A Matter of Conscience, 6/?
Title: A Matter of Conscience, 6/?
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes, with appearances by Lestrade and Mary
Summary: When an investigation goes awry, Watson is forced to consider the consequences of his absence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Our destination was some twenty minutes away by carriage, and Holmes took full advantage of the opportunity to question Lestrade on the details of this most recent burglary. The inspector dutifully relayed all the information he had, which was not much more than he had given me during our brief conversation on Sunday afternoon. The home belonged to a relatively wealthy family, like the others that had been targeted, and several small items of substantial value had been taken. The distinguishing feature, as I already knew, was the murder of the family’s unfortunate maid in the course of the theft.
By the time we arrived at the scene, Holmes’ energy was flagging a bit, although his enthusiasm was undimmed. He unobtrusively took my arm to keep his balance as we alighted in front of the house, and I did not miss the barely audible grunt of pain that escaped as his feet hit the ground. In truth, I doubted his ability to remain upright for the length of time necessary to conduct his investigation, but there was a great deal to be said for adrenaline and willpower, and I had been wrong about such things before. In any case, I had already made my position on the matter clear; short of tying him to his bed, there was nothing more to be done.
Lestrade started for the door, but Holmes halted almost immediately, putting up a hand to stop him. Without explanation, he turned from the walkway and circled around the side of the house, ignoring us completely as we trailed behind him. He moved systematically, pausing here and there to inspect something that caught his interest, until at last we had made a complete circle and arrived back at the front door.
Although his perusal had taken less than two minutes by my estimate, his face had already taken on an alarming pallor, and it was obvious from his stiff, careful movements that he was in considerable pain. Despite that, he regarded us with a strangely satisfied air, as though he had already discovered something significant, and nodded at Lestrade. “Lead on, my good man,” he ordered brusquely, and Lestrade, patient as ever, turned once more toward the door.
The house was unnaturally quiet, given that it had stood empty for the past two days, and our footsteps echoed loudly in the silence as we stepped into the foyer. Once again, Holmes took the lead, moving quickly and efficiently through the first floor of the house. He halted briefly in each room, eyes searching methodically for details that only he could make sense of, until we came at last to the drawing room. There, he strode immediately to a thick, upholstered armchair and sank gratefully into it, closing his eyes briefly as if to gather his strength.
“Tell me, Lestrade,” he said at last, “Where was the maid’s body found?”
“In the kitchen, near the broken window,” replied the inspector.
Holmes nodded decisively, as though confirming something in his mind. “And do you have a theory as to what happened to her?” His tone was reminiscent of a teacher questioning a rather slow pupil, but Lestrade was too accustomed to my friend’s manner to take undue offense at the unflattering implication. He simply raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed.
“Well,” he said slowly, “it’s pretty clear, isn’t it? She must have surprised them on their way out, poor thing, and they didn’t want to leave a witness.”
“Incorrect!” Holmes rapped out, his eyes gleaming. He shook his head pityingly at the inspector. “Really, Lestrade, you and your men have had access to this scene for two days, and that’s the best you’ve been able to come up with?”
“All right, then,” countered Lestrade, obviously nettled. “Why don’t you tell us what you think happened?”
“What did happen,” Holmes corrected, “was this. Our burglars entered the house by breaking the kitchen window. You had probably deduced that for yourself,” he acknowledged generously, “given that it was exceedingly obvious. The broken glass in the kitchen-“
“Right,” Lestrade interrupted impatiently. “We noticed that, believe it or not.”
“And I am most impressed at your investigative abilities,” Holmes agreed innocently, “but as usual, what you failed to notice was just as significant. Did you, by chance, happen to see the footprints on the ground outside, just under the window in question?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we did,” replied Lestrade, a bit defensively.
“Excellent,” said Holmes, inclining his head graciously. “Did you also see that each and every print is directed toward the house, and none are directed away? Or that there are no shards of glass to be found there?”
Silence. Lestrade stared at him, flummoxed, and I smiled in spite of myself. My friend was not mean-spirited, but he allowed himself certain amusements at the expense of Scotland Yard; it was not one of his more generous qualities, I’ll admit, but the two of us had derived a great deal of enjoyment from it during the time that we had worked together.
“I thought not,” Holmes concluded, with the barest hint of a smile. “But, as you see, that detail makes all the difference. Barring the unlikely possibility that our thieves climbed out very meticulously, and walked backwards away from the house-“
“They did not leave through the kitchen window,” I finished, and he glanced up at me, smiling in earnest.
“Precisely, Watson. I must say, you are wasting your talents by choosing to focus on your medical practice. As it happens, the back door is presently unlocked; assuming that it was locked when the family went to bed, that would seem to be the most likely point of exit.”
“All right, then,” conceded Lestrade, “but what does that have to do with the maid?”
“It tells us,” Holmes replied, his eyes glinting sharply, “that she had the misfortune of catching them in the act of breaking the window to enter. The easiest, and most prudent, course of action for our thieves would have been to turn and flee into the night. Instead, they climbed into the kitchen, murdered her, and then continued as planned.”
Lestrade whistled softly, shaking his head in wordless amazement.
“Indeed,” agreed Holmes. “Any thief might resort to violence if cornered, with no visible means of escape and the threat of capture imminent. Cold-blooded murder, in order to remove an inconvenient obstacle, is another matter entirely. These men must be apprehended with all due speed, preferably before they strike again.”
“Well, that’s what we’ve been trying to do,” Lestrade said darkly. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how else we can go about it?”
“I think a change of approach is in order,” replied Holmes cryptically. I raised my eyebrows, as did the inspector, but he declined to elaborate further. “At any rate,” he continued, sinking back into the cushioned chair with an air of finality, “I believe we’re finished here.” He passed a hand over his eyes in an uncharacteristic display of weariness, apparently feeling the effects of his ill-advised exertion.
Lestrade nodded in agreement. “I’ll get a team in to make sure everything is documented, before the family comes back,” he said. He glanced worriedly at Holmes, then at me. “There’s no need for you two to stay, of course,” he added. “My driver can take you back to Cavendish Place.” I smiled gratefully at him as he left the room to make the necessary arrangements. As his footsteps receded down the hall, Holmes spoke again.
“And now, Watson, I believe I require your assistance.” His voice was faint, but steady.
I stepped closer to the chair, observing him critically. Objectively speaking, he looked terrible; his face was nearly white, and his eyes were glazed with exhaustion. He stared up at me in mute appeal, and I divined the problem at once. “You cannot stand, can you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied shortly, although without a great deal of conviction. “I think you’ll find that if you place your arm just so-there, precisely-and give me your shoulder, there’s a good chap-I most certainly can stand. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
His fingers dug painfully into my shoulder as I all but lifted him to his feet. Despite his bravado, he contributed very little to the endeavor, and I was forced to keep hold of him for several long moments before he had steadied himself enough to step away. I knew better than to offer my arm for support, never mind that he clearly needed it; he would rather take his chances with collapsing on the floor than display such visible weakness in front of Lestrade.
He had just managed to straighten up, his mask of composure firmly back in place, when the inspector returned. “Right, then, it’s all set,” he said. “I appreciate your help on this. Both of you,” he added, looking at me. I shook his hand as Holmes nodded expressionlessly, having no energy to spare for pleasantries. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade told him earnestly as he started for the door, and I held back a smile. Holmes would no doubt be horrified at having elicited such concern from him, but the inspector meant well, as always.
I kept close behind my friend as we left the house, but he made his way down the walkway to the street without incident. All things considered, he was doing an admirable job of concealing his fatigue and discomfort; only the slow stiffness of his gait and the tight set of his features betrayed the pain he was undoubtedly feeling, as every movement jarred his injured ribs and arm, and his body demanded rest. Surprisingly enough, he even managed to climb into the carriage without my help, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he sank onto the bench inside.
The moment I had settled beside him on the narrow seat, he slumped bonelessly against me, his head resting easily on my shoulder. The gesture was comfortable and familiar, and without thinking, I adjusted my position slightly to accommodate him. It was true that he had ignored my medical advice, with predictably poor results, but I was finding it surprisingly difficult to remain displeased with him. His chest rose and fell against my side in a quick, staccato rhythm, as though it hurt too much to breathe deeply, and I felt a pang of empathy in spite of myself.
“Ribs hurting?” I asked quietly, feeling him shudder beside me. “I can give you something for pain, if you need it.”
He chuffed a breathless little laugh against my coat, although his eyes remained closed. “Don’t fuss, mother hen,” he murmured. “I’m all right.” His words were slurred with exhaustion, but the affection in his voice was plain.
“Oh, I can see that,” I replied wryly, giving up my aggravation altogether. In some strange way, I had missed this odd routine of ours, but I wasn’t prepared to examine that too deeply at the moment. “I certainly hope this little jaunt was worth it.”
“Of course it was,” he chided me. “We need to catch these people, the sooner the better.”
“And I suppose you have a plan, then?” I asked, remembering his words earlier.
He sighed, reluctantly. “I do, as it happens.” He tilted his head slightly to look at me, his expression unreadable. “But you won’t like it, I’m afraid.”
I wanted to press him further, but his eyes had drifted closed again, and I could see the effort it was costing him to speak. In any case, before I could formulate a reply, his slack features and slow, even breathing told me that he had fallen asleep on my shoulder. Probably for the best, I reflected. But as I shifted slightly in my seat, careful not to disturb him, I wondered uneasily what he could possibly have in mind.
Chapter 7