The Mayfair Murderer
Feb. 13th, 2017 08:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: A short fic for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day Two : ___ At First Sight (Fanworks focusing on first meetings)
Rating: G
A/N - Welp, I like to use these *insert whatever theme* Weeks as an excuse to step outside my usual fic writing comfort zone – so today we try generically vague possibly Regency AU! (But it could be Victorianish. To be honest the entirety of my ‘research’ for this thing consists of once reading some historical romance novels where people have hot monkey sex in carriages—which is tragically not a thing that’s going to happen in this fic, sorry.) Look, history is really not my strong suit (see also math and geography).
The Mayfair Murderer
Another peal of grating, almost crystalline laughter stabbed through the air like a shard of broken glass. Sherlock didn’t bother to conceal his grimace and one of the more delicate ladies standing nearby visibly wilted.
He continued to weave his way through the overly crowded room with determination, as if he had a destination in mind or some real purpose other than simply escaping the oppressive crush.
If it weren’t for his promise to Mummy, he would have made his excuses and left long ago.
Hadn’t he suffered enough already?
His eyes scanned the room, searching for Watson. Between the two of them they would surely be able to come up with a suitable need to be called away immediately. They had done it before.
Sherlock blanched as he caught sight of his brother in the next room. Mycroft’s posture was perfect as he led his young wife through the Quadrille. Up until the marriage two seasons prior, Mycroft would have done his best to avoid such dances; but Mrs Holmes (Anthea, not Mummy) enjoyed them and Mycroft enjoyed pleasing his wife.
If Sherlock had thought Mycroft’s marriage would have lessened the pressure towards making a match of his own, he was sorely mistaken. Once her eldest son was settled (Into what Sherlock might have suspected was a love match if not for the way his brother continued to insist that caring was not an advantage.), Mrs Holmes had turned her gaze toward her youngest.
He had managed to avoid his familial responsibilities for several years, hiding behind Mycroft’s bachelorhood as an excuse to continue to avoid obvious match-making efforts disguised as social obligations. But Mummy had put her foot down at the beginning of the current season and Sherlock had been forced to agree to ‘make an effort’ to find a wife of his own.
That was quite obviously not going to happen here, however.
He ducked through a set of open doors that lead out to the garden and nearly ran into a young woman standing just outside. She had been lurking just in the shadows, watching the others dance. Probably with a wistful and longing expression, he thought unkindly.
Sherlock quickly took in the woman’s appearance: long brown hair that had been curled and pinned to the point of discomfort, dress a season out of date and a size too large, effort had been made to alter the dress to bring it more in line with the current fashion, clothing obviously borrowed.
She stepped to the side to let him pass at the exact moment he did the same. Then they both moved to the other side. After a third such motion, Sherlock sighed and put his hands on her shoulders to hold her still as he stepped around her.
She blushed and stammered, “I apologize, Mr Holmes.”
His name on her lips pulls him up short. While he freely admits he has a habit of dismissing people as unimportant, he can’t remember if he’d ever seen her before. “Pardon my forgetfulness, but have we met?”
“Oh!” Her gloved hand flew up to cover her mouth. Somehow her blush managed to deepen. “Yes. Well, no, not really. At the Bellamy ball. My uncle had only just finished introducing you to my cousins and was just about to . . . but Doctor Watson made it clear your services were required elsewhere and you had to leave. It was all rather sudden.”
Sherlock vaguely remembered the ball in question a week prior. He’d been bored out of his mind and insisted Watson rescue him.
She twisted her fingers together and looked at his feet, as if she were suddenly overcome by a fit of shyness. “It was the talk of the gathering for nearly half an hour. Until a certain Miss was discovered in the conservatory with Mr Fr-“ She broke off with a gasp and raised her eyes to meet his. Horror at her faux pas stained her cheeks a becoming pink.
Becoming?
She scrambled for another topic, clearly flustered. “I thought, upon first reading The Morning Post, that you must have been called away to assist with the murder in Mayfair; but I quickly realized that couldn’t have been the case.”
Sherlock had been growing bored, and half of his attention had been diverted toward the sight of Watson dancing with a blonde in a light blue dress; but the mention of murder had him returning his full focus to the woman before him.
“And why couldn’t it have been?” She was correct in that he had not been summoned to Mayfair that night, but he wanted to know why she thought so.
She laughed. Actually laughed! “Obviously once I read the details of the arrest, I knew the likelihood of the man they’d caught being the murderer was very low. I suppose it is possible that the Yard held several key pieces of information back from the public, but the detective in the paper seemed rather keen to show off. It was clearly a mistake you wouldn’t have been involved in.”
“Showing off?” There were plenty who would disagree with that assessment. Watson and Mycroft chief among them.
“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant at all, not that I know you well enough to say whether or not . . . I just . . . The suspect.”
Despite his usual reluctance to spend a second longer than absolutely necessary engaged in social niceties such as small talk, Sherlock found that he was no longer quite so eager to escape this one. “The suspect?”
“Well, he’s not the murder, is he? There was a witness who described the attacker as a dark man in a long overcoat with a cane, which he used as the murder weapon. Based on that description the suspect was stopped and arrested no more than five minutes later, several streets away. He was wearing an overcoat but possessed no cane.”
His eyes narrowed as he considered where she might be going with her comments. He was familiar with the case, and he shared her assessment that the man still in custody was not the one who had committed the crime (not that the constabulary would listen to him until they discovered another victim, which was inevitable judging from the destructive rage the murderer had demonstrated), but he wanted to know what had driven her to that conclusion. “He could have disposed of the cane in any street gutter or alley before he was caught.”
“True,” she conceded. “But how would he have managed to remove all traces of the victim’s blood and-“ Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper that had him leaning closer to hear her. “-viscera from his person in that short of time? I am given to understand that the body was nearly unrecognizable when it was brought into the morgue at St Bartholomew’s.”
How, he wondered, could she have possibly learned of that? The state of the victim’s corpse had most assuredly not been released to the public and would not have been in The Morning Post, braggart detective or not.
“Conceivably,” she continued, “he might have had another coat hidden nearby, which would presume the attack was premediated rather than a crime of passion as the detective stated. Regardless, there should have been some transfer under his nails or in his hair, something more to tie him to the crime than a vague description and a coat.”
That was remarkably similar to his thoughts when he’d first read the police report and been allowed to sit in on an interview with the suspect. He stared at her in silence for a long moment.
“I’m afraid this isn’t the type of conversation I’m used to engaging in at these . . . “ He waved his hand in the general direction of the ballroom. “Things.”
He’d meant it as a compliment of sorts, but it was apparent from the way she turned deathly pale that she had not taken it as such.
“Oh, I’m so . . . I see my uncle is . . . Pardon me.” And then she scurried away with her head down as if she had done something of which to be ashamed.
He followed her into the ballroom, but hung back against the wall as she crossed the room to stand near her uncle. Her uncle indulgently smiled down at her before introducing her to another man and handing her off for a dance.
Watson appeared at Sherlock’s side a few minutes later.
“Do you know that gentleman?” Sherlock indicated the man he was talking about with a subtle flick of his wrist and nod of his head.
“Hmm? Ah, yes. Mike Stamford. We both trained at St Bartholomew’s, worked together for a bit before I left for the war. I’ve heard he’s still there, teaching now.”
That could explain the young woman’s connection to the hospital, if her uncle had told her of the condition of the corpse.
“And his niece? What do you know of her?”
“I think he took her in when his sister passed this winter. Maggie, no Molly. Molly Hooper, I believe. Why?” Watson looked toward Stamford, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure out a mystery. Sherlock hated it when Watson did that, it made him look ridiculous.
Sherlock turned away from Stamford and began to push his way through the crowd toward his hosts, he’d reached the limit of his endurance for the evening and was ready to make his excuses and leave. “We shall be visiting the Yard tomorrow, Watson. I need to speak to Detective Lestrade regarding the Mayfair murder last week. And then, perhaps, a visit to St Bartholomew’s might be in order. I believe I may wish to speak with your friend Stamford.”
Rating: G
A/N - Welp, I like to use these *insert whatever theme* Weeks as an excuse to step outside my usual fic writing comfort zone – so today we try generically vague possibly Regency AU! (But it could be Victorianish. To be honest the entirety of my ‘research’ for this thing consists of once reading some historical romance novels where people have hot monkey sex in carriages—which is tragically not a thing that’s going to happen in this fic, sorry.) Look, history is really not my strong suit (see also math and geography).
The Mayfair Murderer
Another peal of grating, almost crystalline laughter stabbed through the air like a shard of broken glass. Sherlock didn’t bother to conceal his grimace and one of the more delicate ladies standing nearby visibly wilted.
He continued to weave his way through the overly crowded room with determination, as if he had a destination in mind or some real purpose other than simply escaping the oppressive crush.
If it weren’t for his promise to Mummy, he would have made his excuses and left long ago.
Hadn’t he suffered enough already?
His eyes scanned the room, searching for Watson. Between the two of them they would surely be able to come up with a suitable need to be called away immediately. They had done it before.
Sherlock blanched as he caught sight of his brother in the next room. Mycroft’s posture was perfect as he led his young wife through the Quadrille. Up until the marriage two seasons prior, Mycroft would have done his best to avoid such dances; but Mrs Holmes (Anthea, not Mummy) enjoyed them and Mycroft enjoyed pleasing his wife.
If Sherlock had thought Mycroft’s marriage would have lessened the pressure towards making a match of his own, he was sorely mistaken. Once her eldest son was settled (Into what Sherlock might have suspected was a love match if not for the way his brother continued to insist that caring was not an advantage.), Mrs Holmes had turned her gaze toward her youngest.
He had managed to avoid his familial responsibilities for several years, hiding behind Mycroft’s bachelorhood as an excuse to continue to avoid obvious match-making efforts disguised as social obligations. But Mummy had put her foot down at the beginning of the current season and Sherlock had been forced to agree to ‘make an effort’ to find a wife of his own.
That was quite obviously not going to happen here, however.
He ducked through a set of open doors that lead out to the garden and nearly ran into a young woman standing just outside. She had been lurking just in the shadows, watching the others dance. Probably with a wistful and longing expression, he thought unkindly.
Sherlock quickly took in the woman’s appearance: long brown hair that had been curled and pinned to the point of discomfort, dress a season out of date and a size too large, effort had been made to alter the dress to bring it more in line with the current fashion, clothing obviously borrowed.
She stepped to the side to let him pass at the exact moment he did the same. Then they both moved to the other side. After a third such motion, Sherlock sighed and put his hands on her shoulders to hold her still as he stepped around her.
She blushed and stammered, “I apologize, Mr Holmes.”
His name on her lips pulls him up short. While he freely admits he has a habit of dismissing people as unimportant, he can’t remember if he’d ever seen her before. “Pardon my forgetfulness, but have we met?”
“Oh!” Her gloved hand flew up to cover her mouth. Somehow her blush managed to deepen. “Yes. Well, no, not really. At the Bellamy ball. My uncle had only just finished introducing you to my cousins and was just about to . . . but Doctor Watson made it clear your services were required elsewhere and you had to leave. It was all rather sudden.”
Sherlock vaguely remembered the ball in question a week prior. He’d been bored out of his mind and insisted Watson rescue him.
She twisted her fingers together and looked at his feet, as if she were suddenly overcome by a fit of shyness. “It was the talk of the gathering for nearly half an hour. Until a certain Miss was discovered in the conservatory with Mr Fr-“ She broke off with a gasp and raised her eyes to meet his. Horror at her faux pas stained her cheeks a becoming pink.
Becoming?
She scrambled for another topic, clearly flustered. “I thought, upon first reading The Morning Post, that you must have been called away to assist with the murder in Mayfair; but I quickly realized that couldn’t have been the case.”
Sherlock had been growing bored, and half of his attention had been diverted toward the sight of Watson dancing with a blonde in a light blue dress; but the mention of murder had him returning his full focus to the woman before him.
“And why couldn’t it have been?” She was correct in that he had not been summoned to Mayfair that night, but he wanted to know why she thought so.
She laughed. Actually laughed! “Obviously once I read the details of the arrest, I knew the likelihood of the man they’d caught being the murderer was very low. I suppose it is possible that the Yard held several key pieces of information back from the public, but the detective in the paper seemed rather keen to show off. It was clearly a mistake you wouldn’t have been involved in.”
“Showing off?” There were plenty who would disagree with that assessment. Watson and Mycroft chief among them.
“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant at all, not that I know you well enough to say whether or not . . . I just . . . The suspect.”
Despite his usual reluctance to spend a second longer than absolutely necessary engaged in social niceties such as small talk, Sherlock found that he was no longer quite so eager to escape this one. “The suspect?”
“Well, he’s not the murder, is he? There was a witness who described the attacker as a dark man in a long overcoat with a cane, which he used as the murder weapon. Based on that description the suspect was stopped and arrested no more than five minutes later, several streets away. He was wearing an overcoat but possessed no cane.”
His eyes narrowed as he considered where she might be going with her comments. He was familiar with the case, and he shared her assessment that the man still in custody was not the one who had committed the crime (not that the constabulary would listen to him until they discovered another victim, which was inevitable judging from the destructive rage the murderer had demonstrated), but he wanted to know what had driven her to that conclusion. “He could have disposed of the cane in any street gutter or alley before he was caught.”
“True,” she conceded. “But how would he have managed to remove all traces of the victim’s blood and-“ Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper that had him leaning closer to hear her. “-viscera from his person in that short of time? I am given to understand that the body was nearly unrecognizable when it was brought into the morgue at St Bartholomew’s.”
How, he wondered, could she have possibly learned of that? The state of the victim’s corpse had most assuredly not been released to the public and would not have been in The Morning Post, braggart detective or not.
“Conceivably,” she continued, “he might have had another coat hidden nearby, which would presume the attack was premediated rather than a crime of passion as the detective stated. Regardless, there should have been some transfer under his nails or in his hair, something more to tie him to the crime than a vague description and a coat.”
That was remarkably similar to his thoughts when he’d first read the police report and been allowed to sit in on an interview with the suspect. He stared at her in silence for a long moment.
“I’m afraid this isn’t the type of conversation I’m used to engaging in at these . . . “ He waved his hand in the general direction of the ballroom. “Things.”
He’d meant it as a compliment of sorts, but it was apparent from the way she turned deathly pale that she had not taken it as such.
“Oh, I’m so . . . I see my uncle is . . . Pardon me.” And then she scurried away with her head down as if she had done something of which to be ashamed.
He followed her into the ballroom, but hung back against the wall as she crossed the room to stand near her uncle. Her uncle indulgently smiled down at her before introducing her to another man and handing her off for a dance.
Watson appeared at Sherlock’s side a few minutes later.
“Do you know that gentleman?” Sherlock indicated the man he was talking about with a subtle flick of his wrist and nod of his head.
“Hmm? Ah, yes. Mike Stamford. We both trained at St Bartholomew’s, worked together for a bit before I left for the war. I’ve heard he’s still there, teaching now.”
That could explain the young woman’s connection to the hospital, if her uncle had told her of the condition of the corpse.
“And his niece? What do you know of her?”
“I think he took her in when his sister passed this winter. Maggie, no Molly. Molly Hooper, I believe. Why?” Watson looked toward Stamford, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure out a mystery. Sherlock hated it when Watson did that, it made him look ridiculous.
Sherlock turned away from Stamford and began to push his way through the crowd toward his hosts, he’d reached the limit of his endurance for the evening and was ready to make his excuses and leave. “We shall be visiting the Yard tomorrow, Watson. I need to speak to Detective Lestrade regarding the Mayfair murder last week. And then, perhaps, a visit to St Bartholomew’s might be in order. I believe I may wish to speak with your friend Stamford.”