Chapter 6

6 "It was just a small matter"

London, afternoon, Rochester Street, the Workhouse.

Before getting into the taxi, Sherlock had made a separate call to Lestrade, apparently to ask for the address. Once in the car, he had been in an unusually good mood, which was hard to fathom.

I, on the other hand, had stared blankly out the window.

The early autumn sky over London was clear, and the temperature had reached an unusual 28 degrees Celsius, as if summer had returned.

That wasn't much help with the explosion, though.

The hot weather made relief efforts more difficult.

The Workhouse was in a back alley.

When the explosion went off, a great deal of thick smoke poured out, affecting the surrounding homes and shops. The hundreds of residents had some sense of safety: rather than stay to watch, they evacuated quickly and promptly called the police for help.

The fire was enormous.

Even working together, the police and residents had taken nearly an hour and a half to put it out completely. The billowing smoke, laced with sparks, needed even more time to disperse. As a result, it had taken quite a while for the police to begin investigating and for residents to return home.

At least by the time I arrived, the shops across the street had decided to close.

I was a little disappointed.

I hadn't eaten brunch yet.

Once I'd settled down in the taxi, and especially when I got out, I suddenly felt my stomach cramping with hunger and aching faintly. Seeing that the shops were closed left me a little desperate.

I hoped we could finish the case soon.

And next time I went out, I'd have to carry some candy.

Sherlock and Watson had already discussed the details of the case in the car (strictly speaking, Watson had asked questions tirelessly while Sherlock answered), and they were now ready to investigate.

The site of the fire had been cordoned off.

The case had initially been classified as an explosion, and there was concern that related explosives might be hidden nearby. Now that a murder was involved as well, we could see three nimble police dogs checking the surrounding bushes one by one.

I'd just looked away from a Doberman that liked to hop on its hind legs when someone stopped us.

"Wait!"

The person who stopped us was a Black policewoman in a gray skirt suit, her head of fluffy curls reminiscent of curly wool. As she spoke, she folded her arms. Combined with her indifferent attitude and a flat tone that bordered on spiteful, she looked aggressive all over, and even the perfume she wore had a sharp, aggressive scent.

"What are you planning to do here, freak? Come sniffing around for blood?"

I guessed she'd been out in this weather too long, and the sun had made her temper flare.

Watson was uncomfortable with her attitude. He pressed his lips together and tried to explain that Lestrade had asked them to come.

Sherlock, however, turned to introduce her to us. "Sergeant Sally Donovan, one of the few female officers at Scotland Yard."

Sergeant Donovan was strongly prejudiced against Sherlock.

That single remark seemed to provoke her. Her lips tightened, and her expression grew colder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I knew why she had that attitude.

Sergeant Donovan had always

questioned Sherlock's investigative and deductive abilities, believing that sooner or later he would commit crimes to prove his own talent, so she was hostile toward him. Later in the television series, she also became one of the people Moriarty used to frame Sherlock, urging the higher-ups to investigate him.

Yet she really didn't have much screen time.

I'd only remembered today that her name was Sally Donovan.

That said, I understood where she was coming from.

From a storytelling perspective, a character who conflicted with the protagonist like this showed the writers had put thought into it, rather than making everyone uniformly stupid. So I didn't dislike characters like her.

But experiencing it firsthand, I still reacted as an ordinary person would—

I thought she was a little fierce.

"..."

Sherlock hadn't meant to provoke her, nor was he interested in arguing. He said nothing about the conclusions the sensitive Sergeant Donovan had jumped to.

Sergeant Donovan continued to block our way and said forcefully, "You don't belong here. Leave!"

At that, none of the three of us moved a muscle.

Watson had been looking for a chance to explain that Lestrade had asked Sherlock to come. But when he saw that I didn't speak, he said nothing either.

The main reason I kept quiet was that I remembered she worked under Lestrade.

Lestrade wouldn't have failed to tell her Sherlock was coming, so obviously she had decided to stop him on her own. If she drove Sherlock away, she might tell Lestrade he had never come, or that he'd left again as soon as he arrived.

In theory, Lestrade's impression of Sherlock would then worsen.

After that, if the good officer kept his distance from Sherlock of his own accord, she'd get exactly what she wanted.

I knew what she was thinking. But I felt there was no point in exposing a lady's behavior like that.

Most importantly, this was Sherlock's show.

Mark my words!

This was Sherlock's show.

No one could speak up and steal his spotlight!

Still, the three of us stood there without moving, even somewhat indifferent, facing an officer who was shorter and smaller than us. For some reason, as the silence stretched beyond five seconds, I felt Sergeant Donovan seemed to shrink a little.

Thinking back afterward, I suddenly felt that the three of us men had been most ungentlemanly in failing to respond to her promptly. It was almost as if we'd given a lady the silent treatment.

At the time, though, all I thought was that I couldn't steal Sherlock's scene, and that in the original story Sherlock had sent her packing with a few rapid-fire remarks.

Wanting Sherlock to wrap up this scene quickly so the awkwardness wouldn't drag on, I said to him, "If you've noticed something, you can say it now."

At that, Sherlock half turned his head. His normally light-colored eyes now glinted a cool gray as the light caught them.

I thought he was going to say something like, "Why should I say what you tell me to?" Instead, he withdrew his gaze without a trace and let out a snort of laughter.

"Shouldn't you be the one who doesn't belong here right now?"

!!!

That wasn't the kind of unrestrained approach I meant!

As soon as he said it, I instinctively looked at the policewoman. Even Watson hadn't expected Sherlock to be so aggressive toward a lady.

Sergeant Donovan's face turned red with anger on the spot.

He generally wouldn't provoke a woman like that. Although he did sometimes make aggressive remarks to stir things up, it was always for a practical purpose, not a pointless argument.

I believed he must have something else to say.

Give him a little time.

As I waited, Sherlock turned to me again and said, "Shouldn't you have seen a fire somewhere by now?"

"..."

Watson was startled by Sherlock's words too and looked over at me. "What did you see?"

What did I see?

I saw the pit Sherlock had dug for me—

Big, deep, and black.

Sherlock continued, "Mr. Lanny has the ability to foresee the future."

I said, "..."

Watson was a materialist, and his first reaction was to laugh—a disbelieving, amused laugh.

But seeing Sherlock's solemn expression and my unruffled face, he began to question his worldview. "Really?"

"No, I can't see the future," I said openly, frankly, straightforwardly, and with certainty.

Sherlock said, "Then how did you know about 221B Baker Street?"

"Inspector Lestrade told me."

"Then you told Mrs. Hudson you knew there was a moldy room in the flat? The inspector wouldn't have said that much."

I'd actually been trying to cover for my earlier mistake. I'd already thought of answers to these basic questions. At worst, I could say I'd claimed to know mysticism on a whim.

His older brother had already looked like he didn't believe me in the car.

I said, "London's weather is often damp and rainy. Rooms in old buildings are prone to mold because of how their lighting and ventilation were designed. The building at 221B is Victorian in style, not a style that's popular now. It was the mainstream style last century, so it's at least sixty or seventy years old. A damp, moldy room is a matter of probability."

I paused, then said, "It cost me nothing if I guessed wrong."

"You're right."

Sherlock readily accepted it.

I blinked involuntarily.

He'd just accepted it, and that was the end of it? I'd kept my head too?

It had been so easy that I was a little puzzled.

Watson also looked a little puzzled. He looked at me, then at Sherlock, and realized that neither of us was going to offer any further explanation for why Sherlock thought I had the ability to foresee the future rather than the ability to deduce. His thoughts wandered for a moment.

Sergeant Donovan had been ignored for a very long time and had begun stamping her feet impatiently. When Sherlock provoked her, she'd been about to get into a scuffle with him, only for him to cast her aside the next second and start chatting with us.

Her anger soared.

She finally moved to grab Sherlock by the collar and make him face her, and Sherlock turned his inorganic eyes toward the policewoman.

"Sergeant Donovan, if you don't leave now and check your car, I'm afraid it's going to catch fire."

Policewoman Donovan frowned uncertainly.

"You know I have no reason to lie at a time like this," Sherlock reiterated. "Seeing the tobacco between your thumb and fingernail, and your index finger and fingernail, that hadn't turned completely to ash, it was easy to guess."

Donovan hadn't expected him to be talking about something so trivial. "I did have a cigarette, but the tobacco under my fingernails was left there when I stubbed it out. Surely I have some basic fire-safety sense?"

Sherlock's smile held a trace of cold derision.

When it came to deduction and detective work, Sherlock had a pride that would not tolerate being underestimated.

He said flatly, "When you put out your cigarette, you deliberately sprayed perfume to get rid of the smell. Obviously, your perfume isn't a volatile car fragrance, but an ordinary body spray. This type of perfume has only one nozzle. If the temperature rises, the perfume evaporates faster than you imagine. Oh, I hope your primary school education taught you that perfume contains alcohol."

Sergeant Donovan's expression changed. She had obviously thought of the bottle rupturing because of the pressure caused by the alcohol evaporating in a perfume bottle with only one nozzle, but she still didn't move. "You're just trying to say that the sun's beating down and the perfume is dangerous, aren't you?"

"No, it's already on fire." Sherlock looked steadily in Sergeant Donovan's direction. "A stubbed-out cigarette isn't necessarily completely extinguished. Do you know what smoldering means?"

As I followed Sherlock's words, a sequence of images appeared in my head—

Sergeant Donovan had smoked during her break, but before she'd finished, another assignment came up and she had to put out the cigarette, then use perfume to cover the smell of tobacco on herself. But under the blazing sun, the alcohol in the perfume bottle evaporated, causing the bottle to rupture. The alcohol from the perfume filled the car as a gas, ready to ignite on contact with the still-smoldering cigarette.

Just then, a police officer hurried over to Policewoman Donovan. "Sergeant, is that red car over there, the one with a license plate starting with S, yours? There's a fire inside..."

There was no need to say the rest.

Watson was deeply impressed by his deduction. "Sherlock, you're really amazing."

Sherlock smiled faintly, with a hint of self-satisfaction, rather like a performer taking a bow.

Overall, he still had the air of a reserved gentleman, composed and unruffled by honor or disgrace. Only occasionally did he show an undisguised, boyish smile of delight, or... a cruel, merciless smile that showed no concern for whether others lived or died.

In any case, the interlude before the investigation was over.

It was time to start investigating.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, Inspector Lestrade came out of the building. He was dressed from head to toe in a blue protective suit and carrying a drink. I hoped the next time he'd meant when he said, "I'll buy you coffee next time we meet," wasn't this time.

I didn't have the nerve to drink coffee in a building full of corpses.

As Lestrade walked over, he looked at Sherlock and said, "A skeleton was also dug up in the Workhouse courtyard."

"Then let's split up." Sherlock quickly began assigning tasks. "I'll go inside and take a look first."

Lestrade looked over at Watson and me, then stared at Watson and said uncertainly, "Then you and this... this..."

"John Watson."

I supplied the name for him.

As soon as I said it, Watson went still beside me, and Lestrade looked toward Sherlock as if reporting that he'd completed an assignment.

I had a vague feeling something wasn't right.

As Watson said, "Sherlock told me not to mention my name in front of you. How did you know my name?" I saw Sherlock slowly turn toward me with a wide, deep smile.

As if he were saying—

"Yes, how did you know Watson's name?"

"..."

It was as if the grim reaper had breathed on my brain.

The nerves in my head went cold and began twitching.

Had they really never mentioned the name "Watson" even once from beginning to end?

Wearing a satisfied smile, Sherlock said to Watson and me, "We can discuss the small matter later. Let's solve the case first."