A CASE OF BAD DICTION--Chapter Nine
“I CROUCHED by the light of my small lamp, the rice paper walls placing me in silhouette. Draped in finery that befitted a woman of my stature, I remained at the edge of my mattress, listening to the hollow sounds of the reeds as the winds blew through them. Fireflies danced along the lapping, black water, and I peered into the darkness, searching for him. I had waited for days, but there was little hope that he would return, for he had joined those other brave warriors who fought for the Shogun, his blade gleaming as he headed with the other ronin to fight out of loyalty to the Tokugawa.
The water in the river that runs outside our minka is cold. I can reach up through the window and hold the moon, full as a polished pearl, in my hand.
The gentle friction of bamboo and the rustle of rice paper bids me to turn my head and I see him there, in the flesh, scarred and bleeding from battle but still standing proud. The red silk kimono I wear has slid from my shoulder, revealing far more bare flesh than I was intending to seduce him with. But he has no patience for that contrast, he marches towards me, his eyes like cold steel as they stare down at me, hungry but wanting to savour his meal.
He grabs me roughly by the chin, his thumb and forefinger digging into my flesh.
"Paint your lips," he orders me.
I fumble with my paints, a selection of rich reds in scandalous hues that match the shimmering blood of my kimono. I dare to find my brush and tried to dip it with great care into the rich, red liquid, made from safflower. A kind girl in likewise employment had given it to me, a girl far braver and bolder than I for I would never have selected such a colour for myself. I tried to keep my hand steady. He watched me carefully as I prepared, my hand shaking slightly as I held the mirror to my lips and began to trace them. He was close to me now, his knee on the edge of my futon, his breath hot on my neck, a sharp contrast to the cool air that had invaded the small space within the room, our cameos outlined against the white paper partitions.
I managed to make a small, perfectly formed half circle against my bottom lip only for him to grab my shoulders and turn me around to face him, my vibrant red paint spilling onto the tatami covered floor.
His armour had been shed, and his belt loosened. With steel eyes that refused to let in mercy I could sense the excitement of his member, my own nub responding in kind. There was no hiding that purple eagerness that erupted from beneath his robe, proud in the open air and bobbing with increased, hardened vigour as he regarded my trepidation.
"Spread your knees," he ordered me, and I blushed at his request, thighs tensed at the instruction. But I was in his power now, and to deny the warrior I had come to desire was not an option open to me. I did as he asked. I could feel the cool air pool between my legs and touch that sensitive part of me, exposed. Without warning, he slid his hand along that partition and dared to test its readiness with an intruding thumb, its stroke within me making me gasp in both fear and pleasure.
"I'm opening you like the petals of a flower," he reminded me, and I cried out as another finger sank into that damp space, impaling me onto his grasp. "A lotus in full bloom. There, that should do it."
Oh, and how it did, my skin stretched and readied for him as he pulled me into his lap, my entrance poised over that throbbing spike that he was set to defile me with. I hovered over it, my thighs so tense I could feel the burn throughout every muscle. I turned my head away from the fierce scrutiny of his gaze, the predator longing within it in brotherhood with the tiger.
"Have mercy," I begged of him.
He slid the red silk of my kimono further up my legs, bunching it at my waist as he fully exposed me. He locked his eyes with mine and I was lost, terrified in the lust I found there.
"I know not the meaning of the word," he growled.
The discomfort of his girth did not last long. Oh, how he unravelled me, tearing into my soul and stripping it into silk ribbons that tied my hands behind my back and left me helpless. How he brought me to the precipice of a crescendo and took me over it, only to do it again and then again, until I was shouting, incoherent in the madness he had incited in me through my flesh...
MRS. HUDSON PLONKED her stockinged feet (which were in need of fresh darning) onto the kitchen chair in front of her and let out a slow whistle. She cooled herself with her copy of The Strand, wisps of her greying hair fanning around her head like errant chicken feathers. "Well, that's a bit of randy business to get the old rusty gears turning again! I like the bit about the prep for buggery, that'll appeal to the nonce types."
Mycroft groaned and sank his face into his hands, his cage of fingers doing little to make facing his landlady and nurse any more bearable. "You are not helping my terminal illness."
Mrs. Hudson sucked her teeth in question at this. "You seem rosy cheeked and free of the usual rattle. You're the very picture of health save for that Thames inspired wheeze that never leaves you until you head for the country."
"You've misdiagnosed me."
"Unlikely, Mr. Holmes."
"You have. I'm dying of mortification."
"Oh pish, who cares about a bit of slap and tickle!" Mrs. Hudson giggled as she opened The Strand and read over another paragraph. "Save for all the thrusting and moaning! Really, Mr. Holmes, there's no need to bury your face in your hands, this is all for a good cause. It's about time the stage two of this little project of yours finally got rolling. I didn't expect quite this much attention to your little tale, however, that's a nice bonus for the pocketbook. You should have seen the trouble I had getting this copy, you've become quite the hit already among the perverts, of which London has a bumper crop. Sold out by mid morning, and they're thinking on doing an evening edition, that's what the lad who sold me this one told me." She opened the rag and began her perusal again. "I have to say, that's not quite what I had in mind when I suggested you use the sash on that robe for something. An accidental entangling is hardly as erotic as something deliberate."
Mycroft gave his landlady a look of dour warning. Yes, her medical expertise on female anatomy had been useful in the editing of his nasty little story, and yes, some of the passages were direct quotes from her additional editorial suggestions. He had to wonder at times just where Mr. Hudson was and what kind of strange relationship did the man have with Mrs. Hudson before he was tossed out of her home. That Mr. Hudson was a bit of a flirt who had morphed into outright adultery with a hired scullery maid was a history he was long familiar with. Mycroft was sure the result of that discovery was why the cast iron stove had a large chunk missing from the far right corner.
Lestrade, of course, was beside himself with amusement and joy, convinced this was the extra nudge needed to push Pottsdam into action. But Mycroft wasn't so certain, and now with this behind him and his days as an erotic literary smut master secured, Pottsdam remained oddly silent.
"So are you planning on an excursion today, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She tossed her copy of The Strand towards him and it now lay in the centre of the oak table like a waiting threat. The pages were alight with controversy. It was not just his own lustful story lurking between its pages, but Dr. Watson had published a new work, one that thankfully did not mention either Mycroft or Lestrade. He supposed he should be grateful, for while Mycroft's story was titillating, it was mostly eclipsed by Watson's The Adventure Of The Yellow Face, its emancipating themes sending ignorant eugenics followers into a frantic, politically charged tizzy.
He decided, since he was feeling rather vigorous, to head to the Diogenes Club early. He was sure his presence there was set to cause a stir of its own not only thanks to the story he had published but also because of his decision in the infanticide case. His own investigation and discussion with Dr. Watson and the doctor from St. Bart's who had treated the infant had resulted in a complete dismissal of all charges against the distraught young mother. He did, however, recommend to the lady that she move from her current place of residence as it was clear the miserable pecking hens that surrounded her were people of the worst kind of apathy and it would be best to be as far from them as possible was best. The female neighbours had squawked at this retort, and even spat at him as he passed, but he knew they were an evil group and he made a point to make sure Lestrade knew their vindictive gossip held a criminal element within it that was best to be carefully observed.
Mycroft finished his tea and bid Mrs. Hudson a good day. Young Jack was outside in the back garden, and he opened the door that led out to it from the pantry, giving the still invalided child a wave. He was mending well and made good use of a pair of crutches, but Mrs. Hudson had made the observation that Jack's leg was still crooked, and it was unlikely it would ever be perfect. He would walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life. As Mycroft leaned on his own cane as he left, he was haunted by the thought of willing it to the boy as a sort of unfortunate heirloom since he would get actual use from it.
"It's not so bad, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson had tried to tell him. "He'll be a cripple, sure, but he's alive and still has both his legs and that's something. Compound fractures killed people not so long ago. He's been free of infection and is healthy otherwise. He'll be all right, don't fret on it."
But as he stepped into the cab of Mr. Pinter's carriage, the clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone streets reminding him of steady, strong steps, he did worry. Jack was a strong willed boy who was a bundle of energy, who loved to go on message runs for Lestrade and himself and could be counted on for any number of communications between them. That correspondence was now silenced.
He wondered if he should install one of those new devices in 221B that were said to make such communication easier. Lines were being strung all over London, and even the Yard had plans to sport two of them on opposing sides of its building under Lestrade's suggestion, one on the wall near the front entrance where the Detective Division was, and one near the jail cells. There was already a police box built in Glasgow that had come in handy for those constables witnessing crimes on the beat and needing back up. A scant few of the bourgeois class already had them, but he knew it would many years before enough people were connected for it to be of any real use. Still, one shouldn't be afraid of progress. Mrs. Hudson would balk at the expense, but she did the same thing over the flush toilet and the new interior plumbing which quickly became a necessity rather than an option. There was considerable time freed up in her day when she no longer had to boil gallons of water on the stove to drag up bucket by bucket into the steel tub he and Lestrade used for bathing. The luxury of instant hot water was a shot of heaven for everyone who had that progress in their power. Surely the telephone could work a similar magic? He would look into it.
The carriage swung past Shaftsbury Avenue, but Mycroft had a sudden change of heart, the thought of being in a room with the usual tired, nearly dead cronies staring at his entrance with rheumy pique filled him with impatience. He knocked on the roof of the cab and Mr. Pinter brought the horse to a slow trot and then a full stop. He pulled aside the sash and peered down at Mycroft from his lofty height.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Holmes?"
"I don't wish to go to the Diogenes," Mycroft said. He was impatient with himself, and he shrugged his shoulders at his own indecision. "Please, take me to Holloway Sanatorium. I wish to see my brother instead."
Sherlock was in a fantastic mood, much to Mycroft's relief. His tall, gangling form spilled out of the chair he had been sitting in, the other occupants of the recreational atrium giving him an odd look as he dove towards his brother and gave him a tight, suffocating embrace. "You are alive! The dogs have not torn you apart, and you are here, in healed flesh in front of me! I'm warning you, though, don't go near the windows in this place. There is a yellow faced demon that looks back and it giggles when it catches your eye, like a small child. But don't be fooled. It will only dart away and leave melancholy in its place."
"You look well, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his own spirits greatly lifted.
Sherlock snatched his hand and held it a bit too tightly. "Do not speak of it too loudly. You do as well. Keep such health hidden, and don't be a fool!"
Eager to be alone with his brother, and with Dr. Watson mysteriously absent, Sherlock kept his grip firm on Mycroft's hand and near dragged him out of the atrium and up a flight of stairs to where his room was located. At least, that was the journey Mycroft was expecting, so he was quite surprised when Sherlock made an abrupt left turn and went up another set of stairs, ones that led to the women's ward and where he was explicitly not permitted.
"Sherlock, this is not the way to your room."
"I have been anticipating your arrival for quite some time, and you have forced me to twiddle my thumbs for days. As a brother, you should be ashamed of your neglect, for there is much to tell about these hidden places where the monsters find their birth. The phosphorous dogs lurk here, and yet no one else can hear them bark. But I do, dear brother. I can hear them all night long, snarling and ripping apart the souls that were unfortunate enough to meet them."
Logic stated he should wave down a nurse and bid her to take Sherlock back to his ward, but he was also aware that this could result in a violent episode, one that would have Sherlock locked into the fugue of laudanum. He didn't seem to have disruption in mind, so Mycroft made the decision to merely play along until Sherlock's frantic mind was calm enough for him to ask questions about Elizabeth Collie.
"You wrote a very nasty, dirty sort of story," Sherlock said, and made a face as though Mycroft had passed wind. "John showed me the one he wrote, which doesn't get the facts right about the yellow faced demon at all, though I suppose it was a good story, it's hard to tell, the words like to crawl away when I try to read. But yours I was able to soak in every word and they are naughty words, Mycroft. It's unsettling to think of one's brother dressed up like an Oriental princess, but Lestrade likes that sort of thing, he does have that sword and he still drinks green tea and I know he partakes of rice rather than potatoes when he can. I don't think Lestrade is from London at all. He is similar to the Huns, but he has a more refined spirit, one made of extreme discipline and strict codes. I saw you recognized his warrior status, well done there, for now you know why it is so important I make my little rag doll army in his image. They are necessary, for I am always in danger here. You are breathing very easy, my brother, is this because you have had such strange sex with our battle scarred Inspector?"
Luckily Mycroft did not have to deny this truth, for the subject was dropped as a nurse came into view and Sherlock pressed his brother against a hidden corner that contained a closet, keeping them both out of her sight. She walked directly past them as she went on her rounds, her long cotton skirt sweeping the floor, its hem dusty while her white apron remained heavily starched and perfect. The ward was uncharacteristically quiet, and it was through an opened window that Mycroft finally understood why. The women's ward had been emptied to enjoy the greens that surrounded Holloway, and bubbles created with string and soap hovered and popped in the air like childish promises.
"Come on," Sherlock said, as the nurse left the ward, the large door closing shut behind her and left unlocked. There was no need to since none of the female patients were here. Still, the tense silence of the ward made them both creep as though they were thieves down its length, with one madman tall and spindly, a human spider among brightly lit rooms, while the other held back, a wheezing near cripple who leaned heavily on his cane for moral support.
"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"
"I should think it's obvious. We are visiting your sisters. You do not have the anatomy for this to be true, however, but if you feel the need for such accoutrements to make you as one of them, perhaps you should understand them better." Sherlock turned and grinned at his brother, his dark hair plastered close to his head, giving him the look of a startled skull. "I come to bring you to where it all began, the source of my vexations which no one here understands. You are my brother, of sound mind and confused body. Perhaps you can see what I do and will not judge me as these do."
Though it was refreshing to hear Sherlock speak in what seemed to be coherent sentences, and even attempt humour, Mycroft was disturbed by why they were here for Sherlock had a very definite goal in mind. He watched as his brother dove beneath the windows to avoid detection, Mycroft following in kind, until they were near the end of the corridor, where Sherlock studied the numbers and letters above each door with careful deliberation.
"This one," Sherlock said, and he grasped the door handle.
Mycroft put his hand over his brother's, stopping him. "This is the private room of a woman, Sherlock. As men, we are not permitted here."
"This is the room of the dead," Sherlock corrected him, and he shoved the door open, revealing a spare, but clean room, one that had an air of neglect about it due to being empty for a short period of time. No one resided here, there were no small hints of residence that one would find in any space a person lived, the bed linen dressing the small hospital bed in starched, clean linens with sharp, precise lines, the small dresser beside it empty. There were no pictures on the walls, which had an antiseptic cleanliness about them. The room had been scrubbed and smelled faintly of carbolic acid.
But there was a hint on the floor near the bed, a wide dark stain on the floorboards that suggested violence had, indeed, fallen upon this abandoned space and its memory was preventing further patients from visiting it.
"That's where the dog died," Sherlock whispered into his brother's ear.
Mycroft shivered.
"This is Elizabeth Collie's room."
Sherlock nodded. He bid Mycroft to come closer, and to Mycroft's shock his brother suddenly dropped to the ground and lay on his stomach as he inspected the wide patch of blood that had seeped into the floorboards and which no amount of scrubbing or bleaching agent could remove. "There's lots of stains like these in this place. People aren't happy here."
"They arrive very sick," Mycroft reminded him, but he dared not mention what he and his brother knew of the Thames. "This is not a place of miracles, Sherlock, but it is a calm environment, and one that has done you far more good than bad. You are happy here, whether you like admitting that or not, and I know you miss being at 221B, but that freedom had become increasingly dangerous for you. What's happened here is a tragedy but it is not of Holloway's doing."
"Of course not!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, and Mycroft was worried he had made a grave mistake in following his volatile brother here, his vulnerability in his brother's adrenaline fuelled state suddenly very apparent. Sherlock sprung from the floor like a startled cat and was at Mycroft in an instant, his body crowding against him. "It was a phosphorous dog who did this! A bitch whose snarling face glowed white, and I could hear her growling, furious torrent as she tore into Elizabeth's dog, her claws long and ripping, her mouth drooling in hunger for a taste of Elizabeth's fair, slender neck! But the rabid bitch was interrupted, I barked and it ran, but not before it had wrapped its putrid breath around Elizabeth's neck and left her hanging there! The vicious beast had feasted on her soul and growled over its drippings in hungry want!"
Mycroft frowned over Sherlock's nonsensical words for, mad as it was, he suddenly had a very good picture of what, exactly, had happened to Elizabeth Collie and who the perpetrator of her death was.
He felt a cold coil wind within him as he understood where he had to go to find the truth, for it was not Professor Pottsdam his brother had witnessed committing this act, though it was someone just as heinous.
He placed a cool palm alongside his brother's cheek and bid Sherlock to look him in the eye, an uncomfortable thing for his brother to do no matter the circumstance. Blinking furiously, he obliged, his shoulders quaking beneath Mycroft's gentling touch.
"I believe you," Mycroft said, and Sherlock let out a gasping sigh of relief. He sank into Mycroft's arms and allowed himself to be held in the firm embrace, as a frightened child would.
"The dogs, the dogs and I kept telling you and I kept telling John and none of you would listen!"
Mycroft petted Sherlock's dark hair. It was cut close to his scalp and parted on the side, much softer than the last time when he visited, when his brother, embroiled in his madness to the exclusion of hygiene was still greasy and unwashed. "I understand now what you were trying to tell me, Sherlock, so you don't have to worry about it any more. I'm sorry you lost your friend to this monster. It's all right now, you can rest easy and there's no need to lose sleep or obsess over this. I know exactly what to do to bring them to justice." He framed his brother's face in his hands and forced him once again to look at him. "You can leave this with me. Come on, take my hand and follow me. It's about time for tea in the music room. We can stop off at your room and pick up your violin along the way. You were always such a master of that craft when you were a child, at times I think that violin was the only thing that calmed all those storms welling within you. Will it help quell them now?"
Sherlock gave him a weak nod. Somewhere, on another ward, the echo of a man's howl coursed through the building and then was silent. It was an eerie lamentation that Mycroft was sure was the ghost of every occupant's madness, embedded deep within the walls of the sanatorium. He hoped the strings of Sherlock's violin would do what was needed to drown them out.
He remained at Holloway for another two hours before bidding his brother goodbye, a reluctant Sherlock clutching his arm with bruising fingers dug deep, not willing to let him go. Mycroft had to peel them off of him, and with a quick, rather tearful goodbye, he walked away from his brother's protests, the nurses who came running to restrain him from diving out of Holloway in his bathrobe keeping a firm grip on his arms and legs. He didn't dare look back to see his brother's distress lest he give in and beg for him to take up his residence back in the guest room of 221B, knowing full well of all the problems such a grant would impose on everyone's lives. Hard as it was, he had to keep focused on the carriage in front of him, where Mr. Pinter had kindly already opened the door in anticipation, his unsteady balance righted by the man's strong hand on Mycroft's elbow.
"It's never an easy thing to leave him behind, is it, Mr. Holmes? But he does well here, don't let that temper tantrum fool you. I've taken other patients to this address and I see Sherlock hovering there in the lobby, welcoming them in like some sort of ambassador. He's doing well, better than he ever has. I just thought you ought to know about that."
Mycroft nodded his head, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. "Thank you," he managed to murmur, and he closed the carriage door, embracing the privacy within the cab for a moment before ducking his head out the window to catch Mr. Pinter before he got back to his position at the top. "To the Alma Pub, Mr. Pinter. As quickly as you can."
Mr. Pinter frowned at this. "The Alma? You?" He scratched at the underside of his beard in confusion at Mycroft's request. "I don't mean any disrespect, but are you sure that's where you want to go, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes," Mycroft said, his voice retaining a hard edge that surprised Mr. Pinter. "And please wait for me out of sight. The matter I wish to pursue is a highly delicate one.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON and the day was sunny, which did not deter customers from the dank confines of The Alma Pub in the least. Mycroft made a reluctant Mr. Pinter wait a near block away from the nefarious bawdy house, his worry over Mycroft's fragile frame waved away. "I do not need your protection in this matter, Mr. Pinter. Please wait here, well out of sight and do not take any other passenger save myself. I may need a quick getaway."
"Understood, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Pinter replied and he tipped his tall beaver skin hat in deference to his employer's wishes.
He had been brave a block away from the area, but as he leaned on his cane and inched his way closer, it was clear to Mycroft that he was at a serious disadvantage. Filthy, hungry men huddled against wet, black bricks stared at his entry into their domain, his fine clothes and proud airs making him stand out among the rabble. That Judge Quibly was often seen here should have been more of a scandal than it was, but that bloated man was a coarse character who gambled and thus had his in with those who peddled their illegal wares and lived off of the misfortune of corpses. He could feel unseen eyes following his every move the closer he came to his goal, the tap of his cane signalling that an unwelcome stranger was in their midst.
The massive, wide shoulders of Agnes came into view, the white swathe of her swine skin glistening with sweat. He headed towards her with renewed purpose and as she slowly turned he could see the curled snarl of her thick lips, and the up and down judgment she gave to his crippled appearance. "So, you're here to get yourself a girl, then? Doesn't take your sort long to figger on where to get a suck. Marlene, in the back corner, she'll do you all right, but mind you don't pay her extra on a cause of her needin' to make sure she gets her debt to me squared first! She likes skimmin' off my price, she does!"
Mycroft felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of what Agnes had hired the unfortunate Marlene to do. From what he had learned from Mary, girls who worked under her were often innocent former farm girls who came to London looking for factory work. The factory work was dirty and dangerous and not everyone could do it. It was easy for a girl alone to be down on her luck and to end up in Agnes's clutches. Once in, she kept them in her debt, citing expenses for everything from water to ale and all tiny necessities in between. It was rare for any who ended up in her 'employ' to escape her.
"I'm not here for your women," Mycroft coldly said. "I'm here to talk to your dog."
He fixed his steely gaze on the filthy woman crouched and snarling on the ground at Agnes's skirts, her clawed hands already aiming to rip into Mycroft. He knocked her hands away with a hard smack from his cane.
"Watch yourself! My dog bites back!" Agnes shouted at him.
"I should think not." Mycroft kept his eye on the crouched girl, her bared teeth blackened on purpose with coal soot, the filth she was covered in a carefully constructed ruse of mud and ash from a hearth. "You said she is hired for special purposes, and I do believe you. Only they are not for whoring, and the act she performs is not one for those of strange perversions." He watched as the feral woman cocked her head as though attempting an animal understanding.
She was very good at this subterfuge.
"I saw you at Holloway Sanatorium, only you were far more presentable than you are now, which leads me to believe that this act of yours is something you use to deflect attention. You were scrubbed and in simple garb, and you were there to ensure that the crime you committed could not be detected. You went back to retrieve evidence. What was it?"
The girl bared her teeth and Mycroft had lost the last of his patience. "Tell me! I know damned well that Professor Pottsdam hired you to murder Elizabeth Collie! Reveal what you know or I will alert Scotland Yard as to your real identity, one that I'm sure stretches wide across Europe! You are a hired assassin, and your stipends are significantly more than anything the pittance that Agnes herself earns through her enforced slavery. You are here at Agnes's side because it suits your invisibility."
"What you sayin'?" Agnes barked.
"I am saying this creature is not your dog but your employer."
The feral woman smiled at this, and it was fascinating to watch as she shed her act and became a sharp, intelligent creature who straightened to her full height and braced her shoulders back in a proud, almost noble, stance. When she spoke, she had a thick French accent, but her English elocution was perfect.
"What a fascinating thing, to be such a smart man."
Agnes, worried about what this could mean for her own position within the ruse, was halted from interfering by the woman's now elegant, if not filthy, hand. "Agnes, you will go inside now. There is business I wish to discuss with this gentleman."
"But..." Agnes really was sweating now, in fear of losing her employment and also possibly her life. If the creature before him had any sense of decency, he hoped she would think against using her fatal ability on her accomplice. "My lady, this is a judge of the assize, you can't trust that he won't turn against you!"
"I fully expect him to." She grinned at him before harshly admonishing Agnes. "Get in with your stupid whores and leave us be! Or do you want to understand what my knife can do in these shadows?"
Agnes, fully cowed by this and genuinely fearful, darted into the Alma Pub as though it were her saviour. Mycroft was left alone in the dark alley with the strange woman, who had a careless hand on her hip and a predator's gleam in her dark eyes. 'She is even more dangerous now,' Mycroft thought. This was a person who delighted in murder, and she would think nothing of spilling his blood on the front steps of the pub.
"I know you killed Elizabeth Collie."
"Was that her name? I don't ask such questions."
"You were hired by a man named Professor Pottsdam."
"Again, I don't ask questions. But if you are describing a man who brags about his position at Oxford University, then maybe I know of him. He is a frazzled thing, not organized, not smart at all." She grinned, and he could see the devil lurking just behind her teeth. "He takes a long road when he should have took a short one. Yes, I went back to her room that day and I saw you there, visiting your very sad brother. I went to make sure that there was no witness, for that would be a problem, a serious one, oui? Mais, ton frère, he is so confused, so sick. I had nothing to concern myself with. Unlike your man...What is his name? Pottsdam? No, I do not kill when I don't need to and make big stories when a sentence will work. I think he likes to kill, too, and that is his real problem. He thinks he's fixing the one he regretted, but he's compelled to kill more and more." She laughed at Pottsdam's folly. "He needs an editor for his work. He needs to pare down his killing, and yet he rambles on and on."
"I believe you are correct," Mycroft replied. He took only a moment to allow himself to feel relief over Sherlock's confused and tired state thanks to the laudanum. He felt sick at the thought that his brother's madness had, in fact, saved Sherlock's life. "He isn't finished with your services. I am convinced Pottsdam will come to you again, this time to hire you to assassinate me."
"Interesting," she said, still grinning. She had sharp incisors. No wonder Sherlock believed her to be canine.
"I have a proposal to make." He leaned on his cane and ensured his stance was firm, quelling the fear that threatened to erupt within him, for she could have had the order to kill him already. "Whatever sum Pottsdam gives you to kill me, I will match it and add twenty percent for you not to kill me."
She shrugged. "I could give you a bonus. Slice his throat for you. He's a very tiresome man, very needy, tres imbecile. Like, how you say, a baker's dozen? I throw that in for you, I will kill him."
"That is not what I want. I am not a murderer. I need to bring him to justice for his crimes."
"You are coming to a strange person for that."
She sighed and gave him another once over, taking in his cane and the way he was now wheezing, his breaths coming with some difficulty. The dank, algae strewn enclave was a hazard for his fragile lungs, his bronchial tubes threatening to seize. "You look like you will fall over any second anyway, why should he bother me with this silly request? Stupid man. But I agree." She held out her hand and Mycroft hesitated slightly before taking it into his own. Her skin was as cold and smooth as a polished rock. "There. We shake on it, and it is done. You will know when he comes to me."
He fought the urge to wipe the agreement from his palm by drawing it across the fabric of his coat. He made a move to leave, only to be accosted from behind, the thick hands on his shoulders ready to do him harm. The assassin slunk into a darkened portion of the alley until she disappeared into its opaque crevice completely, like a spectre leaving a seance. The meaty hands on him were rough and pulled him towards the entrance of the Alma, where he was sure he was to be filleted by one of its many nefarious patrons, who found murder routine rather than a vice.
"To think I'd find you here! You are a mysterious soul, Mycroft!"
He was shocked when he was whipped around and forced to face the thick jowls of Judge Quibly, who was red faced and drunk, his tie undone as were the top few buttons of his shirt. In fact, he looked in a dishevelled state of redress, done in alcohol induced haste. Considering that gambling wasn't the only vice worshipped here, it was no surprise to Mycroft that the monolith had found himself other pleasures to while away his afternoon.
He slapped Mycroft's back, nearly toppling him over and then practically dragged him to the bar. "A pint for my good fellow! Something dark and heavy like his imagination! I dare say, Mycroft, that little tale of yours in The Strand is set to make more than heads swivel. And here I'd thought you were one of those Wilde followers, and I'm glad to see I was wrong on that account! Ha! You're as hot blooded for the slit as I am! I'm loathe to admit it, but I was seeking to capture you in the act of invert perversion to get some of your more prominent cases while you defended yourself, but no matter! Agnes! Bring us some pretty things to play with!"
The ales were plunked dripping in front of them, and Quibly heartily took up his pint while Mycroft simply stared at Quibly, dumbfounded at his horrible luck. That Quibly was this obvious an enemy had never taken root in his mind, and he wondered how precarious his relationship with Lestrade really was if this oaf was eager to destroy it. He felt sick at the thought of what could have happened, how this could have landed him and Gregory in prison and Mrs. Hudson and Young Jack left to fend for themselves. Sherlock would be left alone, believing himself abandoned. So many lives would be at stake, so many wonderful, positive things burned to ashes.
He had always disliked Judge Quibly but now...Now he truly hated the man with a ferocity that made the devil himself look up and take note.
"I see you're still wheezing, despite getting well enough to get back into your quarter sessions. I have to say that did disappoint me, as did your dismissal of that infanticide case. Quite a bad precedent there, in my opinion."
"I used the guidance of several medical professionals, one of whom was willing to testify as to the infant's chances of survival. The child was born with a heart defect as well as the misplacement of several internal organs. The fact he left the womb alive at all was a miracle. Consumption alone will kill more than half the children living in squalor in this area of London, shall we hang all those unfortunate mothers too?"
"Mycroft, you have far too much sympathy for rats!"
Mycroft longed to retort, but he was assailed on either side by two young slatterns, their faces painted with thick powder and overly red lipstick that stained their yellow and grey hued teeth. "We was wonderin' when you was gettin' in, Mr. Holmes," the one coquettish brunette crooned over his shoulder, her long nails combing through his hair, while her blonde companion pawed at his chest. "Been a right regular for a while and then you din't come in for near a week. Got us girls all worried, you did."
Quibly laughed loudly at this. "Ah, Mycroft, you are a worthy scoundrel!" He downed his dark ale with one solid gulp and made a motion to the harried barkeep to get him another.
It was slammed in front of him, but not without words. "You needs to pay your tab, Your Honour."
Quibly narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's laboured breathing. "Just one more week. I'll have enough to pay you into next year!"
"Come on, Mr. Holmes," the blonde whore said, her lips pouting at him in purring licentious flirting. "We've got the room all set up just the way you like it. Marlene and me, we knows what you like!"
"Oh ho! You have energy enough for two! Don't work him too hard, ladies, he may not make it out alive!" He downed his pint, again in one greedy go. He set the glass down and it wobbled, rolling onto its side across the table and was rescued from shattering by the pub's proprietor, who cut another angry glare at Quibly. "On second thought, make sure of it! I'll have my hefty payout then!"
He didn't want to follow them, but remaining in Quibly's company made him even more ill and he figured once they had him in their clutches he could easily get away from the young women if he threw money towards their silence. But they didn't take him upstairs, and instead moved him to the back of the pub and then out a very secretive back door where the barrels of ale were rolled in every morning.
"I don't understand," he said, as they shoved him out of the pub and into the abandoned alleyway, the damp, yeast strewn air doing havoc with his airways. "What was that performance for?"
The girl he now knew was Marlene gave him a sad look, her paint smudged and her skin beneath the thick paste a golden hue that betrayed a life spent under a country sun. "We knows what you did for Mary Oakes. You got her free, not many would bother to go to the lengths you did to help. And to see her now! She's gone respectable and she's still her own woman, with her own money, not giving it to no matron or man or nothing! There's hope for us if there's hope for her, and that's your doing, that is."
The blonde leaned out of the door and lightly kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind a kiss print. "We'll tell the bloated sack of piss that you was the best we ever had and we look for you special. If you ever need that kind of help, you don't even need to ask. We got long memories, and help those rare ones who really do care about us. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."
He wasn't sure why they offered that gratuity when he knew their plight was still awful, they were still under the yoke of the hideous Agnes and were unlikely to be freed from it. But the door was closed against his protests, and he was left alone in the alley to contemplate all that had happened within the pub, where justice didn't exist and people wilfully planned for your death in many forms.
With his chest tight and his breaths struggling, he leaned on his cane and made his way back across the block where Mr. Pinter and his carriage were waiting. If there were men there looking to find an easy mark, they were tempered in their efforts by Mycroft's dark mood, his scowl suggesting there was far too much to this man than their deep thieves' pockets could possibly carry.
He wordlessly entered the carriage, and he didn't speak until he noticed Mr. Pinter was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his instructions on where to go next. Mycroft had to think for a long moment, the constant torrent of information from the day a difficult navigation to process. He steadied his breath as best he could and with the barest whisper he managed to say, "The Yard." Mr. Pinter nodded without a word back, mindful that Mycroft was in the beginning of one of his attacks and thus needed to reserve his energy.
He felt dizzy as they journeyed back up through the streets of London, passing the Old Bailey before pulling up beside the Yard, a journey that was far too short to give Mycroft any sense of pause. He leaned heavily on his cane as he left the carriage, Mr. Pinter's hand firm at his elbow. If he continued to feel this poorly perhaps Judge Quibly would get what he wanted after all, a win that made the back of Mycroft's throat sour.
The Yard was in its usual bustle, and it was Constable Harding who approached him first, bidding him to sit in a chair he provided. Mycroft could see that Lestrade was deep in argument with the Chief, his face reddened from an enforced calm that would explode later when he was at 221B and within its safe privacy. Lestrade paced in front of the Chief, his fists clenched, his expression one of serious confrontation. This was a serious row, one that could possibly cost Lestrade his job if he wasn't more careful with how he dealt with it.
The Chief ushered him into his private office, where Mycroft caught a glimpse of Dr. Watson.
A rather curious meeting, Mycroft mused.
"He's trying to get that man who supposedly murdered Elizabeth Collie off the hook, but the Chief is being stubborn about it. The facts are plain, it's the wife causing problems and not being willing to provide the alibi, claiming instead that he was gone the night of the girl's murder. But there's independent witnesses in his neighbourhood who claim they saw him on the front porch of his home, talking to the gardener the same hour the girl was believed to have been murdered. The wife won't admit her husband was home on account of believing him an adulterer, and that's where the story gets even weirder."
Mycroft swallowed with effort. How long was Lestrade going to be? Every breath felt an agony. "How so?"
"He claims he didn't have an affair with the girl at all. She kept sending him drawn pictures of himself and her, some of them a tad explicit if you get what I mean. Elizabeth Collie was an excellent artist if she'd put that talent to other uses, but she was obsessed and wouldn't leave the man alone. He hasn't got a clue how she managed to fixate on him, not when they'd never met. He'd gone round to Holloway a couple of times aiming to tell her to leave him alone, but he says it was like she was cemented to him more than ever. That last time was quite the shock for him, finding out she'd committed suicide, or so all of us thought before the facts won out. He says he ran out of Holloway like the devil was at his heels, and Inspector Lestrade himself can vouch for that." Constable Harding, ignoring Mycroft's pallor and obvious distress, leaned in to whisper in his ear. "It's Dr. Ziegler and I who calculated the time of death. Since it's spring there were plenty of fly eggs in the exposed cuts, some of which were in the early to mid larval stage. The fatness and number of the maggots measured out the timing perfectly. We took the eldest of them and counted backwards from there. A good twenty-three hours before the discovery of the body, which is the exact time the fellow was seen on his front porch."
"And his wife won't comply with this?"
"She's convinced he was having an affair with the girl. His wife had best change her tune lest she end up pleading her own case in court for trying to hinder a police investigation. As for the suspect's alibi, it's starting to pan out. Miss Collie's medical history has lots of examples of these sorts of histrionics, Dr. Watson himself was at risk of being one of her 'interests' and thus he passed her care along to a female colleague whom she didn't imprint on in the same way. Odd how people are. Do you want to see a sample of the maggot we took from the body? Dr. Ziegler and I preserved it!"
He took out a tiny vial from within his pocket and held it up to the gaslight, revealing the plump, round, white larvae that had gorged itself on death. Harding was sure to wax further poetic on his version of obsession, but Mycroft was relieved of that burden by the opening of the Chief's office door, through which both Lestrade and Dr. Watson made their leave. It was slammed behind them, which was a signal to Mycroft that Lestrade got his wish. The suspect in Miss Collie's case had been exonerated, and thus freed.
Lestrade rubbed his hands together as he brought Dr. Watson into his confidence. "It's all coming together now. That bastard Pottsdam will need to act, as I believe he knew he would, the fiction now forced to be real. You have those copies of her letters that I requested?"
Dr. Watson took a pale yellow envelope from out of his side pocket. "I do. And it is as you suspected, the essays we found do not match her handwriting. It's all a very strange business, Inspector, for why would this Pottsdam have involved himself in this way, there seems to be no reason to kill this girl at all."
"Because he has a complex ruse to enforce. He knows of my reputation and he knows of Mycroft's. We are men who will ensure the innocent are spared and the guilty are the ones who find the rope. How much better to muddy the waters of his own guilt with a monster of his own creation! That he was helping her with essays is a lie, but one he did not determine we were going to find out. He knew very well we would eventually find her paramour innocent, and thus he has a new suspect for us to waste time pursuing. A phantom who has a tireless need to destroy the unworthy illiterate. As he expects us to focus on this, he slips past us and away from that first case, the one where the unfortunate victim had molten metal poured into her ear, a gruesome death that suggests a personal vendetta."
“The unfortunate Constance Green,” Mycroft mused aloud.
Dr. Watson thought on this, his fingers absently stroking his chin. "I do believe you may be wandering into the gypsy territory of alienists, but there is something in this you are missing. You are yourself determined to find an alternate cause for his mischief, but perhaps it is far more simplistic and he is taking great pains to muddy your understanding."
Lestrade frowned. "How do you mean?"
"I mean, my good fellow, that it is the simple answer that explains the mad. He's enjoying his game because it is difficult to make sense of for both you and Mr. Holmes. You must be warned that all you believe of this man may be nothing but projection. His actions are what speaks. He likes to kill, and this ruse is simply a good excuse."
There was a pensive silence at this, one that Lestrade was enveloped in even as he approached Mycroft, the barest of nods acknowledging his company. Dr. Watson was the one who took in Mycroft's pallor with disappointed understanding, and he ushered them both out of the Yard, his girth sidling out of the front door and his arm waving madly for Mr. Pinter to bring the carriage around.
"He simply likes killing," Lestrade repeated, as though the words Dr. Watson had spoken belonged to Confucius himself.
"You'll need a very strong dose of that tea, my good man, and no exertion for the next few days, which should be an easy enough a prescription to follow. Thanks to your story, your notoriety is the talk of Holloway and the nurses think you should be tested for the syph." Dr. Watson helped Mycroft into the carriage, and bid both he and a still pensive Lestrade a good day. "It is my understanding that the Inspector is seeking to flush out Pottsdam thanks to your torrid tale, Mr. Holmes. But I feel it prudent to warn you that this does place you in danger, and as the time to the trial closes in, he now has his ready excuse to assassinate you. Be mindful of your environment and please keep a pistol handy. This is an unpredictable villain and though Inspector Lestrade believes he has found a motive, I am not so sure. The game is all around you, and the rules can change on a madman's whims." He placed a thick hand on Mycroft's shoulder, an alarming gesture that told of how genuinely worried the good doctor was. "Do not discount the significance of metaphor, Mr. Holmes. Symbolism is the language of the insane."
With this warning in mind, the carriage door was swung shut and a silent Lestrade remained with him for the rest of the journey to Baker Street. Mycroft's breathing was no better, his wheezes punctuating the small, dark space within, the curtains drawn and shutting all of London out. He longed to retreat to his bed, the bitter tea sipped as he went over the case that Pottsdam was working so hard for him to be distracted from. If anything, the opposite was now the result thanks to his carnage, and Mycroft had made extensive lists as to suppliers of aluminum and whether or not Pottsdam had purchased any. He didn't find anything of interest save for a gift of toy soldiers for the woman's eldest son which Pottsdam had purchased for the boy's birthday.
"Gregory," Mycroft whispered, for he didn't want to risk the effort speaking louder would tax on his lungs. "I don't mean to intrude on your deep thinking, but I have discovered some strange additional information in regards to the death of Elizabeth Collie. I was at the Alma Pub this afternoon and..."
Lestrade shot him a shocked look at this. "What in the devil were you doing there?"
Mycroft pressed his lips into a firm line, not liking the forcefulness of Lestrade's tone. "You have made it plain I am to be bait for your monster and yet the minute I seek any agency of my own in this investigation you seem to balk at it. Yes, I was at the Alma Pub, and I was there to talk to a very dangerous and cruel woman who has no name but who is clearly powerful enough to entice the full purse strings of the guilty. I had a meeting with a proud assassin, possibly of French origin."
Lestrade was alarmed further by this, and he turned away from Mycroft in anger. "You should never have gone there alone!"
"She has been hired by Pottsdam, not once, but twice," Mycroft coldly told him. "First, to kill Elizabeth Collie and second to enact the same result upon me." He frowned, realization coldly gripping his heart. "But you knew this..."
If he was hoping that Lestrade would be excited by this information, Mycroft was instead disappointed at the anger that only further brewed within the small cab of the carriage. "Foolish man! Of course I know of her, I knew who she was the second I saw her pretending to scrounge at the hem of Agnes's skirt! Irene Adler! The most fiendish assassin in all the world and both the bane and salvation of all its politics!" Lestrade sank back onto the leather cushion and buried his face in his hands, groaning at the added conundrum Mycroft had wrought. "This undoes everything!"
Mycroft was further confused. "I don't understand."
"As you weren't supposed to! She was his ghastly fiend, for his pattern is obvious to anyone who dares to really look! Think about it, Mycroft!"
But Mycroft remained as puzzled as ever, his difficult breathing making him dizzy as were the fragments Lestrade had left him with. The plan destroyed? What in the devil was he talking about?
"Dr. Watson has touched on a point that is only in the peripheral of our Professor Pottsdam's obsession. He believes the man enjoys killing people. While I agree with him, I'm afraid when it comes that being the sole goal, one has to create an addendum."
Mycroft let out a tortured whine of puzzlement, his wheezing whistling through his protests. "But you revealed none of this to me save to set me up as his prey! Really, Gregory, what are you on about? I half wonder if Sherlock's malady isn't affecting you as well!"
Lestrade braced himself, his face reddened with a fury that Mycroft could do little more against than back away from and remain quiet in its presence, hoping it wouldn't be directed at him. A few more moments passed and Lestrade was of a more human hue, his inner calm pulled out of that vast place of discipline where samurai lurked and geisha paint held sway.
"Pottsdam is addicted to making others suffer for his crimes. He is not a wordsmith, but a painter who frames his subjects in gaudy baroque. It's our release of his victims from jail that is forcing him to act. Both Mr. Greens are prime examples. His next attempt was to pin his murders on Irene Adler, from whom I could have taken countless amounts of information on murders committed on English soil and well beyond. But it is now too late to hope for such a two-fold gift. He will find another victim to pin his deadly work on. He thus remains beyond our grasp."