soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note: A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client”.

Timeframe: After Sherlock’s return. John has been married to Mary for about a year and moved out of 221B Baker Street.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 07 – WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MAJOR WINTER?

September 5th 2014

When he returned to the living room an hour later, their visitors were gone and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, having assumed his characteristic thinking pose. He looked up when John entered.

“Well?” he demanded. “What have you found out about Miss Winter? Or about the death of her father?”

“What makes you think I have found out anything?” John asked. “Or that I’d even try?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are you challenging my intelligence, John? I might have been freshly released from that disgusting rehab clinic where Mycroft had me imprisoned for six months, but even I took notice of the mysterious disappearance of Major Winter’s daughter; and of the equally mysterious death of the Major himself. I assume you’ve contacted one of your old army buddies,” he practically spat the word, as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth,” to get more information.”

“And you’d be right, as usual,” John replied, good-naturally ignoring Sherlock’s contempt (jealousy, Mary insisted whenever they were discussing he topic) of his Army friends.

“Of course I am; I’m never wrong,” Sherlock announced haughtily. “So, did you find out anything useful?”

The obvious doubt in his tone would have insulted anyone else but John had long learned not to take such things personally.

“I think so,” he said. “Miss Kitty Winter disappeared a bit more than ten years ago. She went to Europe on a holiday trip and never returned. The police investigation could track her travelling route as far as Palermo; then she vanished into thin air. Her father left no stone unturned, but…”

“But none of the private investigators he hired could find a trace of the girl, yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “Spare me the boring details, John; they’re common knowledge by now.”

John shrugged. “Well, you asked what I found, didn’t you? Anyway, Major Winter died some four months later, under circumstances that are still not entirely clear.”

“Boring,” Sherlock interrupted again. “Tell me something I don’t know already!”

“How about this then?” John turned his laptop, so that Sherlock could see the more than nine years old sensationalist article from the Daily Mail on the screen.

The title announced in big, fat letters:
MYSTERIOUSLY VANISHED HEIRESS COLLECTS HER COPIOUS INHERITANCE

“Look at the date,” John said. Sherlock did as he was told.

“Twenty-ninth of July, two thousand and four,” he murmured. “Nine and a half years ago. Five months after Miss Winter’s disappearance.”

“And less than a month after Major Winter’s mysterious death,” John added. “The Major very conveniently dies, his daughter reappears briefly, lays on the table the documents that prove her identity beyond doubt, collects the money she’s entitled to as her father’s only heir, and then disappears again. A bit much of a coincidence if you ask me.”

“Really, I don’t,” Sherlock replied. “Especially considering the fact that Major Winter had been bought out of Winter Enterprises upon joining the army for a seven-digit sum; and not on the lowest end of that scale.”

“How can you possibly know that?” John asked. As far as he knew, banks were not supposed to give such information away to third persons.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock explained succinctly. “What happened to the money, I wonder, though. Miss Winter clearly no longer has it… oh!”

“What?” John watched in amusement as Sherlock launched Google with single-minded determination, searching for possible information about Vernon Lodge.

“Here it is!” he said triumphantly. “Baron Gruner bought Vernon Lodge a little more than nine years ago. The reconstruction of its original form took almost seven years and has only recently been finished.”

“And surely swallowed Miss Winter’s inheritance,” John began to understand. “Add his expensive hobbies and you’ll have a man with almost constant need for money. Lots of it.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock agreed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oh, John, can’t you see the beauty of it? The meticulous planning that went into this complex crime? First, he seduces the daughter. Then he gets rid of the father – I have no doubt that Major Winter’s death was neither an accident nor suicide. Then he lets the daughter collect the millions… for him, of course. And finally, he gets rid of the daughter, too; and that in a way that makes her too ashamed to press charges against him. Oh, brilliant!”

John gave his best friend a look that was equal parts of fondness, disappointment and exasperation. It was a look he had had to administer quite a few times in the last five years.

“Nope,” he said, “I can’t find anything I’d call beautiful in using and discarding people for one’s own advantage. Or brilliant. Sorry. I just can’t.”

“But John, can’t you see it?” Sherlock sounded decidedly hurt; something John wouldn’t have expected. “This is the first time I’ve found an adversary that might be my match. Well, the first time since… since Moriarty.”

“Oh, I can see that all right,” John replied slowly. “And that’s what worries me, Sherlock. Every time you get so excited about a criminal mastermind, bad things tend to happen. People tend to get hurt… or killed.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, John!” Sherlock huffed indignantly. “And stop feeding Billy such nonsense; he’s nearly as bad as you are. He has certainly started sounding like you; no need for the two of you to gang up on me.”

“We don’t,” John said. “In fact, I haven’t talked to Billy for weeks. If he’s worried, he’s come to it on his own. That should give you the basic idea.”

“The basic idea about what?” Sherlock huffed again. “That you two are the worst mother hens this side of Mycroft?”

“Actually, I meant the fact that you need a constant minder or else you’ll get carried away and endanger yourself and everyone around you; but you can take it any way you like,” John replied dryly. “Now, are you going to tell me what else you found out from Miss Winter or should I guess?”

The cold glare Sherlock gave him (one that could have frozen over a volcano on a hot day) told him that the detective could spot an evasive maneuver when he saw one. Even one that was much subtler than John’s rather clumsy efforts to change the topic.

But, predictably, Sherlock could not resist the urge to show off, and soon John was scribbling down into in his trusted notebook – the #18 one since he’d first assisted his friend with the pink lady’s case.

“Miss Winter was not the first of Gruner’s victims,” Sherlock explained. “Nor was she the only one, not even when they were still together, it seems. She said that Gruner collects women and takes pride in his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. Those were her exact words; unnecessarily dramatic ones, of course, but most likely true.”

“Wealthy women, I suppose,” John said. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, but wealth alone wouldn’t do for him. They also have to be beautiful, to satisfy his sense of aesthetics. And he apparently keeps records of his… conquests, the way a passionate hunter would collect trophies to display them on the wall.”

“Records?” John echoed. “You mean compromising photos on a camera phone as Irene Adler did?”

“Oh, nothing so mundane!” Sherlock’s eyes gained that manic gleam again that always made John nervous. “It seems that he’s got a book. Can you imagine it? A real, old-fashioned, down-to-earth diary, bound in brown leather, sealed with an old-fashioned look, and the arms of the Grunewald barons emblazoned on the front cover in gold. Just like in Victorian times. Such traditional pieces are still available in small numbers, you know. They’re quite beautiful, hand-made and very expensive.”

“And you know that… how exactly?” John asked. He had a hard time to imagine Sherlock keeping a hand-written diary.

Sherlock shrugged. “Mummy gave us one each, Mycroft and me, on our respective eighteenth birthdays. I don’t know what Mycroft did with his – probably collected his favourite cake recipes and had them copied into it by a professional calligrapher – but mine served quite well as a record book for my experiments. Until the unfortunate day when I tossed over a glass of sulphuric acid and it landed on the leather cover. Not much was left of it after that.”

John shook his head in exasperation. Only Sherlock could be so careless – and so ignorant – as to destroy a piece of excellent craftsmanship by accidentally throwing acid at it.

“So, the Baron keeps his photos in this book then?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the actual case.

“That and more,” Sherlock replied. “Snapshots, names, details – everything about every woman he’d ever had an affair with, including the sums of money he is still receiving from them.”

“Money? From his old flames?”

“Yes, money, obviously. He didn’t kill them all; even our hopelessly incompetent police would have noticed that. No, he has a broad scale of ex-affairs who financially support him… in exchange for his discretion.”

“And not one of those women has thought of getting the police on his case?” John shook his head again. “Are they all insane?”

“They’re rich, John,” Sherlock corrected. “Rich and most of them coming from old, respected families. You can imagine, I assume, what the press would do if they could get hold of only a few of those photos? They’d tear the women to bloody rags.”

John had to admit that that was true. Sherlock’s own fate had clearly proven how ruthless the press could be.

“Besides,” Sherlock added, “I think there actually had been one or two who’d threatened the Baron with the police. According to Miss Winter, he sometimes spoke of them in an almost gentle manner; only to add something like ‘She died within the month’.”

“So there were other murders than just his latest wife,” John said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

“And nobody took any notice? That’s a bit hard to believe.”

“Not when they happened in different countries and the Baron wasn’t directly involved in the actual killings.”

“Like in the case of Major Winter,” John realised. “It’s not that hard to arrange an accident during a drill where people are already using sharp ammunition. He must have his own minions to do the dirty work, like Moriarty had.”

“That’s the eternal dilemma of a crime lord,” Sherlock mused. “They can’t rise to real influence without an extensive network in the background. But every organisation is only as strong as its weakest link. That’s why I often succeed where Mycroft’s minions fail; cause I work alone. Well… mostly alone.”

“Have you ever told him that?” John laughed.

“Oh, many times,” Sherlock waved generously. “Until he finally hired Anthea.”

“She calls herself Allison in these days,” John reminded him.

“Still with the letter A, though,” Sherlock said. “No imagination.”

“But she’s very efficient,” John replied. “Good thing that Mycroft isn’t really a criminal mastermind, then, isn’t it?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock returned, and they grinned in understanding over the long-standing joke between them.

If Mycroft was watching them through the surveillance cameras, he was probably not so amused.

“So, the book,” John then said. “If we could somehow get our hands on it, could we use it as evidence against the Baron?”

“Apparently so,” Sherlock answered. “We must give it a try in any case. According to Miss Winter, it used to be kept in a secret drawer of some old bureau in his inner study – which opens from the outer study, which again opens from the foyer where he chose to talk to me; the one displaying his Chinese crockery.”

“Used to be,” John emphasised. “There’s no guarantee it’s still there. When did Miss Winter flee from Vernon Lodge?”

“Some three years ago; and Yes, I know what you’re about to say, John, Gruner could have moved it anywhere. But why should he? It’s a perfectly safe hiding place, and the study has its own, independent alarm system.”

“Cause Miss Winter knows about it,” John pointed out the obvious.

Sherlock shook his head. “He was stoned drunk when he showed her the book; it’s unlikely that he’d remember.”

“But not impossible,” John insisted.

“No, but this is the only evidence we can have against him, assuming that we manage to get it.”

“And that’s what I don’t understand,” John said. “Why would anyone keep a book like that when there are so many better and safer ways to store compromising material: camera phones, discs, USD sticks… Why taking such risk?”

“Oh, but digital storage is immaterial,” Sherlock replied. “It doesn’t give him the satisfaction of physically holding all those lives he’s destroyed in his hands. Trophies, John, as I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah, you have,” John shook his head. “And frankly, I find the way you can get in his head disturbing.”

Sherlock dismissed his concern. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry nearly enough,” John returned. “Anyway, I know better than trying to talk sense into you by now. What’s the next step in your cunning plan? Breaking into Vernon Lodge and trying to find that nefarious book of his?”

“Eventually,” Sherlock replied blithely. “We’ll have to prepare ourselves a bit for that first, though.”

“I was joking, Sherlock!” John said in exasperation.

Sherlock have him a tight smile. “I was not.”

The manic gleam, in his eyes made John groan.

“Great, that’s just great. We haven’t been caught red-handed by the police often enough, have be? What’s a bit of breaking and entering among friends, even though the house is as impenetrable as Fort Knox.”

“No house is impenetrable, John; not for me,” Sherlock declared with unshakable confidence.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” John asked sarcastically.

The sarcasm, as always, was lost on Sherlock. He just blinked in honest confusion. “Why would I want you to feel better about this?”

“Right; why start now,” John sighed. “So, what’s that insane plan of yours?”

“Well, I’ll have to work out some details, obviously, but basically, you’re going to distract the Baron while I’ll search his inner study for the book,” Sherlock explained.

“Distract the Baron,” John repeated slowly. “Me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course. And how am I supposed to do that?” John demanded. “How am I supposed to get into the house in the first place?”

“By learning everything you can about Chinese pottery,” Sherlock replied as if that would be the most natural thing in the world.

In the strange, private world in which he lived, it probably was, too. Unfortunately, John had a somewhat stronger grip on reality.

“You want me to learn everything about Chinese pottery,” he repeated.

“Yes, as soon as you can,” Sherlock said. “I suggest you ask Ms Acquah, the director of the National Antiques Museum for help.”

John shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“Right; why not? I haven’t had a run-in with the Chinese mafia for years.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock acquired his usual superior air. “Compared with that this will be a piece of cake!”

“That,” John told him darkly,” is one of the famous Last Words.”

~TBC~