The Other Woman 1/2
Title: The Other Woman: Chapter 1 of 2
Summary: Anderson's wife is murdered, and both Anderson and Donovan are suspects. When things get bad for them, it seems as if Sherlock Holmes is their last hope. When Sherlock declares the case boring, it all comes down to John Watson.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mention of an adulterous relationship, mild swearing
Spoilers: Study in Pink and The Blind Banker
Disclaimers: Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters are in the public domain now. Moffat and Gatiss are to blame for Detective Inspector Dimmock, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Scenes of Crime Officer Anderson. We loves them forever!
Word Count: 4588
Author's Notes: 1) Inspired by an abandoned prompt from the unstoppable Anon on sherlockbbc_fic. TY for the lovely plot bunny. Omnomnomnom! 2) This has been neither beta-read nor Brit-picked, so Caveat Lector. You have been warned. 3) Not slash!
John all but sighed in relief when he came home from work to find Sherlock fully dressed for the first time in three days, hair more-or-less brushed, actually checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror.
“So have we got a case?” asked John hopefully, “Or are you going on a date?”
“Married to my work, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “So 'no' to both. We have been invited to a party. I am so very bored that I actually agreed to it. It's a fashion industry event, I'm afraid, so dress smart.”
John stared at him and opened and closed his mouth twice before he managed to say, “Why are we going to a fashion industry event? Why were we even invited?”
“The man who supplies my clothing, Randolph Pierson, is announcing a partnership with another designer, and she is holding a small, exclusive party to announce it. I did him a favour a few years ago, and I must say he's been remarkably grateful. This could be fun.” Sherlock's mouth quirked upward into what John recognized as the Sherlock equivalent of a mischievous grin. “The new partner is Delia... Delia Anderson.”
John blinked. He bloody well knew who Randolph Pierson was. He'd seen the tag in Sherlock's coat and wondered why a man who could afford that brand of clothing couldn't afford a flat on his own. And he and Mrs. Hudson had seen Delia on the telly just the other day, not that Mrs. Hudson could afford any of her accessories. But John had also seen Sherlock work his miracles and could well imagine that he'd end up with London's elite eating out of the palm of his hand. What he couldn't imagine was Sherlock having any more patience with the rich-and-powerful than he did for anyone else once the case was over.
“Okaayyy... but I didn't think that soirées with supermodels were your kind of fun unless one of them was dead and you had to work out which of the others had murdered her.”
“Delia Anderson! She's Anderson's wife!” Sherlock declared joyfully.
“Anderson, Lestrade's SOCO?” Anderson's married to Delia? He's cheating on Delia? John opened and closed his mouth again, then had to retreat to the sofa in the sitting room for a bit. He had been shocked enough when Sherlock had revealed that the homely SOCO had been getting it on with the lovely Sergeant Donovan. But the notion that Anderson was married to the ethereal, wheelchair-bound designer who had been so charming on the talk show last Wednesday, it was just too much. John shook his head. There was no way he dared gossip about Anderson and Donovan to Mrs. Hudson. It would be all over London by morning. John shuddered.
“I want to be early!” Sherlock bellowed at him, “You need to get changed.” John staggered upstairs to look for a tie and a jacket. Sherlock was not impressed. There was no way that anything of Sherlock's would fit John, so Sherlock marched him upstairs to look through John's own wardrobe. Ten minutes later, Sherlock resolved that the situation was hopeless, and there was nothing for it but to flag down a taxi and be off to meet the world of fashion.
The Andersons certainly lived in a big house, but it was not in a posh neighbourhood. There was a wheelchair ramp along the front of the house that led to the front door, intersecting with an older flight of steps.
“The upstairs is all empty flats,” Sherlock remarked as they climbed up the stairs to the door. When John looked at him quizzically, he added: “All of the upper-story windows are dark, even though the Andersons' floor is all lit up. You can see marks on the wall by that side door, where the letter-boxes have been pulled down. The side door doesn't communicate with the house, or they wouldn't have put up a wheelchair ramp in the front. If you see water-stains on the ceiling in here, they were condemned.”
A harried-looking caterer opened the door for them and checked Sherlock's invitation. The hallway was freshly painted, with a polished wooden floor, but when John looked up, there were indeed water-stains on the ceiling.
“Sherlock! Please come and meet my new business partner!” called a rich voice from an open door on the right. Sherlock immediately donned a wide but utterly fake smile and strode into the room.
Delia moved her powered wheelchair forward to greet them, her own smile warm. She was beautiful, John decided, despite the lines on her delicate face. She wore a shawl and had tied her ash-blonde hair into a bun, but still managed to look elegant. “Gypsy finery” was how the talk-show host had described her ensembles. There was Anderson, the SOCO, beside her, looking uncomfortable in his suit, which was more than a touch nicer than the one he had worn to raid Sherlock's flat for drugs some weeks back.
Randolph Pierson dressed... like Sherlock, even to the (in John's opinion) too-tight silk shirt. He too had chiselled good looks, but his were overlain with laugh lines, and his brown hair had gone white at the temples. He shook John's hand and introduced himself as soon as he had greeted Sherlock. In the chair behind him was a woman who looked like a supermodel, tall and slim with huge green eyes, long honey-blonde hair and a dark golden tan. Pierson introduced her as “Elaine Connery, my executive assistant. Don't know what I'd do without her.”
“Well, sir,” she said, “I hope you enjoy yourself. I really do have to sort a few things out back at the office. It looks as if the caterers can take it from here.” John resisted staring after her admiringly as she left.
The next several guests to come in managed to make John feel painfully conscious of his lack of fashion sense. Sherlock had gone into what John thought of as his “undercover mode”. Without changing a single article of clothing or adding a daub of make-up, he had become a different person, mingling with the other guests like a born socialite. It was funny to watch at first. Unnoticed, John retreated into a corner behind a large armchair and nibbled at a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He could smell pepperoni pizza out of the open front window and his stomach rumbled.
“Inspector!” Anderson jumped out of his chair and ran to the open window. “Be right down, guv!”
Curious, John came over to look out the window. Sure enough, that was Lestrade on the pavement, holding a small stack of pizza boxes and wearing a pair of battered jeans, trainers, and a Clash t-shirt under a knackered leather jacket. John heard the front door open even before Anderson was out of the room. Two small tow-headed children charged into Lestrade and grabbed him by the legs. Lestrade staggered slightly at the impact, but maintained his balance and his grip on the pizza boxes. Anderson stood in front of him a moment later, talking animatedly. He gently pulled the children loose from the policeman's legs and led them and Lestrade around the side of the house. He returned alone.
“That was Inspector Lestrade? Will he be alright... alone with them?” Delia asked anxiously.
“Yes to both,” Anderson turned to the couple who had been speaking with Delia. “I work with him at Scotland Yard. He's very kindly offered to look after our children during the party. Brought them pizzas too. He won't be alone, dear. Sally, that's Sergeant Donovan, is bringing a DVD for them to watch, and she'll stay with them.”
“Oh! That dowdy little black girl who always speaks for him at the press conferences?” asked the woman. John was rather relieved to see Anderson and Delia blanch at this remark.
“Do your children talk yet?” Sherlock was back, smiling at Anderson.
“Not yet. They are very shy around strangers, and you know how it is with twins...” Anderson looked away.
“Poor, poor Delia!” gushed the woman. “Have you been to see a specialist?”
“A few,” said Delia softly.
“They've only just turned five! And they test very, very well otherwise, thank you very much.” Anderson was bristling.
“Mr. Anderson, a Sergeant Donovan here to see you,” called the caterer who had been watching the door.
“Thank God,” muttered Anderson as he left the room. This time, John followed him, thinking that it might be a good time to make his farewells and let Sherlock find his own way back, as he would probably do even if John were silly enough to stay.
Sally Donovan was waiting on the steps holding the hand of another blond child. Like Lestrade, she was dressed informally, in jeans and a plain green T-shirt. She smiled and waved a DVD case at them with her free hand. “Look what Father Christmas brought Amy last year!”
“'The Adventures of Professor Challenger': I haven't seen that since I was a kid! I didn't know that it was out on DVD. S'pose I could borrow it sometime, Amy?” John pleaded with the child. The little girl smiled and looked down at her feet.
“Dr. Watson, this is my little sister, Amy,” said Sally.
Amy looked up briefly and managed a small “Hi!” before ducking her head back down. Half-sister, John realized. Amy's skin was as pale as milk, and she looked to be the same age as Anderson's twins.
Sally's expression grew fierce. John looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock leaning out the door and smirking back. Sherlock waved at them before turning around and walking back inside. Anderson and Sally both let out long sighs.
“Erm, well,” said John. “Thanks very much for having me... and all, but I should be getting back.”
Sally blinked at him and looked at her watch. “I thought that this thing started at 8:00 and it's just now 8:15.”
“Sherlock made him come,” Anderson explained. “Sorry you got dragged out here, Doctor. Don't worry, Sherlock won't last that much longer. He gets bored faster than my kids do.”
“Listen,” Sally held up the DVD again, “D'you actually want to see this?”
John nodded vigorously, “Loved that series when I was a kid. And I even read all of the books!”
“I've been reading The Lost World to my kids,” Anderson said.
“Why don't you watch it with us?” Sally asked. “You must be pretty bloody bored to come to this thing as the Freak's date.”
“I'm not his date!” Watson snapped, following Sally and Amy to the side door. Anderson waved and returned to the party.
“That's right. He's married to his work. Just makes it all the more pathetic, really,” Sally jeered, knocking on the side door. “You desperate enough to take up train-spotting or birding yet?”
Lestrade threw open the door from the other side before John could retort. “Hullo, Amy. Sally, all the wires are the wrong colour!” He stared at John in puzzlement as Sally and Amy brushed past him. “Where's Sherlock? And what would he want with us? I thought he was busy being fashionable.”
“He is,” said John, looking down. “But I'm not.” Besides, Sally invited me, he wanted to say.
“Well, we've got lots of pizza and stuff. Mind the door; it locks when it closes.” With that, Lestrade turned and headed inside, a relieved John Watson following him up the stairwell. The front room of the flat at the first landing had been cleaned up a bit, though it could use fresh paint. Little Amy was chattering at the twins, who were sprawled on the foot of a relatively new sofa-bed. Sally was connecting a DVD player to a telly on a coffee table that had seen better days.
John collected some pizza and a bottle of water. Once free of his tie and his shoes, he made himself comfortable against the back of the sofa. As soon as the DVD was ready and Lestrade had persuaded the kids to accept their slices of pizza, Sally and Lestrade settled on either side of John. The cartoons were as good as he remembered them, and the pizza was not bad either. I'll have to re-read the Professor Challenger books, John thought happily. Sherlock's known these people, Lestrade anyway, for five years. I bet he's never watched telly with them or even gone out for a drink. Might get a few more cases if he did.
Four or five episodes in, John was startled by the sound of Lestrade's mobile. The inspector went into the stairwell to take the call, but a few minutes later, he stuck his head back in the door. “Sally, some good-for-nothings smashed up my neighbours' restaurant. The local uniforms are there, but Ahmed got roughed up a bit.”
“We'll be fine here, guv. You go and sort things out.” Sally gestured at the children at the foot of the bed. Amy had fallen asleep, but the twins were engrossed in the cartoon. “Party should break up before too long. When Anderson comes to pack Billy and Krissy off to bed, I'll let him know what happened.”
Lestrade nodded and disappeared. John managed to stay awake for another episode, but it was almost eleven. He could still hear sounds of the party from below the bare floorboards. Apparently, it was still going strong. Beside him, Sally's head was starting to droop. Eventually, she dozed off and slid down onto John's shoulder. I guess this means we're officially friends, John smiled to himself.
He must have drifted off himself, but it wasn't much after eleven when he started awake, accidentally jolting Sally. Someone was hammering at the door below. With a growl, Sally stuck her feet in her trainers and ran down the stairs. The children stared after her and John heard her open the door. “John!” Sally called up. “Delia's hurt.”
John bounded down the stairs and ran past the caterer standing on the doorstep and in the front door of the house. The guests were huddled in a mass in the front sitting room. John shouldered them aside. “I'm a doctor. Let me through!”
Delia lay on the floor in front of her wheelchair. Anderson knelt beside her, administering CPR. The guests watched and muttered, but none of them offered to help him. Delia lay still, too still. John knew that it was over. He pushed Anderson aside as gently as he could and leaned over to examine her. The whiff of almonds from her mouth, her flushed face... Not a fit or a heart attack, this was text-book cyanide poisoning. Who has the gall, wondered John, to poison someone in such an obvious way when there are so many ways to kill a sick woman that don't look like murder?
“Did anyone see what happened?” he asked. A cacophony of voices responded. Someone reached for a coffee-cup on the open front windowsill beside the wheelchair.
“Don't touch that!” cried Anderson. He looked down at his wife's limp form, his face paler than ever.
“Dr. Anderson, your children need you. And we need Sergeant Donovan,” John said softly. Anderson nodded and staggered from the room. Someone brought John a sheet to cover Delia. Uniformed policemen arrived a few minutes later, and someone handed John a death certificate to fill out.
John looked around for Sherlock, but Pierson told him that Sherlock had left hours before. “Someone brought the coffee 'round, but she was fine then. And then about half an hour later, she simply keeled over.”
Donovan had been helping the uniformed sergeant collect statements and gave John a lift back to Baker Street. If she hadn't, God knows when he would have gotten home. As it was, it was after three when he got back. Sherlock's bedroom door was still wide open, but Sherlock himself was no-where to be seen. John sighed and collapsed in his own bed.
The next morning, John awoke to find Sherlock standing over his bed, looking at him intently. He yelped and pulled his pillow over his head. “Good, you're awake!” Sherlock declared.
“No, no, I am not awake. Especially to visitors. And flat-mates. Go away.”
“This murder of yours sounds routine enough, but I want to check a few details.”
“Later, Sherlock!”
“Well, it can wait, I suppose. Dimmock's already jailed Anderson and Donovan. Quite sad, really. Rather cleverly arranged, but such petty motives.”
“What?! No, Sally was next to me watching telly until after Delia was dead. And Anderson... you can't imagine that he'd do such a thing!”
“It's a question of what happened, John, not what you or I imagined. Between them, Anderson and Donovan had the motivation, means and opportunity to kill Delia. No one else had any reason to even want her dead. As for Sally's alibi, were you awake and watching her the whole time?”
“I might have dozed off, but only for a few minutes. Sally would have been pretty noticeable at that party. You saw, she wasn't exactly dressed for it. Then she had to get back through the locked side door and sit down next to me without waking me up.”
“Before she joined the Met, Sally got herself arrested a few times and charged with burglary. She was never convicted, because she was too good.”
“Any charges of murder, assault, anything violent?”
“No, but she ran with a pretty tough gang. They had people for that kind of thing.”
“She didn't do it, and neither did Anderson. You know better, Sherlock. You need to find out who did this.”
John crawled out from under the covers and started to get dressed. Sherlock remained by the bed, arms folded across his chest, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“How long have you known those two, Sherlock? If they were killers, you would have figured it out ages ago.”
“You over-estimate my powers of observation, John. I can't see what people are like inside; I can only deduce it from what they have done. Anderson and Donovan have been having an adulterous affair for about eight months now. Delia Anderson, in the meantime, has become a moderately wealthy woman. It was only going to be a matter of time until she found out and kicked her cheating husband to the kerb. He'd probably never have seen his kids again.”
John found Sherlock's mobile by calling it with his own. It was buried beneath a pile of books and papers on the kitchen table. He retrieved Detective Inspector Dimmock's number from it, and made the call.
“I've got to redo most of the witness statements,” Dimmock told him bitterly. “Not yours though, the uniform got that. But I have a few questions. Would you mind coming down to the Yard?”
John did not mind in the least and stood in Dimmock's office an hour later. Frantic constables bustled everywhere and Dimmock's sergeant was going to be spending the next day-and-a-half hunting down the various witnesses. Dimmock waved him over to a chair by his desk. “Sorry about all of this. It's a beastly case, and I can't afford to screw up even one little detail. Are you certain about the times you gave us?”
“Yes, well, they're according to my watch, if you want to check that, I haven't reset it.” Dimmock checked the watch, scribbled in his notepad, and asked John exactly where Anderson had stood while John had examined Delia's body.
“You can't really think they did it, Sally and Anderson? I mean, you know them! Sally's your colleague, and Anderson...”
“...Is the most ridiculously overqualified SOCO in Britain if not the free world. There's no way he would mastermind that murder and not just erase every clue. Instead, we've got half a cup of cyanide-laced coffee with no fingerprints on it except Delia's, and four clear indentations from the feet of a stepladder under the window where the cup had been placed. Above and beyond that, Delia was very obviously poisoned with cyanide at a crowded party. Anderson's got a Ph.D. in chemistry, a half-decent lab in one of those upstairs flats and access to all of his wife's medications. He could very easily have cooked up an alkaloid that we'd never have found with routine tox screens, or something with symptoms that wouldn't even look like poison. Finally, he's got an air-tight alibi. From ten-fifteen until his wife collapsed, he was in the dining room, talking biofuels with several of the guests.
“Even if I had never met the man, let alone worked with him, I'd never believe Anderson even to be guilty, even as a collaborator. But all I have is negative evidence. I ran the same argument past your friend Sherlock, and he said the same thing the CP is going to say, that those clues say more about Anderson's madness or arrogance than they do about his innocence.”
“So why did you arrest Anderson? His poor kids!”
“I haven't exactly arrested him. He's being held, voluntarily, for questioning. So is Sally Donovan. They understand that I need them out of the way to find the real killer. And his kids are at Lestrade's. Lestrade is... on leave until this gets cleared up.”
“What? But Lestrade...”
Dimmock kicked something under his desk and John could hear the clink of glass. John stared at Dimmock uncomprehendingly. The policeman pulled a cardboard box with several half-full liquor bottles out from under the desk. “Again, Lestrade's cooperating voluntarily. He just turned these over to me to keep the higher-ups calm so they don't give him aggro about taking the kids. Lestrade's actually fine under stress, it's only after a case or when things get dull that he has a problem. Oh... this isn't what you meant.” His face was as stricken as John's must have been.
Yet another guilty little Scotland Yard secret that I couldn't have learned without someone else's help, thought John bitterly. John knew what it was like... being Not Fine once the stress was over. This was none of his business, just like Anderson and Donovan's affair. But that affair was about to destroy them, and he was involved. He took a deep breath and asked: “Is Lestrade suspected of being party to the murder?”
“No, he's not, but he's under a bit of a cloud as long as Sergeant Donovan is, and being Lestrade, he's always under something of a cloud. Never been too keen on the rules, and he's made a few enemies, I'm afraid. But I'm just as glad he's willing to look after the kids, since their home is a crime scene and their dad is... out of the way.”
“The CPS doesn't have any positive evidence, do they?”
Dimmock scowled. “Not for the murder itself. But I assume Sherlock's told you that Anderson and Donovan have been having a kind of on-again, off-again affair? A couple of... incidents happened here at the Yard, and a couple of witnesses have come forward about it. And they're unsealing Sally Donovan's juvenile records. At the moment, it won't fly, and I'm praying the case is just going to get dropped. But I have this terrible feeling... that more evidence will just appear if I don't find out what the hell happened. This thing... smells like a frame! But who cares enough to frame a SOCO or a detective sergeant?” Dimmock looked hopefully at John. “Any hope that you could talk Sherlock 'round? He just doesn't seem to get what's wrong with this case! It's not like him at all.”
John sighed. “If I were Sherlock, I'd say something clever about people seeing only what they want to see. He doesn't like Anderson, and Donovan doesn't like him. I should warn him that Lestrade will go down with them, and that you aren't going to be half as accommodating.”
“I certainly am not.” Dimmock smiled grimly. “It happens that my job is to uphold the law, and other people have had very bad experiences with Sherlock at crime scenes. I don't want to become one of them. He can be very helpful, even without access to the scene or the evidence. Besides, he doesn't like me as much as Lestrade. Sherlock really doesn't like most of us.”
“Guv,” called one of the constables from the door. “Mrs. Anderson's solicitor is here.”
Dimmock stood up as the constable ushered a stout, grey-haired woman in a rose-pink suit into his office. “Mrs. McFarlane, I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes' flat-mate.”
“Dr. Watson, I presume!” exclaimed the woman, shaking John's hand. She wore tortoise-shell glasses and a broad smile. “J. H. McFarlane at your service! I love your blog. I dread to think of what you have to edit out.”
“You know Sherlock?” John asked, unable to resist smiling back.
“Oh dear, yes. I've tried to stick to plain old family law, but I've hired a few defence barristers in my time. Some of my clients need a competent investigator instead though, or no barrister will be able to save them. Sherlock only likes really odd cases, though.”
She set a pair of folders on one of the less-precarious stacks on Dimmock's desk. “A copy of Mrs. Anderson's will, as you requested, Detective Inspector. But there's more. Here are the divorce papers.”
Dimmock's jaw actually dropped open. “What...” he managed.
McFarlane sighed and opened the top folder. “I know, it's a mess. Delia just asked me to draw these up two days ago. She said that she hadn't talked to him, to Mr. Anderson, about it. That she'd call me once she'd broken the news to him. I never got that call. I doubt he knows about it even now.”
Dimmock sat down in his chair, his eyes glazing over.
“The terms are very generous,” McFarlane added. “A very generous monetary settlement and he gets full custody of the children, but he'd have to agree to the divorce of course.”
“No mention of adultery?” asked Dimmock bluntly.
“Oh my, no!” McFarlane looked shocked.
Dimmock sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you very much, Mrs. McFarlane.”
“I've recommended a barrister to Mr. Anderson, but is this likely to get to court?”
“It could well. And I'm very much afraid that you'll be in the witness stand. So will you, Dr. Watson. I probably should have run you off as soon as Mrs. McFarlane arrived.” Dimmock stared wretchedly at the divorce papers.
“I'd like to see Anderson and Sally, as long as they're being kept in durance vile.” John said, rising to his feet.
“This is a big enough mess already. You're a witness; you're Sally's alibi, and I don't want you giving the CPS any excuse to discount your evidence. So don't. Go stir up your flat-mate, please, or go make encouraging noises at Lestrade.”
Chapter 2/2 is this way.
Summary: Anderson's wife is murdered, and both Anderson and Donovan are suspects. When things get bad for them, it seems as if Sherlock Holmes is their last hope. When Sherlock declares the case boring, it all comes down to John Watson.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mention of an adulterous relationship, mild swearing
Spoilers: Study in Pink and The Blind Banker
Disclaimers: Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters are in the public domain now. Moffat and Gatiss are to blame for Detective Inspector Dimmock, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Scenes of Crime Officer Anderson. We loves them forever!
Word Count: 4588
Author's Notes: 1) Inspired by an abandoned prompt from the unstoppable Anon on sherlockbbc_fic. TY for the lovely plot bunny. Omnomnomnom! 2) This has been neither beta-read nor Brit-picked, so Caveat Lector. You have been warned. 3) Not slash!
John all but sighed in relief when he came home from work to find Sherlock fully dressed for the first time in three days, hair more-or-less brushed, actually checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror.
“So have we got a case?” asked John hopefully, “Or are you going on a date?”
“Married to my work, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “So 'no' to both. We have been invited to a party. I am so very bored that I actually agreed to it. It's a fashion industry event, I'm afraid, so dress smart.”
John stared at him and opened and closed his mouth twice before he managed to say, “Why are we going to a fashion industry event? Why were we even invited?”
“The man who supplies my clothing, Randolph Pierson, is announcing a partnership with another designer, and she is holding a small, exclusive party to announce it. I did him a favour a few years ago, and I must say he's been remarkably grateful. This could be fun.” Sherlock's mouth quirked upward into what John recognized as the Sherlock equivalent of a mischievous grin. “The new partner is Delia... Delia Anderson.”
John blinked. He bloody well knew who Randolph Pierson was. He'd seen the tag in Sherlock's coat and wondered why a man who could afford that brand of clothing couldn't afford a flat on his own. And he and Mrs. Hudson had seen Delia on the telly just the other day, not that Mrs. Hudson could afford any of her accessories. But John had also seen Sherlock work his miracles and could well imagine that he'd end up with London's elite eating out of the palm of his hand. What he couldn't imagine was Sherlock having any more patience with the rich-and-powerful than he did for anyone else once the case was over.
“Okaayyy... but I didn't think that soirées with supermodels were your kind of fun unless one of them was dead and you had to work out which of the others had murdered her.”
“Delia Anderson! She's Anderson's wife!” Sherlock declared joyfully.
“Anderson, Lestrade's SOCO?” Anderson's married to Delia? He's cheating on Delia? John opened and closed his mouth again, then had to retreat to the sofa in the sitting room for a bit. He had been shocked enough when Sherlock had revealed that the homely SOCO had been getting it on with the lovely Sergeant Donovan. But the notion that Anderson was married to the ethereal, wheelchair-bound designer who had been so charming on the talk show last Wednesday, it was just too much. John shook his head. There was no way he dared gossip about Anderson and Donovan to Mrs. Hudson. It would be all over London by morning. John shuddered.
“I want to be early!” Sherlock bellowed at him, “You need to get changed.” John staggered upstairs to look for a tie and a jacket. Sherlock was not impressed. There was no way that anything of Sherlock's would fit John, so Sherlock marched him upstairs to look through John's own wardrobe. Ten minutes later, Sherlock resolved that the situation was hopeless, and there was nothing for it but to flag down a taxi and be off to meet the world of fashion.
The Andersons certainly lived in a big house, but it was not in a posh neighbourhood. There was a wheelchair ramp along the front of the house that led to the front door, intersecting with an older flight of steps.
“The upstairs is all empty flats,” Sherlock remarked as they climbed up the stairs to the door. When John looked at him quizzically, he added: “All of the upper-story windows are dark, even though the Andersons' floor is all lit up. You can see marks on the wall by that side door, where the letter-boxes have been pulled down. The side door doesn't communicate with the house, or they wouldn't have put up a wheelchair ramp in the front. If you see water-stains on the ceiling in here, they were condemned.”
A harried-looking caterer opened the door for them and checked Sherlock's invitation. The hallway was freshly painted, with a polished wooden floor, but when John looked up, there were indeed water-stains on the ceiling.
“Sherlock! Please come and meet my new business partner!” called a rich voice from an open door on the right. Sherlock immediately donned a wide but utterly fake smile and strode into the room.
Delia moved her powered wheelchair forward to greet them, her own smile warm. She was beautiful, John decided, despite the lines on her delicate face. She wore a shawl and had tied her ash-blonde hair into a bun, but still managed to look elegant. “Gypsy finery” was how the talk-show host had described her ensembles. There was Anderson, the SOCO, beside her, looking uncomfortable in his suit, which was more than a touch nicer than the one he had worn to raid Sherlock's flat for drugs some weeks back.
Randolph Pierson dressed... like Sherlock, even to the (in John's opinion) too-tight silk shirt. He too had chiselled good looks, but his were overlain with laugh lines, and his brown hair had gone white at the temples. He shook John's hand and introduced himself as soon as he had greeted Sherlock. In the chair behind him was a woman who looked like a supermodel, tall and slim with huge green eyes, long honey-blonde hair and a dark golden tan. Pierson introduced her as “Elaine Connery, my executive assistant. Don't know what I'd do without her.”
“Well, sir,” she said, “I hope you enjoy yourself. I really do have to sort a few things out back at the office. It looks as if the caterers can take it from here.” John resisted staring after her admiringly as she left.
The next several guests to come in managed to make John feel painfully conscious of his lack of fashion sense. Sherlock had gone into what John thought of as his “undercover mode”. Without changing a single article of clothing or adding a daub of make-up, he had become a different person, mingling with the other guests like a born socialite. It was funny to watch at first. Unnoticed, John retreated into a corner behind a large armchair and nibbled at a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He could smell pepperoni pizza out of the open front window and his stomach rumbled.
“Inspector!” Anderson jumped out of his chair and ran to the open window. “Be right down, guv!”
Curious, John came over to look out the window. Sure enough, that was Lestrade on the pavement, holding a small stack of pizza boxes and wearing a pair of battered jeans, trainers, and a Clash t-shirt under a knackered leather jacket. John heard the front door open even before Anderson was out of the room. Two small tow-headed children charged into Lestrade and grabbed him by the legs. Lestrade staggered slightly at the impact, but maintained his balance and his grip on the pizza boxes. Anderson stood in front of him a moment later, talking animatedly. He gently pulled the children loose from the policeman's legs and led them and Lestrade around the side of the house. He returned alone.
“That was Inspector Lestrade? Will he be alright... alone with them?” Delia asked anxiously.
“Yes to both,” Anderson turned to the couple who had been speaking with Delia. “I work with him at Scotland Yard. He's very kindly offered to look after our children during the party. Brought them pizzas too. He won't be alone, dear. Sally, that's Sergeant Donovan, is bringing a DVD for them to watch, and she'll stay with them.”
“Oh! That dowdy little black girl who always speaks for him at the press conferences?” asked the woman. John was rather relieved to see Anderson and Delia blanch at this remark.
“Do your children talk yet?” Sherlock was back, smiling at Anderson.
“Not yet. They are very shy around strangers, and you know how it is with twins...” Anderson looked away.
“Poor, poor Delia!” gushed the woman. “Have you been to see a specialist?”
“A few,” said Delia softly.
“They've only just turned five! And they test very, very well otherwise, thank you very much.” Anderson was bristling.
“Mr. Anderson, a Sergeant Donovan here to see you,” called the caterer who had been watching the door.
“Thank God,” muttered Anderson as he left the room. This time, John followed him, thinking that it might be a good time to make his farewells and let Sherlock find his own way back, as he would probably do even if John were silly enough to stay.
Sally Donovan was waiting on the steps holding the hand of another blond child. Like Lestrade, she was dressed informally, in jeans and a plain green T-shirt. She smiled and waved a DVD case at them with her free hand. “Look what Father Christmas brought Amy last year!”
“'The Adventures of Professor Challenger': I haven't seen that since I was a kid! I didn't know that it was out on DVD. S'pose I could borrow it sometime, Amy?” John pleaded with the child. The little girl smiled and looked down at her feet.
“Dr. Watson, this is my little sister, Amy,” said Sally.
Amy looked up briefly and managed a small “Hi!” before ducking her head back down. Half-sister, John realized. Amy's skin was as pale as milk, and she looked to be the same age as Anderson's twins.
Sally's expression grew fierce. John looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock leaning out the door and smirking back. Sherlock waved at them before turning around and walking back inside. Anderson and Sally both let out long sighs.
“Erm, well,” said John. “Thanks very much for having me... and all, but I should be getting back.”
Sally blinked at him and looked at her watch. “I thought that this thing started at 8:00 and it's just now 8:15.”
“Sherlock made him come,” Anderson explained. “Sorry you got dragged out here, Doctor. Don't worry, Sherlock won't last that much longer. He gets bored faster than my kids do.”
“Listen,” Sally held up the DVD again, “D'you actually want to see this?”
John nodded vigorously, “Loved that series when I was a kid. And I even read all of the books!”
“I've been reading The Lost World to my kids,” Anderson said.
“Why don't you watch it with us?” Sally asked. “You must be pretty bloody bored to come to this thing as the Freak's date.”
“I'm not his date!” Watson snapped, following Sally and Amy to the side door. Anderson waved and returned to the party.
“That's right. He's married to his work. Just makes it all the more pathetic, really,” Sally jeered, knocking on the side door. “You desperate enough to take up train-spotting or birding yet?”
Lestrade threw open the door from the other side before John could retort. “Hullo, Amy. Sally, all the wires are the wrong colour!” He stared at John in puzzlement as Sally and Amy brushed past him. “Where's Sherlock? And what would he want with us? I thought he was busy being fashionable.”
“He is,” said John, looking down. “But I'm not.” Besides, Sally invited me, he wanted to say.
“Well, we've got lots of pizza and stuff. Mind the door; it locks when it closes.” With that, Lestrade turned and headed inside, a relieved John Watson following him up the stairwell. The front room of the flat at the first landing had been cleaned up a bit, though it could use fresh paint. Little Amy was chattering at the twins, who were sprawled on the foot of a relatively new sofa-bed. Sally was connecting a DVD player to a telly on a coffee table that had seen better days.
John collected some pizza and a bottle of water. Once free of his tie and his shoes, he made himself comfortable against the back of the sofa. As soon as the DVD was ready and Lestrade had persuaded the kids to accept their slices of pizza, Sally and Lestrade settled on either side of John. The cartoons were as good as he remembered them, and the pizza was not bad either. I'll have to re-read the Professor Challenger books, John thought happily. Sherlock's known these people, Lestrade anyway, for five years. I bet he's never watched telly with them or even gone out for a drink. Might get a few more cases if he did.
Four or five episodes in, John was startled by the sound of Lestrade's mobile. The inspector went into the stairwell to take the call, but a few minutes later, he stuck his head back in the door. “Sally, some good-for-nothings smashed up my neighbours' restaurant. The local uniforms are there, but Ahmed got roughed up a bit.”
“We'll be fine here, guv. You go and sort things out.” Sally gestured at the children at the foot of the bed. Amy had fallen asleep, but the twins were engrossed in the cartoon. “Party should break up before too long. When Anderson comes to pack Billy and Krissy off to bed, I'll let him know what happened.”
Lestrade nodded and disappeared. John managed to stay awake for another episode, but it was almost eleven. He could still hear sounds of the party from below the bare floorboards. Apparently, it was still going strong. Beside him, Sally's head was starting to droop. Eventually, she dozed off and slid down onto John's shoulder. I guess this means we're officially friends, John smiled to himself.
He must have drifted off himself, but it wasn't much after eleven when he started awake, accidentally jolting Sally. Someone was hammering at the door below. With a growl, Sally stuck her feet in her trainers and ran down the stairs. The children stared after her and John heard her open the door. “John!” Sally called up. “Delia's hurt.”
John bounded down the stairs and ran past the caterer standing on the doorstep and in the front door of the house. The guests were huddled in a mass in the front sitting room. John shouldered them aside. “I'm a doctor. Let me through!”
Delia lay on the floor in front of her wheelchair. Anderson knelt beside her, administering CPR. The guests watched and muttered, but none of them offered to help him. Delia lay still, too still. John knew that it was over. He pushed Anderson aside as gently as he could and leaned over to examine her. The whiff of almonds from her mouth, her flushed face... Not a fit or a heart attack, this was text-book cyanide poisoning. Who has the gall, wondered John, to poison someone in such an obvious way when there are so many ways to kill a sick woman that don't look like murder?
“Did anyone see what happened?” he asked. A cacophony of voices responded. Someone reached for a coffee-cup on the open front windowsill beside the wheelchair.
“Don't touch that!” cried Anderson. He looked down at his wife's limp form, his face paler than ever.
“Dr. Anderson, your children need you. And we need Sergeant Donovan,” John said softly. Anderson nodded and staggered from the room. Someone brought John a sheet to cover Delia. Uniformed policemen arrived a few minutes later, and someone handed John a death certificate to fill out.
John looked around for Sherlock, but Pierson told him that Sherlock had left hours before. “Someone brought the coffee 'round, but she was fine then. And then about half an hour later, she simply keeled over.”
Donovan had been helping the uniformed sergeant collect statements and gave John a lift back to Baker Street. If she hadn't, God knows when he would have gotten home. As it was, it was after three when he got back. Sherlock's bedroom door was still wide open, but Sherlock himself was no-where to be seen. John sighed and collapsed in his own bed.
The next morning, John awoke to find Sherlock standing over his bed, looking at him intently. He yelped and pulled his pillow over his head. “Good, you're awake!” Sherlock declared.
“No, no, I am not awake. Especially to visitors. And flat-mates. Go away.”
“This murder of yours sounds routine enough, but I want to check a few details.”
“Later, Sherlock!”
“Well, it can wait, I suppose. Dimmock's already jailed Anderson and Donovan. Quite sad, really. Rather cleverly arranged, but such petty motives.”
“What?! No, Sally was next to me watching telly until after Delia was dead. And Anderson... you can't imagine that he'd do such a thing!”
“It's a question of what happened, John, not what you or I imagined. Between them, Anderson and Donovan had the motivation, means and opportunity to kill Delia. No one else had any reason to even want her dead. As for Sally's alibi, were you awake and watching her the whole time?”
“I might have dozed off, but only for a few minutes. Sally would have been pretty noticeable at that party. You saw, she wasn't exactly dressed for it. Then she had to get back through the locked side door and sit down next to me without waking me up.”
“Before she joined the Met, Sally got herself arrested a few times and charged with burglary. She was never convicted, because she was too good.”
“Any charges of murder, assault, anything violent?”
“No, but she ran with a pretty tough gang. They had people for that kind of thing.”
“She didn't do it, and neither did Anderson. You know better, Sherlock. You need to find out who did this.”
John crawled out from under the covers and started to get dressed. Sherlock remained by the bed, arms folded across his chest, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“How long have you known those two, Sherlock? If they were killers, you would have figured it out ages ago.”
“You over-estimate my powers of observation, John. I can't see what people are like inside; I can only deduce it from what they have done. Anderson and Donovan have been having an adulterous affair for about eight months now. Delia Anderson, in the meantime, has become a moderately wealthy woman. It was only going to be a matter of time until she found out and kicked her cheating husband to the kerb. He'd probably never have seen his kids again.”
John found Sherlock's mobile by calling it with his own. It was buried beneath a pile of books and papers on the kitchen table. He retrieved Detective Inspector Dimmock's number from it, and made the call.
“I've got to redo most of the witness statements,” Dimmock told him bitterly. “Not yours though, the uniform got that. But I have a few questions. Would you mind coming down to the Yard?”
John did not mind in the least and stood in Dimmock's office an hour later. Frantic constables bustled everywhere and Dimmock's sergeant was going to be spending the next day-and-a-half hunting down the various witnesses. Dimmock waved him over to a chair by his desk. “Sorry about all of this. It's a beastly case, and I can't afford to screw up even one little detail. Are you certain about the times you gave us?”
“Yes, well, they're according to my watch, if you want to check that, I haven't reset it.” Dimmock checked the watch, scribbled in his notepad, and asked John exactly where Anderson had stood while John had examined Delia's body.
“You can't really think they did it, Sally and Anderson? I mean, you know them! Sally's your colleague, and Anderson...”
“...Is the most ridiculously overqualified SOCO in Britain if not the free world. There's no way he would mastermind that murder and not just erase every clue. Instead, we've got half a cup of cyanide-laced coffee with no fingerprints on it except Delia's, and four clear indentations from the feet of a stepladder under the window where the cup had been placed. Above and beyond that, Delia was very obviously poisoned with cyanide at a crowded party. Anderson's got a Ph.D. in chemistry, a half-decent lab in one of those upstairs flats and access to all of his wife's medications. He could very easily have cooked up an alkaloid that we'd never have found with routine tox screens, or something with symptoms that wouldn't even look like poison. Finally, he's got an air-tight alibi. From ten-fifteen until his wife collapsed, he was in the dining room, talking biofuels with several of the guests.
“Even if I had never met the man, let alone worked with him, I'd never believe Anderson even to be guilty, even as a collaborator. But all I have is negative evidence. I ran the same argument past your friend Sherlock, and he said the same thing the CP is going to say, that those clues say more about Anderson's madness or arrogance than they do about his innocence.”
“So why did you arrest Anderson? His poor kids!”
“I haven't exactly arrested him. He's being held, voluntarily, for questioning. So is Sally Donovan. They understand that I need them out of the way to find the real killer. And his kids are at Lestrade's. Lestrade is... on leave until this gets cleared up.”
“What? But Lestrade...”
Dimmock kicked something under his desk and John could hear the clink of glass. John stared at Dimmock uncomprehendingly. The policeman pulled a cardboard box with several half-full liquor bottles out from under the desk. “Again, Lestrade's cooperating voluntarily. He just turned these over to me to keep the higher-ups calm so they don't give him aggro about taking the kids. Lestrade's actually fine under stress, it's only after a case or when things get dull that he has a problem. Oh... this isn't what you meant.” His face was as stricken as John's must have been.
Yet another guilty little Scotland Yard secret that I couldn't have learned without someone else's help, thought John bitterly. John knew what it was like... being Not Fine once the stress was over. This was none of his business, just like Anderson and Donovan's affair. But that affair was about to destroy them, and he was involved. He took a deep breath and asked: “Is Lestrade suspected of being party to the murder?”
“No, he's not, but he's under a bit of a cloud as long as Sergeant Donovan is, and being Lestrade, he's always under something of a cloud. Never been too keen on the rules, and he's made a few enemies, I'm afraid. But I'm just as glad he's willing to look after the kids, since their home is a crime scene and their dad is... out of the way.”
“The CPS doesn't have any positive evidence, do they?”
Dimmock scowled. “Not for the murder itself. But I assume Sherlock's told you that Anderson and Donovan have been having a kind of on-again, off-again affair? A couple of... incidents happened here at the Yard, and a couple of witnesses have come forward about it. And they're unsealing Sally Donovan's juvenile records. At the moment, it won't fly, and I'm praying the case is just going to get dropped. But I have this terrible feeling... that more evidence will just appear if I don't find out what the hell happened. This thing... smells like a frame! But who cares enough to frame a SOCO or a detective sergeant?” Dimmock looked hopefully at John. “Any hope that you could talk Sherlock 'round? He just doesn't seem to get what's wrong with this case! It's not like him at all.”
John sighed. “If I were Sherlock, I'd say something clever about people seeing only what they want to see. He doesn't like Anderson, and Donovan doesn't like him. I should warn him that Lestrade will go down with them, and that you aren't going to be half as accommodating.”
“I certainly am not.” Dimmock smiled grimly. “It happens that my job is to uphold the law, and other people have had very bad experiences with Sherlock at crime scenes. I don't want to become one of them. He can be very helpful, even without access to the scene or the evidence. Besides, he doesn't like me as much as Lestrade. Sherlock really doesn't like most of us.”
“Guv,” called one of the constables from the door. “Mrs. Anderson's solicitor is here.”
Dimmock stood up as the constable ushered a stout, grey-haired woman in a rose-pink suit into his office. “Mrs. McFarlane, I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes' flat-mate.”
“Dr. Watson, I presume!” exclaimed the woman, shaking John's hand. She wore tortoise-shell glasses and a broad smile. “J. H. McFarlane at your service! I love your blog. I dread to think of what you have to edit out.”
“You know Sherlock?” John asked, unable to resist smiling back.
“Oh dear, yes. I've tried to stick to plain old family law, but I've hired a few defence barristers in my time. Some of my clients need a competent investigator instead though, or no barrister will be able to save them. Sherlock only likes really odd cases, though.”
She set a pair of folders on one of the less-precarious stacks on Dimmock's desk. “A copy of Mrs. Anderson's will, as you requested, Detective Inspector. But there's more. Here are the divorce papers.”
Dimmock's jaw actually dropped open. “What...” he managed.
McFarlane sighed and opened the top folder. “I know, it's a mess. Delia just asked me to draw these up two days ago. She said that she hadn't talked to him, to Mr. Anderson, about it. That she'd call me once she'd broken the news to him. I never got that call. I doubt he knows about it even now.”
Dimmock sat down in his chair, his eyes glazing over.
“The terms are very generous,” McFarlane added. “A very generous monetary settlement and he gets full custody of the children, but he'd have to agree to the divorce of course.”
“No mention of adultery?” asked Dimmock bluntly.
“Oh my, no!” McFarlane looked shocked.
Dimmock sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you very much, Mrs. McFarlane.”
“I've recommended a barrister to Mr. Anderson, but is this likely to get to court?”
“It could well. And I'm very much afraid that you'll be in the witness stand. So will you, Dr. Watson. I probably should have run you off as soon as Mrs. McFarlane arrived.” Dimmock stared wretchedly at the divorce papers.
“I'd like to see Anderson and Sally, as long as they're being kept in durance vile.” John said, rising to his feet.
“This is a big enough mess already. You're a witness; you're Sally's alibi, and I don't want you giving the CPS any excuse to discount your evidence. So don't. Go stir up your flat-mate, please, or go make encouraging noises at Lestrade.”
Chapter 2/2 is this way.