soledad_writes

SHERLOCK & THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT
by Soledad

Author’s note:

Some of the dialogue is loosely based on the original short story. The National Antiques Museum and its director are from the 1st Season episode “The Blind Banker”. Obviously, as everyone’s favourite consulting detective would say.

Beta read by

lindahoyland, thanks!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 15 – THE EXCELLENT ADVENTURE OF DR MARY MORSTAN

September 16th 2014

It was with considerable excitement that Mary set off on her own adventure on the same evening. Of the clothes left behind by Molly’s late aunt, she’d chosen a rather unflattering, pussy-bow satin blouse with long sleeves that were gathered by unnecessarily broad cuffs, with a long, black skirt that reached to mid-calf and slightly old-fashioned, low-heeled shoes.

The matching black vintage jacket had exaggerated shoulder pads – a fashion style that she personally found ugly and that, unfortunately, was coming back again. She parted her now dark hair in the middle and twisted it into a French knot on the nape of her neck, adding a small beret in cream-coloured velvet for the effect. She even wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses – genuine ones, prescribed for her half a year previously; she just always forgot about them because they were not very strong.

She checked her image in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. She looked suitably elegant, but in a somewhat dull, spinster style – which was exactly what she’d aimed for. Her handbag of cream-coloured leather was just a hint too large – she normally used it as a medical kit – but had the advantage that she could store the priceless little saucer within it safely, wrapped in several layers.

“I feel a bit like Mary Poppins,” she said after a last, critical look, “but it will have to do.”

“You look as beautiful as ever,” John assured her, giving her the puppy-eyed routine. “Now, let’s go. Sherlock – or rather Mycroft, I’d say – got us a cab.”

“Did they think we’re unable to get one ourselves?” Mary asked, slightly annoyed.

She didn’t like Mycroft’s occasional meddling any more than John did,

“Not an ordinary cab,” John explained. “This one comes with a driver.”

“Most cabs do,” Mary reminded him. John grinned.

“Yeah, but most cab drivers aren’t on Mycroft’s special paylist.”

“Oh,” Mary finally got the hint. Not just a driver than but a bodyguard, too. Presumably a trained monkey of whatever organisation Mycroft Holmes really had at his disposal, capable of killing a man with a salt shaker in twenty-seven different way.

Well, that could come in handy. Except… Mary shot her husband a worried look.

“You don’t mind? I know how much you hate his meddling.”

John shook his head. “If it means to get you back safely? Not in the least. Well, let’s go, Dr Morstan, it would be unwise to keep the Baron waiting.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mycroft’s driver – a spiky-haired, young blond man named Simmonds (though that probably wasn’t his real name) – drove them to Vernon Lodge quickly and safely. Mary had the nagging suspicion that the engine of the ordinary-looking cab had been tuned up seriously – it went too smoothly to still be the regular item.

John got out of the cab before it could turn into the long, winding drive that led up to the house, with banks of rare shrubs on either side. He was supposed to go the longer way around, meet Sherlock, and get into the house through the garden behind it. He tucked his gun in the waistband of his jeans, which didn’t make Mary feel any better.

“Be careful, love,” she murmured.

“You, too,” John replied, and then he was gone.

Young Mr Simmonds (“Just Simmonds, ma’am, plain and simple”) pulled up the cab into a great, gravelled square that was adorned with statues. Visibly old ones, at that, which matched the ambience perfectly, but that was to be expected from an aristocrat interested in art anyway.

Beyond the square stood Vernon Lodge, in all its nightmarish pomp: a long, low house with turrets at each corner. It gave one the uncomfortable impression of a fortress… and a rather impenetrable one. For the first time, Mary felt her stomach shrink to the size of a shrivelled lemon with fear and wished she could back off from the whole affair.

Unfortunately, it was already too late for that. Sherlock and John counted on her; their safety depended on her skills to distract the Baron. Like it or not, she had to get on with the charade.

“Ms Morstan?”

She realised that Simmonds was talking to her. Probably had been for a few moments already.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was having a brief moment of panic here. You were saying?”

“I said I’ll drive the cab away and hide it outside of the range of any possible surveillance devices,” Simmonds repeated. “You’ve got your panic button in the clasp of your handbag; don’t hesitate to push it if you have to, but consider that I’ll need approximately thirty-five seconds to reach you. Forty, if I have to incapacitate any personnel.”

“I understand,” Mary said. “Well, I’ll have to get in before the Baron becomes suspicious, haven’t I? Let’s do this before I lose my nerve completely.”

Simmonds gallantly helped her out of the cab and she paid his fee without making a great show of it. Over-acting would have been a serious mistake. Then the cab left, and she headed for the house, ignoring the awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She could do this. She would do this, for John’s sake; and to show Sherlock and that pompous brother of his that she can keep up with them if she has to.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sherlock had prepared her for the butler straight out of Downton Abbey; she still was a bit intimidated by the man, though, as she followed him to the Baron’s study.

“Dr Morstan for you, sir,” the butler announced, leaving her alone in the Baron’s presence. He was standing in front of an open cabinet between the windows, containing part of his Chinese collection.

At the announcement, he turned around, with a small brown vase in his hand.

“Welcome, Ms Morstan,” he said, using his considerable charm and waving with his free hand towards the overstuffed armchairs standing around a small, marble-plated coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”

Mary took the proffered seat, smoothing her skirt under herself and placing her handbag on the table with conscious care. She was playing the role of a fastidious lady doctor beyond her first youth, and details were important.

“Thank you,” she said, a little feebly.

“I was just looking over my treasures,” the Baron said conversationally. “Wondering whether I could really afford to add to them. This little Tang specimen,” he waved the vase, “which dates from the seventh century, would probably interest you.”

“I honestly doubt it,” Mary replied with blunt frankness; her best chance was to tell the truth as far as possible. “It is beautiful, yes, but I haven’t got the slightest idea about ancient pottery, Chinese or otherwise. Which is why I took my little pieces to the National Antiques Museum: to have them valued and certified.”

With that, she took the certification from her handbag and offered it to the Baron.

Gruner seemed taken aback with so much straightforward honesty, but pulled himself back together quickly enough and accepted the document, studying it thoroughly.

“Well, the certificate seems to be genuine enough,” he then said. “I don’t presume you have the actual items on you so that I could take a look myself?”

Mary gave him a brief, business-like smile.

“I didn’t think an expert like you would ever consider buying something you haven’t had the chance to examine first,” she replied. “I’ve brought one of the saucers. I don’t have a complete set, of course – who does nowadays? – but I own four matching pieces altogether.”

She carefully unpacked the borrowed saucer and handed it to the Baron, who sat down at his desk, pulled over the lamp, as it was growing dark, and set himself to examine it. In the harsh light of the lamp, Mary had an excellent chance to study his face.

He was a good-looking man; one had to give him that. Not very tall, but trim and had a predatory grace that likely hid considerable physical strength. His tanned face was sharply featured, almost Oriental, with deep-set dark eyes and wavy black hair – the perfect image of the Latin lover many young and impressionable women – especially the not too intelligent yet wealthy sort – often found so irresistible. Only his straight, thin-lipped mouth, with those fine, cruel lines around the corners, belied the illusion.

Unfortunately, wealthy young women – or not so young, bored and dissatisfied ones – rarely looked beyond the first impression. Which still didn’t explain Violet Merville’s obsession with the man; according to Sherlock, she was neither stupid, nor easily impressed.

“Very fine – very fine indeed,” the Baron finally said. “And you say you have three other pieces to match?”

“Yes, I do., “Mary hoped she sounded convincing. She was a better liar than John but still no match for a criminal mastermind.

“Excellent,” the Baron murmured. “It does puzzle me, though, that I’ve never heard of such a magnificent specimen being on the market. Would it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Ms Morstan, how did you obtain this?”

“Not at all,” Mary replied. “My father, the late Captain Morstan, served in various posts in China… or rather Hong Kong, Singapore and Taiwan. These saucers were in his legacy, which I only received two years ago, through his former associates. I had no idea about their true value until I took them to the museum. I’m sure you agree that the piece is unique – but how it came into my father’s possession I don’t know.”

“Very mysterious,” the Baron said with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark eyes. “In dealing with objects of such value I naturally prefer to know all about the provenance. That the piece is genuine is certain; about that I have no doubts. But I have to take every possibility into account. What if it should prove afterwards that you had no right to sell?”

“In that case I’d hardly have gone with it to a museum, of all places,” Mary pointed out logically. “And I’ve already sold other small objects from my father’s legacy through the auction houses. You can easily check it if you want.”

“Perhaps,” the Baron allowed, not reassured at all. “And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual.”

“You can do business with me or not,” Mary replied with well-feigned indifference. “I have given you the first offer as I understood that you were an expert and a dedicated collector – and because I’d prefer to have the money sooner rather than later. But I shall have no difficulty selling it through Christie’s or Sotheby’s; it would take longer, though and time is something of an issue for me right now.”

“Who told me I was an expert?” the Baron asked.

“Ms Acquah from the National Antiques Museum,” Mary answered truthfully. “She also recommended to me the book you’ve written on the topic.”

“Have you read the book?”

“Yes; not that I understand much,” Mary admitted honestly. “I trusted Ms Acquah that you’d know what you’re talking about.”

“I find it surprising that Ms Acquah of all people would send you to me,” the Baron said with a cruel little smile. “She’s not exactly friendly towards me.”

“No, she hates you with a passion,” Mary agreed. “But the museum couldn’t afford to buy my saucers, and I asked her for a private collector who could, so that I wouldn’t have to wait for an auction; and the only such collector with enough money she could think of was you. I asked for somebody who would value the little things, not just purchase them for the monetary value.”

“If they are so precious to you, Ms Morstan, then I wonder why you are so eager to sell,” the Baron said slowly.

“It’s Doctor Morstan,” Mary corrected. “I’m not happy to have to sell them, but my little practice is still in its infancy, and the mortgage isn’t easy to pay. If I want to keep the practice – and my independence as a GP – I need money, and I need it as soon as possible. I don't want to be part of a large Group Practice- so impersonal when patients never see the same doctor twice. Owning precious trinkets is nice when one’s already rich, as I’m sure you’d agree. But being a doctor is infinitely more important for me. It’s that simple.”

She was getting impatient and more than a little nervous, which, she knew, was a mistake. The Baron caught on her nervousness and was glaring at her steadily.

“Somehow I don’t believe that it would truly be that simple,” he said with a smile that had more teeth than was strictly necessary.

“Well, I can’t force you to believe me, of course,” Mary managed to wrap the precious saucer again without dropping it and stored it safely away in her handbag. “And since we apparently aren’t going to come into business today, I think it will be best for me to leave now.”

She only hoped that Sherlock and John would have finished their little breaking and entering act in the meantime, because she really couldn’t see how to buy them any more time.

“That’s what you think, yes?” the Baron asked with a mocking smile. “Well, my dear Dr Morstan, you may find it harder to get out than to get in.”

He rose slowly, deliberately, and Mary made an involuntary step back, fumbling with the clasp of her handbag and hoping that Mycroft’s young agent hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d promised to reach her within forty seconds after operating the panic button. The Baron spotted her doing so, of course, and was now glaring at her menacingly.

“So, that’s the game, isn’t it? You’re here as a spy. You’re an agent for Holmes, aren’t you? This is a trick that you’re playing on me – since he’s presumably dying he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. Well, we’ll see how he’ll like the results; if he lives long enough to watch the footage.”

He opened one of the side drawers of his desk and rummaged around in it furiously, presumably for some sort of weapon, when he suddenly heard something from the room behind the desk. For a moment, he stood there, petrified, listening intently. Then he cried out in wordless rage, tore the door open, and dashed into the back room.

Mary, followed by the highly efficient Agent Simmonds who had indeed arrived in the meantime, ran after him.

They followed him into a much smaller room; the one that, according to Miss Winter, was the Baron’s inner study. The window leading out to the garden was wide open… and so was the old-fashioned little bureau in the corner. One of its drawers lay on the floor, probably dropped by accident, its contents scattered around.

Next to the bureau stood Sherlock, wearing one of his sharp suits and a white bandage around his head, deadly pale but smiling with an unholy glee. In his hand he held the Baron’s little leather-bound book of dirty secrets.

When he saw the Baron entering, he simply stepped onto the windowsill and jumped out of the window, into the garden. It couldn’t have been a very lucky jump, as Mary could clearly hear the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside and John’s anxious demands if he was all right.

With a howl of rage, the Baron rushed after him towards the open window.

~TBC~