Birthday fic: The Missing Buttons of Captain Penrose | Chapter Six
Holmes/Watson | PG-13 (violence in this chapter) | 5,110 words
A/N: For avictoriangirl . Meep, I think Brett!Holmes snuck in a little bit at the beginning here.
Beginning: <
Previously: <
The Missing Buttons of Captain Penrose
Chapter Six:
bruises and buttons in the woods
Holmes and Watson set off across the lawns, falling easily into step with one another. Excited energy coiled within Holmes, evident to Watson in the jaunty lightness of his tread. For his own part, Watson felt his body - as ever - picking up on Holmes' attitude and rushing to match it.
‘Someone has used this route regularly,’ Holmes said. ‘And it is not just our helpful kitchen maids. See -’ he paused, pointing to a large footprint - ‘a man’s boot. Too big for Julian Penrose and the gardener had rounded boots. These are square-toed.’
He stepped on again, his pace brisk. ‘Admirably done by the way, Watson.’
Watson grew warm at the unexpected praise.
‘I was most impressed. I shall have to let you lead more often. It gave me the perfect opportunity to scrutinise the servants - ha! They barely so much as glanced at me! Quite refreshing.’
‘Thank you, Holmes.’
Holmes shrugged: he was only speaking the truth. ‘There were, I believe, only three points which you missed.’
A little of Watson’s joy deflated. ‘Three?’ he asked, trying to sound neither annoyed nor pathetic.
Holmes held up his hand, and lifted his index finger. ‘One: Mrs Harris said she took Captain Penrose coffee as refreshment. But this was in the afternoon: why would she take him coffee instead of tea?’
‘Perhaps it was normal for Captain Penrose - a quirk of his.’
‘Ah! But what was it the maid said?’
Watson thought back. ‘She said Mrs Harris went back after taking the Captain his tea.’
‘Precisely.’ Holmes flashed him a quick smile. ‘A slip of the tongue perhaps but I think not.
‘Two: Mrs Harris returned to the study shortly after taking the Captain his coffee, under the pretence of checking his health and removing the tray. You may say it is not a pretence but, again, it was unusual enough behaviour for the curious maid to notice and comment on it. Why, then, did Mrs Harris return? What is she hiding?’
‘You don’t like Mrs Harris.’
‘Who I like and do not like is irrelevant, Watson.’
Ahead of them, the lawn ran into trees - not the neat rows of an organised, planned avenue, but the thick, haphazard sprawl of natural woodland. The track they were following led straight into it.
‘Three,’ said Holmes, his stride never faltering, his eyes on the ground. ‘You were unfortunately faced with a front view of Mrs Harris throughout the duration of the interview, but did you happen to notice her buttons as she left the room?’
Watson frowned. ‘The buttons on the back of her gown? No.’
‘A shame. If you had, you would have seen that they were mismatched and poorly sewn on.’
‘Well?’
‘They have been sewn on recently, otherwise being so loose they would have quickly dropped off. Every housekeeper can sew expertly: Mrs Harris must have been distressed when she sewed on this wobbly row of buttons.’
‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything,’ Watson said.
‘You will.’ Holmes stopped.
In front of them, the path bisected, one strand bearing off to the left and curving round the tree-line, and the other heading straight into the woods. Holmes crouched briefly over each path.
‘That way leads to the village,’ he said. ‘Our man goes straight on.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Watson. He eyed the woods warily. There were too many hiding places in there for his liking.
Holmes took a few steps forward and then paused once more. ‘Ah, Watson. In the swift manner of my departure of Baker Street, I forgot my revolver. Do you have yours?’
Watson resisted the undignified urge to roll his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall depend entirely upon you. Do you think you can manage?’
‘Of course,’ said Watson, knowing as he spoke that the entire conversation was unnecessary. Holmes knew Watson was more than capable of guarding his back, and Watson knew Holmes did not need a gun in his hand to stave off enemies: he served well enough with his bare hands, his calculating mind, and his fiery energy.
Nevertheless, Watson drew his revolver out of his pocket and checked the barrel.
They stepped under the shade of the trees, Holmes ahead and Watson half a step behind him. It was a quiet, green woodland, the trees becoming dense within a few feet. Between the trunks, the ground was covered with a net of brambles and ferns and moss. The birds chattered above them.
The path they followed was little more than a thin rabbit track winding between the trees but it had been well-trod. They walked quickly and were soon well within the woods. At this stage, Watson knew the thrill of adrenaline should be starting to pump into his system, but something felt wrong. Perhaps it was just that he and Holmes had been so erratic towards each other recently, but there was a nervousness lacing his anticipation.
The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.
‘Holmes,’ said Watson, voice low among the trees. ‘Who are we expecting to find here?’
Holmes was silent for such a long moment that Watson did not think he was going to reply. He sighed quietly to himself; he trusted Holmes implicitly but it always helped to have some idea of the dangers they were walking straight into.
Here the danger, Watson was aware, could come at any moment. He kept his eyes on the trees around them as they walked. Holmes kept his gaze firmly on the floor.
‘Watson,’ Holmes eventually said. ‘What did you gather from our discussion with Thorn?’
‘That Captain Penrose had monetary issues and owed this "P.C." a great deal.’ A sound echoed to his left, a flap of wings, and Watson felt his heart skip a beat, his muscles tense.
‘Come, Watson, is that all?’ There was a gently teasing tone to Holmes' voice and Watson knew Holmes' excitement was to blame.
‘There was a woman involved - an Edith.’
‘Where have your wits gone? You're not trying very hard.’
‘That's because,’ Watson ground out through clenched teeth, his hand hovering near the pocket containing his gun, ‘I'm waiting for us to get pounced on, or shot at, or otherwise attacked.’
Holmes stopped walking and turned to raise an eyebrow at Watson. ‘Paranoid, Watson?’
‘I'm being realistic, Holmes. This is exactly the kind of place we get attacked.’
‘Desperate men take reckless chances once they know we're on their tails.’
‘Desperate men,’ said Watson, letting his careful surveillance slip to focus on Holmes, ‘can still making surprisingly accurate attackers.’
‘Not accurate enough, clearly. We are still present and correct, with all our faculties in working order.’
‘For now, yes. There might come a time when - ’
‘Which is why I have you, my dear Watson.’
Watson narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Holmes. ‘I might be a doctor, Holmes, but I'm not God. There are some wounds no man can fix.’
‘Then I shall do my utmost not to acquire any of them.’ Holmes was casual, his eyes moving in an easy way over Watson, his shoulders and hands loose, free of tension.
Watson sighed. ‘When you get shot through your thick skull and lie bleeding out on the ground, you'll deduce that I know what I'm talking about.’
‘If I get shot in the head I doubt I'll have much time for deducing anything.’
Despite himself, Watson felt the corners of his mouth turning up. Holmes met his eyes and gave him a small, quick smile of his own, languid despite its haste.
A bluetit chirped somewhere above them.
‘You know,’ said Watson, relaxing and tucking one hand into a pocket. ‘If we were not hunting down a murderous blackmailer, this would be a very peaceful spot.’
‘Quiet,’ said Holmes. ‘Isolated.’
‘Indeed. And there's a tree just behind you with a very broad trunk.’
Without turning, Holmes said, ‘Broad but rough, Watson. It would result in bruising, particularly across the scapulae.’
‘I'm a doctor, aren't I? A little bruising is easy enough to treat.’
Holmes smirked. ‘Easier to treat than to bear.’
‘You bear enough bruises of your own making not to worry about a few more.’
‘Thank you for your consideration of my welfare, Doctor.’
Watson laughed quietly. ‘Considering your welfare is like walking on hot coals.’
‘A bizarre analogy, Watson.’
‘Apt, I think.’ He grew suddenly sober and his voice dropped. ‘Look, Holmes, about before - ’
Holmes made to move away. ‘We must get a move on if we - ’
‘Holmes, don't.’
Holmes froze, half-turned. He glanced back at Watson and Watson gave him a soft, affectionate look.
‘Time is of the essence, Watson,’ he said quietly.
‘It always is.’
Watson moved forward until they were all but pressed together and he curled his hand into Holmes', where it hung empty by his side. Head near to Holmes' ear, he said quietly, ‘When we finish with this, we have a fortnight to catch up on and I promise I'll take considerable care of any bruises I give you.’
‘Then, as I said, time is of the essence.’
From behind them came the sudden clatter as a flock of birds took flight. Watson jumped, springing away from Holmes, hand going instinctively to his gun. His eyes shredded through the trees and the thick mess of undergrowth - but saw nothing.
At his back, he could feel Holmes relaxing. The woods settled down again.
‘It is nothing, Watson,’ Holmes murmured. ‘Most likely a squirrel. Let us press on.’
Watson was unconvinced, but he kept quiet. Holmes took off down the path at a leisurely pace and, after a further minute of fruitless scrutiny, Watson hurried to catch up with him. He kept his gun in his hand.
‘This Edith,’ he said, ‘was Penrose's wife, wasn't she? Julian's mother. And her brother is this "P.C.".’
‘Precisely, Watson. Mrs Penrose's maiden name was Carter.’
‘He was blackmailing his own brother-in-law?’ Watson's voice was incredulous.
‘I do not believe there was any love lost between them,’ Holmes said, and came to an abrupt halt.
Ahead of them, just showing through the gaps in the trees, was a building. They looked at each other and without another word moved silently, swiftly onwards.
Holding his cane free of the ground and his gun at chest height, Watson felt the familiar weight settle in his stomach. It eradicated the last of his nervousness. He moved as quietly as he could behind Holmes, ears straining for any sound, eyes sharp for any movement.
It was a small cottage. Probably once a solid, well-loved shelter for a trapper or forester, it was now rather woeful. Brambles grew thickly over the walls, competing with the ivy that climbed almost to the roof, and the windows were missing both glass and shutters.
Holmes looked at Watson and inclined his head to the right. He picked a thick stick from the ground, as Watson nodded once in response and stealthily moved towards the house.
Bearing to the right, Watson ignored the door and, curving round what looked like it had once been a chicken coop, shortly had his back pressed to the wall.
The brambles took hold of his shins. The stones of the wall were covered with a damp lichen that Watson knew would leave green stains across his coat. The empty window was a gaping hole beside him.
His heart pounded. He settled his fingers around his gun. Risked a glance at Holmes.
Holmes was creeping towards the door of the house, body low. One hand held his makeshift weapon, the other was stretched out to counterbalance his centre of gravity.
Watson waited. Took a deep breath. Listened hard.
When Holmes was a few feet from the door, Watson shoved himself away from the wall and spun to the window. He felt his trousers tear. Ignored it, as he plunged his gun into that gap in the stones, ready, straining, risking -
- The cottage was empty. Watson could see every corner of the interior. There was only one room, and nowhere for anyone to hide. He dropped his gun-arm.
‘It's empty, Holmes,’ he called, voice loud after the pressure of the last few minutes.
Holmes straightened and threw his stick away. Strolling to the door, he went inside. Watson left him, walking all the way round the outside of the cottage. There was nothing of interest: a few rabbit tracks leading off between the trees, some wild onions growing in a patch, a rusty axe and woodcutter's tools abandoned and half-buried by a tangle of thorny vines, but nothing else. He joined Holmes inside.
‘Nice place,’ Watson said, poking at the rotting door. He glanced down at his shins and saw his trouser leg was muddy and torn. Beneath it, there was the sting of bramble scratches. The second pair of trousers I've got through today, he thought with a sigh.
‘Cosy,’ remarked Holmes. He was standing in the centre of the room, but with Watson now present, he moved towards the worktop that ran all along one wall. Watson went to the small cot on the floor that served as a bed. Using his cane, he prodded among the ratty blankets.
‘So this Carter gave a large sum of money to Captain Penrose,’ Watson said, returning to their earlier discussion of the case.
‘Possibly all his money,’ said Holmes, bent double over the worktop.
‘In order for his sister, Penrose's wife, to be happy.’
‘Yes, though I believe the money exchanged hands before the wedding.’
‘For his sister's sake, he kept quiet.’ Watson turned, watched Holmes momentarily, and then crossed the room to examine a small chest behind the door. ‘Now she's dead, he feels no need to hold back and begins to pressurise Penrose for his money.’ The chest contained nothing of importance - a few shirts, a penknife, some eggs in a box.
‘Yes,’ said Holmes, moving to hold something under the window. ‘Though remark: the scandal was twenty-four years ago. The letter from Carter specified fifteen years.’
Watson frowned. ‘What happened in those first nine years? Penrose must have repaid some of the money.’
‘Exactly. Hmm, Taxus baccata.’ Holmes dropped a withered leaf back onto the table and looked at Watson over his shoulder. ‘My assumption, without knowing further details of Penrose's life, is that he initially attempted to curb his spendthrift ways and repay his debts. There was probably a trickle of small payments over the nine years before his sins took hold of him again.’
Watson met his eyes and said nothing. Sins. Then he nodded at the leaf Holmes had dropped; the Latin had meant nothing to him. ‘What is it?’
Holmes turned back to the article in question, touching a fingertip to green flesh. ‘Yew.’
Watson frowned, leaning on his cane. Was there any importance behind a yew leaf?
Holmes moved along the worktop. ‘A man may sacrifice a great deal for a beloved sibling but even the most patient man has his limits. Imagine how it must eat away at you, being stuck in the duldrums of the worker's life, knowing you could have had the means to be above that. Atropa belladonna.’
That was one Watson knew. ‘Deadly nightshade?’ He crossed the room to look at the leaves beneath Holmes' hand. He would not have recognised them - wouldn't have known what deadly nightshade looked like. He wasn't good with his plants really and Holmes knowledge of botany only covered what might pertain to his cases.
Watson met Holmes eyes. ‘Poison? Yew is poisonous?’
Holmes nodded. ‘As is oleander, foxglove, hemlock.’ He pointed out the various bits of plant scattered along the worktop, between mismatched pieces of cheap chemistry apparatus.
‘Good Lord,’ murmured Watson, propping his cane up against the wall.
Picking up a sheet of parchment, Holmes brought it close to his face. He sniffed, then opened his mouth, his tongue slipping out - but Watson's hand clasped vice-tight around his wrist.
‘I don't think that's a good idea.’
‘It would not be sufficient to kill me.’
‘Let's not put it to the test.’ Holmes dropped the parchment - and Watson released Holmes. ‘He definitely killed Captain Penrose, then.’
‘Don't conclude before you have all the facts, Watson,’ Holmes replied, carrying on down the worktop. ‘Yes, there are poisons here, but how did the poison end up in Captain Penrose? Why did he take it? And when - before he went to London, or afterwards? Were there any buttons in that chest?’
‘Buttons? No.’
Holmes paused, glancing again around the room. ‘Check that shelf.’
Watson followed his gaze to a shelf high up on one wall. There was a small tin box, a pouch, a pocket-book and a bottle. Watson pulled them all down, stretching up on his toes to reach. The bottle had a little brandy left inside, cheap and strong; the pocket-book only contained a few notes, and the pouch a few measly scraps of tobacco.
As he stretched for the tin box, he heard Holmes sigh. Glancing back, he saw the detective rub a hand over the back of his neck. He was standing with his fist planted firmly on his hip, a deep crease between his eyebrows, and an air of frustrated energy about him.
Watson knew that pose.
‘What's wrong?’
Holmes gestured a tense hand at the leaves spread along the table. ‘Leaves, Watson.’
‘Yes...?’
‘Poison by natural plant toxins is an indelicate, imprecise matter. There are far better ways. Success cannot be guaranteed. The victim is more likely to purge his body of the poison before it can fully take control.’
Holding the little tin box in his hands, Watson chewed on his lip, thinking this over. ‘Then maybe Carter didn't want Penrose dead. Maybe he just wanted to give him some physical pain.’
‘You do not need nightshade and hemlock for that.’
‘Maybe he was just a rubbish poisoner.’
Holmes deflated. ‘How disappointing.’
Behind him, Watson smiled a little and turned his attention to the box. He dug his fingernails in under the lip of the lid and struggled to wrench it loose.
‘Something does not fit,’ said Holmes, turning back to the table.
The lid pulled free with a pop, the contents rattling. Watson looked inside: the box was full of buttons, some still with thread attached.
‘Buttons?’ said Holmes.
‘Plenty. Coat buttons, by the look of it.’ Watson dug around with his finger, shifting the little discs over each other.
Holmes made a noise in the back of his throat, and Watson couldn't tell if it showed satisfaction or disappointment.
‘I don't underst-’ Watson stopped. From the tin box, he drew a small, black button. ‘Holmes. Look at this.’
Holmes didn't turn around. He was once again examining the worktable, moving down to the last corner.
‘Holmes. This is - ’
‘A ladies button? Quite. You should find six.’
‘What? How... The housekeeper?’
‘Mais oui.’
‘But - I thought - ’
‘Thorn is innocent, Watson. Your original reading of his character was correct: loyal as a dog. It is Mrs Harris who is involved here.’ His tone was short, distracted, and he was peering with great intent at a tall glass of what looked like brown sludge.
‘What is it? What have you found?’
Holmes appeared not to hear him. ‘Remarkable,’ he muttered to himself, sniffing the brim of the glass.
Watson waited, the tin of buttons in his hand. If Holmes dared to try and drink that thing, Watson would knock it to the ground in an instant.
But Holmes didn't. He studied the contents of the glass for some moments, holding it up to the window, tilting it, sniffing it again, tipping a little out onto a sheet of paper - and then he laid the glass down almost reverently and turned to Watson.
‘Watson.’ His eyes were lit up with that irrepressible, excited sparkle once more.
‘Not so disappointing any more?’
‘Not at all.’ Holmes was smiling. ‘The coffee makes perfect sense now.’
‘The coffee? How - ’
The door flew open, banging against the wall with such force a chunk of wood fell off. They both jumped. In the doorway stood a man - not a tall man, but he had strong biceps and broad shoulders, and a half-wild look in his eyes. Holmes was close to the door, Watson at the back of the cottage.
There was no time to think. Holmes' eyes flashed with surprise that the man had approached without his knowledge, then the man - Carter, it had to be - flung out an arm.
Holmes wasn't quite quick enough. Carter's fist caught him on the chin, sent him tripping backwards, stumbling, falling. He slammed into the worktop and collapsed, eyes blinking, dazed, stunned.
Watson snarled. He aimed his gun instinctively, squeezed his finger - and at the last moment, tilted his hand. They needed Carter alive. The bullet grazed Carter's arm and he yelped.
Watson was across the room in three hard strides, fist slamming into Carter's jaw.
The sound of the shot and the smell of the gunpowder must have roused Holmes somewhat: from out of the corner of his eye Watson could see him trying to move. He didn't want that, not if he'd hit his head.
‘Lie still, Holmes,’ he said, as he grabbed hold of Carter by the collar of his coat. He hit him again, knuckles colliding with cheekbone and nose. Carter grasped his shoulder, fingers pincher-tight around the joint. Then his hand dashed up, squeezing around Watson's neck, until Watson cried out and dropped him.
Watson stumbled backwards. Carter wiped a hand under his bloody nose and stepped towards him - but Watson was far quicker.
He moved fast, bringing his fist up in a hard punch to the man's stomach. Carter lurched at him but Watson side-stepped. Carter stumbled past. A shift of weight, and then Watson slammed his foot into the back of Carter's knee. He cried out and stumbled, crashing into the worktable alongside Holmes.
Holmes, who had not followed Watson's orders, and was standing, leaning heavily against the worktop, looking dazed.
Watson could reach his cane now. He grabbed it, and then he was grabbing Carter by the back of his collar, and pulling him upright, tugging him round, so he could shove another right hook across his jaw - and was that bone cracking this time? - and then, moving with the momentum of his punch, a heavy flat slam of the length of the cane into Carter's stomach, catching his diaphragm, knocking the air out of him - and when had he dropped his gun? - this would be the perfect opportunity to slam the butt into Carter's temple, he'd have to -
‘Watson,’ croaked Holmes.
Watson faltered. Stopped, panting fiercely. Carter blinked up at him, sweat-soaked and blood-stained.
They breathed hard, the world spinning and returning to focus.
Then Watson straightened his shoulders. ‘Don't move,’ he growled to Carter and turned to Holmes.
But Holmes flapped a hand at him. ‘Tie him up, for God's sake. Desperate men, remember?’
Watson cast his eyes around the room. ‘With what?’
‘Rope. Outside, left of the path, five steps from the door. Curled in the grass.’
Watson hesitated. It meant leaving Holmes - dazed and winded - alone with Carter.
‘Five steps, Watson. You'll be three point six seconds.’
It wasn't quite enough. Watson yanked the sword out of his cane and pointed it at Carter, holding his eyes. ‘You try anything, and I won't be so easy on you.’
Carter, out of breath and bleeding sluggishly, just collapsed onto the cot. Watson looked around for his gun, scooped it up so there was no chance Carter could get hold of it, and then dashed out the door.
One, two, three, four, five -
The rope was precisely where Holmes had said it was. Of course. Watson grabbed it, shoving his gun into his trouser pocket, and was back inside before four seconds had passed.
He approached Carter, still seated on the cot, but there was no way Watson could tie him up with his swordstick in his hand. A look in Carter's eyes told Watson he'd thought of this too.
Still, Watson crouched down, laying his blade on the dirt floor before reaching out for Carter's hands.
There was a flicker of movement, Holmes shouted 'Watson!', and then Carter's foot landed squarely in Watson's chest.
Watson fell back on his bottom, lungs clawing for air, stars swimming in his vision. Then he saw Holmes push away from the worktop, swaying slightly - and Watson couldn't have that. He ground his teeth together, blinked the white dots away, and kicked out.
His foot landed viciously in the same knee he'd hit before. Carter cried out, his leg crumpling beneath him, and he was half to his knees when Watson lashed out again. This time he caught Carter's thigh, thick and muscular, but it was enough to send him sprawling on the floor.
Watson paused, still gasping for air, resting on his elbows. Carter shifted and groaned. Forcing his breathing to calm, Watson struggled into a proper sitting position, and wriggled his gun out of his pocket.
‘Don't try anything,’ he said breathlessly, lightly knocking his toe against Carter's leg. Carter groaned but fell still. Watson gave himself another long moment to pull ragged breaths into his agonisingly tight chest and then clambered forward onto his knees.
Gun still in hand, he hoisted Carter back onto the cot. Carter made no move to help him. The rope was damp and old, Watson noted as he coiled it around Carter's wrists, but he hoped it would hold for now. With his hands bound inexpertly but firmly in front of him, Carter glared up at them.
Watson struggled to his feet and stared down at their captor. He rubbed a hand over his breastbone.
‘I should sit back and watch you more often, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Quite a show, my dear fellow.’
Watson grinned indecently, the adrenaline singing in his veins. Shucking off his coat, he went to Holmes, who was still resting against the worktop.
‘Alright?’ he asked, lying his gun down beside their hands. He wasn't panting any more but his breathing was still laboured. Keeping a reasonable distance between them, he looked hard into Holmes' eyes.
Holmes' pupils, thankfully, were not dilated. His gaze was as clear and sharp as ever.
Holmes nodded. ‘My shoulders took the brunt,’ he said, and Watson's medical mind instantly imagined the bruising, the possible muscular trauma, caused by such an impact.
‘You're still breathing hard,’ Holmes said, quieter, and he had rested his palm on the centre of Watson's chest before Watson registered him move. His thumb moved briefly over the epicentre of pain, rucking in the wool of Watson's waistcoat.
Watson let out a little huff of breath, intended for a laugh, and stepped away. Too close, too much. He settled beside Holmes, hips and hands resting against the rough worktop and eyes on Carter, glaring rebelliously at them.
They were silent for a moment.
Holmes folded his arms over his chest and said, ‘Right then. Nice for you to join us, Mr Carter.’
Carter's scowl deepened. ‘Who the deuce are you?’
‘If Mrs Harris had been able to get out of the house, I'm sure she would have rushed here to tell you that there were detectives in the area. Watson, once you've regained your breath, we're going to need those buttons.’
Watson made a face. In his attack, he'd dropped the tin box and the buttons had scattered over the floor.
A look akin to panic passed through Carter's eyes. ‘What do you need them for? They're just buttons.’
Holmes gave him a scornful look. ‘I am neither foolish nor gullible, Mr Carter, so you may as well cease pretending now. I hope you didn't injure him too bad, Watson: I'd hate to have to carry him back.’
‘He'll walk.’
Carter paled a little at Watson's tone.
‘A grand diagnosis, Doctor.’
And now Carter definitely looked panicked. ‘What kind of blasted doctor are you?’
‘The best,’ Holmes interjected smoothly. He reached behind him to pick up the glass of brown sludge he'd been examining earlier and held it now between thumb and forefinger, swinging precariously. ‘I think we'll take this too, Watson. Really, Carter, ingenious. I had just begun to give you up as a hopeless disappointment but this rectified my impression of you. Clever, assuredly so.’
Carter looked like he didn't know whether to scowl or panic some more.
‘And all over some money,’ said Holmes. ‘Standard issue, that.’
A little of Carter's ferocity resurfaced and he growled low in his throat. ‘Twenty-five years! Fifteen without a penny from him, without so much as a sign that he remembered! Damn him!’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Watson?’
Watson realised, distractedly, what Holmes already had: that his breathing had returned to normal. His chest still hurt but it was subsiding into a bearable throb now.
Crouching down, Watson retrieved the tin box and began to collect the scattered buttons. He kept glancing at Carter's nearby feet, ready for any repeated attack.
‘Make sure you have some of Mrs Harris' buttons too,’ said Holmes. ‘That is vital.’
Watson rolled his eyes. He saw Carter shift out in the corner of his vision, and tensed, but there was the click of a gun behind him.
‘I don't think so,’ said Holmes calmly, and Watson looked back to see Holmes pointing Watson's gun directly at Carter's forehead.
Ha, thought Watson and scooped the last buttons into the box.
‘Done,’ he said, retrieving his coat and shoving the tin box into his pocket. Holmes stepped up behind him, chest against Watson's arm, and he pressed the cocked gun into Watson's hand. Crouching, Holmes retrieved a button Watson had missed and Watson's sword and cane. He dropped the button into his waistcoat pocket and tenderly sheathed the sword.
Coming to Watson's other side, he slipped the cane into Watson's other hand.
‘Up,’ he said to Carter and turned to collect the brown sludge.
Carter shuffled on the cot but made no other movement, so Watson tucked his cane under his arm and forcefully pulled the man to his feet.
‘Right, go,’ said Watson, pushing him towards the door. He walked behind him, gun close to Carter's spine, and paused on the threshold. ‘Ready, Holmes?’
‘Lead on.’ Holmes smiled.
With Carter stumbling and tripping, and Holmes bringing up the rear, Watson started the long walk back to the Penrose house.
------
Next: Somehow, the walk back to the Penrose estate seemed far longer than it should have. >>
A/N: For avictoriangirl . Meep, I think Brett!Holmes snuck in a little bit at the beginning here.
Beginning: <
Previously: <
The Missing Buttons of Captain Penrose
Chapter Six:
bruises and buttons in the woods
Holmes and Watson set off across the lawns, falling easily into step with one another. Excited energy coiled within Holmes, evident to Watson in the jaunty lightness of his tread. For his own part, Watson felt his body - as ever - picking up on Holmes' attitude and rushing to match it.
‘Someone has used this route regularly,’ Holmes said. ‘And it is not just our helpful kitchen maids. See -’ he paused, pointing to a large footprint - ‘a man’s boot. Too big for Julian Penrose and the gardener had rounded boots. These are square-toed.’
He stepped on again, his pace brisk. ‘Admirably done by the way, Watson.’
Watson grew warm at the unexpected praise.
‘I was most impressed. I shall have to let you lead more often. It gave me the perfect opportunity to scrutinise the servants - ha! They barely so much as glanced at me! Quite refreshing.’
‘Thank you, Holmes.’
Holmes shrugged: he was only speaking the truth. ‘There were, I believe, only three points which you missed.’
A little of Watson’s joy deflated. ‘Three?’ he asked, trying to sound neither annoyed nor pathetic.
Holmes held up his hand, and lifted his index finger. ‘One: Mrs Harris said she took Captain Penrose coffee as refreshment. But this was in the afternoon: why would she take him coffee instead of tea?’
‘Perhaps it was normal for Captain Penrose - a quirk of his.’
‘Ah! But what was it the maid said?’
Watson thought back. ‘She said Mrs Harris went back after taking the Captain his tea.’
‘Precisely.’ Holmes flashed him a quick smile. ‘A slip of the tongue perhaps but I think not.
‘Two: Mrs Harris returned to the study shortly after taking the Captain his coffee, under the pretence of checking his health and removing the tray. You may say it is not a pretence but, again, it was unusual enough behaviour for the curious maid to notice and comment on it. Why, then, did Mrs Harris return? What is she hiding?’
‘You don’t like Mrs Harris.’
‘Who I like and do not like is irrelevant, Watson.’
Ahead of them, the lawn ran into trees - not the neat rows of an organised, planned avenue, but the thick, haphazard sprawl of natural woodland. The track they were following led straight into it.
‘Three,’ said Holmes, his stride never faltering, his eyes on the ground. ‘You were unfortunately faced with a front view of Mrs Harris throughout the duration of the interview, but did you happen to notice her buttons as she left the room?’
Watson frowned. ‘The buttons on the back of her gown? No.’
‘A shame. If you had, you would have seen that they were mismatched and poorly sewn on.’
‘Well?’
‘They have been sewn on recently, otherwise being so loose they would have quickly dropped off. Every housekeeper can sew expertly: Mrs Harris must have been distressed when she sewed on this wobbly row of buttons.’
‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything,’ Watson said.
‘You will.’ Holmes stopped.
In front of them, the path bisected, one strand bearing off to the left and curving round the tree-line, and the other heading straight into the woods. Holmes crouched briefly over each path.
‘That way leads to the village,’ he said. ‘Our man goes straight on.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Watson. He eyed the woods warily. There were too many hiding places in there for his liking.
Holmes took a few steps forward and then paused once more. ‘Ah, Watson. In the swift manner of my departure of Baker Street, I forgot my revolver. Do you have yours?’
Watson resisted the undignified urge to roll his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall depend entirely upon you. Do you think you can manage?’
‘Of course,’ said Watson, knowing as he spoke that the entire conversation was unnecessary. Holmes knew Watson was more than capable of guarding his back, and Watson knew Holmes did not need a gun in his hand to stave off enemies: he served well enough with his bare hands, his calculating mind, and his fiery energy.
Nevertheless, Watson drew his revolver out of his pocket and checked the barrel.
They stepped under the shade of the trees, Holmes ahead and Watson half a step behind him. It was a quiet, green woodland, the trees becoming dense within a few feet. Between the trunks, the ground was covered with a net of brambles and ferns and moss. The birds chattered above them.
The path they followed was little more than a thin rabbit track winding between the trees but it had been well-trod. They walked quickly and were soon well within the woods. At this stage, Watson knew the thrill of adrenaline should be starting to pump into his system, but something felt wrong. Perhaps it was just that he and Holmes had been so erratic towards each other recently, but there was a nervousness lacing his anticipation.
The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.
‘Holmes,’ said Watson, voice low among the trees. ‘Who are we expecting to find here?’
Holmes was silent for such a long moment that Watson did not think he was going to reply. He sighed quietly to himself; he trusted Holmes implicitly but it always helped to have some idea of the dangers they were walking straight into.
Here the danger, Watson was aware, could come at any moment. He kept his eyes on the trees around them as they walked. Holmes kept his gaze firmly on the floor.
‘Watson,’ Holmes eventually said. ‘What did you gather from our discussion with Thorn?’
‘That Captain Penrose had monetary issues and owed this "P.C." a great deal.’ A sound echoed to his left, a flap of wings, and Watson felt his heart skip a beat, his muscles tense.
‘Come, Watson, is that all?’ There was a gently teasing tone to Holmes' voice and Watson knew Holmes' excitement was to blame.
‘There was a woman involved - an Edith.’
‘Where have your wits gone? You're not trying very hard.’
‘That's because,’ Watson ground out through clenched teeth, his hand hovering near the pocket containing his gun, ‘I'm waiting for us to get pounced on, or shot at, or otherwise attacked.’
Holmes stopped walking and turned to raise an eyebrow at Watson. ‘Paranoid, Watson?’
‘I'm being realistic, Holmes. This is exactly the kind of place we get attacked.’
‘Desperate men take reckless chances once they know we're on their tails.’
‘Desperate men,’ said Watson, letting his careful surveillance slip to focus on Holmes, ‘can still making surprisingly accurate attackers.’
‘Not accurate enough, clearly. We are still present and correct, with all our faculties in working order.’
‘For now, yes. There might come a time when - ’
‘Which is why I have you, my dear Watson.’
Watson narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Holmes. ‘I might be a doctor, Holmes, but I'm not God. There are some wounds no man can fix.’
‘Then I shall do my utmost not to acquire any of them.’ Holmes was casual, his eyes moving in an easy way over Watson, his shoulders and hands loose, free of tension.
Watson sighed. ‘When you get shot through your thick skull and lie bleeding out on the ground, you'll deduce that I know what I'm talking about.’
‘If I get shot in the head I doubt I'll have much time for deducing anything.’
Despite himself, Watson felt the corners of his mouth turning up. Holmes met his eyes and gave him a small, quick smile of his own, languid despite its haste.
A bluetit chirped somewhere above them.
‘You know,’ said Watson, relaxing and tucking one hand into a pocket. ‘If we were not hunting down a murderous blackmailer, this would be a very peaceful spot.’
‘Quiet,’ said Holmes. ‘Isolated.’
‘Indeed. And there's a tree just behind you with a very broad trunk.’
Without turning, Holmes said, ‘Broad but rough, Watson. It would result in bruising, particularly across the scapulae.’
‘I'm a doctor, aren't I? A little bruising is easy enough to treat.’
Holmes smirked. ‘Easier to treat than to bear.’
‘You bear enough bruises of your own making not to worry about a few more.’
‘Thank you for your consideration of my welfare, Doctor.’
Watson laughed quietly. ‘Considering your welfare is like walking on hot coals.’
‘A bizarre analogy, Watson.’
‘Apt, I think.’ He grew suddenly sober and his voice dropped. ‘Look, Holmes, about before - ’
Holmes made to move away. ‘We must get a move on if we - ’
‘Holmes, don't.’
Holmes froze, half-turned. He glanced back at Watson and Watson gave him a soft, affectionate look.
‘Time is of the essence, Watson,’ he said quietly.
‘It always is.’
Watson moved forward until they were all but pressed together and he curled his hand into Holmes', where it hung empty by his side. Head near to Holmes' ear, he said quietly, ‘When we finish with this, we have a fortnight to catch up on and I promise I'll take considerable care of any bruises I give you.’
‘Then, as I said, time is of the essence.’
From behind them came the sudden clatter as a flock of birds took flight. Watson jumped, springing away from Holmes, hand going instinctively to his gun. His eyes shredded through the trees and the thick mess of undergrowth - but saw nothing.
At his back, he could feel Holmes relaxing. The woods settled down again.
‘It is nothing, Watson,’ Holmes murmured. ‘Most likely a squirrel. Let us press on.’
Watson was unconvinced, but he kept quiet. Holmes took off down the path at a leisurely pace and, after a further minute of fruitless scrutiny, Watson hurried to catch up with him. He kept his gun in his hand.
‘This Edith,’ he said, ‘was Penrose's wife, wasn't she? Julian's mother. And her brother is this "P.C.".’
‘Precisely, Watson. Mrs Penrose's maiden name was Carter.’
‘He was blackmailing his own brother-in-law?’ Watson's voice was incredulous.
‘I do not believe there was any love lost between them,’ Holmes said, and came to an abrupt halt.
Ahead of them, just showing through the gaps in the trees, was a building. They looked at each other and without another word moved silently, swiftly onwards.
Holding his cane free of the ground and his gun at chest height, Watson felt the familiar weight settle in his stomach. It eradicated the last of his nervousness. He moved as quietly as he could behind Holmes, ears straining for any sound, eyes sharp for any movement.
It was a small cottage. Probably once a solid, well-loved shelter for a trapper or forester, it was now rather woeful. Brambles grew thickly over the walls, competing with the ivy that climbed almost to the roof, and the windows were missing both glass and shutters.
Holmes looked at Watson and inclined his head to the right. He picked a thick stick from the ground, as Watson nodded once in response and stealthily moved towards the house.
Bearing to the right, Watson ignored the door and, curving round what looked like it had once been a chicken coop, shortly had his back pressed to the wall.
The brambles took hold of his shins. The stones of the wall were covered with a damp lichen that Watson knew would leave green stains across his coat. The empty window was a gaping hole beside him.
His heart pounded. He settled his fingers around his gun. Risked a glance at Holmes.
Holmes was creeping towards the door of the house, body low. One hand held his makeshift weapon, the other was stretched out to counterbalance his centre of gravity.
Watson waited. Took a deep breath. Listened hard.
When Holmes was a few feet from the door, Watson shoved himself away from the wall and spun to the window. He felt his trousers tear. Ignored it, as he plunged his gun into that gap in the stones, ready, straining, risking -
- The cottage was empty. Watson could see every corner of the interior. There was only one room, and nowhere for anyone to hide. He dropped his gun-arm.
‘It's empty, Holmes,’ he called, voice loud after the pressure of the last few minutes.
Holmes straightened and threw his stick away. Strolling to the door, he went inside. Watson left him, walking all the way round the outside of the cottage. There was nothing of interest: a few rabbit tracks leading off between the trees, some wild onions growing in a patch, a rusty axe and woodcutter's tools abandoned and half-buried by a tangle of thorny vines, but nothing else. He joined Holmes inside.
‘Nice place,’ Watson said, poking at the rotting door. He glanced down at his shins and saw his trouser leg was muddy and torn. Beneath it, there was the sting of bramble scratches. The second pair of trousers I've got through today, he thought with a sigh.
‘Cosy,’ remarked Holmes. He was standing in the centre of the room, but with Watson now present, he moved towards the worktop that ran all along one wall. Watson went to the small cot on the floor that served as a bed. Using his cane, he prodded among the ratty blankets.
‘So this Carter gave a large sum of money to Captain Penrose,’ Watson said, returning to their earlier discussion of the case.
‘Possibly all his money,’ said Holmes, bent double over the worktop.
‘In order for his sister, Penrose's wife, to be happy.’
‘Yes, though I believe the money exchanged hands before the wedding.’
‘For his sister's sake, he kept quiet.’ Watson turned, watched Holmes momentarily, and then crossed the room to examine a small chest behind the door. ‘Now she's dead, he feels no need to hold back and begins to pressurise Penrose for his money.’ The chest contained nothing of importance - a few shirts, a penknife, some eggs in a box.
‘Yes,’ said Holmes, moving to hold something under the window. ‘Though remark: the scandal was twenty-four years ago. The letter from Carter specified fifteen years.’
Watson frowned. ‘What happened in those first nine years? Penrose must have repaid some of the money.’
‘Exactly. Hmm, Taxus baccata.’ Holmes dropped a withered leaf back onto the table and looked at Watson over his shoulder. ‘My assumption, without knowing further details of Penrose's life, is that he initially attempted to curb his spendthrift ways and repay his debts. There was probably a trickle of small payments over the nine years before his sins took hold of him again.’
Watson met his eyes and said nothing. Sins. Then he nodded at the leaf Holmes had dropped; the Latin had meant nothing to him. ‘What is it?’
Holmes turned back to the article in question, touching a fingertip to green flesh. ‘Yew.’
Watson frowned, leaning on his cane. Was there any importance behind a yew leaf?
Holmes moved along the worktop. ‘A man may sacrifice a great deal for a beloved sibling but even the most patient man has his limits. Imagine how it must eat away at you, being stuck in the duldrums of the worker's life, knowing you could have had the means to be above that. Atropa belladonna.’
That was one Watson knew. ‘Deadly nightshade?’ He crossed the room to look at the leaves beneath Holmes' hand. He would not have recognised them - wouldn't have known what deadly nightshade looked like. He wasn't good with his plants really and Holmes knowledge of botany only covered what might pertain to his cases.
Watson met Holmes eyes. ‘Poison? Yew is poisonous?’
Holmes nodded. ‘As is oleander, foxglove, hemlock.’ He pointed out the various bits of plant scattered along the worktop, between mismatched pieces of cheap chemistry apparatus.
‘Good Lord,’ murmured Watson, propping his cane up against the wall.
Picking up a sheet of parchment, Holmes brought it close to his face. He sniffed, then opened his mouth, his tongue slipping out - but Watson's hand clasped vice-tight around his wrist.
‘I don't think that's a good idea.’
‘It would not be sufficient to kill me.’
‘Let's not put it to the test.’ Holmes dropped the parchment - and Watson released Holmes. ‘He definitely killed Captain Penrose, then.’
‘Don't conclude before you have all the facts, Watson,’ Holmes replied, carrying on down the worktop. ‘Yes, there are poisons here, but how did the poison end up in Captain Penrose? Why did he take it? And when - before he went to London, or afterwards? Were there any buttons in that chest?’
‘Buttons? No.’
Holmes paused, glancing again around the room. ‘Check that shelf.’
Watson followed his gaze to a shelf high up on one wall. There was a small tin box, a pouch, a pocket-book and a bottle. Watson pulled them all down, stretching up on his toes to reach. The bottle had a little brandy left inside, cheap and strong; the pocket-book only contained a few notes, and the pouch a few measly scraps of tobacco.
As he stretched for the tin box, he heard Holmes sigh. Glancing back, he saw the detective rub a hand over the back of his neck. He was standing with his fist planted firmly on his hip, a deep crease between his eyebrows, and an air of frustrated energy about him.
Watson knew that pose.
‘What's wrong?’
Holmes gestured a tense hand at the leaves spread along the table. ‘Leaves, Watson.’
‘Yes...?’
‘Poison by natural plant toxins is an indelicate, imprecise matter. There are far better ways. Success cannot be guaranteed. The victim is more likely to purge his body of the poison before it can fully take control.’
Holding the little tin box in his hands, Watson chewed on his lip, thinking this over. ‘Then maybe Carter didn't want Penrose dead. Maybe he just wanted to give him some physical pain.’
‘You do not need nightshade and hemlock for that.’
‘Maybe he was just a rubbish poisoner.’
Holmes deflated. ‘How disappointing.’
Behind him, Watson smiled a little and turned his attention to the box. He dug his fingernails in under the lip of the lid and struggled to wrench it loose.
‘Something does not fit,’ said Holmes, turning back to the table.
The lid pulled free with a pop, the contents rattling. Watson looked inside: the box was full of buttons, some still with thread attached.
‘Buttons?’ said Holmes.
‘Plenty. Coat buttons, by the look of it.’ Watson dug around with his finger, shifting the little discs over each other.
Holmes made a noise in the back of his throat, and Watson couldn't tell if it showed satisfaction or disappointment.
‘I don't underst-’ Watson stopped. From the tin box, he drew a small, black button. ‘Holmes. Look at this.’
Holmes didn't turn around. He was once again examining the worktable, moving down to the last corner.
‘Holmes. This is - ’
‘A ladies button? Quite. You should find six.’
‘What? How... The housekeeper?’
‘Mais oui.’
‘But - I thought - ’
‘Thorn is innocent, Watson. Your original reading of his character was correct: loyal as a dog. It is Mrs Harris who is involved here.’ His tone was short, distracted, and he was peering with great intent at a tall glass of what looked like brown sludge.
‘What is it? What have you found?’
Holmes appeared not to hear him. ‘Remarkable,’ he muttered to himself, sniffing the brim of the glass.
Watson waited, the tin of buttons in his hand. If Holmes dared to try and drink that thing, Watson would knock it to the ground in an instant.
But Holmes didn't. He studied the contents of the glass for some moments, holding it up to the window, tilting it, sniffing it again, tipping a little out onto a sheet of paper - and then he laid the glass down almost reverently and turned to Watson.
‘Watson.’ His eyes were lit up with that irrepressible, excited sparkle once more.
‘Not so disappointing any more?’
‘Not at all.’ Holmes was smiling. ‘The coffee makes perfect sense now.’
‘The coffee? How - ’
The door flew open, banging against the wall with such force a chunk of wood fell off. They both jumped. In the doorway stood a man - not a tall man, but he had strong biceps and broad shoulders, and a half-wild look in his eyes. Holmes was close to the door, Watson at the back of the cottage.
There was no time to think. Holmes' eyes flashed with surprise that the man had approached without his knowledge, then the man - Carter, it had to be - flung out an arm.
Holmes wasn't quite quick enough. Carter's fist caught him on the chin, sent him tripping backwards, stumbling, falling. He slammed into the worktop and collapsed, eyes blinking, dazed, stunned.
Watson snarled. He aimed his gun instinctively, squeezed his finger - and at the last moment, tilted his hand. They needed Carter alive. The bullet grazed Carter's arm and he yelped.
Watson was across the room in three hard strides, fist slamming into Carter's jaw.
The sound of the shot and the smell of the gunpowder must have roused Holmes somewhat: from out of the corner of his eye Watson could see him trying to move. He didn't want that, not if he'd hit his head.
‘Lie still, Holmes,’ he said, as he grabbed hold of Carter by the collar of his coat. He hit him again, knuckles colliding with cheekbone and nose. Carter grasped his shoulder, fingers pincher-tight around the joint. Then his hand dashed up, squeezing around Watson's neck, until Watson cried out and dropped him.
Watson stumbled backwards. Carter wiped a hand under his bloody nose and stepped towards him - but Watson was far quicker.
He moved fast, bringing his fist up in a hard punch to the man's stomach. Carter lurched at him but Watson side-stepped. Carter stumbled past. A shift of weight, and then Watson slammed his foot into the back of Carter's knee. He cried out and stumbled, crashing into the worktable alongside Holmes.
Holmes, who had not followed Watson's orders, and was standing, leaning heavily against the worktop, looking dazed.
Watson could reach his cane now. He grabbed it, and then he was grabbing Carter by the back of his collar, and pulling him upright, tugging him round, so he could shove another right hook across his jaw - and was that bone cracking this time? - and then, moving with the momentum of his punch, a heavy flat slam of the length of the cane into Carter's stomach, catching his diaphragm, knocking the air out of him - and when had he dropped his gun? - this would be the perfect opportunity to slam the butt into Carter's temple, he'd have to -
‘Watson,’ croaked Holmes.
Watson faltered. Stopped, panting fiercely. Carter blinked up at him, sweat-soaked and blood-stained.
They breathed hard, the world spinning and returning to focus.
Then Watson straightened his shoulders. ‘Don't move,’ he growled to Carter and turned to Holmes.
But Holmes flapped a hand at him. ‘Tie him up, for God's sake. Desperate men, remember?’
Watson cast his eyes around the room. ‘With what?’
‘Rope. Outside, left of the path, five steps from the door. Curled in the grass.’
Watson hesitated. It meant leaving Holmes - dazed and winded - alone with Carter.
‘Five steps, Watson. You'll be three point six seconds.’
It wasn't quite enough. Watson yanked the sword out of his cane and pointed it at Carter, holding his eyes. ‘You try anything, and I won't be so easy on you.’
Carter, out of breath and bleeding sluggishly, just collapsed onto the cot. Watson looked around for his gun, scooped it up so there was no chance Carter could get hold of it, and then dashed out the door.
One, two, three, four, five -
The rope was precisely where Holmes had said it was. Of course. Watson grabbed it, shoving his gun into his trouser pocket, and was back inside before four seconds had passed.
He approached Carter, still seated on the cot, but there was no way Watson could tie him up with his swordstick in his hand. A look in Carter's eyes told Watson he'd thought of this too.
Still, Watson crouched down, laying his blade on the dirt floor before reaching out for Carter's hands.
There was a flicker of movement, Holmes shouted 'Watson!', and then Carter's foot landed squarely in Watson's chest.
Watson fell back on his bottom, lungs clawing for air, stars swimming in his vision. Then he saw Holmes push away from the worktop, swaying slightly - and Watson couldn't have that. He ground his teeth together, blinked the white dots away, and kicked out.
His foot landed viciously in the same knee he'd hit before. Carter cried out, his leg crumpling beneath him, and he was half to his knees when Watson lashed out again. This time he caught Carter's thigh, thick and muscular, but it was enough to send him sprawling on the floor.
Watson paused, still gasping for air, resting on his elbows. Carter shifted and groaned. Forcing his breathing to calm, Watson struggled into a proper sitting position, and wriggled his gun out of his pocket.
‘Don't try anything,’ he said breathlessly, lightly knocking his toe against Carter's leg. Carter groaned but fell still. Watson gave himself another long moment to pull ragged breaths into his agonisingly tight chest and then clambered forward onto his knees.
Gun still in hand, he hoisted Carter back onto the cot. Carter made no move to help him. The rope was damp and old, Watson noted as he coiled it around Carter's wrists, but he hoped it would hold for now. With his hands bound inexpertly but firmly in front of him, Carter glared up at them.
Watson struggled to his feet and stared down at their captor. He rubbed a hand over his breastbone.
‘I should sit back and watch you more often, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Quite a show, my dear fellow.’
Watson grinned indecently, the adrenaline singing in his veins. Shucking off his coat, he went to Holmes, who was still resting against the worktop.
‘Alright?’ he asked, lying his gun down beside their hands. He wasn't panting any more but his breathing was still laboured. Keeping a reasonable distance between them, he looked hard into Holmes' eyes.
Holmes' pupils, thankfully, were not dilated. His gaze was as clear and sharp as ever.
Holmes nodded. ‘My shoulders took the brunt,’ he said, and Watson's medical mind instantly imagined the bruising, the possible muscular trauma, caused by such an impact.
‘You're still breathing hard,’ Holmes said, quieter, and he had rested his palm on the centre of Watson's chest before Watson registered him move. His thumb moved briefly over the epicentre of pain, rucking in the wool of Watson's waistcoat.
Watson let out a little huff of breath, intended for a laugh, and stepped away. Too close, too much. He settled beside Holmes, hips and hands resting against the rough worktop and eyes on Carter, glaring rebelliously at them.
They were silent for a moment.
Holmes folded his arms over his chest and said, ‘Right then. Nice for you to join us, Mr Carter.’
Carter's scowl deepened. ‘Who the deuce are you?’
‘If Mrs Harris had been able to get out of the house, I'm sure she would have rushed here to tell you that there were detectives in the area. Watson, once you've regained your breath, we're going to need those buttons.’
Watson made a face. In his attack, he'd dropped the tin box and the buttons had scattered over the floor.
A look akin to panic passed through Carter's eyes. ‘What do you need them for? They're just buttons.’
Holmes gave him a scornful look. ‘I am neither foolish nor gullible, Mr Carter, so you may as well cease pretending now. I hope you didn't injure him too bad, Watson: I'd hate to have to carry him back.’
‘He'll walk.’
Carter paled a little at Watson's tone.
‘A grand diagnosis, Doctor.’
And now Carter definitely looked panicked. ‘What kind of blasted doctor are you?’
‘The best,’ Holmes interjected smoothly. He reached behind him to pick up the glass of brown sludge he'd been examining earlier and held it now between thumb and forefinger, swinging precariously. ‘I think we'll take this too, Watson. Really, Carter, ingenious. I had just begun to give you up as a hopeless disappointment but this rectified my impression of you. Clever, assuredly so.’
Carter looked like he didn't know whether to scowl or panic some more.
‘And all over some money,’ said Holmes. ‘Standard issue, that.’
A little of Carter's ferocity resurfaced and he growled low in his throat. ‘Twenty-five years! Fifteen without a penny from him, without so much as a sign that he remembered! Damn him!’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Watson?’
Watson realised, distractedly, what Holmes already had: that his breathing had returned to normal. His chest still hurt but it was subsiding into a bearable throb now.
Crouching down, Watson retrieved the tin box and began to collect the scattered buttons. He kept glancing at Carter's nearby feet, ready for any repeated attack.
‘Make sure you have some of Mrs Harris' buttons too,’ said Holmes. ‘That is vital.’
Watson rolled his eyes. He saw Carter shift out in the corner of his vision, and tensed, but there was the click of a gun behind him.
‘I don't think so,’ said Holmes calmly, and Watson looked back to see Holmes pointing Watson's gun directly at Carter's forehead.
Ha, thought Watson and scooped the last buttons into the box.
‘Done,’ he said, retrieving his coat and shoving the tin box into his pocket. Holmes stepped up behind him, chest against Watson's arm, and he pressed the cocked gun into Watson's hand. Crouching, Holmes retrieved a button Watson had missed and Watson's sword and cane. He dropped the button into his waistcoat pocket and tenderly sheathed the sword.
Coming to Watson's other side, he slipped the cane into Watson's other hand.
‘Up,’ he said to Carter and turned to collect the brown sludge.
Carter shuffled on the cot but made no other movement, so Watson tucked his cane under his arm and forcefully pulled the man to his feet.
‘Right, go,’ said Watson, pushing him towards the door. He walked behind him, gun close to Carter's spine, and paused on the threshold. ‘Ready, Holmes?’
‘Lead on.’ Holmes smiled.
With Carter stumbling and tripping, and Holmes bringing up the rear, Watson started the long walk back to the Penrose house.
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Next: Somehow, the walk back to the Penrose estate seemed far longer than it should have. >>