Based on “The Adventure of the Six Neapolitans” in The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conon Doyle
John Watson gingerly lifted the lid of the tea tin. He was pointedly ignoring the Tupperware sitting not two centimetres from his left hand. Whatever was in the container had started to grow a soft fuzzy covering of mould. John had no idea if Sherlock was up yet; though the man insisted he had a habit of going to bed at ten o’clock, John had yet to see it. Perhaps Sherlock did that when a case was not imminent, or being investigated, or just passed. Unfortunately, a case was always imminent, or being investigated, or just passed. Regardless of the psychosomatic limp, John found that running on pavement at one thirty in the morning was not great for his knees.
After successfully making tea and not looking at the clock (why did five feel so early in the morning? Oh, right. Because he had spent the whole night chasing Sherlock around the West End) he walked back into the sitting room.
The man himself was lying sprawled on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t managed to dig out the bullets in the wall yet. John tried not to catch the skull’s eye as he sat down a watched Sherlock read the paper. He craned his neck to look at the cover, which was facing the wall.
“Why on earth are you reading ‘The Sun’?”
“‘The Sun’ is a weekly paper.”
“It’s a load of rubbish. I can deduce that.” It had a heavily doctored picture of a local MP on the front. “Where did you get it?”
“Mrs. Hudson left it lying around.”
“You mean you stole it from her.”
Sherlock ignored him and turned the page.
“It’s bad enough you take her sugar bowl and make her clean up…”
Sherlock waived his hand. “I picked up a bit.”
“Because she went off to Florida,” John scrubbed his face, “for two months. And you can’t just break into people’s flats when you feel like it. It’s rude.”
Sherlock turned another page.
“You could get arrested.” John continued. He added in desperation. “I wouldn’t bail you out.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Mycroft takes care of it.”
John was tired of the conversation. His tea had gone cold. He sipped it anyway.
“Anything interesting?”
The tabloid almost it him in the face. Sherlock ambled into the kitchen.
“Page seven. The side bar.”
John flipped to it and found the column in question. He could hear Sherlock rummaging around.
“Have you seen my pancreas?” It was more of a demand than a question.
John looked up. It was too early. “Pardon?”
“My pancreas. Have you seen it. I left it by the sink.”
John picked up the paper again. “When did you leave it by the sink?”
“After that tussle with C.”
See? See who… oh right. MI6. John shook his head. “That was in February.”
“So.” There was an expensive sounding crash.
“It’s May now.”
John had a feeling the pancreas in question had ended up next to the tea tin. He’d let Sherlock suffer.
The column announced:
Diana Crushed Again!!
Four nights ago, a burglar broke into the shop of a Mr. Morse Hamilton, in Lambeth. Mr. Hamilton’s assonant, one Joy Grant, left the shop (on KenningtonRoad) for an instant, when she heard a crash. Running back, she found a plaster bust of the late Diana, Princess of Wales (which had sat among other works of art) crushed into fragments. Ms. Grant rushed out onto the road. Although passers-by did see a man running out of the shop, Ms. Grant could not see anyone or have means of identifying the culprit.
It seemed to be one of those random acts of damage…or was it?
Last night a more serious case arose. On Kennington Road- only a few yards from Mr. Hamilton’s shop, lives well known plastic surgeon Dr. Jeanne Barnicot. Dr. Barnicot is known to be a Diana enthusiast, and her home on is full of books, pictures, and relics of the late Princess. Some time ago she purchased two busts of Diana; one in the hall of the house on Kennington Road and another in her office in Lower Brixton. When Dr. Barnicot came down this morning she was astonished to discover that her bust had been removedfromthehouse and broken against her garden wall. Then she went to her office, where she was astonished to discover that the bust in her office had been reducedtodust.
John shut the rag. Sherlock was still puttering about the kitchen. He’d probably given up on the tea and was looking for something stronger. The cigarettes with Molly at Bart’s, and Lestrade had convinced every shop within a five mile radius not to sell Sherlock any.
Something else clattered noisily to the floor. With all the banging, they would have to get new tiles. Again. John had never seen a basic eat through linoleum so quickly.
Sherlock’s phone chirped on the table. John ignored it.
“Sherlock. Phone.”
Sherlock dashed towards the mobile.
131 Pitt Street, Kensington
Lestradet Street, Kensing
Sherlock grinned.
“Case?” John asked.
“Case.”
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a cab.
Sherlock had his phone out. The keys clicked loudly. “We’ll reach Pitt Street in twenty-seven minutes. What did you think of the article?”
He still hadn’t looked up from his phone.
John shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe someone’s got a Diana obsession?”
Sherlock glanced up over the edge of his phone. “That’s all?”
“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Not a shrink.”
“You don’t like psychology.” Sherlock was looking at his phone again. The keys clattered. “Why.”
“It’s not that I dislike...look, Sherlock, I like psychologists. I’ve met some very nice ones.”
John stared out the window. It was raining. He hoped the case was indoors. Or at least the body. Sherlock would take any excuse to romp in the mud.
“Why now.”
John looked at Sherlock. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Sorry?”
“Why text me now.” Sherlock held up the phone and looked at it critically.
“I have no idea.”
“Correct.” Sherlock tucked the phone away. “It is a capital mistake to theorise without data.”
As the cab rolled up, John saw the railings of the house were lined by a curious crowd. Sherlock whistled. They clambered out.
“Well! It’s attempted murder at least. Nothing less would hold the attention on that many sheep. Look at that man,” Sherlock pointed to a figure at the edge of the throng, “rounded shoulders and outstretched neck. Deed of violence. Fantastic.”
He shoved his way through. Sergeant Donavan was standing on the stoop. She glared at the crowd, then jerked her thumb at the door. “He’s in the sitting room.”
Lestrade was trying to comfort a shaking man. Sherlock swept around the room like an overlarge bat. John watched from a respectful distance and tried to give the man a comforting smile. Introductions were made, and then Lestrade opened his note book.
“Why don’t you start again?” The DI tried to sound encouraging, but he was a comforting as Sherlock on a bad day.
The man nodded jerkily.
“I’m a writer, for one of the papers. All my life I’ve been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece has come my way an I can’t put two words together. If I’d come on this as a journalist, I’d ‘ave columns done in time for evening update. Now, I’m givin’ away a valuable copy by telling by story over and over...”
Lestrade cut in. “Explain the murder Mr. Johnson.”
Johnson looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. The detective cracked open an eye and gave the man a disdainful once over, then shut it again. John sighed.
Johnson blinked. “Alright. It seems to be about those Diana busts. I sat it in one of the rags... I bought it (the bust) cheep four months ago from the Libey Brothers, two doors from High Street Station. I write a lot at night, sometimes up ‘til morning. I did that last night too. I write in the den, at the back of the house, and at three o’clock I thought I heard a noise. So I comes down and sees nothing. I wait, but there’s no more sounds. I figure it musta come from outside, so I quiet like down the stairs, and there’s this horrible scream. I swear Mr. Holmes, I’ll hear that noise as long as I live. I rushed into this room...there’s where the bust was,” he pointed to a side table, “but I don’t know if it was here last night. I grabbed a cricket bat and went outside. I stepped outside...and there was a man just lying there. I turned on the light... his feet was all curled to his chest and a great gash in his throat. Blood everywhere. I phoned the police. That’s all I remember, till the coppers come.”
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Who was the man?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Nothing to show for him. His body’s in the mortuary. Molly can give you a better look-see but,” the DI shrugged and looked at his notes, “tall, sunburnt, not older than thirty. Running prints now, but that’ll take a day at least. Shabby dressed.”
Lestrade handed John a horn-handle knife in an evidence baggie. It was clean.
“Found it in a bin a block over. It’s been wiped, but the CSl’s test it, see what comes up.”
He turned to Sherlock. “Anderson pulled this off him,” Sherlock took the white square, “along with an apple and some string.”
John looked at the square. It was one of those exposure pictures. In the film was a gaunt looking man with thick eyebrows and a severe under bite.
Outside, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Where was the bust?”
“Campden House Road. I’m going to up there now.”
“We’ll follow.”
John looked back at Johnson’s house. The man was sitting at a table, tapping away at the computer.
The spot where the fragment of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. John looked around, puzzled. Sherlock picked up several of the fragments and examined them carefully. From his expression, John knew he was onto something.
Lestrade was less impressed. “Well?”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go,” he said, “but we have some facts. This possession,” he held up a shard, “is worth more to the criminal than human life. That is one point. The other is why he did not break it inside the house, or just outside of it, if to break the bust was his sole object?”
“He was surprised by Johnson,” John suggested. After all, the killer could have been startled by him coming out of the house.
“It’s likely…” Sherlock said. John felt slightly pleased. “But completely wrong.”
Lestrade was the one grinning now. The DI glanced up the street.
“This is an empty house. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Yes, but there is an empty house further up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there, since it is obvious that every yard that he carried it increased his risk of being seen?”
“I give up,” snapped Lestrade. “Just tell me Sherlock.”
Sherlock point up at the street lamp.
“He could see what he was doing here, but not there.”
“Great, he needed the light.”
“There must have been a reason for it.” John insisted. “This was planned, not some mental thing.” He said the last two words with distain.
“Fine.” Lestrade pulled out his notebook. “What do we do with this fact?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock smiled his shark’s grin. “You go back to Scotland Yard and identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty with that. Somehow I doubt even Anderson… no, get Molly to take the prints. Go. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get into trouble.”
“Yes mother.” Sherlock flagged a cab.
John turned to Lestrade.
“Don’t bother apologizing.” The DI said. “This is him being nice.”
Sherlock came back. “I almost forgot.” The detective pulled out his phone and sent a message, then looked at the two men. “If you’re going back to Johnson (never mind, you are) tell him Mr. Holmes has made up his mind, and is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with a Dania obsession, was at his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don’t seriously believe that?”
Sherlock grinned.
“Don’t I? Well, maybe I don’t. But I’m sure it will interest Mr. Johnson and his subscribers. Now, we’ve got a long day ahead-and Lestrade, you’ll come to Baker Street at six. I’ll keep the photograph. Come on John.”
