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

by S. K. Lloyds

  In comparison, the bed was a low, quiet affair, a simple dark blue corduroy comforter with a single pillow, no ornamentation. It was like negative space. His desk was stunning – so much like Sherlock’s abuse of the kitchen table that John glanced between it and the tall genius. “Sherlock, did you see this?”

  “John, are you running a temperature?” Sherlock asked.

  “Okay, so you saw it. What do you think of it?”

  “He’s growing algae. The blooms look amazing,” without diverting his gaze, Holmes reached back and flicked the cover off an electron microscope. The motion was so fast it practically blurred. His other hand was extended out at the room, fingers spread. He looked between them as if gridding the world in front of him.

  John stepped back to the doorframe and turned his head. He held up his finger to his lips to shush the curious onlookers. Sherlock took two steps and caught up a phone. It had been charging beside the pillow, almost under the comforter. “Cable running into the bed… he left without his phone. No. He hid his phone.”

  “Oh he didn’t hide it. I knew right where it was because he always stuck it there – like almost under his pillow. Like out of sight, out of mind.” Charlie volunteered.

  “Oh hardly.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled.

  Charlie tried again, “But what I mean is, he’d leave it there and go out without it when he didn’t want to be bothered, you see?”

  “Why bothered?” Sherlock asked. He drew close, watching Charlie’s face closely.

  “Because people kept bugging him for his notes,” Charlie indicated a list of names hung on the cork board behind the desk. “I swear Lawrence could make anything into a flowchart or a diagram in just, you know, minutes. I guess hours if it was really complex. He has a collection of flowcharts for the entire of the first year Biology course, for instance. He just does these amazing things with subjects. People call him a lot.”

  Sherlock looked from the list to check the phone he held.

  Eight missed calls.

  Ten texts – all about tutoring/notes.

  Holmes suddenly looked at the ceiling and growled between his teeth. “Reese.”

  “Reese?” John cocked his head. “Okay. Catch me up, Sherlock.”

  “Oh, I see it now,” he turned slowly to take in the room and then pointed at John. “I’ve had enough of that girl’s stagecraft.” Holmes strode out of the room, his lips pulled, momentarily, into a scowl. He seemed to catch himself, back up, and glance at Charlie. Perfunctorily, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Don’t touch anything.”

  John thought that, given who was saying it, that little display was impressive, even if it was a clumsy attempt to get Charlie to obey his final command.

  “You can call Scotland Yard,” John told the young man. He plucked Sherlock’s badge back and checked it. “Talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

  “John,” Sherlock called as he exited the doorway.

  Watson cast a final remorseful glance in the direction of the young people whose peace of mind they’d so rudely crashed, and pursued Holmes outside.

  ***

  Holmes thought in the cab to the Yard. It was useless to try to silence London traffic. However, within the shell of the cab, the radio blaring pop went off, the driver turned down his dispatch, and there was no conversation. Inside that homeostatic bubble, Sherlock was alone.

  John had to nudge him when they’d reached the Yard, and even then Holmes had peered around him as if he’d emerged from a dark room. He shot outside, which left John behind to pay the cabbie, a man happy to see the oddballs he’d had to ferry around finally depart. John could hear the radio come on even before he’d shut the door.

  Sherlock hadn’t gone far. He stood outside and stared up at the sun reflecting in Scotland Yard. John glanced up too, but was only able to think of their recent extremity in this building, hunted, as they had been, by a band of rogue police officers. He liked his odds better with Reese and the CIA. “Come on,” he told Holmes. “Think about it on the way up… well, unless you want to talk about it, that is? This is about Reese, right?”

  “I’m gathering my reserves,” Sherlock exhaled a faint stream of mist in the unseasonably chill morning air.

  Who was this girl that she taxed Sherlock’s reserves? John marvelled.

  They walked into the ordinary, yet extraordinary excitement: the Scotland Yard din, with John happily swiping Holmes through the sealed doors into the secure part of the building. It was comical, really. He imagined the man who’d tried to kill them both would lose his rag if he heard tell of this badge of Holmes’.

  Sherlock took the elevator in stride. He often preferred stairs to bleed off energy. Today he acted like he would need every jot.

  Lestrade was in a meeting – with clear walls, it was simple enough to see that – with the CIA, Anderson, Donovan, and practically all the rest of his team. John didn’t know them all by name. Reese wasn’t present. Neither was Special Agent Lewis a man whose towering height made him more than a little conspicuous. The CIA never left Reese alone for long. Then again, John thought in their defence, she’d tried to end her life one day.

  Lestrade motioned at Sherlock the moment he saw the man. It was a definite summons.

  Sherlock half-turned to John. “If it gets boring, we are leaving. Make any excuse.”

  John grinned and opened the door to the large meeting room. Sherlock slunk in, exactly like a prickly cat. He stopped a few steps into the room. “Where is Ree?”

  “Reese. And that’s not your concern.” Special Agent Young said crisply.

  “Oh, believe me, I’m not asking for my health,” Sherlock’s tone was scathing as a steel rasp.

  “She should be by. If not, we’ll take you to her. Just, could you sit and listen.” Lestrade glanced right of Sherlock. “And welcome, John.”

  John pulled a chair and sank into it among police. They gave him odd looks, but he hardly cared about that. He watched Sherlock begin to pace along the long table – that was more like it. Pen up that much energy and you were bound to have an explosion. He also wondered if Sherlock recognised this room from the night he’d been shot, and if he was doing all right in here? Reese said Sherlock still suffered from trauma. John had seen no signs, but Sherlock was crafty.

  Lestrade nodded, “Go on, Anderson.”

  “With him here?” the hawk-like man asked in outrage that made his voice spike. “And what about the doctor? He’s a civilian.”

  “John leaves, I leave.” Sherlock tugged his gloves off.

  Lestrade replied. “Treat Sherlock as one of the team. He’s got a badge now. And unless you want to be on semi-permanent assignment as his medical assistant, Anderson, you’ll have to deal with Dr. Watson too.”

  “Yes, but he hasn’t earned it, I mean. A badge on Holmes? He’s completely unstable. Come on,” Anderson glanced around the table. Sherlock had no friends here.

  Well, almost. John spoke before he thought. “Oh he hasn’t earned it? It wasn’t you shot but still working out the police corruption case.”

  “There’s no accounting for his stupidity.” Anderson pointed at Holmes.

  Sherlock stopped dead and turned. “Anderson, all you need to do is explain about the body. That is all you could possibly add that’s germane. And once you have, I’ll happily go about the stupidity of solving this murder for you too.”

  “See here, I don’t have to deal with your attitude, Holmes.”

  John leaned his cheek against one hand, and opened Sherlock’s badge. He tapped it on the table, which drew all the attention – even Sherlock’s – in the room. “Sorry Anderson, but it’s not made of gum paste and it got us in the building. So, yeah, it’s real. Considering a young man was beheaded and dismembered, can we get on with your assessment of the body?”

  “Unlikely,” Holmes sighed before returning to his pacing.

  Anderson considered John quite seriously before he set into his report regarding the body. Sherlock seemed only
to half-listen, but then half his attention was much greater than the full attention of a focused person. He heard every nuance.

  “The crown found in his throat and DNA did confirm his identity. Stippling on the back of the neck indicates that an assassin style hit had taken place-”

  “How tall would he have been?” Sherlock asked himself idly. “I suppose, on the surface of it, that’s a difficult question without his head. The CIA will have record of it.”

  “Why is that even relevant?” Anderson snapped his fingers in air. “Are you paying attention?”

  “Oh, not anymore,” Sherlock said. “He was assassinated. Thank you. It was a long windup, but bravo, Anderson. Since the people we’re looking for could never do such a thing themselves, we’re looking for a professional assassin. But carry on. It’s good to be borne out.”

  “People are capable of anything, Holmes-”

  “Patently untrue and, in this case, thoroughly incorrect,” Sherlock told him. “Let’s be glad you got as far as you did.”

  Donovan sighed, “Then why wonder how tall he was, Freak? What’s the point?”

  “Lawrence comes in early. He squeezes down that claustrophobic staircase and flicks on the overheads in the basement. It’s dim there, which is why there are all the floor lamps. But there are only three bulbs in the ceiling and none of them with covers. He sets the chair under the bulbs and changes two from white to red. The assassin was in the room only when the final light went out. To Lawrence, dealing with the naked glow of lights up close, the room would have been nearly black. We know from the positioning of the chair that Lawrence had his back to the door. One tends to stand with the chair back in front to brace on, particularly when light levels are low. So where in this scenario do you see him getting down and kneeling to be killed?” Sherlock asked. “Back at the scene, there’s splatter on the ceiling. The ceiling is dark blue. It’s difficult to spot. He was shot right off the chair. The shot’s trajectory was from low on the back of the head – thus the collar’s powder burn – to high in the front. The bullet may have passed out through an eye, in fact, given the state of the ceiling. This is a professional hit, but it’s hardly a mafia-style slaying. There were opportunistic elements involved. The assassin had been told what to expect and how to play it efficiently. It was highly orchestrated, but it wasn’t a standard hit.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “He’s making this up.” Anderson snapped.

  John actually chuckled. “Oh, that’s good.”

  But Anderson spread his hands, “Dr. Watson, there was no bullet.”

  “There’s a bullet, yes, and seeing as this assassination was carried out by a real, live assassin for hire, he left with it and Lawrence Waters’ missing parts.”

  Lestrade raised his hands to quell the general rumble of protest against Holmes. “Assassin, Sherlock. Could you explain more about the assassin?”

  “Oh God, how painful,” Sherlock tipped his head back in irritation as he poked at the coffee station which had been set up at one table. “John. Would you like to field this one?”

  “No,” John turned in his seat. “I’d like to know this one.”

  Sherlock turned, coffee cup in hand. “Don’t disappoint, John.”

  “You’ll get over it.” John told him.

  Holmes sipped his coffee and pulled a face. “Oh, disgusting.” He tossed the whole full cup into the trash and said. “They needed Lawrence Waters dead, and they needed to send a gruesome message to the CIA, or, more properly to, Ree-”

  “Reese,” Special Agent Young corrected. “But carry on, Sherlock.”

  “However, these people,” he took out his phone and walked to Lestrade, “wouldn’t have been able to do such a thing themselves.”

  Lestrade clicked through files. “I don’t get it.”

  “Dear God. How can you not see?” Sherlock opened his arms and looked at the ceiling. He chucked the coat and scarf on the back of the Detective Inspector’s chair and used the armrest beside him to get up on the table. No few of the police scattered up from their seats in shock. Sherlock merely said, “John, get the blinds.”

  As John pulled the blinds, he shot curious glances at what Sherlock was doing with the projector anchored to the ceiling.

  “Ideally,” Sherlock typed on his phone. “We’d have a projector in each direction in here, but this will have to do. Lights, John.”

  John shut them off with a sweep of his hand.

  Suddenly, the photos on Sherlock’s cell phone painted the entire back wall of blinds. Sherlock stood in the darkness atop the table and gestured. “This is a portion of a hand-rendered map of London. I found it in Lawrence’s subject books at Goldsmith’s. Have you ever tried to draw a scale map, Lestrade?”

  Standing at the end of the table, blotting out part of the map, Lestrade stared at the rest and frowned. “No.”

  “Who does that?” Anderson scoffed. “You need a map, you can buy one much better than this.”

  Sherlock looked down at him and then swung his arms up at the picture, “Oh, don’t be facile, Anderson. If you’re going to say it, then you have to explain how a map of London drawn by a mapmaker is as good as a map of London drawn from memory, when both are just as correct?” He made a wide motion at the screen. “Don’t you follow? He was Ree’s-”

  “Reese’s.” came the twanging voice.

  “-source. He was an infiltrator, an insider.” Sherlock’s arms rolled out gracefully, “He was a photographer.” He glanced around and nodded, sure they were on the same page now.

  Donovan snickered and gestured at the wall’s projected map, “Freak, this is a drawing.”

  “Ah… we’re doomed. Lights, John.” Holmes sighed and walked down the table. He laughed sadly and stepped off the end to drop, catlike, to the floor. There he rubbed his temple and snatched up his coat and scarf. “I can’t work with gormless people, Lestrade.” John flicked the lights on again.

  “You don’t have to, Sherlock. You really don’t.” It was Young who had spoken up.

  Lestrade looked sharply at the CIA Special Agents, for all the good it did. The meeting began to break up, but John suddenly had it.

  “Wait. Brilliant. He’s just told us….” Then John strode up and leaned on the table. “How can a photograph taken by a camera be anywhere near as good as a photograph taken by your memory, if they’re equally as accurate?”

  Donovan froze, looked at the folder in her hand, and up again. “You’re kidding. You mean the photography club-”

  “They don’t use cameras. They don’t need cameras. They have their heads. Good job, Doc.” Reese said from outside the open door. She paced along outside the glass wall and inside the room, Sherlock strolled beside her.

  “You should have said something.” Sherlock swung an arm up at her.

  “What’s-a-matter? You don’t wanna have to figure stuff out yourself? You want to be handed everything, like it’s your birthday?” she snickered at him and came to a stop facing him through glass. “I gave you that room. I told you all that evidence was a diorama for our CSI team. That set was picture perfect, trust me. It would have run you around for weeks.”

  “Please, I already had that,” he told her. “It’s a simple question, Ree, so why didn’t you tell me how many people were in-”

  “You’re a liar.” Reese barked and struck the glass with one hand.

  “Cat fight,” Donovan’s brows swept up. “Oooh. Nasty.”

  “Reese!” Young shot to her feet. “This is unaccept-”

  “You’re a liar, Holmes!” Reese exploded on her way in.

  “You had worked the case 8 months and received it from another Asset. If your prey was leaving that much evidence around, you would’ve nicked them months back.” He clapped the back of his fingers into his opposite palm. “There are eight of you; the probability of not finding one of them given that much evidence climbs to the absurd. So either the rooms are staged, or you and your fellow Assets are idiots. D
oes that seem difficult to you, Ree? It doesn’t to me. And you might be a deceitful shrew, and horribly misguided, but I don’t believe you’re an idiot quite yet.” Sherlock walked along the wall toward her. “There had been two people inside the room. Two different people: one with runners on, Lawrence; one in boots. Muddy boots. Mud was dislodged when the gun went off and the shooter rocked back on his heels. It was the mud you collected and had analysed.”

  She strode past John, black cherry scented. Reese stopped Sherlock moving, capturing him with both hands. She rose on her toes and stared up at Holmes’ face. After a moment, she shut her eyes and backed up, her lips drawn tight in disgrace. She turned toward Young. “He’s… he’s not lying. He did know.”

  “You really are far gone. Now, what did the mud tell you?” Sherlock asked.

  “Put up the map again.” She walked over to the white wall and started pointing. “Traces of fresh road tar. Nearest sources, here, and here, so he walked to the location on foot, probably from being dropped off by a cab in this area. More importantly, the specific combo of pollen put him in the Isle of Dogs – he’s been in the Island Gardens. Great place for a stroll from what I can see on a map. He may go again. He may be in the area.”

  “Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly; a new lead; all was well with the world. He pressed a button on his phone and Reese’s cell pinged. “You work off photos. Here’s the map and other encoded evidence from Lawrence Waters’ dorm room. Work on the landmarks. Find me patterns.”

  Her chin rose, and she nodded softly. “If you want the legwork, then… we can trade. I have the assassin crossing a street on a gas station video. You seem the legwork type.”

  “Reese!” Special Agent Young snapped. “We discussed this.”

  “No one else believes me. I’m not supposed to present evidence that isn’t judged credible. In fact, it’s not classified as evidence if it fails to convince the apes.” Reese hugged herself and eased sideways. It put Sherlock’s body between her and Young’s low, tense conversation with Scott at the table. She lowered her voice, “They don’t like when I guess. But I can’t help it, and they don’t get it.”