The Adventure of the Girl in the Attic 2/2
Title: The Adventure of the Girl in the Attic 2/2
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Violet Hunter, Jephro Rucastle, Emma Toller
Words: ~15,000
Summary: Dr. John Watson writes up an account of the Adventure of the Girl in the Attic, in which there is: a certain amount of boredom, a worried woman, nail polish, a strange performance, a locked room, a desperate rescue, a deadly dog, and an injured detective.
Notes: This is my second attempt to "convert" one of ACD's stories into an episode of the new Sherlock BBC series. I can't tell if I was actually successful or not. This time, the original story is The Adventure of the Copper Beeches which is one of my favorites. Betaed by rain_1975 . This just might be rubbish. If so, PLEASE tell me so I stop bombarding you with my weird Sherlock fic.
I leaned forward, certain I had misheard. "Sorry?"
"It was my hair," she repeated. "The same color, the same thickness, the same braid. But it was impossible, I knew there was no way my hair could--could teleport into a locked drawer. I yanked open my suitcase, dug through my belongings, and there, just where I'd left it, was my hair. I pulled it out and laid the braids side by side. They were identical. I couldn't figure out what it meant."
Sherlock nodded as if he knew exactly what it meant. He cupped his chin in one hand and tapped his long fingers against the table top; he was nearly vibrating with nervous energy.
"Had there been an au pair before me?" Violet wondered. "Did the Rucastles make everyone with ginger hair cut it off? Did they have a whole collection? I put the strange hair back and relocked the drawer. I didn't say anything to the Jephro because I didn't want to explain how I'd opened a drawer they'd clearly meant to keep locked.
"Jephro had said the house was modern. He was right. But I noticed there was a back bedroom that nobody used. The Tollers had their own suite with a kitchenette and bath right across from it. I tried the knob one day and found it locked. One evening, as I was heading to bed, I saw Jephro exit the room, a key in his hand, a furious look on his face. I barely recognized him. He walked past me without a word.
"The next day I took Eddie outside to play and spent some time walking around the house. I could tell where the mysterious bedroom was, but both windows had their shades drawn. Above the closed-up room was a small round window that had been painted over. As I looked curiously at the windows, Jephro came outside, his good humour restored.
"I'm sorry I gave you the cold shoulder last night,' he said. 'My mind was on work and I wasn't paying attention. I apologize.'
"I told him there was nothing to apologize for. Then I pointed to where the locked room was, and asked him what it was used for."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. He gave Violet an approving smile. "Excellent."
"Jephro looked surprised by my question and stammered a little before telling me he had an interest in photography. He said he used the room as a dark room, and that's why it was always locked. He laughed in his usual jokey way, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes. I could tell he was annoyed, maybe even suspicious.
"After that conversation, I knew there was something going on in that room that had nothing to do with photography. I thought if I could just see what was inside, maybe I'd find something to explain the strange events around the house: the performance in front of the window, the hair in my room, why Virginia cried when she thought no one was around.
"Yesterday was the first chance I had to sneak inside the room. I've seen Toller go inside a few times, always carrying a duffel. Once I saw Mrs. Toller carrying an armful of linen at the end of the hall, but it's possible she was coming from her own room and not the locked one. Toller has been drinking more than usual, and last night, when I came upstairs, I saw the key was still in the lock. I'm sure David is the one who left it there. I stood outside the door listening, trying to work up my courage. Jephro and Alice were downstairs with Eddie. I could hear water running in the kitchen, so I knew Emma was cleaning up after dinner. Toller was probably asleep in their room or outside with the dog. This was my one opportunity. I unlocked the door and went inside.
"The room was empty and uncarpeted. There was no furniture, no sign of photography equipment. I stared around, confused, until I saw a narrow door set in the far wall. The door was ajar, and led up to a small attic. I climbed the stairs as quietly as a could, half expecting to find a serial killer or Edward Rochester's wife waiting for me." She laughed nervously.
"I hope you found neither," I said.
"All I found was a dusty landing. There was another door, this one was locked with a heavy padlock. A large iron bar was also set across the door, like something out of an old movie. Each end of the bar fit into a slot in the wall.
"I could see a small band of light beneath the door. I knew instantly this was the room with the round window that had been painted over. But there was either electricity, a skylight, or both, to provide light to the locked room. I was trying to figure out what to do when I head footsteps. At first I thought it was Jephro, but then I realized they were coming from the other side of the door. A shadow passed back and forth as someone walked less than three feet away from me. I ran back down the steps, terrified. I had to get out of there before Jephro found me. I ran out of the room...and right into Mr. Rucastle."
Bloody hell. This girl new how to tell a story. I felt like I was about to fall off the edge of my chair. I glanced at Sherlock to gauge his reaction. He was still tapping his fingers, his expression inscrutable. My expression must have been plenty scrutable, because Violet leaned over and patted my arm in a there, there gesture. Now it was my turn to blush.
"Jephro smiled," Violet told us, "and grabbed my wrist. He said he'd heard someone in the room. I've never fainted in my life," she admitted, "but I came pretty damn close in that hallway.
"'Are you okay?' Jephro asked me. 'What's wrong?'
"He was trying to look friendly and unconcerned, but I could hear the lie in his voice. For the first time I saw exactly how brittle his smile was. I wanted nothing more than to get away from him.
"I'm sorry,' I told him. 'I was curious about your photography equipment, but I see the dark room is actually upstairs. I was afraid to go up, that empty bedroom is so cold. I don't believe in ghosts, but if I did, I'd swear that room is haunted.' I shivered, and pulled away from him, trying my best to look nervous instead of terrified.
"Jephro reached out and closed the door behind me. 'Why do you think I keep this room locked?' he asked.
"To protect your photos?'
"'To keep out people who have no business going in there. Do you understand?' He was still smiling as if we were the best of friends.
"I told him I was sorry, that I hadn't known.
"'Now you do,' he said, and his smile hardened into a look of rage. "And if you ever go into that room again, I will throw you to Carlo myself.'"
Sherlock clapped his hands and beamed, delighted. "Fantastic. Utterly fantastic."
Violet looked as if Holmes had slapped her.
I caught Sherlock's gaze and mouthed Not good.
Sherlock stared at me, eyebrows dipping. "Oh. Right. Of course it's not, ah, fantastic Rucastle threatened you," he added quickly, "but it is fantastic we see through his facade. We see what is really happening." Sherlock gave our client a reproachful look. "And you misspoke, my dear Violet. At the beginning of your narrative you told us the Rucastles had not threatened you. But I think you will agree that is not strictly true." He took a sip of coffee. "Please finish your story."
Violet gave me a sidelong glance.
I gave her a friendly nod to continue. I didn't need to be a consulting detective to know Violet was over her flirtation with Sherlock.
"I was so scared I didn't know what to do," she admitted. "The man outside the room was not the man who hired me, who made me laugh, who complimented me on my patience with Edward." Violet wrapped her arms around herself. "Or maybe he was. Maybe this was the man who hired me.
"I ran straight into my room, put a chair in front of the door, and sat in the space between the bed and wall until morning. As soon as I woke up I texted you.
"I don't know what to do," Violet told us. "I'm afraid of the house, of Jephro, the servants, that bloody dog." She pressed her fingertips to her mouth. "I'm--I'm even afraid of Edward. But now that you're here, I know things will get better. I've told you everything that's happened, Mr. Holmes. Now I need you to tell me what to do."
Sherlock abruptly pushed his chair back and stood. He began to pace around the table, hands shoved into his pockets, forehead wrinkled in concentration. A few patrons glanced at him curiously as he walked the circuit a third time.
A young, round-faced waitress came over. "Excuse me, sir, is everything okay?"
Holmes scowled at her. "Definitely not."
"Sherlock, she was wondering if everything okay with the meal," I pointed out delicately.
Sherlock glanced at his untouched plate. "I have no idea." He sniffed. "But I doubt it."
The waitress blinked rapidly, then flashed me a nervous look.
"Everything's fine," I told her. "Just wonderful. Thank you."
"Okay," she said uncertainly. "Just let me know if you need anything else."
She turned to go, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed her hand with a speed I didn't know he possessed. He squinted at her purple fingernails.
"How long ago did you paint these?" he demanded, giving her hand a little impatient shake.
The girl took a step backwards and tugged her hand free from Sherlock's grasp. "I uh, don't remember," she whispered, looking dazed. She nearly ran back to the kitchen.
Sherlock frowned, then turned back to us. I stared at him. Violet was busy looking at Sherlock's left hand.
He stared back at me. "What?" he asked, completely oblivious. He rolled his eyes, put a hand to forehead. "Of course. I got off track. That waitress reminded me about something I was thinking about earlier." He continued his course around the table, muttering. "We have two locked rooms, a dog big enough to wear a saddle, a lackluster Peeping Tom, a drawer full of mysterious hair, and a complicated man who hides behind an easy smile." Sherlock stopped behind Violet. He spoke to the top of her head. "Is Toller still drunk?"
Violet nodded. "As far as I know. I heard Emma complain to Virginia she couldn't get him out of bed this morning."
"Excellent." Sherlock resumed his walk, absently rubbing his hands together. "You said you needed to return to Copper Beeches shortly. Why?"
"Jephro needs the car, he and Virginia are going out tonight."
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck. "They'll be out of the house?"
"Yes."
"Good, good. Does the house have a basement? A wine cellar?"
"There's a wine cellar. Jephro put it in last year."
"Does the door lock?"
"Yes."
Sherlock crouched down in front of Violet. He put one hand on each side of her chair. "You have acted very bravely, Ms. Hunter. Do you think you could perform one more task? I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you capable."
Violet smiled nervously. "I'll try. What do you want me to do?"
"John and I will be at Copper Beeches at 7:00 tonight. The Rucastles will be gone by then, correct?"
She nodded.
"David will hopefully be incapacitated. That only leaves Mrs. Toller to call the Rucastles back home. Do you think you could send her down to the cellar on some pretense, sans cell phone, and lock her down there?"
The anxiety left Violet's smile. "I think I'd enjoy that, actually. Anyone else you want me to lock down there?"
Sherlock looked amused. "Not right now." He stood. "I'll let you know if that changes." He slapped the table, pleased. "Excellent! We'll get to the bottom of this tonight." He looked at me. "You remember I said I had eight different explanations for the Jephro's behavior?"
"I remember."
"There is only one possible explanation now." He dropped back into his chair. "You have been hired to impersonate someone, Ms. Hunter. Someone whom I believe has been locked in the attic. You have been wearing Alice Rucastle's clothing, you cut your hair, you found hair similar to your own in Alice's old room." Sherlock spread his hands.
"Inference? Alice Rucastle is not in Philadelphia, or anywhere else in the United States. She is a prisoner in her own home. You were chosen for this position," Sherlock explained rapidly, "not because of your talent with children, but because of your resemblance to Jephro Rucastle's daughter."
Violet's eyes went wide. It would have been comical if mine hadn't done the same.
Realization dawned. "The dog isn't to keep people out, it's to keep Alice in," I said, outraged.
"Elementary," Sherlock agreed. "I don't know why Alice cut her hair, but it meant yours had to come off as well. It's only thanks to your curious nature you discovered the braid. As for the man watching your little play, unless I am mistaken--and I am not--he is Alice's friend, boyfriend, or fiance."
"But what was the point of the performances?" I asked.
Annoyance flashed across Sherlock's angular face at my sub-par intellect. "First, Alice's friend would have seen her laughing, in obvious good spirits. Second, she waved him away. Conclusion?"
"That I--I mean Alice--was no longer interested in him," Violet said excitedly.
"That's ridiculous," I sputtered. "Why didn't he just call? Or knock on the door?"
"I would presume the Rucastles did not enter into this charade lightly, John. There must have been confrontations between this young man and Jephro in the past." He lifted an eyebrow. "And I rather doubt Alice was allowed to bring her cell phone into the attic."
I thought back to Sherlock's words on the train, the secrets hidden behind closed doors. The lies. I felt a burning desire for vengeance on behalf of a girl I didn't even know.
Sherlock folded his hands and touched them to his chin. "One of the most worrisome factors in this case is young Edward's temperament."
I wasn't sure what Sherlock was getting at. "What about it?"
"American psychologists are fond of going on and on about the Macdonald triad, John. Do you know the three characteristics associated with sociopathic behavior?"
I didn't, but I was certain Sherlock knew them by heart. Or possibly, from experience.
"As a member of the medical profession, you should really be aware of such things." Sherlock said, then shrugged one shoulder. "But since I find them more or less rubbish, I take no offense at your lack of knowledge." He smiled pleasantly. "This time."
I regarded him wearily. "Can't I just learn then from watching you?"
Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. "Are you trying to be humorous or derisive? I can't quite tell. Frankly, I don't have the time or interest to find out. The characteristics are," he ticked them off on his fingers, "cruelty to animals, setting fires, and bed wetting."
"My God," Violet said, "Eddie has had several accidents since I started."
"The question isn't whether Edward is a sociopath, the question is: is he troubled? I am confident the answer is yes. He takes pleasure in being cruel. I don't know if he gets this behavior from his smiling father, his silent mother, or if he was born with it ticking away inside his head. Regardless of the cause, Copper Beeches is not a place for children, and I'm not just talking about Eddie. I'm talking about Alice Rucastle."
"I'm ashamed I didn't realize what they were doing right away," Violet said softly. "The entire time I've been in that house, Alice has been trapped up there. Jesus, I feel sick." Violet did look ill, her face had gone pale. "I could have called the police." She lifted her head, defiant. "I still can."
"No." Sherlock's expression left no room for argument. "No police until we are certain Alice is safe."
"Can't we go get her now?" I asked. "My God, Sherlock! Who knows how long she's been trapped in that attic? Why wait until tonight?"
Sherlock was the only one of us to remain calm. "Because we are dealing with a very cunning man. We'll wait until he's gone, and then we'll rescue Alice." Sherlock smiled grimly. "And trap Jephro."
* * *
The taxi dropped us off on Southhampton Street. Copper Beeches stood before us, just as Violet had described it: a drab square surrounded by trees. Besides us, the street was empty. So was the driveway. The beeches stood in the yard, their leaves shone like polished metal in the fading light. Violet stood on the front stoop, smiling at our approach.
"Where's Emma Toller?" Sherlock asked her.
"Listen."
We did. We could hear muted pounding, along with something that sounded suspiciously like let me out of here you, stupid bitch.
Holmes nodded in satisfaction.
"David Toller is passed out on the kitchen floor." Violet held out a ring of keys. "His keys are duplicates of Jephro's."
Sherlock performed a little jump of excitement. "Well done!" He hesitated in front of the door. "And little Eddie?"
"Sleeping."
"Already?"
Violet squinted up at the sky. "Um, it's possible I put a few tablets of his allergy medicine in his cup of hot chocolate."
Sherlock regarded her carefully. "Possible or likely?"
"Very likely."
Sherlock beamed. He pointed to Violet. "Oh ho! This one is clever. Very clever indeed." He inclined his head toward the house. "Lead the way, madam."
I wasn't sure clever was the right word for drugging a child, but I kept that thought to myself.
She went into the house and we followed. We hurried up to the locked room and waited impatiently while she turned the key. As soon as the door was open Sherlock pushed through it and ran up the stairs.
"Alice!" I called. "It's going to be all right! We'll get you out of there!"
Sherlock pulled the bar away from the door and tossed it over Violet's head. It clattered across the bare wooden floor below. He pounded on the door.
"Alice Rucastle? Can you hear me?"
"Alice!" Violet called. Her hands shook as she searched the ring of keys. None of the keys fit the padlock.
There was no answer from the other side of the door.
"Damn it," Sherlock muttered. He turned to Violet. "We're going to find our own way in, Ms. Hunter. Please step back. John, help me. On the count of three. One. Two. Three."
We threw ourselves at the door. The wood splintered at the combined weight of our shoulders. I grimaced in pain, and then we were inside the room.
There was an old mattress on the floor. A bowl of water and a threadbare towel sat beside it. A bucket and roll of toilet paper stood in the corner.
The skylight was open above us. I turned in a circle. There was no place to hide, Alice was gone. I glimpsed writing on the wall, fragments of words written in biro.
My name is Alice Rucastle.
I love Tony Fowler.
I'm going to die here.
I wish I was dead.
Please help me.
"Oh my God," Violet moaned. "We're too late."
A strip of silver packing tape was balled up on the floor. Sherlock strode to the other end of the room and looked in the bucket.
"More tape," he said. "Her hands were bound."
How could a parent do such a thing to their own child? I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand.
Violet gently touched a line of writing on the wall. She began to cry.
Sherlock glanced up at the skylight. "Rucastle got here first." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "He's taken her to some new hiding spot."
I shook my head. "But how? How did he know we were coming?"
Sherlock reached for the edge of the skylight and swung himself up onto the roof. "There's a ladder against the side of the house," he called down. Anger clipped his words into tight syllables.
Violet pulled her cell from her pocket. "But the ladder wasn't there when I left. I swear it wasn't! I don't understand! What do we do now?"
Sherlock's long legs returned through the window. He lowered himself to the floor with little effort.
"We be on our guard," Sherlock said. "That's what we do. You're not the only clever one here, Violet. Our Mr. Rucastle is no fool. He must have returned without your knowing." He looked at me, face pale, eyes bright. "You hear that, John? I think Jephro Rucastle is about to pay us a visit. This might be a good time to have your gun handy."
I had hardly reached for my weapon when a man burst into the room. He was heavy and squat, his face shone with perspiration, his smile turned my stomach. He carried a baseball bat in one hand.
He glared at Violet. "You conniving bitch," he snarled.
"You call me conniving?" Violet demanded through her tears. "How dare you! You're a monster!" She wiped her face with the back of a hand. "You treat that dog better than you treat your own daughter!"
I gently pushed Violet behind me. I placed myself between her and her employer. I was too angry to be afraid.
"What," Sherlock asked calmly, his voice hard as steel, "have you done with Alice?"
Rucastle ignored the question and raced up to the attic.
"What did you do with her?" Rucastle called back. "You have no right to be here! Give me back my daughter and get the hell out of my house!"
He raised the bat and swung. The bucket flew across the room. He smashed a hole in the wall. "You bastards," he spit. "You'll pay for this!"
The man turned, rushed passed us, and dashed back into the hall.
"He's going to get Carlo!" Violet screamed.
I showed her my gun. "We'll be all right." Sherlock's footsteps pounded down the stairs after Rucastle. "Call 999," I told Violet, and ran after my friend.
"John!" Sherlock called. His voice was already distant. "We can't let him get away!"
I reached the entry way. The front door stood open. Violet was behind me. The hoarse barking of a dog started in the back garden, then grew frenzied. "Lock the door," I shouted, and hurried towards the noise.
An old man stumbled out of the kitchen, his eyes huge with terror. "Someone let the dog loose! Sweet Jesus, he hasn't been fed in two days! Help me or he'll kill somebody!"
An agonized scream rose high over the dog's incessant barking. The howling stopped, replaced by a horrible, low snarling. The sound of teeth tearing at flesh. The screaming spiraled into a ghastly shriek and I realized I was hearing two distinct voices. Dear God, Sherlock.
I plunged through the door onto the lawn. Violet gripped my arm and I shook her hand loose. Toller stood yelling at the guard dog, but his voice was instantly drowned by the cacophony.
Rucastle was on the ground. Carlo's teeth were buried in Jephro's neck. The man writhed in the grass, a dreadful wheeze whistling from his ruined throat. Sherlock knelt beside Rucastle, both hands clamped around the dog's muzzle, desperately trying to pull the deadly teeth from the wounded man.
"Stop," Sherlock screamed through clenched teeth. "Stop. It."
The dog did not listen.
I raised my weapon and fired.
Carlo collapsed instantly, half crushing Sherlock.
"Bloody hell!" Sherlock grunted, and shoved at the dead animal with his shoulder.
Toller and I pulled the beast off Sherlock and Rucastle. Holmes pressed his hands to Rucastle's throat.
"My scarf," he said, "John, my scarf." His voice was hoarse.
I pulled the scarf from Sherlock's neck and wadded it around Rucastle's.
"An ambulance is coming!" Violet announced. She dropped to her knees on the other side of Rucastle and held the makeshift bandage in place.
Rucastle stared at her dully, his eyes leaking tears. I elevated his feet and had Toller bring a blanket from the sitting room. Beyond keeping him warm, there was little I could do without my medic kit or access to a hospital.
Sherlock's face was streaked with blood, but I couldn't tell if it was his, Rucastle's, or the dog's.
"Are you all right?" I asked him.
He nodded, eyes on Rucastle. "Don't you dare die," he hissed.
"Sherlock, your hands!" Violet cried, her voice perilously close to hysterical.
Sherlock's right hand had an angry scratch along the side of his palm. His left hand, however, had been bitten to the bone. The back of his hand bled profusely. The skin on several of his knuckles was gone, two of his fingers were bruised and swollen.
"Jesus Christ," I shouted, aghast, "did you let the dog use your hand as a bloody chew toy?"
"It's fine."
"Shut up," I snapped. "You're going to hospital. You need to get your hand sewed up. For Christ's sake, Sherlock, it could be broken."
Sherlock wiggled his fingers slowly, grimacing.
"There, see? Good as new."
I tried again. "Sherlock--"
"There is woman missing from this house," Sherlock said coldly. "I am not leaving until I know where she is."
An elderly woman stepped out of the house holding a towel. She handed it to Sherlock.
"I think I can help with that," she said.
By now all the first floor lights had been turned on, as well as the light in the garage. Our small party stood or knelt within a pale square of light while the rest of the lawn was enveloped in shadow.
I snatched the towel from Sherlock and wrapped his hand carefully while he talked.
"You are Emma Toller?"
The woman nodded.
"Mr. Toller, while we hear what your wife has to say, would you mind waiting at the front of the house? Someone needs to direct the ambulance technicians to Mr. Rucastle."
"I don't mind," David said. His eyes lingered on the still form of his dog, then he made for the road.
"I-I'm sorry I locked you in the basement," Violet told the old housekeeper.
Emma sighed. "I'm sorry I called you a bitch. But this night woulda turned out mighty different if you'da taken me into your confidence. I coulda told you Mr. Holmes' presence wasn't necessary."
Sherlock managed a faint smile. "You know more than you let on, Mrs. Toller. Enlighten us."
"If someone hadn't locked me in the cellar, I coulda--"
"You have your freedom now," Sherlock interrupted. He cradled his hand against his chest and leveled a cool gaze at Emma. "Where is Alice?"
"I just want you to know I never approved of what Mr. Rucastle did. I shoulda told the truth long ago, but I'm tellin' it now." Emma took a shaky breath. "I hope that counts for somethin'.
"Miss Alice was miserable ever since her father remarried. She missed her mum, and Jephro didn't give her no choice about the marriage or movin' house or nothin'. The more Alice argued, the tighter Jephro held on to her. He took her cell phone, sold her car, forbid her goin' to university. He said she had to help take care of Eddie. I swear, Mr. Holmes, that girl was more of a servant than I was.
"Everythin' changed when Alice met Tony. I've never seen two people more in love. They was like two halves of a whole. If Mr. Rucastle couldn't stand the thought of Alice goin' away to school, you can guess how he felt about her gettin' hitched. He was on her all the time to leave that boy, until she finally got sick from all the worry. She wasn't sleepin' and she didn't eat enough to keep a baby bird breathin'. She got pneumonia last winter and I was scared she wasn't gonna live to see the tulips bloom.
"But she pulled through. She cut her hair, packed her things, and was ready to walk out the door when Mr. Rucastle came home from work. He picked her right up off the ground and carried her back inna house. I never saw nothin' like it." Emma stared down at Rucastle. "Shame on you," she said in a tremulous voice. Her shoulders sagged. "And shame on me for not sayin' a word."
"How long did Rucastle have her locked in the attic?" Sherlock asked.
"Close to three months, I'd say."
"And he brought Ms. Hunter here to get rid of Tony Fowler?"
"I think that's what he was hopin' would happen, Mr. Holmes." Emma smiled wanly. "But Mr. Rucastle didn't take into account how much that boy loved Alice.
"Tony works for his father's landscaping service. They cut a good many lawns, cut down trees, plant bushes all around Winchester. That's how Tony met Alice inna first place, he came to cut down a tree that blew down in a storm.
"Tony's a kind boy. He's made his way here more than once to check on Alice. Yesterday mornin' he dropped off a gift for my husband."
"A case of beer," Violet said. "I saw David drinking outside the shed."
"That's right. When David gets to drinkin' he forgets to let ol' Carlo out."
"And he doesn't notice there's a great big ladder propped up against the side of the house," I said, relief flooding through me. "I wonder, does that ladder come from a local landscaping business?"
Mrs. Toller smiled. "I think you already know the answer to that one."
"I owe you an apology, Emma," Violet said softly. "I--I thought you were helping Rucastle keep his secret."
"I was," Emma said sadly. "But you thought I was keepin' my mouth shut 'cause I wanted to. Truth is, I didn't trust myself to open it without the truth fallin' out all over my feet. You don't owe me no apology Miss Violet. I owe you one. And to Miss Alice."
Distant sirens grew closer. The staccato blare of the ambulance and the wail of a panda car.
Within minutes the ambulance techs had Jephro Rucastle strapped to a gurney. A response vehicle arrived from Winchester just as Virginia Rucastle pulled into the driveway. She began screaming the minute she saw her husband and nearly climbed over one of the technicians to reach him.
Violet stayed with Edward for the night. The next morning she made arrangements to move back to London. If Rucastle lived, he would likely face a much-publicized trial. By the time I drove a still protesting Sherlock to the hospital, he already had several online contacts looking for Tony Fowler and Alice Rucastle.
* * *
"Look at that," Sherlock said, showing me his heavily bandaged hand. "Less than 36 hours and the nail polish is nearly gone." He frowned at the chipped paint on his thumb. "Why do women even bother?"
"Most women don't arm wrestle with a starving dog," I pointed out.
The taxi pulled up in front of 221B. I paid the driver and ran around to the side of the vehicle to open Sherlock's door.
He glared at me. "I'm not an invalid," he grumbled.
"Believe me, I know. If you were an invalid, you'd actually let people help you."
"I doubt that," Sherlock muttered.
The door opened and Mrs. Hudson stood there in her pink dressing gown and slippers. Her hair was done up in curlers. She took one look at Sherlock and threw her arms around him.
"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself? Haven't I told you to be careful? Haven't I? Now you come inside at once and I'll make you a nice cuppa. John told me all about that nasty dog." She waved a hand. "Dogs," she sniffed, as if the word carried an odor. "No one ever heard of a nice kitty-cat biting your hand off." She paused. "Well, unless you count a tiger, I suppose. Or a--"
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said stiffly and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "But I don't need any tea. I don't have an orange blanket and I don't have a limp." He waved his bandaged hand back forth. "See? Perfectly fine. Now. I'm going to go upstairs and go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
Mrs. Hudson shot me a worried look once Sherlock was gone.
"Is he really all right?"
I patted her shoulder. "Of course he is," I told her. "He has the two of us looking after him."
Mrs. Hudson giggled. "He does, doesn't he?"
"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," I called, and took the stairs two at a time.
Sherlock was sitting on the couch, arms folded awkwardly.
"When did you call Mrs. Hudson?" he demanded.
"While you were getting stitched up."
"Good Lord, you could have called all of England twice over in the time it took that incompetent buffoon to do a few sutures and administer antibiotics."
"He wasn't incompetent," I informed Sherlock. "He was afraid."
Sherlock snorted. "Afraid? Of what?"
I pulled off my coat and threw it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Of you. The way you kept critiquing him? He was trying to help you, Sherlock."
"Is that what he was doing? I could have done a better job myself. Did you see how sloppy those stitches were? For God's sake, Molly does a better job on cadavers." His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Why didn't you sew up my hand?"
I smirked. "Because I was talking to Mrs. Hudson. And because I'm not on staff at Royal Hampshire."
Holmes sighed and reached for his violin. He looked down at his injured hand in disgust.
"I can't even play," he said irritably. He plucked at the strings with his good hand. The violin produced various sounds, but I can't, in good conscience, call those sounds music.
He flopped back on the cushions. "Bugger all."
"You should really get some sleep," I told him. He was even paler than usual. His looked like he hadn't slept in a month.
He kicked off his shoes, smacked his lips, stretched. He looked at me.
"What?"
He continued to stare.
"What?" I looked at my watch. "You're not due for more pain meds for another two hours."
"That reminds me." Sherlock reached into his pocket with some difficulty. He tossed two white pills onto the floor. "I didn't need these."
I looked down at the pills. They resembled a pair of round, wide eyes. They looked back in surprise.
"Sherlock? Why didn't you take your pain medication?" I asked in what I considered a very patient tone.
He shrugged. "I think better without it."
"You think better when you're in pain?"
Another shrug. He rolled his eyes. "Go ahead."
I sat at the kitchen table. "Go ahead with what?" I felt like I'd accidentally fallen into a surreal game of Twenty Questions.
"Go ahead and ask. I know you've been dying to since I brought it up."
"Ask wha--" I stopped. Now it was my turn to stare. How the hell did he know?
I rubbed my chin. "Well. Um." Now that he'd given me permission, that was about all I could manage.
Sherlock inspected one of his blackened fingernails. "Not since I was four. And only then because Mycroft put my hand in a bowl of water." Sherlock made a face. "Ah, Mycroft. Always the wit."
"What about animals?"
"I've done countless experiments, but." One eyebrow arched. "The animals were already dead when they reached the lab." He smiled humourlessly. "For the longest time I thought live animals smelled of formaldehyde just like their dead counterparts."
"Have you ever wanted to kill an animal?" I asked. "And I'm not talking about hunting." I thought of Carlo. "Or self defence."
"Only homo sapiens," Sherlock said indifferently. He pushed out his lower lip and regarded me with weary eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?"
"No cigarettes," I said in my best doctor voice.
He looked toward the mantle.
"And none of your bloody nicotine patches. You're hurt, Sherlock."
Sherlock gave me a sulky look.
"And no cigarettes," I repeated slowly, "because you...might start a fire?"
Sherlock let out a sigh worthy of a Shakespearean performance.
"No, John. I haven't set any fires." He paused. "Oh wait. There was that one time at Cambridge."
"What?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said quickly, and proceeded to study the floor with a great deal of interest.
I opened my laptop. "Maybe you're not a sociopath after all."
"Who cares," Holmes said. He closed his eyes. "I'm already bored. What am I supposed to do without nicotine and music?"
"You could always call Violet," I suggested. "You know, have a chat. Go for coffee."
He looked like I suggested he brush his teeth in the toilet.
"What's the point?" he asked. "The case is over."
Okay then. Sociopath it was. Macdonald triad be damned.
Sherlock pushed himself up with his good hand, scrubbed at his face. He sighed again. I could tell Sherlock wasn't himself because he walked around the table instead of over it.
"Sherlock? Can I ask you one more question?"
"What?"
"Why did you save Rucastle's life?"
Sherlock brushed his fingertips over the faded Union Jack pillow. He spoke to the pillow, not me.
"Because he made his daughter piss in a bucket."
"Sorry?"
He inhaled sharply, exhaled. His face was pulled taught with an emotion I couldn't place; his eyes looked bruised. "Jephro Rucastle treated his daughter like a piece of furniture, like something he could lock away in an attic and forget. He made her sleep on the floor and piss in a bucket." Now Sherlook looked up and his smile was bitter. "I admit I don't understand human emotions at the best of times, John. But even I know forcing your child into a prison is unconscionable.
"Jephro's death would have been a release," Sherlock told me in a low voice. "And I was not willing to grant him that. I would have let that dog bite off my hand before I'd let Rucastle die." Sherlock walked towards his room. "Not when he can suffer instead."
I stared at Sherlock's back.
He paused in the doorway to his bedroom. "Does that answer your question?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. I didn't know what to say.
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock murmured, and closed the door quietly behind him.
I sat still for several minutes. I thought about the words Alice wrote on the wall of her attic cell. I thought of her inner strength. Her courage. Of Violet's. And Sherlock's. He told me once he wasn't a hero, that there's no such thing. He's right. Sherlock is something better. He's the man who inspires me to think harder, smarter, more. He's the man who woke me up when I didn't even realize I was sleeping.
I pulled up my blog. It had been over a week since I posted. I decided to write up my notes on the Adventure of the Girl in the Attic while they were still fresh in my mind.
I wrote until the words began to blur. When I went to bed it was nearly 2:00 a.m. Sherlock's bedroom door was still closed, there was no thread of light beneath the door. I thought again of Alice Rucastle and her horrific ordeal. Even if we hadn't been the ones to save her, I was elated she was free.
* * *
The next morning, the smell of coffee woke me before my alarm. I made my way downstairs to find the cafetière warming on the hot plate. A box of biscuits sat on the counter. Next to the biscuits was my laptop. There was a post-it note attached to the screen.
Sherlock's handwriting looped across the yellow square of paper.
1. Went on errand.
Not a lot in the way of detail, but at least he'd remembered to leave a note. Yawning, I reached for my mug.
2. Will be back soon. Possibly.
I chuckled. So much for being specific.
3. Look at the screen.
My good mood wavered. Knowing Sherlock, he'd worked out my password again and spent the last hour editing my case notes. I touched the space bar and the screen saver faded. I was surprised to see Sherlock hadn't even touched my blog. Instead, a photo of a young man and woman filled the screen. I squinted. Not a photo, CCTV footage.
The couple walked along the street, hand-in-hand, smiling. Behind them stood what looked like Brixton Town Hall. The man wore a baseball cap, the woman had shoulder-length hair. Freckles dotted her nose. She was very thin, but her smile was brilliant.
I looked back at the post-it, but there was no explanation. I scrolled down and saw the photo was an e-mail attachment. I opened the e-mail. There were five words.
Mr. and Mrs. Tony Fowler.
When I poured the coffee, my smile was as broad as Alice Fowler's.