Fic for theanglophile: The Cuttleknowle Curse, 3/4

[holmesticemods]

At Ivybridge station Sherlock made a beeline for an unobtrusive black car in the car park’s farthest corner, leaving it to John to struggle with their travel bags. At Plymouth John had already learned Sherlock’s was conspicuously heavy and he’d speculated whether the consulting detective had decided to bring along his chemistry kit.

When he arrived at the car – which, on closer observation, turned out to be a Jaguar, so much for unobtrusive – Sherlock had already taken possession of the back seat, limiting John’s options to the front passenger seat. How Sherlock had known this was the vehicle sent down to meet them was another mystery. True, at this time of the evening the car park wasn’t exactly brimming with traffic but there were some cars – slotted as close to the station as allowed – and people milling about and a flashy Bentley wheeled past them just when their chauffeur strode forward to greet John and relieve him of their luggage.

Thankfully it turned out the driver might as well have been one of Mycroft’s minions. Wordlessly he guided the car along the narrow lanes that rose and fell between high emerald hedgerows down which the blossoming dog-rose and honeysuckle tumbled white and frothy like the lace of ancient bridal veils. The tops afforded John a brief glimpse of the landscape, glimmering beneath the sun’s dying rays, which attempted to ward off the mounting shadows in vain. A few times John spotted an inky blue on the horizon. That, he reckoned, must be the ocean.

The silence suited John perfectly fine for it gave him a chance to sift through Sherlock’s possible reactions upon the imminent encounter with his dead lover’s twin sibling. Through the occasional glance in the rear-view mirror he tried to gauge Sherlock’s mood but the twilight’s diffuse shimmer hampered a proper scrutiny of the man’s face. Hidden in the quickly descending darkness it shone as palely austere and inscrutable as a venerated bust of some primeval sorcerer prince.

After half an hour’s drive John caught sight of a Draconian bulk, domineering the otherwise empty landscape, grimly outlined against a sky the colour of Burgundy wine. A thick forest of crenelated turrets rose from the top like so many fingers raking desperately at the surrounding void in a last abortive effort before being swallowed permanently in the gaping abyss opening up beneath the building. John shivered. It was an image straight out of Lovecraft’s gloomiest, most chilling fantasies.

“That’s the hotel,” the chauffeur spoke up. “Mr Leighmore asked to meet you at the turret. That’s another ten miles. I will deliver your luggage at the hotel after I’ve dropped you off.”

“Fine.” John swallowed. The prospect of spending a night under that roof seemed a lot less appealing than it had five minutes ago. In the back seat Sherlock kept mum. For all John knew he may have fallen asleep.

Darkness had descended completely by the time they arrived at the tower. A single lantern blinked next to its door as a stark echo of its cousins twinkling like so many diamonds strewn over a great shroud of the most luxurious black velvet.

Iorwerth stepped forth from the blackness into the well of light, which struck gold from the locks of hair falling over his forehead. Upon opening the car door John was struck by the towering silence encompassing them. It swallowed the sound of the driver opening the back door for Sherlock.

“Welcome, John. And thank you.” Iorwerth shook John’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Noyes,” he called out to the chauffeur over John’s shoulder before spinning to greet Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, my sincere apologies again for the distress I caused you.”

Sherlock’s expression remained aloof and immobile as he slotted his hand around Iorwerth’s. “It’s fine,” he said in a business-like voice. “Let’s have a look at the crime scene.”

“Of course,” answered Iorwerth, and lowered his gaze to where John noticed Sherlock was still grasping the other man’s hand. “If you’d be so kind…”

Immediately, Sherlock let go. For an instant John could have sworn the look that flared in his friend’s eyes was identical to the one that had twisted his face two days ago and he wondered at the wisdom of Mycroft’s advice. The next moment one of Sherlock’s flagrantly insincere smiles swept over his features. “The crime scene,” he repeated, thus ensuring it was their host who ended up embarrassed and stuttering an apology while producing an old-fashioned iron key and pivoting to the door.

As he turned the key and swivelled the heavy door knob a cry of surprise escaped his lips.

“What is it?” Sherlock was at the man’s side in one stride.

“I… I don’t understand,” stammered Iorwerth, staring at the door and the key protruding from the lock. “It’s open, the door is open and I’m certain I locked it when I left…”

“Are you?” asked John. “You told me you ran, remember?”

“Yes,” Iorwerth confirmed hazily. “I ran, but not without locking the door first.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock shouldered his way between them, torch in one hand and miniature magnifier in the other. Armed with these essentials of his craft he stooped for a close scrutiny of the lock and the glossy paint on the surrounding wooden panel. “How many copies does this key have?”

“Just two. One for me and one for my father.”

Sherlock straightened. “The lock wasn’t tampered with, which leaves us three options. Despite your protestations to the contrary you forgot to lock the door, someone came here after you left using your father’s key or someone came and used a copy you and your father didn’t know about.”

“But that…”

“… is not our main concern,” Sherlock ended the sentence. “Shall we have a look inside?” With these words he threw open the door and felt for the light switch. A sudden blast of yellow left John dazed for a good few seconds.

Able to focus again he shuffled after Sherlock and Iorwerth, who’d already crossed the threshold. Sherlock was twirling on his heels, coat flaring imperiously and his gaze sweeping over the objects that cluttered the circular room. If this was only the hallway John’s mind boggled at what the rest of the building’s interior must look like. The rug covering the flagstone floor and the tapestries adorning the walls outdid the draperies at Buckingham Palace for sheer ostentation. John’s mouth fell open as his mind grasped the story the wall hangings depicted.

“One of my forebears was strangely proud of this aspect of our heritage,” Iorwerth’s desolate voice murmured close to his ear. “And my father dreaded these as much as he was fascinated by them. I was so relieved when he said he’d hang them here. They’re worth a fortune but I can’t stand the sight of those things.”

“Yes,” John agreed wholeheartedly. Everything about the tapestries made his stomach churn, from the dismal glimmer and wan colouring of the silk to the rows of dreadful scenes outlined from top to bottom. Hordes of creatures straight out of some hellish medieval fantasy, with a squid-like body but running on two human legs, pilfered and laid waste to a flock of villages and their inhabitants, dangling children by their legs and consuming them and raping both men and women with scaly tentacles. Though revolted John had trouble dragging his eyes away from these silken atrocities. He heaved a silent sigh of relief when he managed to divert his attention to the familiar sight of Sherlock on his knees, seemingly attempting to drill a hole in the granite floor slabs with his forehead.

“Size nine, new Nikes,” John heard him mutter. The next instant he was back on his feet. “That the cellar door?” Sherlock pointed at something behind John’s back.

Iorwerth nodded. “I’m not going down there again,” he said in a tremulous tone. “I’ll wait for you upstairs, in my father’s study.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock shrugged, his indifference regarding Iorwerth’s whereabouts obvious to even the most vacuous observer. John winced on their client’s behalf. The man himself cast Sherlock a bewildered look. Well, at least that was a common enough occurrence.

“The light doesn’t work,” John cautioned.

“So you said.” Sherlock shot John an abrasive glance over his shoulder as he whisked open the door only to clamp his hand over his mouth and nose immediately after.

“Christ,” they declared in unison at the tremendous stink that emerged from the basement like some living monster. The smell was every bit as horrific as Iorwerth had described with two extra days of decay thrown in for good measure. For a dizzying second John was reminded of the case of the Stratford vampire, in particular the skip full of dismembered male prostitutes they’d discovered behind the Olympic stadium. Bad as that had been, this stench was much worse. John groped for a handkerchief. Sherlock’s was already bound around his face as he inspected the light switch next to the door with the aid of his torch.

“There.” He gestured. “Cable is cut.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Probably. But the fuse box will be in the basement anyway. The torch is still missing as well. Brought your own?”

“Of course.”

Following Sherlock’s example and wrapping his nostrils and mouth with his handkerchief John fished his Maglite out of his pocket and started descending the stairs after Sherlock. With each step deeper into the chamber the stench increased twofold. Compared to this reek the smell that had filled John’s nostrils on the afternoons he sweated away in the operation tent simmering under the midday Afghan while he tended a newly flown in batch of mortally wounded soldiers seemed like a pleasurable stroll through Kew’s hothouses. Dread at the sight he would meet once they hit bottom filled John’s heart and here he was a battle-hardened soldier.

“It’s empty.” Sherlock’s voice floated up to him. “The floor looks dry – you mentioned puddles – and there’s no body save for this…” His torch beam flitted haphazardly over the walls, the uneven floor hewn straight out of the rocks and the ceiling bricks. “…pile of...” Here he gently prodded at an indefinite heap in a corner. “…tentacles?” he ended.

“What?” John nearly did a backward somersault. Was he really about to enter a nightmare compared to which ‘The Shadow over Innsmouth’ read like the abridged version of Beatrix Potter’s complete works?

“Someone with an odd sense of humour,” Sherlock continued, removing his glove. “Or another adept of that nonsense you’ve taken to reading lately.” Before John had a chance to utter a warning his naked finger jabbed at the topmost offering on the slimy heap of cut off squid limbs that glistened ominously in the all-encompassing darkness.

“Hmm.” Sherlock uncurled and waved his torch in the general direction of the mass, which appeared to writhe as the light glanced over the contortions. “Care to feel for yourself?” he invited.

“Not really, no,” John declined the offer.

“Yes, I forgot. You’re not a great lover of seafood. Victor was. Smoked salmon was his favourite.” The last two lines were relayed in a strangely flat tone that raised goose pimples on John’s arms.

“Look, perhaps we should go upstairs,” he suggested.

“What for?” Sherlock’s tone was almost one of insult. “Your worrying is pointless. I’m not such a spineless wimp as my vacuous brother, John. Now let’s find this ridiculous curse of yours.”

“Of mine, yeah,” John muttered under his breath after Sherlock’s retreating footsteps. Still, he supposed Sherlock’s air of conceit indicated his friend wasn’t on the brink of a mental breakdown so he should really count his blessings. Here they were in a dark cellar minus one human body they’d expected to find and plus a stack of hacked-off tentacles shortly after Sherlock’s encounter with what he’d imagined to be the ghost of his dead lover. All things considered John reasoned Sherlock was doing an excellent job at hanging on by his fingernails.

“Come on, John,” commanded his friend’s stern baritone. “I’ve found it.”

Wrestling down the sudden trepidation rising in his throat John hurried in the direction of Sherlock’s voice, travelling by the light of his torch.

“Look.” Sherlock’s silhouette halved the circle of light projected onto the wall in front of him. There, in letters the colour of blood, words were slashed in angry brush strokes.

Hoard thy gold, thou devil’s spawn
High and well he points at Hallowtide
God against thee and in thy face
Left ten and ten right
One step for each of the years our Saviour liveth
Get thee to Hell
And may a death of woe be yours
Five times five and under
May Heaven’s gilt strike thee blind
Evil and sorrow to thee and thine!

“Impressive, eh?” Sherlock commented, voice dripping with scorn.

“But… What does it mean?” John asked.

“Exactly. There’s only one person I know of who can tell us. Let’s go and find him.” For all his declarations with regard to leaping Sherlock was already bouncing up the cellar stairs. John cast the writing on the wall a last glance. It was nothing but primitive gibberish and nonsense, obviously, but still the fear he’d been wrestling successfully before ramped up its resources and threatened to overwhelm him. He backed away from the words, never letting them escape from his torch’s beam until he reached the safety of the stairs and the torrent of friendly yolk-coloured light flooding in from the hallway.

***

Upstairs, turning from closing the door to a circular room that would have served the Queen herself very neatly for a study, John caught Iorwerth Leighmore cowering behind an ornamental desk with Sherlock looming across its expansive width, knuckles planted determinedly into the blotter’s thick leather sides.

“You’re useless,” he was informing their client. “At least show me what your father was working on…”

“Working?” Iorwerth piped up like a little boy.

“Working, yes. Don’t tell me you actually bought this ersatz drivel about the children’s noise bothering him. Ever heard of ‘Who’s Who’? If one’s to believe your father’s boasts the Leighmore Keep easily outdoes Windsor Castle for its number of rooms.”

Wide eyes the colour of bruised violets sought John’s in despair. From the set of Sherlock’s shoulders inside the Belstaff John detected the consulting detective had perceived the shift in his temporary detainee’s attention. Deliberately and with great dignity he unfolded the elongated curve of his body.

“That your laptop?” He pointed and confiscated the device with a great sweep of an impossibly long arm. “Must be. Brand new Stealth Macbook Pro. Bit above the average servant’s budget and your father obviously considers the Waterman safety pen the scintillating pinnacle of modern technology. Knowles’ application is in here, yes? Perhaps that woman knows more about your father than you do. John, why don’t you help our client brew some fortifying tea in that little kitchen annexe behind your back. He looks like he could use some.”

“That computer is password protected.” This feeble protest solicited a glare of such withering contempt John was amazed the man had the strength to stagger from his chair into the direction Sherlock had indicated.

“Cut it out, will you?” he hissed at his flatmate. All he got in response was an irritated huff and an increased pacing of the finger swiping the computer’s track pad. Unsurprisingly, the screen displayed a wide array of opened folders. On their client’s behalf John sent up a quick prayer for mercy to the gods of technology (Athena probably, so goddess) that any embarrassing browsing history had been irretrievably wiped.

“What happened to Knowles? She was dead, I’m certain of it. And why is Mr Holmes so impolite?” Iorwerth complained in the small, fully equipped pantry that was indeed fitted behind a laboriously constructed panelled wall.

“I don’t know,” John answered the first question. “And Sherlock thinks manners a waste of time,” he explained while filling the kettle. The simple, everyday action helped him to sort his feelings and impressions and he understood why Sherlock had banished the two of them to this semi-private corner.

“This kind of behaviour is actually a good thing,” he explained. “You’re in trouble when he starts treating you nicely. Ask Lestrade. And of course he sees your brother every time he looks at you.”

“My brother? Who do you…? Wickliffe? But you said Mr Holmes was educated at Cambridge.” A high flush suffused Iorwerth’s cheekbones and dyed his irises a deep sapphire. “I would know if he’d gone to Harrow. And my brother died in an accident at a very young age.”

“Yes. While holidaying with a friend in Slovenia.”

Comprehension narrowed the other man’s eyes and his hand flew up to stifle the anxious noise threatening to spill from his lips. “Heavens,” he moaned, anchoring his free hand to the tiny worktop for support. Agony distorted the handsome face and sweat ran from his brow. John ran some water into a glass, which Iorwerth accepted with trembling fingers.

“Please.” The sound of his normally melodious voice now grated in John’s ears. “My brother and I… We were close once, inseparable, but we had the most dreadful row when we were seventeen and after – we must have broken our dear mother’s heart. I never forgave Wickliffe for what I considered his betrayal of everything… everything our family signified, our name, our honour, the import of the role we’ve played in these parts for centuries. I remember, when my father told me what had happened, that Wickliffe had disappeared and was most likely dead, I didn’t feel anything. There was this… this emptiness inside me and I supposed that was where Wickliffe lived when we were children. A part of me had hoped for reconciliation… sometime… and suddenly I had to accept that would never happen. If only. That expression is easily the ficklest and most repeated in the English language. And now…” Gaze slanting to the wall from behind which came the quick tap tap of computer keys Iorwerth enquired in a calmer tone, “Were they, you know, were they special friends?”

“Sherlock’s brother thinks so, yes.”

Slowly, Iorwerth shook his head. “Poor fellow,” he muttered. “To have me materialising like a bolt from the blue in his own living room. Wickliffe always was the stronger-minded of the two of us so the chances of him mentioning me are less than nil. Small wonder Mr Holmes looked as if he’d seen a ghost. If only I’d…”

“Well, you just said those words were fickle,” John reminded his host. Thankfully, the water reached boiling point at that moment. “Where does your father keep the tea?”

“I don’t know,” Iorwerth replied. “Knowles prepares my father his tea.”

Typical, John really tried but failed not to think. Searching the most conspicuous spot (cupboard above the kettle) he did indeed find a tin of loose tea and started concocting a pot. He nearly dropped the tin at the noise of a triumphant “Hah, I knew it” exploding in the room. Hastily, he put it down and ended up at his friend’s side in but three – rather terrific in his honest opinion – leaps.

“Checking backgrounds. Isn’t that what people do when they hire their servants?” Sherlock accosted their client, fingertip rapping insistently on the screen.

“She came with excellent references from various illustrious families abroad,” contended Iorwerth.

“Which you are obviously personally acquainted with,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Not as such, no. But I did ring and…”

“Did you also contact the Lord Chancellor for his opinion?” Sherlock interrupted with his usual tact.

“Heavens, no. Why would I…” The astonished look on Iorwerth’s face was all too familiar. John sighed mentally and considered uttering some kind of warning noise but Sherlock was going at it hammer and tongs.

“Because prior to her current employment Miss Alicia Knowles, aka Annie Harrison, enjoyed Her Majesty’s hospitality for almost fifteen years,” he announced. “Fourteen years, eleven months and five days to be precise.”

“You’d better sit down.” John took Iorwerth’s arm and guided him to a chair. The man looked like he was about to collapse.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “What you’re saying is impossible. Knowles is – was a jewel, well-mannered, deferential. And she’s young, in her early thirties.”

“Oh, she started young, at twelve.” Sherlock rebuffed the objection with his right hand’s customary dismissive wave. Upfront appreciation of another mind’s ingenuity sparkled mischievously in the corners of his lips. John watched the upward tug with rising unease for it evoked memories of a past confrontation that had almost cost them their lives. Which meant – he realised – Sherlock was outrageously enjoying himself.

And so it proved. “A textbook example of psychopathy,” he lectured, thoughtfully spinning the laptop so John and Iorwerth could scrutinise Miss Harrison’s personal medical file at leisure. In order to retrieve it Sherlock must have hacked into yet another highly secured government database. Rather than admiring Sherlock’s handicraft John facepalmed and let a groan escape from the deep cavern where he kept his exasperation with the consulting detective’s antics under lock and key.

Oblivious, Sherlock zoomed on. “IQ ranging between one hundred and thirty five and a hundred forty – very high, very impressive – but an almost total lack of morality and empathy. Father worked in the Lady Windsor Colliery in Ynysybwl until its closure. The usual tale of drink and dissolution unfolded, not pretty, and ended three years later. Gas leak, it was decreed. Orphan Annie was whisked up North to lodge with an aunt she’d never laid eyes on before. Sadly, the acquaintance didn’t last long. Basement stairs.”

“Yes, we get the picture,” John said, more on Leighmore’s behalf than his own. Life with Sherlock meant John was mostly inured against these lugubrious treatises on unpleasant personalities. But it seemed their client’s idea of entertainment didn’t consist of swapping biographies of hardened criminals over a cuppa. Horror and acute wretchedness had joined forces to twist his face into a study of agony. “How about you skip the gory details. Leave them for the blog post.”

For a second Sherlock’s face took on an affronted expression to be replaced by – baffled but present nevertheless – understanding.

“I see. Well. She put her confinement to better use than most. Mastered five languages, six actually, considering the fact she didn’t exactly speak the Queen’s English when she first entered the system. First dan in Taekwondo, astonishing really. Doctorates in both fiscal law and computer engineering. Pungent little detail, that, couldn’t be bothered to erase this very useful piece of information even though it would have taken her less than five minutes, given the frankly appalling lack of any serious attempt at screening this sensitive material from the general public’s natural curiosity.”

It was clear he’d lost Iorwerth Leighmore’s concentration somewhere along his convoluted route. “Most enlightening, I’m sure. But pray, what does this mean for my father?” the man cried.

“All in due time,” Sherlock snapped. “Knowles – Harrison – entered your employ and ingratiated herself with your father for a reason. Think of the primary motivators in most people’s lives, psychopaths being transparently dull and no exception to the rule. Power, sex and money. We can delete the first: for all his aspirations your father isn’t exactly a key figure in government or the nation’s main industries. I confess I’m no expert as regards to sex, that’s John’s department, but there’s a gap of nearly forty years between your father and Harrison and that can’t have been very stimulating for the younger party without the added zest of the first ingredient. Which leaves us number three, money. Now this so-called family curse of yours. Please be so kind as to repeat its first line for me.”

“But… but why?” Iorwerth’s brow was flickering like an aeroplane’s dashboard preparing for a crash landing, emotions zipping by at such speed John almost got dizzy just by looking at the man. “It’s patent nonsense.”

“Please.” Sherlock supplemented the request with one of his fearsome ‘normal person’ smiles.

“Hoard thy gold, thou devil’s spawn,” whispered Iorwerth, hands locked between his knees like a small boy reciting a lesson for his tutor. Heaving a deep breath he added at a normal level, “Nonsense, like I said. There’s no gold, just the land. Which we would have lost if it weren’t for the hotel.”

“And yet this woman, this woman who’s smarter than ninety eight point three percent of the population thought there must be something to the story. Whoever designed this so-called curse was well aware of the trappings of the average mind. You let it become embroiled by all the archaic jinxes and frivolous hoodoo. Delete those and what remains is a verbal rundown on the location of this gold your family is supposed to be hoarding.”

“What?” John and Iorwerth exclaimed in unison. Sherlock’s eyeroll, predictably, took some time to negotiate the ceiling. Its aspect, when it landed upon John and their client again, bordered on frustration with the world at large and his companions in particular. John foresaw a massive tantrum but luckily the consulting detective’s professionalism intervened.

Instead, he primly crossed his legs and intoned in a bored voice, “High and well he points at Hallowtide. Left ten and ten right. One step for each of the years our Saviour liveth. Five times five and under. May Heaven’s gilt strike thee blind. Doesn’t sound like rocket science to me.”

“Chinese arithmetic, more likely,” rejoined John, more for the hell of it, for he silently allowed Sherlock’s supposition actually made a lot of sense. “Except this riddle of yours doesn’t give the coordinates for the starting point.”

“But if you say Knowles sought us out for such a purpose, how did she even know about the curse?” Leighmore was following his own line of thoughts and providing Sherlock with the perfect opportunity to mingle pedantry and scorn into a bitter soup of mortification spooned warm between Leighmore’s half-parted pretty lips.

“Your father’s grandiosity led her here,” Sherlock replied magisterially, leaping out of his chair and flinging himself towards the rows of bookcases that circled half of the room. His finger danced along the backs of several thick volumes before drawing to a sudden halt. Leafing through the book Sherlock spun on his heel to elucidate, “Imagine yourself languishing in a prison cell. Nothing to do but stare at grey walls twenty-four hours a day, day after day, year after year. Oh, the…” He scrunched his eyes shut, teetering on the brink of insufferable pain. “…tediousness. You’d do anything to fight the boredom, read every book in the library, no matter how dull or laborious. Or amusing. My brother isn’t the only person suffering from a superiority complex. There’s a whole industry catering to supercilious nitwits and your father was only too happy to oblige, throwing in the ‘ancient family curse’ for good measure to multiply the distinction of his entry.”

These last words were accompanied by a dramatic shove of the book under Iorwerth’s nose. John facepalmed again, certain he already knew the title and vacillating between chagrin on Iorwerth’s behalf and admiration for his friend’s genius. As ever, when Sherlock explained his reasoning, it all sounded so logical and the world did seem made up of nothing but idiots.

Still, he was unprepared for gentle deferential Iorwerth Leighmore springing from his seat in an unexpected display of agility to aim a punch straight into Sherlock’s solar plexus. From the look of it he was a crack boxer for Sherlock crumpled in a most convincing manner and the motions of his jaws indicated he was rendered speechless for a good ten seconds at the minimum.

“What’s wrong with you?” Iorwerth screamed, spittle flying most unbecomingly from his mouth, while his gaze flicked unbelievingly between his fist and the decked detective. “My father is a good and kind man. He doesn’t deserve such derision. I don’t know what Wickliffe told you about us but it’s all lies – vile, vile lies. Now, I asked you to find my father and the murderer of our housekeeper. Do it and get out of our lives!”

He threw Sherlock a last challenging look and flounced from the room in authentic Holmesian fashion, throwing the door shut behind him with such force the ancient building appeared to shake on its foundations.

John felt like applauding what had been a magnificent performance. On second thought, considering a murderous psychopath might be roaming the premises, he decided on a dash for the door.

“Leave him,” Sherlock wheezed, apparently having regained some momentum. “We’re better off without him.”

“Surely. But we don’t want another body on our hands, do we?”

“What body?” scoffed Sherlock, testing whether it was safe to unfold his own again. “I haven’t seen any so far, despite your promises. Harrison won’t go after him. It’s the father that held the key to the riddle.”

Outside a car started and when John looked out of the window he saw the white pool of the headlights winding its way up the crest they’d descended earlier that evening, chased by the taillights’ fiery red. The vehicle’s controlled assent reinstated a sense of normalcy and served to squelch the lingering traces of uneasiness John felt. Time to try and pummel some sensitivity into his best friend then.

“Charming. Well done,” he complimented. “You just goaded a bloke that’s even meeker than Molly Hooper into clobbering you.”

“Who,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“A bloke who. And good riddance anyway. His prosaic questions were stifling.” He adjusted the button of his jacket and resettled his attention on the bookcase, moving with rather less than his usual grace. “We need to find old maps of the estate, John. Anything that can tell us where to find a well. Our search starts and ends there. It’s unlikely Harrison didn’t kill the Viscount but her file indicates she developed a taste for making her victims suffer, in one case for days on end. If we’re fast we may be just in time to save the man.”

“You’re dodging the question,” John said as he joined Sherlock. “I mean, that was crass, even for you. Is it… did Wickliffe…” He stopped, suddenly not daring to pursue this line of enquiry.

At first, Sherlock seemed so invested in his investigation John suspected he hadn’t caught John’s words. Then he repeated, “Wickliffe? Who the… oh, Victor.” His questing fingertips halted while he pondered the implications of John’s question, and, having found it galloped on over the bindings.

“Mycroft and I are more alike than Victor and that man ever were,” he said. “Victor never mentioned his family. For him, they simply didn’t exist. I agreed with him on principle. Having met the brother I understand him even better.”

“Do you?” John muttered under his breath. Pretending to drag his gaze along the ancient volumes whose musty leather made him want to sneeze he tried to stealthily observe one of the most observant men of his acquaintance (as ever, it was difficult to skip Mycroft). In all probability he was failing at the job for Sherlock huffed and turned his back. Well, they were on a case and the sooner it was solved the sooner they’d be back at Baker Street. Once there, John would be firmer.

A happy noise made him pivot. Sherlock had opened the desk’s left door and was wheeling out an art bin. Lodged inside a plastic sleeve was a drawing that John recognised as a primitive map.

“Wow,” he whistled.

“Behold a part of the puzzle,” Sherlock smiled, rubbing his hands together in glee. That galvanic elation John often felt when presented with another example of Sherlock’s genius coursed through his veins as he lifted the sleeve from the bin, only to reveal another map.

“There’s more,” he spluttered, exhilaration sluicing away as fast as it had risen.

“Obviously.” Sherlock remained unfazed. “An estate as old as this, and with such dreary owners, there’s bound to be piles.”

“But…” John began, realising full well he was letting himself in for a snide remark, but really, if his detail had chosen to drop him in the middle of the Afghan desert without a map or compass he would have felt less at sea.

And yes, here it came. “Why does everyone prove to be a moron in the end, even you, John,” Sherlock groaned, shaking his head in despair.

“ ‘Cause you’re such a bleeding brainbox,” countered John, annoyed despite the mental preparation. “Now, come on, show off for me, that’s what you like best.”

Sherlock’s shoulders assumed their most hoity-toity stance but he refrained from comment so John congratulated himself on evening the score.

“Contrary to your belief the words provide us with an accurate indication of our starting point,” Sherlock commenced. “High and well he points at Hallowtide. That’s already quite precise. Hallowtide encompasses three days, but the second day, All Saints’ Day, is the most important one so let’s assume we need to start our search that day.”

“That’s months away,” John cried.

“Thanks to the wonders of the internet we won’t have to wait that long. Now who points high and well? Something that doesn’t move for it has to be in the exact same place each year for the formula to be correct. A building, a rock, a tree? Could be anything. That’s where the ‘well’ comes in. It isn’t as if the author of these lines was as interested in keeping to the iambic pentameter as the Bard himself so why the addition? Because it actually refers to the thing itself, a well. So we need to find a well with something high standing beside it. Something that had already been there a long time when this brief was composed.”

No matter how many entries John would add to his blog he would never cease to marvel at Sherlock’s sheer genius. Once again his quick mind had unravelled a poser that would have left John stumped for days on end, if he’d ever had the wherewithal to recognise it as such.

“Fantastic,” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sherlock forewent the habitual reply for a dig at the Leighmore family. “You first read those words an hour ago. They had centuries to solve it,” he said.

“Let’s solve it then,” urged John, grabbing the top map, “and keep our fingers crossed the Viscount is still alive.”

Between them they divided the maps into two stacks and set to poring over them. At first the colours and lovingly drawn details snatched John’s eye and tempted him into lingering to admire the artist’s clever handiwork. Also, the fact that he was essentially buzzing over an endless repetition of the same terrain blurred his vision. In the end he sketched a tiny map pointing out the relevant details he was looking for. Three maps down and he’d located the place.

“Here.” He pointed at a position slightly to the northwest of the Cuttleknowle Turret. “A draw-well and a yew tree.”

“A yew tree?” This information excited Sherlock greatly. “The yew is one of Europe’s oldest sacred trees. They can reach a tremendous age, easily spanning centuries. That’s it, John. That must be it.”

“And we never saw it arriving here because it was already dark and we arrived from the southeast,” John filled in.

“Exactly.” Sherlock was scrolling his phone. “A full-grown tree ranges between thirty-three and sixty-six feet in height,” he said. “Hmmm, that’s despicably imprecise and it’s too dark now to try and measure its height. If the tree is still there. For all we know it might not even exist any longer.”

Fingers tented in front of his mouth he assumed his deep-thinking mode, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m not going to be bested by a woman a second time,” John heard him mutter. “What did she see that I don’t?”

As quietly as possible John began re-arranging the maps in the bin, openly enjoying their craftsmanship now his part of the work was done. Irresistibly, in each map his gaze sought out the tower and the draw-well lying above it. The yew, he noted, first appeared on a map dated 1485. He was holding a map drawn in 1694 when his eye fell on a tiny scribble beneath the tree.

“Sherlock,” he called in a thrilled voice.

The consulting detective scooted to his side in a mighty leap and peered over John’s shoulder, magnifying glass at the ready. “John!” Pure exultation poured from Sherlock’s face. “You’ve found it. One day I’ll make a detective of you yet. Unlike Anderson you’ve already mastered one of the most important hallmarks of the trade, dogged determination.”

Given Sherlock’s utter contempt for the forensic expert John didn’t know whether the comparison mortified or gratified him. Sherlock’s beaming expression indicated the latter so John straightened his shoulders and gestured towards the door.

“Well, the game is on. What are we waiting for?”

Sherlock threw him a manic grin. “What indeed?”

A cold draught ghosted past them on the stairs. Down in the hallway both the cellar door and the front door were wide open.

“That’s strange,” said John. “I’m sure I closed that door before going upstairs.”

“Hmmpf,” Sherlock harrumphed, his posture indicating he wished John would knock off these distractions and cut to the chase instead. The next instant he skidded to a halt and fell on his knees. “John,” he grated.

John hurried to Sherlock’s side. Initially he didn’t see what had caught Sherlock’s attention but then he noted the slight discoloration in the rug’s bluish waves. It was a liquid stain, still wet to the touch.

“That wasn’t there when we entered this building,” Sherlock asserted, nose glued to the spot and sniffing loudly, rounding off the procedure with a lick at the carpet. “Brackish, like the Thames at Gravesend,” he declared, which caused John to wonder whether Sherlock had ever run an experiment that consisted of smelling and tasting two hundred and forty-three samples of Thames water.

“The basement,” Sherlock decided, launching himself at the darkly gaping hole. “Come on, John.”

At the bottom of the stairs John halted to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Take care,” Sherlock cautioned. “There are puddles everywhere.” And then John’s heart leapt into his throat as his ears flooded with the squelching sound of something wet and heavy being hauled along the floor that came floating from the far end of the cellar. Something slimy brushed his mouth and John fought his attacker, determined to have no half-finished cuttlefish mutant dragging him to hell. Adrenaline lent him Herculean powers as he hacked at the tentacles that were smothering him.

“John. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock’s voice, sounding extremely pissed off, interrupted, just as John floored his opponent with an uppercut to the jaw.

“There’s…” John had trouble drawing the dank air into his lungs. “Somebody…” he managed.

“Yes, there’s a man’s body further down,” Sherlock said. “It certainly wasn’t there last time we were here so a little peace and quiet would be marvellous right now. Remember there’s a psychopath nearby.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, but didn’t you hear...” John started to ask. Then Sherlock’s announcement pushed all thoughts of his supernatural struggle from his mind. That body was all too real. With Sherlock’s presence close John wondered whether the episode wasn’t the product of an overwrought imagination. “Whose body?” he asked, clamping his hand over his mouth in sudden trepidation. “Iorwerth?”

“No.” Sherlock’s tone was almost peevish, as if Iorwerth’s death would have been preferable to that of the man currently laid out at his feet. “Nor the Viscount by the look of it, too young. Might be an accomplice.” Sherlock hunched over the body, peering into the man’s mouth, checking his nails by the light of his torch and laying two fingers against the man’s neck. The cause of death became apparent when the light travelled over the corpse’s chest. “Still warm,” Sherlock said. “Definitely an accomplice. Look at that bridgework and the state of his nails. Pentonville rather skimps on personal diet and hygiene.”

“Okay.” John swallowed. “Why is he here?”

At the unmistakable smirk in Sherlock’s tone John balled his fists in anger. The inclination to punch the snooty git in the face surpassed the subtext level by several feet.

“Why?” Sherlock said. “Because Annie Harrison considers herself a genius and gets her kicks scaring the hell out of gullible fools like you, John. How about we find the source of that noise?”

“No,” John decreed. “I’m getting out of here and I’m going to ring Iorwerth and find out whether he’s okay. You can stay here and play with your creepy genius friends.”

“Oh, please.” For a second Sherlock seemed to vacillate between following John or staying but then he huffed and flounced off towards the back of the cellar, the light of his torch skipping the puddles lining the floor. John retreated up the stairs, unashamedly relieved to be back in the hallway. The décor might be disconcerting but the copious illumination more than made up for that disadvantage.

Beyond the breach of the open front door the night hovered, black and all-encompassing, stretching away into vast uncaring vacuity and filled with the tiny noises of numerous small animals scurrying through their routine. John shut the door against routine murderesses, inwardly bewailing the lack of a modern lock. He plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket. Iorwerth’s number was the last in his dialling history.

The call was connected immediately. “Hello? Iorwerth,” John said.

An all too familiar noise swelled in his ear, the squelching sound of something wet and heavy hauled along a floor. Somehow up here, bathing in the electric light of the chandelier’s numerous bulbs, the latent menace of that sound, accompanied by what John now discerned was laboured breathing, was more terrifying than it had been down in the basement’s primitive environs.

“Iorwerth,” John screamed, throat hoarse with terror. The resonance surged to a tide pounding against his eardrum before ceasing abruptly. “Iorwerth, answer me,” John implored.

Don’t panic, he told himself. Gullible fool, don’t be a gullible fool. Good advice for a high-functioning sociopath no doubt, but John was a thoroughly ordinary bloke, ranging slightly higher on the intelligence scale than the average UK citizen perhaps, but decidedly run-of-the-mill where it counted.

“Iorwerth?”

Then the phone transmitted a sound that froze the blood in John’s veins. Grief-stricken sobs, wrenched from a throat swollen with crying, alternated with long moans of an agony that was more than flesh and blood could stand.

Every nerve in John’s body screamed at him to seek out Sherlock, the embodiment of modern scientific reason, but John was long past sensible advice. Terror had welded his feet to the floor slabs and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d had the presence of mind. Somehow the mobile still hung close to his ear. “lorwerth,” he whispered into it. “Iorwerth, please.”

A part of him had been deploring the light but still he shouted when it was cut, immersing him in a darkness so sudden and absolute he was left blinking disbelievingly for several seconds. Something slimy brushed his mouth. The racket of his mobile smashing into the floor with a deafening clank as it dropped from his paralysed hand saved him from fainting dead away right then and there.

“Sherlock!” Stricken by blind fear’s terrifying clutches John scrabbled at the clammy material covering his face. “Sherlock,” he screeched again.

“John!” His friend’s voice came thundering from somewhere below, soon followed by the comforting light of the man’s torch. “John,” Sherlock repeated more calmly as he knelt beside John and brushed the back of his hand over John’s face to check his temperature. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you today,” he complained. “Could you quit horsing around and actually help me. I’ve uncovered a boombox down there. That explains those noises. It’s switched off now.”

“So you heard them too?”

“I’ve got perfect pitch and trained my ears for years into trapping even the faintest whisper, John.” The assumption John had detected a noise Sherlock hadn’t seemed to affront him to the core.

“Okay.” John considered this together with the information regarding the sound system. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for…” He heaved a desperate laugh. “I’m sorry for being a gullible fool, I guess. It’s just, this place, and that stupid curse, it gives me the creeps.”

“Oh, not stupid, John.” In the ambient gloom John couldn’t discern much but luckily Sherlock’s voice handily provided John with a personalised Youtube video of the detective’s hand’s derisive little wave. “Moderately clever. Probably the forebear who thought up that curse also dreamed up that hogwash of a race derived from the devil mating with a sea nymph. That bunch of tentacles in the basement, John, do you know what they’re actually made off? Some kind of rubber tubing, slicked with a glaze containing a high amount of vaseline. Prepared by Harrison, no doubt, as a tool to scare the living daylights out of anyone interfering with her designs.”

Now actually grateful for the darkness, John buried his face in his hands. For all the times he’d called Sherlock a machine he had to acknowledge the man got results. The factual approach seemed far preferable to John’s emotional clambering around in the dark. Quite literally, in this case.

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder,” Sherlock warned, and the next moment John felt it land, warm and comforting and definitely human. Not a machine at all. John had to swallow in quick succession to suppress the tiny noise that threatened to escape his throat, grateful for the darkness screening his face from Sherlock’s view. But then he’d probably detected the flex of John’s muscles, straight through the armour of John’s jacket, jumper, shirt and vest.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Here’s your phone. Looks like you’ll be needing a new one. What did our client have to say?”

A fresh bout of complete hysteria jeopardised John’s newly salvaged cool. “Nothing,” he managed in a tone that didn’t sound too terror-stricken to his own ears. “He didn’t answer. Well, he did…” He racked his brain for everything he’d learned about their perpetrator so far. Murderess, genius, psychopath, doctorate in computer engineering, favourite pastime: scaring gullible fools out of their bloody wits. “It was just noise,” he said. He lacked the words to describe those hideous, blood-curdling sobs and the chilling qualms they’d sent shivering down his spine. “I suppose the line was interfered with.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock was cool efficiency itself. “What’s his number?”

John groaned in despair. “I don’t know. It’s in the phone. I didn’t memorise it and…” He patted his pockets but he already knew Iorwerth Leighmore’s visiting card’s current location. “I left his card at the surgery. Perhaps we should try and contact the hotel?”

“No.” It seemed Sherlock had used the seconds John spent searching his clothes to rally his thoughts and as usual he’d arrived at a conclusion faster than a Formula One car roaring across the finish line. “In all probability Harrison has tampered with every signal for miles around,” he said. “Besides, if Leighmore hasn’t been snatched he will have gone home. In ringing the hotel we’ll just raise the alarm, which is the last thing he wants. Scandal, remember. No, we go after Harrison. Do you still have your torch?”

“Yeah.” John’s fingers slotted around the tiny metal shaft’s solid encouragement as Sherlock’s fingers sought his other hand to yank him to his feet.

“Come on, then,” Sherlock whooped. “Let’s get us to hell. Your mental breakdown came in handy and saved us a lot of bother searching for the right spot. The answer to the riddle rests down in that cellar, John.”

***

Find part four of the fic here