S3E4 - Four Elizabeths - Part Seven: Amalgamation
Episode number: s03e04 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Amalgamation
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 3,782
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, betrayal, graveyards, forensics
Scotland Yard. Duncan Ross adjusted his suit and hair, apparently unconcerned about the fact that he was in an interrogation room.
"I'm DI Lestrade."
"Duncan Ross."
"We asked you in about this," he said as he sat down and spread crime scene photos from the warehouse across the table. "Can't be sure how many bodies this involved, since they were all gone by the time we got there. The owner of this warehouse - "
Duncan interrupted, "It's mine."
"Sorry, did you just admit this warehouse was yours? I had a whole speech ready about the shell corporations and subsidiaries that eventually lead back to you. I even brought diagrams."
"That sounds like a horrid waste of time. Let's skip ahead, shall we? Tell me, DI Lestrade, what do you know about what happened at my warehouse?"
"You do realize that you're under investigation?" Lestrade asked.
"Certainly, but I'm sure you have bigger fish."
"That depends. What can you tell me about this?" Lestrade asked as he produced a photo of the Elizabeth I bust.
Duncan didn't hide his surprise. He replied, "Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting the coppers to cotton on to any of that. Sharp, DI Lestrade, very sharp. Let's you and me make a deal, then. I give up everything I know, spill my guts on the warehouse and the bust, if you let me and my man Craig Ragland slide."
"That all depends on what you can tell me."
"What if I promised you something else, something big?" Duncan asked. "For example, the real name of The Baker, or at least the one he puts his assets under."
Lestrade took a moment to consider, although there was no doubt in his mind that it was more than fair. He replied, "All right, get on with it then, start with the bust."
"It's not too old, but there's this legend around it. People say diamonds and precious gems are hidden inside in an undetectable compartment. Took me months to track one down, and then some other bloke bought it up before I got to it. So I asked Ragland to collect its contents."
"Which was what, diamonds?" Lestrade asked.
Duncan let out a mirthless laugh. "It was a bloody USB drive, heavily encrypted. I chucked it up to a loss until I caught wind that Moran wanted the busts. I figured maybe my efforts could still get a payday, and Moran said he'd pay so long as I didn't mention the USB to anyone else. So I set up a meet at my warehouse, and then Moran double-crossed me. Had one of his boys take down my security, and some bitch stole the USB."
"Was she working for Moran?"
"She shot him and then swooped in and stole the USB from his lackey's hands, so I doubt it."
"Anything else you can tell me?"
"Maxwell Peters," Duncan said. "Give me a pen and paper and I can write out his bank account numbers where The Baker receives payments for his hits."
John wasn't expecting any of this. Of course, Sherlock obsessed over the message. There was nothing off about that. Then he raced around for twenty minutes, making calls to his brother. Perfectly normal Sherlock behavior.
But then he sat in a chair next to Molly's bed and didn't move. Were this any man other than Sherlock Holmes, John would've sworn that he rushed preparations so that he could sit by her side, waiting but ready. Logically, he couldn't do anything for her, and only the foolish notion of sentiment led people to sit by sickbeds of the unconscious.
And Sherlock Holmes had no sentiment.
Yet there he sat for over an hour.
"Sher-Sherlock?" Molly said slowly. "John?"
"Molly, how do you feel?" John asked.
"Dry."
"Drink this," he said as he handed her a glass of water. "Slowly. Sips."
"Where is she?" she asked.
"She's gone," Sherlock replied. "Gone before we got here."
"Must've put something in my tea," Molly said. "She came in with some pretty bad injuries. Through-and-through bullet wound and several slashes from a knife. Lost some blood but patched herself up some. I was surprised she made it here."
"I said you need to sip that," John said.
Molly obliged.
"She's O positive, dunno if that helps," she continued. "Had Samuel put together the supplies and Mrs. Hudson picked them up for me. I tried to remember her injuries, distinctive marks, you know? But..."
"You're having trouble remembering?" Sherlock prompted. "She did the same to me."
"She's had surgeries, some to correct scars and revise tissue damage, and more than one mole or birthmark removed. But I can't remember where."
"What about the injuries she had today?" John asked. "You remember anything about them?"
"She must've been wearing protective gear because she had bruising along her torso that I've only seen on police who were shot wearing Kevlar. She was hit, through-and-through, in the shoulder, barely missing the artery. I swear that woman must be the luckiest person alive."
"Did she threaten you?" Sherlock asked.
"No, she said she had information about Moriarty's network. Said something like, Sherlock can be alive without you dying or something like that. Figured you'd want to know, so I - "
"Hang on," John interrupted. "What does that mean? 'Sherlock can be alive without you dying?'"
"Never mind," Sherlock replied.
"No, I mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. What does it mean?"
"Very well. Moriarty said either I jump off the building, or his well-placed assassins would murder you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He didn't mention Molly by name, but I have no doubt in my mind that Moriarty's network would target her as well should they discover that I'm alive."
"Even though the man who gave the order is dead?" Molly asked.
"Foolish, but still entirely likely."
"You're telling me that the reason you faked your death was to save us?" John asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did say so, John, when we were out in Salcombe."
"You said three assassins would kill three people, you never said it was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and me!"
John wasn't sure if he should be angry or grateful. On the one hand, Sherlock had faked his own death to save John's life; on the other, the man was being a complete prat.
"Now is not the time," Sherlock said. "So The Engineer convinced you to help her without threat. What else do you remember?"
"She was here a while. I'm used to working on the dead. I offered her something to eat after, she was looking pale even with the transfusion. She must've slipped something in my tea, because the next thing I remember is you two in my room."
"She left and took the library bust," Sherlock said. "And we're going to get it back."
"What's with that?" John asked. "Did she say Elizabeth the First?"
"You are the one who put me onto it, John," Sherlock replied. "Your investigation into that a break-in."
"Yeah, I - how do you know that?"
"You chronicled the events in your journal," Sherlock replied. "I saw the picture and recognized the bust from the library. You also mentioned the Wilder Shoppe and its owner, Anthony Wilder, who recently was abducted. No news as to the reason for his kidnapping, but when he reappeared, he was interviewed by Lestrade."
"Greg didn't mention anything about this," Molly said. "And I spoke to him just yesterday."
"What is odd here is not your lack of knowledge, but rather that a Detective Inspector focused on homicide interviewed a kidnapping victim with no exigent circumstances," Sherlock said briskly. "Why would that happen?"
"Greg probably looked into it because he put me onto the original case," John replied. "He actually cares about the people around him."
"So you think shop owner was abducted over the bust, too?" Molly asked.
John said, "According to The Engineer, it's one of four."
"James Moriarty used the busts to store sensitive data," Sherlock replied. "He must've distributed them, leaving them in the care of people that had reason to fear him, even in death."
"Then how is it that one was sold in some shop and another wound up in at the library?" Molly asked.
"Irrelevant. We need to steal the bust back. Shall we?" Sherlock asked.
Sebastian Moran was facing the worst streak of luck he'd ever known. The warehouse trade-off fell apart. It went from a simple payoff to a firefight, and he got shot during his escape. By the time he'd come-to after his medical care, Brown, Clay, and Spaulding had gone offline and somehow fallen into police custody. All this in two days!
His remaining assets, the Burnsider twins, ran a clever operation for years, but they were never criminal masterminds, which made them perfect for Moran's employ. Yet after he called them demanding they turn in the fruits of their labor, the two louts brought three hostages, bound, gagged, and blindfolded.
"Do you have sand in your ears?" Moran asked. "I asked you to bring the goods. Who the hell are they?"
"Your man Spaulding said we'd be secure," Erin said. "Gave us all the assurances."
"And?" Moran asked.
"And now he's in police custody," Aaron replied. "Because the prat was wrong! Not only did someone find us, she broken in to the facility and made off with everything!"
"The bust?"
"She got it," Erin said. "Took the whole thing, ditched the tracking devices I'd planted. We've no way to find it or her."
"Spaulding's solicitor contacted me," Aaron added. "Told me the woman who did him in was the same one who attacked you lot at the warehouse."
"The same woman?" Moran repeated. "No, can't be."
Erin said, "To be clear, this mess isn't on us. We - "
"Enough," Moran interrupted. "If it's true that there's a broad out there crazy enough to attack me and a small army at Ross's warehouse only to go after you lot the next day, then I assure you, there isn't a thing the likes of you could do to stop her."
"Not for lack of trying," Erin asserted. "I managed to slash her with my knife, and Spaulding shot her."
"I take it you two are at least looking for this mystery woman?"
Aaron nodded, yes. "So is all of Scotland Yard, come to that."
"Then there's no chance of her being one of these fine specimens here?"
"Oh, hardly," Erin replied. "Sebastian Moran, meet Victoria Hatherley, Helen Raylott, and Pamela Leavitt. These fine ladies are all intimately familiar with our wayward busts."
"Is that so?" Moran said softly. "And you brought them here to me?"
Aaron replied, "I never like showing up empty handed, especially not after you went to all that trouble for us."
"Tell you what. You leave these ladies for a bit of a chat with me and go on looking for our mystery woman. Anything you find on her, you report to me as soon as you get it. Once I have those busts back, you're debt is cleared. Any questions?"
Both shook their heads, no. Then they scarpered, and Moran turned his attention his three captive guests.
John watched as Sherlock ran a number of odd experiments. He rambled at length about how the "proper equipment" at Bart's would be more efficient, but he devised alternative tests that produced apparently equivalent results.
"I'll need urine," Sherlock said. "Now."
"There's no way that's going to happen," John replied.
"I'm asking for urine, not your progeny."
"I draw the line at peeing on command!"
"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. "I need urine!"
"There's plenty of horse urine in the cupboard!" she yelled back.
"Sorry, did she just say horse urine?" John asked. "In our cupboard?"
"Urine has many useful properties, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as he entered the room. "Certainly seems reasonable to store it."
"Ah, dear brother, you're just in time," Sherlock replied.
Mycroft quickly looked over the kitchen experiments. "Analyzing soil samples, I see. Anything of interest?"
"The Engineer tracked all this in. Samples from her footprints were worthless, as you can imagine with all her blood everywhere, but there were a number of anomalies that I've isolated and analyzed... all of which point to a cemetery that contains both cornus mas and cornus florida."
"Sounds dodgy," John said. "Who'd bury bodies in a corn field?"
"Please tell me that was a poor attempt at humor as opposed to a poor attempt at intelligence," Sherlock said. "I'm referring to flowering trees, one of which is rare in London."
"How rare exactly?"
"One cemetery in London presents with this combination of flora as well as the soil markers I've been able to isolate from her blood. She told us to find her and now I have."
"Couldn't you just say you know where she was before she came here?" John asked.
Mycroft snooped through some of the papers on the living room table with mild interest, actively ignoring his younger brother.
"You need something, Mycroft?" John asked.
"Hardly," Mycroft replied. "The way Sherlock went on about it, I thought you'd have The Engineer trussed in your flat. Apparently his penchant for the dramatic has caused him to jump the gun."
"Molly! John!" Sherlock yelled. "We've got a cemetery to visit. Mycroft, do show yourself out."
Moran appreciated the Burnsider's dedication in bringing him three hostages, but the last thing he needed was hostages to juggle. The only relevant information he required about the busts was their current locations. And what were the chances that these three knew anything about that?
So Moran untied them after informing them that any attempt at escape would result in broken bones. He felt a bit ridiculous threatening Victoria Hatherly, who was in her late seventies, but it was best to be thorough when corralling captives.
"No need to be shy. My chef said he'd bring us a fresh pot. We have all day and all night, if you like."
"And once you have what you want, what happens then?" Victoria asked.
He replied, "You all go home, love. Mind, you will be blindfolded and restrained before my driver can take you, but you will be returned without any harm done. Well, any more harm done anyway."
"Why are we here?" Victoria asked.
"I want you to tell me everything you know about the busts of Elizabeth the First," he replied. "I do mean everything, including when and where you last saw them, and any locations they may be today."
"I've no idea what you're talking about," Pamela replied.
"Your lackeys just grabbed me because of my background in architecture and restoration," Helen added. "They kept asking me about some bust mold, but I'd never heard of it."
"Looks like you've got the wrong people," Victoria said. "Perhaps we should skip the tea and go home."
"You could have been nicer about it," John repeated. "More polite. Considered your words."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What nonsense are you on about?"
"I'm talking about Molly!" John said. "Had you asked her instead of barking orders, she'd've come along."
"Molly must stop taking umbrage with efficiency," Sherlock replied. "Until then, her assistance will be more tedious than productive."
"Three hours ago, you were ready to commit homicide on her behalf," John replied.
"I'm a sociopath, John. I'm always ready to commit homicide, and as for inflicting any bodily harm in the name of one individual or another, I favor those who are unconscious, catatonic, or otherwise un-annoying."
With that, Sherlock darted off between the tombstones.
"The pathways exist for a reason!"
"Sentiment!"
The consulting detecting arrived at a specific grave marker, and, reluctantly, John joined him. The headstone deviated from those around it in shape and inscription, as it only bore a name: Thatcher T. Ice.
"Did you know Thatcher T. Ice?" John asked.
"I doubt anyone knew Thatcher T. Ice. Clearly the name is a fake," Sherlock replied. "Add that to the fact that it's been installed in the past five years in an area that has otherwise been untouched in twenty. The deductions are quite clear."
"And here I assumed you came because of the mobile," John said, indicating the burner atop the headstone.
"A sufficient conclusion from an adequate deduction."
Sherlock snatched up the mobile and examined it. "Much like the last one," he observed out loud.
"The last one?" John asked. "What last one?"
"She left me a similar phone in the lost in found of a library," he replied. "Identical operating systems and hardware. All untraceable."
"What about the contacts?" John asked. "Did she leave a note or text?"
"Just a number."
Sherlock turned on the speakerphone and dialed out.
"Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes," said The Engineer. "Let me guess, the anagram was a dead give away."
John blocked the mobile with his hand and mouthed, "Anagram?" to Sherlock.
"Really, John, Thatcher T. Ice," he replied with no regard for whispering. "Obviously an anagram of 'The Architect,' which was the assumed name of the asset referred to as Driftwood. We did learn this within the past forty-eight hours. Do keep up."
"Am I interrupting you two boys?" The Engineer asked.
"Your attack on Molly was highly inappropriate," Sherlock said.
"Would never had happened if you hadn't harassed the good Doctor Lanser," she replied. "Perhaps we should talk business now and quibble later? I have pressing news."
"Very well, I have what you want," Sherlock said. "Yet you have failed to provide your fee."
"I intend to hold up my end," she replied. "There is one small catch."
"I admire you, I do," Moran said. "Kidnapped by an escaped convict renown for his international criminal enterprise, and you're willing to keep the secret. Most would spill their guts and beg for their lives. Here's the thing, ladies, I'm privy to this secret, as James Moriarty and I were quite close. In fact, I helped him on this particular venture. Maybe what you need is to refresh your memories."
He lifted a drop cloth that covered his own bust of Elizabeth the First.
"In fact, he gave me this," he continued. "Told me he'd be back for it eventually. Then he died, and here was I, not knowing where the others were or even where to look properly. Thought maybe he confided in others, but came up disappointed. Apparently at the end, I was the only one he ever trusted."
Complete silence greeted these words. Moran considered the three captives for a moment.
"How about I get you started, then? Pamela, dear, seven years ago you were kidnapped. Do you remember why?"
Pamela shook with rage. "A man came to me. He had four busts and a design plan that outfitted them to hide compact hard drives that'd be undetectable when scanned. He wanted it to be so that if the bust was destroyed, the contents would survive. Every day he came to me and told me that I'd never go home unless I finished my task. So I did. And if I ever see that man again, I'll bash his head in."
"He's dead," Moran said simply. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Now, either of you ladies ready to chime in? The faster you answer, the faster you leave."
"I designed them, almost fifty years ago. Decorative busts, sized to fit in a variety of places. Ships, cargo holds, airplanes," Victoria replied. "Their purpose was circumventing taxes and tariffs. The busts were hollow, so they could fit diamonds and other valuables. Since the busts themselves were technically a decorative element of the shipping vehicle, they weren't considered proper cargo, no on really inspected them."
"You could've just said they were for smuggling," Moran replied.
Helen said, "About ten years ago, someone asked me to redesign hollow busts so they had a hidden compartment, something that would be difficult to detect with x-rays and the like. I thought it was an academic exercise until he paid me ten thousand quid and the plans disappeared." She turned to Pamela, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you, dear, I had no idea."
"Now that we're all being honest, tell me where your busts are now," Moran said. "Come on, now, I'll be getting my hands on them soon enough, with or without your help, but give me your help, you get to go home. So quickly now, each of you."
"I got rid of mine," Pamela said harshly. "Put it in the estate of my great uncle and had it carted off to some store in London so I'll never have to see it again."
Helen said, "Ask your lackeys, they pinched mine."
Victoria said, "Five years ago, I put it on display in the Rare Books and Music section of the British Library. Go on and see for yourself."
"Ah, there it is," Moran said. "I knew about Miss Leavitt's little liquidation sale and the Burnsiders told me about Helen's, but they couldn't seem to find yours, Victoria. Not for lack of trying, mind. The British Library? Really?"
"Hiding it in plain sight is the only way to actually conceal something," she replied.
"On that, love, we can agree."
"You promised to deliver all four," Sherlock protested. "Not three, four! Without all four together, the data cannot be decrypted!"
"I'll need your assistance for obtaining the final bust," she replied. "Normally I wouldn't have need to ask, but the bullet wound I sustained has slowed me down. And Scotland Yard has been kicking over a lot of anthills trying to find escaped prisoners."
"Sent all your friends skittering back to the shadows?" Sherlock asked with venom in his voice.
"'Friends' is a generous word," she replied. "The only way to get the fourth bust is by working together."
"Very well, but I want something in return. An answer. Colonel Lysander Stark. Clearly, you hadn't gotten the information you wanted, yet you killed him. Why?"
After a few moments of silence, The Engineer replied, "Now, now, now, Mr. Holmes. You of all people understand the nature of a question like that. I won't lie to you, but I also won't answer you. Not over a phone with at least one other listening. I'm sure there are dozens of more pressing problems that need dynamic - or possibly illegal - solutions. Text me the parameters, we'll call it a peace offering. Oh, and do keep your schedule free and the mobile. I'll ring you later with the details, and since you've been a sport about it, I'm willing to throw in an international assassin. How about get the bust and The Baker? Ring, ring."
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Part Eight: Four Strangers
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Amalgamation
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 3,782
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, betrayal, graveyards, forensics
Scotland Yard. Duncan Ross adjusted his suit and hair, apparently unconcerned about the fact that he was in an interrogation room.
"I'm DI Lestrade."
"Duncan Ross."
"We asked you in about this," he said as he sat down and spread crime scene photos from the warehouse across the table. "Can't be sure how many bodies this involved, since they were all gone by the time we got there. The owner of this warehouse - "
Duncan interrupted, "It's mine."
"Sorry, did you just admit this warehouse was yours? I had a whole speech ready about the shell corporations and subsidiaries that eventually lead back to you. I even brought diagrams."
"That sounds like a horrid waste of time. Let's skip ahead, shall we? Tell me, DI Lestrade, what do you know about what happened at my warehouse?"
"You do realize that you're under investigation?" Lestrade asked.
"Certainly, but I'm sure you have bigger fish."
"That depends. What can you tell me about this?" Lestrade asked as he produced a photo of the Elizabeth I bust.
Duncan didn't hide his surprise. He replied, "Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting the coppers to cotton on to any of that. Sharp, DI Lestrade, very sharp. Let's you and me make a deal, then. I give up everything I know, spill my guts on the warehouse and the bust, if you let me and my man Craig Ragland slide."
"That all depends on what you can tell me."
"What if I promised you something else, something big?" Duncan asked. "For example, the real name of The Baker, or at least the one he puts his assets under."
Lestrade took a moment to consider, although there was no doubt in his mind that it was more than fair. He replied, "All right, get on with it then, start with the bust."
"It's not too old, but there's this legend around it. People say diamonds and precious gems are hidden inside in an undetectable compartment. Took me months to track one down, and then some other bloke bought it up before I got to it. So I asked Ragland to collect its contents."
"Which was what, diamonds?" Lestrade asked.
Duncan let out a mirthless laugh. "It was a bloody USB drive, heavily encrypted. I chucked it up to a loss until I caught wind that Moran wanted the busts. I figured maybe my efforts could still get a payday, and Moran said he'd pay so long as I didn't mention the USB to anyone else. So I set up a meet at my warehouse, and then Moran double-crossed me. Had one of his boys take down my security, and some bitch stole the USB."
"Was she working for Moran?"
"She shot him and then swooped in and stole the USB from his lackey's hands, so I doubt it."
"Anything else you can tell me?"
"Maxwell Peters," Duncan said. "Give me a pen and paper and I can write out his bank account numbers where The Baker receives payments for his hits."
John wasn't expecting any of this. Of course, Sherlock obsessed over the message. There was nothing off about that. Then he raced around for twenty minutes, making calls to his brother. Perfectly normal Sherlock behavior.
But then he sat in a chair next to Molly's bed and didn't move. Were this any man other than Sherlock Holmes, John would've sworn that he rushed preparations so that he could sit by her side, waiting but ready. Logically, he couldn't do anything for her, and only the foolish notion of sentiment led people to sit by sickbeds of the unconscious.
And Sherlock Holmes had no sentiment.
Yet there he sat for over an hour.
"Sher-Sherlock?" Molly said slowly. "John?"
"Molly, how do you feel?" John asked.
"Dry."
"Drink this," he said as he handed her a glass of water. "Slowly. Sips."
"Where is she?" she asked.
"She's gone," Sherlock replied. "Gone before we got here."
"Must've put something in my tea," Molly said. "She came in with some pretty bad injuries. Through-and-through bullet wound and several slashes from a knife. Lost some blood but patched herself up some. I was surprised she made it here."
"I said you need to sip that," John said.
Molly obliged.
"She's O positive, dunno if that helps," she continued. "Had Samuel put together the supplies and Mrs. Hudson picked them up for me. I tried to remember her injuries, distinctive marks, you know? But..."
"You're having trouble remembering?" Sherlock prompted. "She did the same to me."
"She's had surgeries, some to correct scars and revise tissue damage, and more than one mole or birthmark removed. But I can't remember where."
"What about the injuries she had today?" John asked. "You remember anything about them?"
"She must've been wearing protective gear because she had bruising along her torso that I've only seen on police who were shot wearing Kevlar. She was hit, through-and-through, in the shoulder, barely missing the artery. I swear that woman must be the luckiest person alive."
"Did she threaten you?" Sherlock asked.
"No, she said she had information about Moriarty's network. Said something like, Sherlock can be alive without you dying or something like that. Figured you'd want to know, so I - "
"Hang on," John interrupted. "What does that mean? 'Sherlock can be alive without you dying?'"
"Never mind," Sherlock replied.
"No, I mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. What does it mean?"
"Very well. Moriarty said either I jump off the building, or his well-placed assassins would murder you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He didn't mention Molly by name, but I have no doubt in my mind that Moriarty's network would target her as well should they discover that I'm alive."
"Even though the man who gave the order is dead?" Molly asked.
"Foolish, but still entirely likely."
"You're telling me that the reason you faked your death was to save us?" John asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did say so, John, when we were out in Salcombe."
"You said three assassins would kill three people, you never said it was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and me!"
John wasn't sure if he should be angry or grateful. On the one hand, Sherlock had faked his own death to save John's life; on the other, the man was being a complete prat.
"Now is not the time," Sherlock said. "So The Engineer convinced you to help her without threat. What else do you remember?"
"She was here a while. I'm used to working on the dead. I offered her something to eat after, she was looking pale even with the transfusion. She must've slipped something in my tea, because the next thing I remember is you two in my room."
"She left and took the library bust," Sherlock said. "And we're going to get it back."
"What's with that?" John asked. "Did she say Elizabeth the First?"
"You are the one who put me onto it, John," Sherlock replied. "Your investigation into that a break-in."
"Yeah, I - how do you know that?"
"You chronicled the events in your journal," Sherlock replied. "I saw the picture and recognized the bust from the library. You also mentioned the Wilder Shoppe and its owner, Anthony Wilder, who recently was abducted. No news as to the reason for his kidnapping, but when he reappeared, he was interviewed by Lestrade."
"Greg didn't mention anything about this," Molly said. "And I spoke to him just yesterday."
"What is odd here is not your lack of knowledge, but rather that a Detective Inspector focused on homicide interviewed a kidnapping victim with no exigent circumstances," Sherlock said briskly. "Why would that happen?"
"Greg probably looked into it because he put me onto the original case," John replied. "He actually cares about the people around him."
"So you think shop owner was abducted over the bust, too?" Molly asked.
John said, "According to The Engineer, it's one of four."
"James Moriarty used the busts to store sensitive data," Sherlock replied. "He must've distributed them, leaving them in the care of people that had reason to fear him, even in death."
"Then how is it that one was sold in some shop and another wound up in at the library?" Molly asked.
"Irrelevant. We need to steal the bust back. Shall we?" Sherlock asked.
Sebastian Moran was facing the worst streak of luck he'd ever known. The warehouse trade-off fell apart. It went from a simple payoff to a firefight, and he got shot during his escape. By the time he'd come-to after his medical care, Brown, Clay, and Spaulding had gone offline and somehow fallen into police custody. All this in two days!
His remaining assets, the Burnsider twins, ran a clever operation for years, but they were never criminal masterminds, which made them perfect for Moran's employ. Yet after he called them demanding they turn in the fruits of their labor, the two louts brought three hostages, bound, gagged, and blindfolded.
"Do you have sand in your ears?" Moran asked. "I asked you to bring the goods. Who the hell are they?"
"Your man Spaulding said we'd be secure," Erin said. "Gave us all the assurances."
"And?" Moran asked.
"And now he's in police custody," Aaron replied. "Because the prat was wrong! Not only did someone find us, she broken in to the facility and made off with everything!"
"The bust?"
"She got it," Erin said. "Took the whole thing, ditched the tracking devices I'd planted. We've no way to find it or her."
"Spaulding's solicitor contacted me," Aaron added. "Told me the woman who did him in was the same one who attacked you lot at the warehouse."
"The same woman?" Moran repeated. "No, can't be."
Erin said, "To be clear, this mess isn't on us. We - "
"Enough," Moran interrupted. "If it's true that there's a broad out there crazy enough to attack me and a small army at Ross's warehouse only to go after you lot the next day, then I assure you, there isn't a thing the likes of you could do to stop her."
"Not for lack of trying," Erin asserted. "I managed to slash her with my knife, and Spaulding shot her."
"I take it you two are at least looking for this mystery woman?"
Aaron nodded, yes. "So is all of Scotland Yard, come to that."
"Then there's no chance of her being one of these fine specimens here?"
"Oh, hardly," Erin replied. "Sebastian Moran, meet Victoria Hatherley, Helen Raylott, and Pamela Leavitt. These fine ladies are all intimately familiar with our wayward busts."
"Is that so?" Moran said softly. "And you brought them here to me?"
Aaron replied, "I never like showing up empty handed, especially not after you went to all that trouble for us."
"Tell you what. You leave these ladies for a bit of a chat with me and go on looking for our mystery woman. Anything you find on her, you report to me as soon as you get it. Once I have those busts back, you're debt is cleared. Any questions?"
Both shook their heads, no. Then they scarpered, and Moran turned his attention his three captive guests.
John watched as Sherlock ran a number of odd experiments. He rambled at length about how the "proper equipment" at Bart's would be more efficient, but he devised alternative tests that produced apparently equivalent results.
"I'll need urine," Sherlock said. "Now."
"There's no way that's going to happen," John replied.
"I'm asking for urine, not your progeny."
"I draw the line at peeing on command!"
"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. "I need urine!"
"There's plenty of horse urine in the cupboard!" she yelled back.
"Sorry, did she just say horse urine?" John asked. "In our cupboard?"
"Urine has many useful properties, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as he entered the room. "Certainly seems reasonable to store it."
"Ah, dear brother, you're just in time," Sherlock replied.
Mycroft quickly looked over the kitchen experiments. "Analyzing soil samples, I see. Anything of interest?"
"The Engineer tracked all this in. Samples from her footprints were worthless, as you can imagine with all her blood everywhere, but there were a number of anomalies that I've isolated and analyzed... all of which point to a cemetery that contains both cornus mas and cornus florida."
"Sounds dodgy," John said. "Who'd bury bodies in a corn field?"
"Please tell me that was a poor attempt at humor as opposed to a poor attempt at intelligence," Sherlock said. "I'm referring to flowering trees, one of which is rare in London."
"How rare exactly?"
"One cemetery in London presents with this combination of flora as well as the soil markers I've been able to isolate from her blood. She told us to find her and now I have."
"Couldn't you just say you know where she was before she came here?" John asked.
Mycroft snooped through some of the papers on the living room table with mild interest, actively ignoring his younger brother.
"You need something, Mycroft?" John asked.
"Hardly," Mycroft replied. "The way Sherlock went on about it, I thought you'd have The Engineer trussed in your flat. Apparently his penchant for the dramatic has caused him to jump the gun."
"Molly! John!" Sherlock yelled. "We've got a cemetery to visit. Mycroft, do show yourself out."
Moran appreciated the Burnsider's dedication in bringing him three hostages, but the last thing he needed was hostages to juggle. The only relevant information he required about the busts was their current locations. And what were the chances that these three knew anything about that?
So Moran untied them after informing them that any attempt at escape would result in broken bones. He felt a bit ridiculous threatening Victoria Hatherly, who was in her late seventies, but it was best to be thorough when corralling captives.
"No need to be shy. My chef said he'd bring us a fresh pot. We have all day and all night, if you like."
"And once you have what you want, what happens then?" Victoria asked.
He replied, "You all go home, love. Mind, you will be blindfolded and restrained before my driver can take you, but you will be returned without any harm done. Well, any more harm done anyway."
"Why are we here?" Victoria asked.
"I want you to tell me everything you know about the busts of Elizabeth the First," he replied. "I do mean everything, including when and where you last saw them, and any locations they may be today."
"I've no idea what you're talking about," Pamela replied.
"Your lackeys just grabbed me because of my background in architecture and restoration," Helen added. "They kept asking me about some bust mold, but I'd never heard of it."
"Looks like you've got the wrong people," Victoria said. "Perhaps we should skip the tea and go home."
"You could have been nicer about it," John repeated. "More polite. Considered your words."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What nonsense are you on about?"
"I'm talking about Molly!" John said. "Had you asked her instead of barking orders, she'd've come along."
"Molly must stop taking umbrage with efficiency," Sherlock replied. "Until then, her assistance will be more tedious than productive."
"Three hours ago, you were ready to commit homicide on her behalf," John replied.
"I'm a sociopath, John. I'm always ready to commit homicide, and as for inflicting any bodily harm in the name of one individual or another, I favor those who are unconscious, catatonic, or otherwise un-annoying."
With that, Sherlock darted off between the tombstones.
"The pathways exist for a reason!"
"Sentiment!"
The consulting detecting arrived at a specific grave marker, and, reluctantly, John joined him. The headstone deviated from those around it in shape and inscription, as it only bore a name: Thatcher T. Ice.
"Did you know Thatcher T. Ice?" John asked.
"I doubt anyone knew Thatcher T. Ice. Clearly the name is a fake," Sherlock replied. "Add that to the fact that it's been installed in the past five years in an area that has otherwise been untouched in twenty. The deductions are quite clear."
"And here I assumed you came because of the mobile," John said, indicating the burner atop the headstone.
"A sufficient conclusion from an adequate deduction."
Sherlock snatched up the mobile and examined it. "Much like the last one," he observed out loud.
"The last one?" John asked. "What last one?"
"She left me a similar phone in the lost in found of a library," he replied. "Identical operating systems and hardware. All untraceable."
"What about the contacts?" John asked. "Did she leave a note or text?"
"Just a number."
Sherlock turned on the speakerphone and dialed out.
"Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes," said The Engineer. "Let me guess, the anagram was a dead give away."
John blocked the mobile with his hand and mouthed, "Anagram?" to Sherlock.
"Really, John, Thatcher T. Ice," he replied with no regard for whispering. "Obviously an anagram of 'The Architect,' which was the assumed name of the asset referred to as Driftwood. We did learn this within the past forty-eight hours. Do keep up."
"Am I interrupting you two boys?" The Engineer asked.
"Your attack on Molly was highly inappropriate," Sherlock said.
"Would never had happened if you hadn't harassed the good Doctor Lanser," she replied. "Perhaps we should talk business now and quibble later? I have pressing news."
"Very well, I have what you want," Sherlock said. "Yet you have failed to provide your fee."
"I intend to hold up my end," she replied. "There is one small catch."
"I admire you, I do," Moran said. "Kidnapped by an escaped convict renown for his international criminal enterprise, and you're willing to keep the secret. Most would spill their guts and beg for their lives. Here's the thing, ladies, I'm privy to this secret, as James Moriarty and I were quite close. In fact, I helped him on this particular venture. Maybe what you need is to refresh your memories."
He lifted a drop cloth that covered his own bust of Elizabeth the First.
"In fact, he gave me this," he continued. "Told me he'd be back for it eventually. Then he died, and here was I, not knowing where the others were or even where to look properly. Thought maybe he confided in others, but came up disappointed. Apparently at the end, I was the only one he ever trusted."
Complete silence greeted these words. Moran considered the three captives for a moment.
"How about I get you started, then? Pamela, dear, seven years ago you were kidnapped. Do you remember why?"
Pamela shook with rage. "A man came to me. He had four busts and a design plan that outfitted them to hide compact hard drives that'd be undetectable when scanned. He wanted it to be so that if the bust was destroyed, the contents would survive. Every day he came to me and told me that I'd never go home unless I finished my task. So I did. And if I ever see that man again, I'll bash his head in."
"He's dead," Moran said simply. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Now, either of you ladies ready to chime in? The faster you answer, the faster you leave."
"I designed them, almost fifty years ago. Decorative busts, sized to fit in a variety of places. Ships, cargo holds, airplanes," Victoria replied. "Their purpose was circumventing taxes and tariffs. The busts were hollow, so they could fit diamonds and other valuables. Since the busts themselves were technically a decorative element of the shipping vehicle, they weren't considered proper cargo, no on really inspected them."
"You could've just said they were for smuggling," Moran replied.
Helen said, "About ten years ago, someone asked me to redesign hollow busts so they had a hidden compartment, something that would be difficult to detect with x-rays and the like. I thought it was an academic exercise until he paid me ten thousand quid and the plans disappeared." She turned to Pamela, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you, dear, I had no idea."
"Now that we're all being honest, tell me where your busts are now," Moran said. "Come on, now, I'll be getting my hands on them soon enough, with or without your help, but give me your help, you get to go home. So quickly now, each of you."
"I got rid of mine," Pamela said harshly. "Put it in the estate of my great uncle and had it carted off to some store in London so I'll never have to see it again."
Helen said, "Ask your lackeys, they pinched mine."
Victoria said, "Five years ago, I put it on display in the Rare Books and Music section of the British Library. Go on and see for yourself."
"Ah, there it is," Moran said. "I knew about Miss Leavitt's little liquidation sale and the Burnsiders told me about Helen's, but they couldn't seem to find yours, Victoria. Not for lack of trying, mind. The British Library? Really?"
"Hiding it in plain sight is the only way to actually conceal something," she replied.
"On that, love, we can agree."
"You promised to deliver all four," Sherlock protested. "Not three, four! Without all four together, the data cannot be decrypted!"
"I'll need your assistance for obtaining the final bust," she replied. "Normally I wouldn't have need to ask, but the bullet wound I sustained has slowed me down. And Scotland Yard has been kicking over a lot of anthills trying to find escaped prisoners."
"Sent all your friends skittering back to the shadows?" Sherlock asked with venom in his voice.
"'Friends' is a generous word," she replied. "The only way to get the fourth bust is by working together."
"Very well, but I want something in return. An answer. Colonel Lysander Stark. Clearly, you hadn't gotten the information you wanted, yet you killed him. Why?"
After a few moments of silence, The Engineer replied, "Now, now, now, Mr. Holmes. You of all people understand the nature of a question like that. I won't lie to you, but I also won't answer you. Not over a phone with at least one other listening. I'm sure there are dozens of more pressing problems that need dynamic - or possibly illegal - solutions. Text me the parameters, we'll call it a peace offering. Oh, and do keep your schedule free and the mobile. I'll ring you later with the details, and since you've been a sport about it, I'm willing to throw in an international assassin. How about get the bust and The Baker? Ring, ring."
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Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)