17
The works
Mrs. Hudson heard the front
door opened, and peeked out. She has the living famous; albeit undisclosed to
public and had to ensure that her tenant was comfortable. He does not invite
anyone in though there will be the ones that will be told to see him there;
mostly distinguishable people, once some royalty but her lips are sealed, and
the occasion copper like Inspector Lestrade and of course the impeccable
Mycroft with his flowers; The latter made no move on her; bless her late
husband’s soul.
“Who is it?” Mrs. Hudson
brushed her hands on the apron while calling out. In her apron pocket was the
Webley Pistol for the stopping power of the shot. She was no fan of the
Derringer.
“I like them barrel long and
hard.” She told her instructor then who coacher her on the gun. “Bless the
husband, he has that.”
What she meant was her
husband, Frank Hudson died on the other continent undisclosed to the friends
and families while they were on vacation. She returned to the city with her
husband’s gun, and her left arm in the sling. She had then given the house at Baker
Street with a pension. She soon housed her long staying tenant and acted as his
prorector at times. She had seen off unwanted guests including end of the world
soothsayers to notorious criminals.
“Holmes lived here?” The
last one was a hired killer who appeared on the kitchen door. He was dressed
like a gentleman but his shoes were of the wrong fit; army boots to be exact.
“And you are to find him
next door. Mine is Cagney, proud Irish we are. Them Scottish folks yonder.” The
killer turned to leave but Mrs. Hudson called him back.
“You did not ask for my
scones.” Mrs. Hudson fired her pistol with the experimental Hale Palmer’s
silencer. It worked for none of the neighbours poured over for condolences. She
told herself to tell Mycroft it worked well and bloody deployed them to the others
fast. She later covered the body with the cloth and the services disposed of
the body discreetly.
“It is me, Mrs. Hudson.”
Doctor Watson called out when he saw the lady was in her thoughts. He walked to
the kitchen; his limp barely noticeable unless he takes the stairs.
“How is he?” Doctor Watson
was ever concerned on his friend, and patient, and at times his adversary; as
sometimes doctors feel on their uncooperative patients who will deny their
care.
“He is alive, I will
conclude. He was out several times, and even at the later hours. Missed his
supper twice but ate his scones.” Mrs. Hudson returned to her baking. “No other
visitors since but of his errand boys.”
“No withdrawals?” Doctor
Watson asked. He was concerned on Sherlock reverting to his cocaine addiction.
“None as I could see. No
vials or needles. I even checked his carpet slippers where he stores his
tobacco.”
“He stored his tobacco there
but does not ear that pair. He has another.” Doctor Watson smiled.
“He should unless he likes
to smoke his own after taste of smelly toes.” Mrs Hudson smiled back. “Where
were you for the last two days?”
“I was caught up with my own
clinic.” Doctor Watson smiled. “One cannot live on idling works.”
He was with the Professor on
the calls at Newgate Prison. The comment made by the Professor was well heard
by many before: “Tis impossible to describe the terror of my mind, when I was
first brought in, and when I looked around upon all the horrors of that dismal
place…: the hellish noise, the roaring, swearing, and clamour, the stench and
nastiness… joined together to make the place seem an emblem of hell itself, and
a kind of entrance to it.”
Newgate Prison was once the
most notorious prison in London. Commissioned in the 12th century by King
Henry II, Newgate Prison remained in use all the way through to 1902. The
prison itself was originally built into a gate on the old Roman wall (hence
the name “Newgate”) although it was rebuilt numerous times during its lifespan.
Newgate was a holding place for heretics, traitors, and rebellious subjects
brought to London for trial. The prison housed both male and female felons and
debtors. Prisoners were separated into wards by sex. (Extract from
https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryMagazine/DestinationsUK/Newgate-Prison-Wall/#:~:text=Newgate%20Prison%20was%20once%20the,the%20way%20through%20to%201902.)
It was due to be demolish
then.
“Do go and see him. He is in
those moods again.” Mrs. Hudson shooed the doctor off. “The scones will be
ready by afternoon tea.”
Doctor Watson mounted the
stairs and heard the plucking of the violin strings. He detested the violin,
but he had learned to live with it. He had likened it to the shrills of the
cats from the rear alley.
“Watson, please come in.” Holmes
was courteous although Doctor Watson holds a room there in the unit. He does
pay Mrs Hudson for it but she took only a small amount. The first thing the
Doctor Watson saw was the scattered papers on the floor. He was used to the
habit of Holmes leaving his work area untidy. He picked his way to the seat he
was assigned.
“Have you seen blood?”
“Blood? I see them daily Why
do you asked?”
“No, not blood but the blood
at the crime scenes, or on the victim. Watson.” Holmes tone was of the ‘are you
stupid.’
“Not so.” Doctor Watson
decided to move his reply carefully.
“Elementary, my dear Watson.
There were little of it there. I examined the scenes.” Holmes voiced out. “No
wide splatter to denote savage mauling.”
“I am …….” Doctor Watson
leaned back and gave his medical expression; how did I missed that.
“The removal of the organs
was obvious but the trails of blood splatter were unconclusive. In my
experiments when an incision was made to connecting vessels to the organs, the
blood would have splatter out like a jet of liquid.” Holmes squeezed his hands
to demonstrate the effect. The splatter would have been …...wide, and far
if no obstruction was there. And then the excess blood would have spilled
over.”
Doctor Watson nodded. That
was a possibility unless….
“I read your thoughts,
Watson. Unless the blood was extracted in volume before the organs were cut.” Holmes
gave his look not asking for approval but acknowledgement of his findings.
“With that assumption……” Holmes
looked at the doctor. “The body holds several litres of blood; bucket full to
be exact. So where is blood then? And how was it extracted within that time
frame? I am aware of a blood pump but to do that will require an enormous
pump.”
“Perhaps it was.” Doctor
Watson was amused at the presumption.
“Mounted on a carriage but
none was seen there or reported at all.” Holmes said. “Or was a work of a
monster who sucked blood?”
“Holmes, are you on cocaine
again?” Doctor Watson asked.
No comments:
Post a Comment