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

by S. K. Lloyds

  “While you were sleeping, trace evidence on your hatchet put you chopping up Lawrence Waters, Delov. The wise thing to do is cooperate.”

  “I don’t know who they are,” the man moaned. “They sent a kid to my door…”

  “A kid?” Lestrade asked. “Really, you expect us to believe this?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you believe. I can find you. I can find your family-” Delov received a light slap on the cheek that made him screech.

  “Shit,” Young stepped out the door and told Lewis. “Keep this barred.”

  “Pay attention,” Sherlock said firmly. “How tall was the kid?”

  “I dunno,” he said, and saw Sherlock’s fingers curl. “Couldn’t be more than 5’7. A girl kid.”

  “Hm.” Sherlock straightened and looked down at the man.

  John didn’t miss how Reese held on to Lestrade’s arm and turned her face away. He could understand the girl’s situation. Before heading out to Afghanistan, he had read both the ICRC’s and IHL’s definitions for torture. Sherlock was currently violating both standards and a slew of Geneva Conventions. John’s stomach dropped. All he could say was: “Hurry up.”

  “A kid! A kid!” Delov shouted when he could gather enough breath for it. He gasped the rest, “They sent me some homeless kid with a note and half the fee. And I dropped off the mark’s head and hands on top of a garbage bin out back of the bookstore. They left a case there, full of ice.”

  John and Sherlock exchanged a look that spoke volumes – the Club had used the Homeless Network. Sherlock looked angry. “Did you see who took it? Who took the case?”

  “I didn’t wait around.” Delov shook his head. “I met requirements and left to clean up. It’s messy work, like painting. You always have cleanup to do.”

  “Have you received the final payment?” Sherlock’s fingertips hovered over the man’s good eye. Try as he might, there was nothing Delov would be able to do if Holmes decided, for instance, to gouge it out. He was sweating visibly. “Y-yes,” he said blurrily.

  “Damn.”

  “Same thing. Homeless kid.” Delov’s head sank back into his pillows. His breathing was less laboured. “Same….”

  When Sherlock looked up, John had turned the painkiller back to its previous level. “That’s all the time I can give you, Sherlock.”

  Sherlock cocked his head. “John, the man is a mass murderer. A sociopath who enjoyed hacking apart a college student that, I might add, could have contributed any number of unknown boons to the world.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Not what?” Sherlock got to his feet angrily. He’d been sitting on the side of Delov’s bed.

  “Not a mass murderer.” John told his friend. “And neither are you a sociopath, Sherlock. That’s as long as I can give you. He needs a steady flow of pain medication right now. I’m sorry.”

  “We have what we need. Wouldn’t you agree?” He conceded. When he turned Reese’s way, her face was pale, and she pivoted and left the room. Scott shut the door behind her after giving her a small squeeze on the shoulder.

  “Ah. Bad then.” Sherlock shrugged on his coat and sighed. “I didn’t expect her to be so wasteful. It’s an odd blind spot to have for one of us.”

  “Morality?” Scott asked as he turned to face the room again.

  “Precisely,” Sherlock tucked his scarf about him and considered the man. “I suppose you program that into them though, don’t you. Like in your A.I. movies, where it’s ever so regrettable the same limitations weren’t uploaded into Skynet.”

  “They aren’t limitations.” Scott said with absolute certainty.

  “Of course they are,” Holmes pulled on his gloves and glanced back in Delov’s direction dismissively. “They just aren’t bad ones.”

  Scott opened the door, “Handle your Asset, Detective Inspector.”

  Sherlock gave a chuckle as he walked out into the hallway. There were no scurrying nurses, as John had feared, but then, Young was standing nervily at the end of the hall, her aspect more forbidding than the Dover cliffs.

  Lestrade caught hold of Sherlock’s coat and wheeled him around, “If I ever see you do something like that again, I will personally take you downtown and book you. That’s way out of line. I have a lot riding on you, Sherlock. You might think this mess with Commander Snow has blown over, but you’d be wrong. You’re not to go out of control like that. Do you understand?”

  “Lestrade, I hardly-”

  Lestrade gave Holmes a small shake.

  “Yes.” Sherlock amended. He extricated himself from Lestrade’s grip with a long-suffering sigh as the Detective Inspector walked to John.

  “I don’t suppose you have anything further to add, doctor?”

  “I think it’s all been said.” John nodded in parting. He swept up to Holmes and the taller man breezed through the door before him.

  “Thank God. Thought that would never be over,” Sherlock smoothed his coat and checked his phone. “Did you catch that the Club is using the Homeless Network?”

  “I did, indeed.”

  “That’s irritating me for some reason,” Sherlock tucked away his cell and put his hands together under his chin. “At this point it would be nice to know which kids are working in the Islington area. If we could know it would be possible to search for clues about who gave them jobs. For instance, moving Lawrence’s parts would have required a boy, or a stout girl, seeing as it’s likely they fetched and carried the head and hands to a second location, for pick up. However, with the murder investigation, the children will have been shuffled. It’s notoriously hard to get client information out of the Network. They don’t kiss and tell. God. Horrifying thought. In any event, it would utterly negate the usefulness of their service. The very same feature of the Network as protects me has now been employed to thwart me. The assassin is a dead end. Well done.”

  “Do you think they’ll kill him?” John asked. “Delov?”

  “Oh, who cares? Though, if they do, it will be because of something he’s not aware he knows,” Sherlock’s shadow loomed through the slanting sunlight. “At that point, I won’t be fit to be lived with. It will mean I could have gotten more if we’d pressed him harder.”

  John shook his head slightly, disbelieving.

  Holmes’ brow wrinkled, “Why shock?”

  “What on earth makes you think you’re fit to be lived with now?” John snorted. The idea he could get worse was almost overwhelming. The same thought, echoing in Sherlock’s eyes, made the tall genius grin happily.

  They exited the hospital.

  “Oh, we’d better go for a bite,” John checked his watch. “Supper.”

  “Of course.” Sherlock nodded. “We need to regroup.”

  “Sure you don’t want to ring your girl, Ree, to come along with us?”

  “John, really, she can’t be trusted,” his earlier mirth blew away like willow seeds. “We need to regroup; you and me.”

  ***

  So John brought Sherlock to one of his favourite Indian restaurants. The area of town it was situated in had gone to seed, unfortunately, some time ago, but John had loved the place since his life had been full of concerns like first kisses and clear skin. It was family run. Sherlock had never been to the place before, so he wandered the interior for a good 15 to 20 minutes before sitting down.

  John had mostly ignored his free-range flatmate in favour of the new menu.

  The girl taking drink orders knew John as a regular. “He all right?”

  “Sherlock’s never been here before. Just be glad he’s not using the magnifier.”

  She cocked her head at him, “He a restaurant critic?”

  “Oh he’s much worse than that,” John laughed at the idea. “He’s a trained observer. But he’s not going to hurt anything. Besides, he works for the police. There’s only so much trouble he can make.” John decided to stick to that fiction.

  “What does he want to drink?” she glanced over at Sherlock, who raised a
hand to make a small rolling motion with his fingers.

  Yeah, that was his not infrequent ‘just tea for me’ gesture. “Do you have any tea, Priya?”

  “Darjeeling,” her brows drew up. She nodded happily and withdrew into the kitchen, skirting by Sherlock with a friendly smile. Holmes sighed and fell into his chair only a moment later.

  “So how is the place?” John asked.

  “Family owned for four generations. The founder’s ashes are on the premises. Blah.” He flicked the napkin John had unfolded.

  “Must be exhausting,” John said as the drinks arrived.

  Sherlock studied the hands of the girl who laid down his drink. “Mehndi artist. Also, seamstress. Sews late at night while tired, which leads to all the little jabs you see.”

  Priya straightened, her brows drew down, and she scurried from the table. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He turned to pouring sugar packets into his black tea. “Sugar. Brain food.”

  “Want to try this? It’s mango lassi. This one’s sweet, actually.”

  Sherlock’s face screwed up a little. “It has yogurt in it.”

  “You ate the fridge out of yogurt just a few days ago.”

  “Yes, I ate it… actually, seeing as it was blueberry, I ate it with a salad spoon. I don’t want to drink it in a drink. Not to mention yogurt is food. And I don’t-” Sherlock blinked across at John as if this should be obvious.

  “I know, dear God, I know – I live with you, and I have a speech, remember?” John put his head down and chuckled. “So you like blueberry, I take it.”

  “Superior form of yogurt, blueberry,” Sherlock sipped his tea. “Eradicates free radicals.”

  “Clever.” John grinned. “Eradicates and radicals.”

  “John, this case is doing bad things to you.” Sherlock turned his head away and laughed.

  The lights flickered and went out across the restaurant. Through the windows John could see they were gone down the entire street. He snatched Sherlock’s wrist as the man started to his feet.

  Sherlock gave the back of John’s hand a sharp slap, and it was then that John realized he could feel the grind of tendons and bones inside flesh. He’d gripped the genius like he was the edge of a cliff. “Sorry.” He let go and got to his feet to follow Sherlock through the dark. “What do you suppose this is?”

  “Odd.” Holmes stopped by the emergency flood light. It hadn’t switched on. “Not the fuse box. This is on its own system. Oh, I see. And there’s no way they would know we’d come here.”

  People were starting to move around the restaurant in the dark. John looked over his shoulder as lights began to emerge from the back – good old fire. Priya appeared carrying a large honey candle. “I’m sorry for the confusion. We’re calling to see what might be happening. I apologize to you all, but, of course, we can’t open the freezers or cook in these conditions. Your money will be refunded.”

  When John turned around, it was in response to the breath of cool air spilling around his ankles. The door Sherlock had been standing before was open. John stepped outside. He couldn’t see a thing, but he could hear his friend rattling around outside – it was a distinctly metal sound and a small grunt of effort. John sighed windily. “Sherlock.”

  He went back inside the hubbub of the darkened restaurant – odd how darkness had made everyone inside convivial – John located and picked up a candle. He shielded it with his hand on the way back out.

  “Where are you going?” one of the servers asked.

  “My friend just went out the fire door and I can’t see anything out there, so,” John raised the candle a little before pushing the fire door open with his elbow.

  The alley illuminated suddenly. Of course. This made sense after all the trouble he’d gone through to grab the candle. But he didn’t blow it out. John set it down under the handrail.

  “Lights are back on, Sherlock. Let’s finish our-” but he pushed the door to its extent and Sherlock wasn’t in the alley. John felt a sudden blast of cold through his system.

  He pulled out his phone and began calling Sherlock. No answer. He kept up calling between searching the restaurant, the narrow passage out back, and the street beyond. Finally, he dialled Lestrade. John paced the alley, unable to relax, half-sick with worry for his friend.

  The sirens came to a stop around the restaurant. John came out of the narrow alley to join them. Lestrade was the first out of the cars. “What happened?”

  “The block went dark,” John’s voice sounded rattled so he cleared his throat and continued. “He was just across from me, and I grabbed him, because it’s like eating with a kid: the minute something curious happens, he’s just gone across the restaurant. But I hurt him, so I let him go. I mean, I was following him around, and I turned – he was just gone.”

  “He wasn’t just gone.” Reese pushed past him and swore. “Oh my God, John, were you pacing down here? Idiot! Do you want us to be able to track him or not? Wait-no, take me in the restaurant. Show me where you were sitting.”

  “We’ll go around front,” John said. “But tape this passageway off.”

  Young walked right behind John, her clacking heels landing on John’s nerves like a bow bouncing on violin strings. It was quite a disruption when the throng of police walked in. Lestrade showed his badge to quiet down the staff. John led the rest to the table he’d shared with Sherlock. Holmes coat was still there, and his scarf. Ree touched the tea cup, lifted it, and sniffed it.

  She set the cup back down. “Still hot. Black two sugars. His. We need it analysed. He’s been gone a very short time.” She sat down and looked at John. “Okay, so show me what you did.”

  John dithered a moment, just trying to remember it straight.

  “John, come on. These people cut the head off a boy. Sherlock’s been missing for too long already. Sit down. Show me what you did.” She said this calmly.

  “Lights go off,” John said as he was seated. “I grabbed his wrist, but I hurt him.”

  She nodded as his hand closed around her wrist, but not hard. “What do I do?”

  “You get up and-”

  “Check the nearest emergency light,” she realized. “That put him in front of the fire door with the power off. So no alarm when it opens.” She got up, pushed past a server and made for the door. It was a bit of a walk.

  “The light didn’t come on.” John pursued her. She backtracked and grabbed a bar stool she set under the door. She climbed up and checked the light. “Wires aren’t cut here, and-. Oh. I get it. So, John, how long did you turn away from him? I mean, he would have opened the door from the inside himself. There’s no handle outside.”

  John lifted her down when she turned. “Okay,” he turned away toward the bar where Priya and the manager stood and looked vexed at the influx of police. “I listened to Priya and then.” When he turned around again, the door was still ajar. He pushed it open and looked out at the alley. She was standing just below the stairs. Her crystalline blue eyes scanned the alley floor.

  “Chloroform.”

  “Excuse me?” John looked down at her.

  She tapped her toe beside a rag. “They know how much he weighs, so they know how much to use to knock him out for a certain period. They hit him with chloroform and took him out of here. I can smell it.” She looked around on the rubbishy alley floor. “And then they… evaporated with him… they… walked up the….”

  John turned and looked up at the fire escapes. The metal sounds…!

  “They’d need the rag,” she glanced down at it. “They dropped it. A mistake they didn’t have time to correct. We need to bag it.”

  “Oh my God, I heard them rattling around on those!” John motioned up at one which let down almost on top of the stoop.

  “The ladder was already down. They were on it. Someone stood right here and they handed him Sherlock. He’s rangy, so it would have taken the pair of them to carry him up there.” She looked at John. “Did you go back inside? Maybe to get this?” She
pointed at the candle still burning in its votive on the stoop.

  He rubbed his eyes. “The candle. Yes, I couldn’t see, so I went to get the candle. Dammit. They would have been right here with him.”

  “But they didn’t kill you. Oh man. This is likely the real deal then. Okay… so, good thing, they can’t cut his head off. They’d never be able to get the image out of their heads. And bad thing: Sherlock knows they make heavy use of dark adjusted eyes, and Sherlock was either too cocky or too curious not to check it out.” Reese nodded at John and backed up to the opposite wall. “Second floor window is open. They came out that way. They took him that way. Boost me up, John.”

  Young shook her head. “He’ll do no such thing. We need to get our guns in the room first.”

  “Great,” John said in apparent agreement. The moment they were through the door, he got a grip on the fire escape and pulled it down. From there he and Reese scrambled up to the second storey window. He was the first in. The curtains had been tied up in a knot to keep them out of the way.

  “Smudges on the windowsill, scuff marks, but no blood,” Reese said. She stepped into the room carefully, bent, and examined a small black object.

  “Oh God,” John covered his mouth with one hand, as if worried what would come out next.

  “It’s one of those lighted mini-” she realized what she was saying and straightened. “This is Sherlock’s aspheric magnifier, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” John said breathlessly. “They took him through here.”

  Reese opened the front door to the empty upstairs apartment and went out into a long hall at a trot. “They carried him across here for sure. Look, there’s a freight elevator.”

  John’s heart seemed to be running a foot race. He very nearly slammed the buttons. “Up or down. Down, right? He’s long and would be hard to carry.”

  “Good. Down,” she nodded and mashed the button. Reese stood back as the elevator arrived and let John do the work of getting them into it. Once they’d made the ground floor, they found it opened to parking. The nearest three spaces were empty. “He’d be waking up over on this side. They had him doing the walk of shame here – like they were helping their drunk friend in a car.”