Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) Read online

Shiny fingertips, low ridges.

  His brows drew down a little. “So how does an artist meet a doctor? Were you also a patient?”

  “What did you tell him, Sarah? Oh my,” she spread her fingers over her cleavage. When Sarah only smiled and shook her head, Sofia glanced between John and Sarah curiously. She wasn’t sure what to believe, but then brightened. “Or is this the detective work you warned me about – the science of deduction? How did you know that, Mr. Holmes?”

  He played with his wineglass. “Noticeable pattern of wear on your fingertips,” he reached out and snatched her hand with captivating speed, then turned it over to study it for a moment. She might have been on a slab. “Pronounced deterioration of ridges on first two fingers of each hand and particularly on the right hand; faint smell like gypsum; relatively short nails, but painted; slight discolouration on the hypothenar eminence.” He released her hand again. “Right-handed; works with her hands, but not at traditional types of manual labour. No sign of that. Wear patterns on ridges show repeated friction with a rough surface; smell of chalk; not a teacher – sanded pastel paper. Fingernails are short but painted due to the difficulty cleaning the remnants of pastel from the beds.” He pivoted her hand over and held it up to the light of the candles. A soft shine of blue lit her skin. “Pure pigment tends to leave an impression. Origins of this particular brand of pastel, I think, Northumberland.”

  “Astonishing,” John gawped at Holmes.

  “Straightforward,” he released Sofia’s hand again and said. “Look at her nails, John! Use your head. She’s painted them with a purely decorative white pattern at the tips. An average person would not be so exact with a brush. So artist.”

  Sarah laughed, “She might have had her nails done.”

  Holmes gathered his patience and said. “But she didn’t, because she’s an artist.”

  “He’s right. I did them myself,” Sofia smiled curiously at the man beside her. Holmes, however, sipped his wine as if she’d somehow faded into the ether in response to his erudition. John had never seen that look before. It wasn’t quite dismissive, just rejecting. Why?

  “That’s so clever,” Sofia grinned at Sarah. “You didn’t say he was so charming.”

  “She didn’t say it because I’m not.” Sherlock told Sofia flatly.

  “Oh, I think I might have to argue that point.” Sofia’s head tilted right. Large, honey-coloured curls bumbled down across her white throat. Honestly, she was so pretty John found it disarming. Sherlock glanced at her behaviour as well, but his expression was closed – something that often happened when he was pulling information out of a living person and into his head. “I really might.”

  Head tilt angle. Likes what she’s seeing.

  “Then you would be wasting your time.” Sherlock told her shortly.

  John sat back. When his head tipped, the angle was much more pronounced. It was confusion. Sherlock could be quite smooth in his dodges. He often was, with Molly Hooper, whose lab he crashed on a semi-regular basis. What was happening here was… odd.

  Sofia said, “I hope you don’t mean that.”

  “Do you often interact with people who are deceptive, or don’t mean what they say?” Sherlock picked up a hunk of bread from the plate before him, daubed it in spiced olive oil, and jerked his head at Watson. “Talk to her John.” He bit into the bread and gave a hearty chew.

  Oh hell. “Sherlock, I don’t follow,” he said guardedly.

  “Unsurprising.” He turned a little toward Sofia. “How about the rest of it, then?”

  She looked mystified, “I’m sorry, I don’t… understand?”

  He made a small harrumph of amusement. “I can only tell that you’re an artist, I suppose.”

  “Oh, I don’t rightly know what you can-”

  “Let’s try this as a primer,” Sherlock rounded on her, and drew a little closer to her face. “Why were you crying?”

  At first, Sofia’s face drained of colour. Then, within seconds, it went scorching red. In fact, her eyes glittered with emotion. She looked aghast.

  “Very nice choice made in the waterproofed mascara, but there are still faint tracks in your finishing powder,” Sherlock told her as he double-dipped the bread. His tone was devoid of emotion. “Did someone kick your puppy? What happened?”

  Sofia got up and hurried from the restaurant. John was scandalized by this, and began to go after her, apart from Sherlock’s sudden snap of. “Sit down.”

  “No, Sherlock! We can’t have her running around the streets in a state of distress like that. What the hell was that about?” John broke from the table and hurried outside. However, he was already too late to see where Sofia had vanished to. He peered into the damp night air, threw his hands up, and swore on Sherlock’s bad behaviour. “Dammit.”

  The door behind him opened and closed. Sherlock swept past. John only just reached out amongst the foot traffic and snatched him by the elbow. This brought him around. It was his left arm, and still tender, so he didn’t resist. His green feline eyes were bright with anger, not a look one saw him wear often. John knew his irritation, frustration, annoyance, but this was different. Of course, John was feeling pretty upset right then too.

  “All right, let’s have it out then.” He snapped at Holmes.

  “Let me go.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have?” John gave Sherlock’s arm a yank. “You treated that poor girl with less consideration than I’ve seen you give to corpses.”

  “Is there some problem?”

  “Oh, I see, so they’re only worth your attention when they’re dead.” John snapped. “You play into the hands of people like Donovan and Anderson. You’re supposed to be smarter than that! You’re supposed to be better-”

  “We talked about this. I told you. I warned you.”

  “That was unforgivable behaviour, Sherlock.”

  Sherlock turned his face away somewhat, though when he tried a step back, John held him fast. “I’m sure you’d like to run off, I’m sure you would, but I’m afraid you still have Sarah to apologize to over this. That poor girl, Sherlock; that was disgraceful.”

  Sherlock’s body was stiff. He looked at John coldly and snapped, “Just let me go.”

  “John!” Sarah called from the doorway. Her gaze was on his fingers, biting into the elbow of Sherlock’s coat, and she sounded flummoxed by the sight of it. As if a bubble had burst, John caught what he was doing and released his friend’s captive arm.

  In a wink Sherlock had turned and all but vanished in the passersby.

  John straightened slowly. “God dammit!” but this time he cursed himself. Since when did he manhandle people? Even if they’d been complete idiots? And his vehemence upset him suddenly, because Sherlock, for all his brilliance, honestly didn’t know better.

  ***

  Lestrade phoned John not 20 minutes later.

  “And you’ve not seen him?” the Detective Inspector asked.

  “No,” John shut his eyes and cursed himself inwardly. He was already back in the Baker Street flat with Sarah, both of them feeling utterly defeated. “But I’ll give him a text and see if that raises him.”

  “He’s not at the flat.”

  “Is that a question?” John looked around him.

  “No. I was by.” Lestrade said. “Listen. Get him over here. It’s of the highest importance.”

  “I understand,” John pushed the curtains and eyed the street below. Cars passed. Cabs passed. But none of them stopped and disgorged Sherlock Holmes. The line in John’s ear went dead, so he hung up and let his arm sag to his side.

  “I expected it might be rocky,” Sarah said softly. “I didn’t think it would be volatile. He practically attacked Sofia, and I’ve never seen you two go at it like that…. I’m so sorry, John.”

  “For what?” John asked as he turned her way. He struggled for words, “I wish it had worked. I wish he could… give someone a chance.” John rubbed his face and looked at the floor. “We can’t do that
to him again. I don’t know what that was, if he had a meltdown, and I don’t know where he is right now, how he’s feeling-”

  “John, he’s a grown man,” Sarah noted soothingly. She crossed the room and reached for him.

  “Who’s a former drug addict, and it’s not good not to know where he is. He hasn’t answered texts – this is Sherlock and texts we’re talking about. He’s off the radar, and-” he looked up and realized what he’d just said. Damn. He fixed his gaze on Sarah.

  Her eyes were wide. She spoke slowly. “A former drug addict? Him?”

  “Yes,” John’s head drooped, “but please don’t mention it again. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Well, yes, he’s very private.” She seemed to be moving blocks around inside of her head, rebuilding the image she had, which represented Sherlock. “Drugs…. I just don’t understand. He’s so intelligent. I mean, they’d mess with his mind. It’s what drugs do.”

  Sarah sighed, stepped up, and slipped into his arms. It just defied John why Sherlock couldn’t see the value of having someone like this. He just couldn’t wrap his head around it. There was simply no comfort as comforting.

  The door downstairs quickly opened and closed. John and Sarah jerked apart. Only one person they knew moved at that speed. Sarah wisely plucked her throw off the couch and Sherlock pushed the door to the sitting room. He looked between them and took off his scarf.

  The hand John clapped over his mouth was purely reflexive. It was relief. His friend could be pointlessly erratic, but was all right.

  ***

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sarah pecked John on the cheek and went directly to Sherlock where she paused only briefly to say, “I’m so sorry.” before leaving.

  Sherlock watched after her as he unbuttoned his jacket. He shut the door to their apartment when she’d gone out the front. Then he turned to John. “The Detective Inspector left a message with you as well, I trust.”

  “Sherlock,” John said lowly.

  “Now Sarah’s gone, I don’t suppose you’d like a trip to the Yard. Promises to be unusual, whatever it is.” He strode deeper into the room. “And I haven’t been since Met police shot me, could make for some interesting observations. Good fodder for your blog.”

  “Sherlock,” John glanced up.

  There was a protracted moment of traffic noise outside, and nothing more.

  Holmes went around him and sat on the arm of the couch, his shoes on the seat. His eyes ran, almost automatically, over the collection of magazine titles he had on the coffee table, many on science, forensics, guns, and criminology. He sat with his eyes downcast in the most graceful aspect of trepidation John had seen. He was waiting.

  John sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Listen, that was mad. I shouldn’t have done that-”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know, precisely. Not everyone knows what they’re doing all the time.” John told him a bit impatiently, “Not everyone is like you. I suppose… I’ve been so happy with Sarah, when I look at you, I can’t fathom why you…. It’s like you’re not trying.”

  “I’m not.”

  John rubbed his short hair and gazed out at the darkened kitchen. The ‘fridge of horrors’ made its low click and began to whirr to life. “And I don’t understand that.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “You could be happier.” John said.

  “You said it was all… all right.” Sherlock told him. “Why has that changed?”

  He had John there. John turned to look up at Holmes’ face and felt lighter. “It hasn’t.”

  Holmes still didn’t look at him. He took out his phone and fiddled with it for a moment before speaking again. His voice sounded oddly defenceless. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to be like you.”

  “I know. That’s fine.” John nodded in reply. He had no idea why, right at that moment, he would have preferred to have his cane with him. His hands felt for it.

  “But if you were to go, John,” Sherlock glanced up fractionally, to the level of John’s hand on the arm of the couch. He sucked a stabilising breath and exhaled slowly, “I would no longer be happy.”

  John sat absorbing this. It sounded childish on the surface of things. But to Sherlock, this was much deeper consideration than he’d given his feelings in some time, possibly in years. John shrugged, “Yes, well friends will disagree from time to time, and we all make mistakes.”

  Sherlock’s lips tugged back. “Aren’t you chivalrous? This was Sarah’s mistake.”

  “Yes-well, she wants to help you.”

  “Then have her find out why Sofia was crying.” Sherlock said abruptly. “There are signs of ongoing stress written all over her: a small tremor in her hands when I held them; brittle emotions that are very close to the surface; a cringe when I got close to her, where most people would simply withdraw. But she felt threatened.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” John got to his feet. Sherlock hopped from the couch and picked up his long coat.

  “I did. Are you coming to the Yard?”

  “I am.” John caught up his coat. “And I’ll text Sarah. She’s miserable she’s hurt your feelings.”

  “My what? Oh bother. Maybe I should do it. You’ll take all year.” Sherlock grinned. “And speak to her, please. No more setting me up with 20 year old girls, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Oh, you two looked handsome sitting over there,” John told him. “Her big buttery curls, and your green eyes. Really stunning.”

  “Don’t you think she’d be a bit young for me?” Sherlock only half joked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not that old yourself. And, except for that last bit, you had her eating out of your hand.” John told him. “I mean, let’s be honest, Sherlock, if you were 20 and someone kicked your puppy, you’d cry too.”

  Sherlock was still chuckling about that one, on and off, by the time the cab pulled up to the Yard. They stepped out into a light rain chill enough that John shuddered and huddled on the way in. Rain made his shoulder ache. He glanced curiously at Holmes. Apart from a slight tightening of waves and curls of hair – which was annoyingly dashing – he was impervious.

  They were met at the door by an officer who led them up to Lestrade’s office. Only Lestrade himself wasn’t in the glass box. All the blinds to the Detective Inspector’s office were open, so it was impossible to miss.

  Sherlock detoured and went to Melody Doyle’s desk. It was cleared now, as were the desks of her killers, Robert Reid and Alec Fisher. But Sherlock touched the desk with his gloved hands and heaved a disconsolate sigh. It was almost as if he’d hoped to come up here and find Melody herself waiting to discuss the case. “Perhaps it was a waste.”

  “She was smart and… fascinating.” John agreed.

  “She was.” Holmes tucked his hands back into his coat and went into Lestrade’s office. He scanned the desk, poked at this and that, and finally gave up. “He’s become scrupulous.”

  “Well, he works with you.” John replied as he settled in a comfortable chair and sighed.

  Holmes leaned on the desk and stretched his long legs. “Did I tell you I had a text from our escaped conspirator? You know, Wendy Harris from the Ninth Muse murders?”

  John might have fallen over if he hadn’t been sitting. “You’re kidding.”

  “She’s in South Africa with relatives.” Sherlock showed him the phone. “She got my number on my site, and sent me this rambling little letter. It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t know – blah-blah-blah.” He scrolled the screen.

  John laughed aloud. Blah-blah-blah?

  “I returned text on another phone saying I couldn’t care less about this case anymore, and that if she set foot back in England she would be arrested.” He stuck his phone back in his pocket and glanced up at John. “I lied about that last part. I have no idea what will happen if she sets foot back here.”

  “Arrested.” John slapped both hands on the armrests of his chair and no
dded. “For sure.”

  “Yes, well, she wasn’t the brains of the operation. That was Alec and Melody – to her chagrin, as it turned out,” Sherlock sounded slightly tart. “But her capture would depend on her indiscretion. It’s not as though I’m actively looking for her.”

  “Of course not,” John blinked. “Why would you? You know where she is.”

  “The patsy.” Sherlock sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I wonder about the HVAC in here. The Yard is 20 storeys of steel, glass, and messy human beings. Not like you can crack a window. It would mess with air regulation.”

  “A few windows open would mess with this building’s air?” John glanced from the whirring air conditioning vent over his head to Holmes and smiled. “Maybe you should have a look. Should I boost you up so you can get started?”

  “Oh, that worked fine when I was in school. I’m too big now.” He vaguely dismissed the offer.

  Impossible not to grin.

  Donovan came out of the elevator and made for them, her face stiffened the moment she laid eyes on Sherlock. The last time she’d had contact with him, it had been to help fish him out of the back of a police car, bleeding and unconscious. She’d been with him through the Ninth Muse case, assigned to safeguard her hated enemy.

  “Hello John,” she nodded in greeting.

  “Sergeant Donovan,” he got to his feet as she stepped into the room.

  “Freak.” she greeted Sherlock.

  “Where is Lestrade? What’s happening here?”

  She shook her head. Under the unforgiving fluorescents, her curling hair caught strange colours that made her look almost ginger. “Oh, you’re going to love this one, Freak. Guess who’s in the upstairs with us?”

  He scanned her, quickly. “Not enough information. Just someone official, as you’re looking sharp, even for you.”

  She smoothed her outfit and scowled. “Button it and follow me.”

  She brought them up a pair of floors and then toward the front of the building. Sherlock didn’t say a word to her. They didn’t get along, and he seemed to prefer not agitating police who despised him unless he had good cause. Lestrade bustled around the corner of an office and headed their way. The relief on his face was obvious. “Sherlock,” he exhaled. “Where’ve you been?”