. We must persevere!’ And then, off he went again, heading down the Gallery, cathedral bound, his cane and cape and arms flying around his head in a mad dervish. I smiled faintly to myself. After the rigours of London's vile Victorian underclass, and many life-threatening adventures, I never thought to miss this unpredictable life. But miss it I did, and Holmes' current antics were proof of the same feeling within him. I was as confused as ever by him, but pleased that the enthusiasm of old had returned.
I finally caught up with him, as he stood underneath the huge West Door, looking up at the cathedral's magnificent frontage. Holmes was not one for expressing admiration in anything but his own abilities, but even I could discern within him a sense of wonder as we gazed at the ancient stonework, which ran it's complex geometric patterns along the face of the mighty church.
‘Strange,’ he said, to himself.
‘Strange?’ said I, ‘what's strange?’
‘Nothing, Watson. Come, let's begin our quest in earnest.’ and with that he bounded into the alcove and vanished into the dark recess of the cathedral. I followed, stooping through the small wooden door and entering the enormous, cavernous nave. For a moment I was so taken aback by the splendour of the place that I did not notice that Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I approached the ticket booth and asked the lady behind the counter if she had seen my friend.
‘Oh yes, dear. Just a second ago? Tall chap, long nose, high forehead, clutching a magnifying glass? Yes, you just missed him. I told him he couldn't smoke in here. He disappeared off to the Choir, humming away to himself.’ Amazed as I was at the old lady's observational skills, I had already guessed that the Choir would be his first port of call. I headed off down the centre of the aisle, stumbling over my shoes as I kept gazing up at the magnificent painted ceiling. Holmes was stood in the centre of the Choir, holding a tuning fork out in front of him. He looked round at me and popped the tuning instrument back in his pocket.
‘Glad you could make it, old friend,’ he said, as if we had been parted for hours. ‘I may be no expert on the composer of our mystery piece, but I can tell you that, acoustically, it was not recorded here. I suggest we try elsewhere.’
‘There is a shop, Holmes. Maybe they sell CDs there?’ Holmes smiled with delight at my suggestion and bid me lead the way.
The shop, adjacent to the entrance had more people milling around it than were presently in the cathedral. Holmes and I stood in a queue for several minutes until an elderly lady asked us if she could help. Holmes presented her with the blank-looking CD and asked if he might be able to divine its mysterious origins.
‘Well, I don't know,’ she said, cautiously, ‘what a peculiar request! I have an idea, but can you wait a little while? I will need to try and see if the Music Director is available.’
‘Madam,’ said Holmes in the best obsequious manner he could muster, ‘that would be marvellous!’
When the charming lady had vanished he turned to me and ushered me out, back into the main body of the church. His tone had become conspiratorial, ‘Watson, we must split up. Take yourself off to Cromwell's House, the Tourist Information Office, and see if you can find anything that relates to Ely and church music. I shall wait here and see what this alleged expert can tell me. Go, Watson, go! I shall meet you - yes, I acquiesce - in the saloon bar of the Prince Albert in one hour. Now go!’ And with this he virtually pushed me out of the huge West Door and onto the street.
Cromwell's House, just across the cathedral close, and no poor relation in a historical perspective, to the cathedral was fascinating, but it held no information with regard to Holmes' vague research instruction. After a good forty-five minutes of endeavour I repaired to the pub, as arranged, and bought myself a well-earned drink. As I found a seat, removed my coat and lifted the teak-brown draft to my parched lips, Holmes burst forth into the inn. He was in a state of high excitement.
‘Watson, away! Come with me my faithful friend, for I have grave news.’
We rushed, I with more than one mournful glance back at my virgin pint, out of the 'Albert' and once again helter-skeltered along Silver Street. Then into the cathedral, but this time towards a side door at the North side of the church, which I had not realised, was there. Holmes was talking all the time:
‘Well, I have had a most fascinating hour Watson. First, I met with the Musical Director, who listened intently to our sung message, and who informed me that the recording was of the lost works of one of Ely's foremost church musicians, John Amner. He was the choir master, or similar, here in the early 17th Century. The music has not been performed in some time, but when it was played most recently, it was here-’ and at this point we were walking into the most beautiful open space I have ever witnessed in a medieval church ‘-the Lady Chapel.’
Holmes's demeanour became more reverential, a major change of mood indeed, considering his earlier explosions of enthusiasm. ‘Here, it was recorded for the CD which we received today. The question is why, why have we been brought here. The answer, as is so often the case, is all around us. Watson, pray, look at the statues that ring these beautiful walls, tell me what strikes you.’
I looked at them, and it was obvious. ‘Holmes, why they're all headless.’
‘Indeed Watson, a legacy of the Lord Protector, so I'm told, for these are our monarchs,’ he gestured grandly around the room, ‘and just a few short years after Master Amner's passing, Cromwell's men, in some sort of republican frenzy, set about beheading these monuments to the great and the good. So far, so tourist-style claptrap. The thing is, as I was walking and talking with the present maestro, just a half hour ago, he noticed something, and this is why we've been brought here, and why we must now take care, for our very lives are in danger.’
Holmes beckoned me across the room and in the furthest corner pointed out one of the royal figures. In a rather macabre fashion, a head, of different coloured stone, but with sharp chiselled features, had been crudely stuck back on one of the statues. Holmes glared at it with a suddenly gloomy and dark, brooding eye.
‘Do you recognise that face, Watson? The cruel lips, the poisoned sneer? Do you know what this signifies? Which king has come back to life?’
I was aghast, for I recognised that fearsome visage only too well. ‘You surely don't mean?’
‘I do.’
‘My God, Holmes, it's impossible! He has returned?’
‘Yes, my dear friend,’ and Holmes closed his eyes with weary resignation, ‘Moriarty is here in Ely!’
.
***
.
Holmes accepted the pint that was offered him with grace.
‘Thank you, Watson’ he said and sipped the top thoughtfully.
I paid for our beers and coached him gently across the lounge and out of the patio doors into the beer garden. We sat at one of the two trestle tables. There was no one else about, which is precisely what I wanted. I could always rely on the Tinker to be quiet, and quiet it most certainly was.
Holmes had suffered some sort of seizure following the events in the cathedral's Lady Chapel: what ladies might politely term 'an episode'. Although he had already witnessed and used his methods to deduce the meaning of the chapel situation long before I saw it, I believe that it was not until I had made the connection about Moriarty for myself, that the full emotional impact of the moment befell him. As we left the cathedral, he had collapsed against me, though not to an unconscious state. It was as I helped him regain his footing that I realised, since he was my greatest ally and asset, I must get him to safety. He had whispered to me that we must not go back to our home on Silver Street, but that he needed to rest far away from the curious gazes of tourists, shoppers and who knows what ill-meaning individuals. I suggested the Tinker and enquired as to his mental and physical readiness for the journey. He nodded and we headed out on the Lynn Road, my arm supporting his elbow, and it was this very hostelry that we now found ourselves.
‘Chin up, old friend!’ said Holmes, catching me by surprise, ‘my, you are in the spell of a powerful reverie indeed. Is there anything I can do or say to help you?’
I nearly fell off the chair in amazement. I had, as Holmes rudely suggested with his interjection, been far off in thought, though I could not tell you what those thoughts were, so suddenly shocked was I. I looked across at the man who exhibited a fine but faintly annoying grin.
‘Holmes, damn you, an explanation please! Why, I thought you were almost expiring on me back there. But now you radiate the rudest health. A phrase that suits this situation down to the ground, I might add! An explanation sir.’ I was most perturbed by Holmes's games playing and he could tell.
‘Watson, Watson, do calm yourself. I can explain. Cheers!’ He raised his glass and drank a healthy portion of the IPA. Forgive me, but I did also. ‘I was shocked beyond belief, more so than you my trusty companion, that the signal in the cathedral pointed so shockingly at the Professor. That initial shock gave me the idea of feigning such a deep and physical despair: if Moriarty had his spies in operation and I could give them an impression that I was ailed and an easy target, it may be good enough to present a minor advantage. I'm sorry that I took you in, but I needed your reaction to be genuine. Don't pout! I should be annoyed with you for bringing me to the bloody Tinker!’ He smiled and I had to concede the point, though my pride remained a little dented.
He was continuing: ‘Actually, a walk along the Lynn Road was an excellent idea, for any followers would've had to have shown themselves along such a straight and open thoroughfare if they were to keep up with us. We can, I think, consider ourselves alone. I realise that such a scheme was not your intention, but it has worked well Watson!’
It was typical of Holmes to offer appreciation at one moment and snatch it back the next. But he hadn't finished: ‘our fight atop the Reichenbach Falls may have resulted in one miraculous escape, but two! It's preposterous at best, but that is the deduction that presents itself. Odd that such a huge event, well, huge in the amusing memoirs you pen of our exploits, should ultimately come to nothing. Still, if the Professor is at large, we must ask ourselves two questions. Firstly, why is he here? And secondly, how do we combat him?’
‘It must be to gain revenge, Holmes,’ I suggested, ‘to avenge the supposed vanquishing of his criminal talents and prove to the world, why, that he's superior to you.’
Holmes's eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I had worked that one out. I am certain that our lives are in danger. Watson, pass me the moby, I need to make a couple of calls.’ Holmes punched at the buttons of the Nokia. He was connected almost immediately. He spoke a name I had not heard in a long, long time. ‘DS Sholto Lestrade, please. Yes, it's urgent.’ - a wait, then - ‘Lestrade! How are you? How's the Met? DCI? Goodness, things are looking up. Lestrade, I need your help, yes, yes, that's right. Yes, the Silver Street address I gave you a few weeks ago. Yes. An hour? Thank you, I am, as ever, indebted. Goodbye.’
Holmes switched the mobile off and said, ‘We wait, Lestrade will phone a few cronies and do a supposed drugs raid on the flat. It will scare any of Moriarty's bunch off and allow us access back to our equipment. In the meantime, we need to organise a way of flushing Moriarty out in the open, or at least divining his scheme. And I know just the man to help us. I think the Professor would jump at the chance of offing two Holmes for the price of one, don't you?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Got it in one, big guy,’ said Holmes, ‘can you remind me of Mycroft's number?’
.
***
.
There was no answer at Mycroft's number and, not knowing if his sibling had a mobile of his own, Holmes decided it was best to try later. We agreed that Lestrade's arrangements (a call to Parkside police station in Cambridge or even the Ely cop shop, and then the so-called raid on our flat) might take considerably more than an hour to implement and thus decided that further refreshment was required.
Holmes returned from the bar with a half for himself and a pint for me, with the disconcerting justification that he would require a clear head that afternoon!
‘Thanks,’ I said, with a note of some small indignation. ‘Nice to know my opinion will be eagerly sought-after. Honestly Holmes, I sometimes wonder if we are a team at all.’
‘Do you feel undervalued then, my friend?’
‘Well, no, not really, but you do tend to dismiss me on occasion. My trip to the Tourist Information was erroneous, wasn't it?’
Holmes smiled as he poured the half-pint into the dregs of the larger glass. ‘I was worried about our situation. The CD acting as an invite was my first clue that something sinister might be in store for us. All our cases come along as referrals from the victims of crime, yes? This-’ and he stopped to jab a finger at me pointedly ‘-was clearly a perversion of that request. Why approach us in this way if it was all above board? Moriarty knows I am not a regular churchgoer and that my interest in a subject such as cathedral music, which I know little of, would be piqued. It was as we entered the cathedral that I realised this. I suddenly became overwhelmed by the sensation that something was amiss and that I needed to exculpate you before I appreciated the full impact of my suspicions. I'm sorry if it appeared a little rude; my intentions, I can assure you, were of the most altruistic kind.’
As usual I was left with a somewhat hollow feeling once the great man took time to explain himself. I was, I can say with all candour, the luckiest of men for having him as my friend.
We chatted on this and that for another half hour. Holmes was all set to launch himself once again on the thorny subject of European unity when the mobile phone, which had lain on the table between us all this time, began to wiggle bizarrely across towards me, seemingly of it's own accord. I pulled away from the bench in horror, placed my hand firmly at Holmes's shoulder and pushed him as hard as I could, away from the table. ‘It's a bomb, Holmes!’ I shouted and clattered headlong into the fence, all the time awaiting the explosion.
Holmes picked himself up, sporting a few grass-stains on his cloak, and a disgruntled pout, and calmly walked back to his seat. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it's just on throb mode.’
I rose gingerly to my feet, feeling more than a bit foolish, and thanked my stars that we were the only people in the beer garden. Holmes punched the talk button.
‘Holmes. Ah, Lestr... sorry? What? When? My God, are you sure? Any idea who it might be? Clues, man! What are the clues?’ Holmes was seriously agitated and shouted at full volume into the handset. Inside the pub, I could see the barmaid glance in our direction; her eye already caught no doubt by the sight of us throwing ourselves gracelessly to the ground a few moments earlier. Holmes was continuing: ‘...that which is left is, yes, that's it; yes yes yes, the answer, that's it. That's the method I have implored you to use, but you ignore it like a child! Just tell me. No, on second thoughts let me go there. No, I won't hear of it. Goodbye.’ And with that Holmes emptied the rest of his glass and slammed it down.
‘Good Lord, Holmes, whatever is the matter? Is this one of your blasted tricks? Has something happened?’
‘Yes, you might say that,’ Holmes grumbled as he stood. ‘We have another problem. This is turning into quite a day. Excuse me a moment; I need to get the number of a cab firm. Please, finish your pint.’ He stormed off into the bar and began talking to the lady behind the counter. After a moment he returned to the table. I drained my drink.
‘Whassup, then?’ I said as jovially as I could.
‘Watson, things have become even more complicated. Let's go, the taxi will be here in a moment, so they said. I'll fill you in on the way.’
‘But Moriarty's spies!’ I protested.
‘May have to wait,’ said Holmes with some authority, shutting me up immediately. We walked out of the front door as a green and white Fen Cab pulled up at the kerbside, Holmes opening the door in an easy smooth motion. He gave the driver the instruction for Silver Street and offered him an extra five pounds if he could make the journey in less than three minutes. As we squealed away from the 'Tinker' and sped off into town he turned to me and relayed Lestrade's message about the corpse. The corpse the police had discovered. Twenty minutes ago. In our flat.
.
***
.
The taxi driver swung us into Silver Street and easily won the extra incentive that Holmes had offered him in return for a speedy delivery. We exited to the pavement just as the cathedral clock struck 2pm and Holmes approached the constable who was standing in front of our front door.
‘I must congratulate your senior officer!’ he exclaimed, with much confidence and a smile that took the young man aback. ‘I take it DCI Lestrade is not here?’
‘Er, no sir, we're acting under his instruction, so I understand, but he's not - hang on - who are you? Er, sir?’ He was gabbling, confused, but trying to be polite.
‘We live here, young man, well, share the upstairs apartment I should say. It makes us, I'd imagine, people your superiors would like to have a word with. And I shall want to have a word with them, in return, to praise them on the discretion they've shown: Lestrade would've cordoned off the street, scrambled the police helicopter and called a state of national emergency. C'mon Watson.’ He moved toward the door.
‘Well, I don't know. Just a sec. Are you Mr Shylock Jones? No, I mean, have you got any ID on you. Passport, driving li-’
‘This'll do young man,’ said Holmes and planted his key into the Yale lock. He turned it and said: ‘Now even if I don't live here your boss,’ he pushed the door open, ‘will want to know about someone who can gain access to a flat where a body's been discovered won't he?’ Holmes eased himself past the PC and indicated for me to follow. I was amazed at his assertiveness and could only fall into step behind him.
‘She,’ said the man as he resumed his guard. Holmes hadn't caught what he said, thundering as he was up the steps to our quarters.
We burst into the room and the peace of the street we'd left below was thrown into sharp relief. The place was a shambles, anarchy even, a symphony of chaos. There must have been twenty people packed into our living room, and there were certainly more policemen in the kitchen and bedrooms. Scenes of Crime Officers in all-white body suits crowded, some kneeling some standing, around one corner. Flashlights popped and people chattered incessantly. The composer of this tumult of noise and activity stood in the centre of the room and barked instructions, waving and pointing all the while: a woman, very smartly dressed in power suit and striped tie. I noticed that everybody else within the four walls was a man.
Holmes slammed the door behind us and cut the riot dead. All faces turned to us. It was the sort of moment that my erstwhile colleague relished, and he did not disappoint.
‘DS Cassandra Merripit, welcome to my home. I am Sherlock Holmes. This, as you will probably be able to guess, is Dr John Watson, MD.’ Holmes strode forward and offered to shake the startled young woman's hand. It was clear that she was suddenly self-conscious and fought quickly to regain her composure. She took Holmes's hand briefly and cast a nod in my direction.
‘I know who you are sir, and you Dr Watson, what I'd like to know is how you know me.’
Jeez, what a mistake. Holmes enjoyed, more than being the centre of attention, the ability to show off his redoubtable deduction methods. I settled into watching the great man explain himself. DS Merripit regarded him carefully, aware that she had knocked a ball back into the court of a particularly hard-hitter.
‘It's really rather straightforward, my dear. You are in charge, which, in a fairly major police operation as this, means you must be DS or above. There are so few woman of that standing in the Cambridgeshire constabulary, and I believe that I have met most of them, that my field of choice is pretty narrow. You're also young, so DS is the best you can hope for at this stage. You have a Thanet and Margate College tie, and so must still be fresh off the graduate programme; your performance is a little too bold, and so probably backs this up. And, unless the latest copy of the 'Police Review' is incorrect, the only person who fits all those criteria and has just been assigned to this area is DS Cassandra Merripit.’ He ended with a flourish, which was a little too much for the DS whose cheeks coloured a tad. I could see one or two of the older men behind her trying to conceal their delight at Holmes's over the top explanation.
‘Very clever, Mr Holmes, very clever indeed,’ she countered immediately, much to her credit, ‘however, I must say that I'm looking forward to your erudite view on precisely why you have a dead body lying in your apartment.’ She stepped to the side, like a theatre chorus revealing the play's first act, the SOCO boys moving apart also, to reveal a man lying on the floor. He was clearly as dead as it is possible to be, a huge hole gaping at the back of his head, from which Holmes's prized Turkish rug was taking a rather astonishing soaking of blood and brain. Holmes leaned forward.
‘He's about thirty, unshaven, and his clothes, taking into account recent events, are pretty tatty. He's been shot between the eyes, hence the exit wound to the back. If I could be allowed a few minutes' uninterrupted observation I could tell you a lot more. As long as your people haven't disturbed too much I could probably give you all the information you need to know.’
‘Mr Holmes, all we need to know is what on earth you've been doing this morning, where you've been and who with. I'd also like to know what my colleague in the Met is doing sending us to an address where we find a serious crime scene. And finally, I'd like to know if you'd accompany us to the station. The rest we can take care of. It is, after all, our job.’
‘Ms Merripit, perhaps you don't appreciate my position. DCI Lestrade will assure you that-’ ‘DCI Lestrade is stuck in bloody London,’ bit back the visibly angered DS, ‘and has no idea what is going on here! You can be assured, sir, that I shall make a full report to him as soon as we settle down to questioning you. Oh, and Dr Watson too, of course.’
‘You're welcome, Ma'am,’ I said, ‘we'd be only too pleased to help the police in this matter. Please forgive us; we're a little shocked by this. My colleague-’ I shot an admonishing look at Holmes, who now seemed curious and rather bemused to hear that I was apologising for his behaviour, when all around him hell was breaking loose ‘-is merely trying to shed some light on all of this.’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘for some of us, dear lady, it's not the first time we've seen a dead body.’
This was uncalled for, even from Holmes. His social skills, I should know, had not always been impeccable, especially around the fairer sex, but this bordered on the misogynistic.
‘But it may be the first time you have encountered one at your own address, Mr Holmes. Constable please show the gentlemen out.’
We were taken out of the room we had so recently entered and led down the stairs into the street, where a couple of patrol cars had now arrived. Although they showed the greatest politeness, I noticed that we were now separated and would presumably remain so until the police had spoken to us. And yet, despite this, I was impressed with Cassandra Merripit. She had recovered her nerve following Holmes's patronising little lecture and taken control of the situation. I was equally impressed with her fellow officers who at that point had stopped smirking and begun to look at her with a little more respect. The dreadful sight that had greeted us was shocking indeed, and we, as journeymen of crime and detection, had seen our fair share of horrors; but I shuddered to think what had gone on in our home.
More pressing still, and something which I was now desperate to discuss with Holmes, was the fact that I had recognised the young man lying on the carpet.
.
***
.
I sat on a plastic moulded chair in a bright but otherwise featureless corridor in the police station. Holmes had vanished, deep in one-upmanship with DS Merripit, who had asked me to stay put for a few minutes. They had disappeared off through the fire doors to my right over an hour ago and only half a dozen people since had disturbed me as they blundered through on their way somewhere else.
I was confused by the events that had shaken my world today. A bizarre musical message from Moriarty, a macabre and veiled threat in the centre of a very holy place, pursuit by a person or persons unknown and then a body, violating our accommodation. The body of a man I recognised. It was too much to take in. I could only be thankful that Holmes had removed us from the flat on the strength of his suspicion that something was gravely wrong, yet I had never imagined we would could come so close to the danger he detected.
I longed for a friendly face, but the only people I knew in Ely were Holmes and Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper. My God, Mrs Hudson! I panicked briefly. What of her welfare? I needn't have worried. Mrs Hudson, who had once upon a time lived with us in the rooms adjacent to our old Baker Street address, now resided along the West Fen road and popped along to our apartment on weekday mornings for cleaning and preparing our lunch. As long as I contacted her before the day was out, we could avoid any confusion regarding the police at the flat and, of course, the blood in the carpet. Holmes still had the Nokia, and so I made a mental note to call her this evening.
The fire doors swung again and I turned toward them in the hope that it was Holmes, but instead I encountered a young man. He was dressed in t-shirt and jeans, sporting a pair of bright sandy-coloured suede boots, and he wasn't looking where he was going. He came closer and closer, veering absent-mindedly towards me as he counted the pile of change in his palm. I had just made out the legend ‘Bradford City AFC, The Bantams, Pride of West Yorkshire’ writ across his shirt when he stumbled into my chair.
‘God, sorry mate, not looking where I'm going.’
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘Er, are you sure you should be here, I think this might be a restricted part of the station? Don't want to see you getting into difficulties with the local law.’ I tried to be as helpful as possible, not out of any particular fraternal bonhomie, but mostly because I was in need of some conversation. The young chap reached round to his back pocket and pulled out a baseball cap, which he jammed somewhat indignantly onto his head.
"Actually, sir, I am the local law," he said, looking a little quizically at me. "But I'll admit I haven't been here very long. So I should be the one trying to be helpful."
I was a little taken aback to know that someone who wouldn't have looked out of place in Holmes's urchin street army, the Baker Street Irregulars, was now one of the Thin Blue Line. Still, he seemed amiable enough, even if the lunchtime pint was evident on his breath.
"My mistake," I said. "But you could let me know if there's a drinks machine nearby."
"Yep, just back where I came from," he said, pointing behind him through the doors. "But don't have the cappuccino, that much local colour I have picked up." And off he went, still counting his change and apologising to the wall when he brushed up against it.
I pushed through the doors and espied the machine. I was just waiting for the tea (whoever drinks coffee in the afternoon?) when Holmes appeared at my shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The machine burred and rumbled and spat out a spray of hot water against my trousers. No cup appeared.
"Seems we move from one mess to another today, Watson!" laughed Holmes.
"Holmes, you really are the absolute limit! I am as confused as I can possibly be. We have travelled the world and dealt with some of the most bizarre problems human imagination can invent, but today I profess I'm at the end of my tether. Why do you look so cheery? What have you and DS Merripit been talking about? Do they want to see me? Why is Irene Adler's brother lying murdered in our flat? And why can't I get a decent cup of tea at 3 in the afternoon?!"
I was, I truly believe, knocking on the door of suffering from shock. Although much of my frustration originated from Holmes and his not infrequent patronising remarks, he was the only oasis of calm rationalisation I had to draw upon. He was, thankfully, rather contrite for once.
"Watson, I'm sure that I will be able to answer all your questions in time. For now, we must away. I fear that Ely is no longer safe for us. I have second guessed you, I believe, imagining you sat here and thinking of all those people you needed to be concerned for, and have called Mrs Hudson. She is now on the 2.49 train to Kings Lynn, where her daughter will pick her up and take her to the cottage in Cley. I suggested 3 days, things will have resolved themselves by then."
I was astonished, as usual, by Holmes and his amazing foresight and frightening certainty. But he continued: "Now, as for questioning by the excellent Cassandra Merripit. Do not worry, she will not need to talk to you at this stage. I underestimated her, she has an excellent mind considering that she is of a lower rank than Lestrade! But enough of that. She is aware that we must act quickly. We need to leave Ely immediately, no packing, we must go as we stand."
We stood on Nutholt Lane. Holmes strode off in the direction of the alleyway that leads into the Waitrose car park.
"We can cut through the Cloisters shopping arcade, Watson, and then down to the station-"
"But Holmes, Terrence Adler. What of him? Did you tell the police we knew him?"
Holmes stopped and turned. He grabbed my shoulders and looked intently at me. "Terrence was a good man. It was a terrible sight and we both held our emotions in check. But there was no need. The Police had to be told, of course. They also know about my connection with Irene. Moriarty, it seems, is trying to draw us out, or at least destroy our sanity, and he has absolutely no qualms about using people from our past to do it! We must go. There is a Cambridge train in eleven minutes. Come on!"
Irene Adler. Or, should I say, Irene Norton, née Adler: to Holmes she would always be the woman. His agitation, when previously he had shown intense restraint at even the most startling events, indicated to me that his feelings for her had not changed. As he rushed to the station I ran behind him, and wondered if we were rushing headlong towards the great man's breaking point.