The Bitter East Wind Howled
"Show me what you can do. Let me see whether you're the Napoleon of crime or a match that's already burned out."
"Hahahaha! Hahaha!"
"Officer, show him out."
"Yes, sir."
London's rain and snow were never gentle. They pierced the outlines of the East End's old buildings like icy needles, shrouding MP Charlie Andrew's residence in an ominous gloom.
At noon, the shriek of police sirens tore through the quiet curtain of rain. Red and blue lights danced wildly across the wet stone walls, like the half-open pupils of a great beast.
Lestrade had failed to make it back to Dorset to spend Christmas with his wife and daughter. A famous MP had been found dead at home on Christmas morning by a visiting friend, an apparent suicide.
The case had nothing to do with him in the first place, and the MP had previously been embroiled in corruption allegations. It was obvious at a glance that his death was anything but simple, but his superiors had named Greg for the job, stating outright that it was a condition for his promotion.
"I know I shouldn't ruin everyone's lovely Christmas, but this case concerns my career. I can only ask you to take it on."
Lestrade had already surrounded the scene with his men and was calling the great detective of Baker Street for help.
"Get up, we've got a new job." Sherlock first shook John awake-he had gone back to sleep after seeing his girlfriend off-then raced upstairs to wake Sitangna.
"You're kidding. Isn't it Christmas? Which poor sod's come to grief now?" Watson hadn't wanted to get up, but Sherlock was so excited that the case had to be something out of the ordinary. The adventurous spirit in his bones drove him to scramble out of bed.
"What time is it? Who's making all that racket? I'll smash your head in!" Emily was cranky when woken up. Without even opening her eyes, she was ready to punch the human alarm clock beside the bed.
"It's already one in the afternoon, but you can go on sleeping. Nobody cares. Nana has to come with me."
Sherlock hauled Sitangna out of the warm covers. She was clearly awake, probably remembering what had happened the night before and feeling too embarrassed to face him.
He wouldn't allow it. He was full of energy now and badly needed his two little sidekicks to help him with the case.
"I'll get up myself, I'm getting up right now! Let go of me!" Sitangna hurriedly pulled herself back under the covers. The wood in the fireplace had long since burned out, and it was chilly with her body exposed to the air.
"I'll wait downstairs. Hurry up." Sherlock rushed down and packed two sandwiches from Mrs. Hudson. Those two lazy lie-abeds had missed both breakfast and lunch.
Sherlock made such a fuss downstairs that Watson and Sitangna, afraid of wasting time, hurried into their clothes and washed up faster. The three-person team finally got into the car dispatched by the police station within ten minutes.
"That's so thoughtful of you, bringing us food." Watson and Sitangna each held a whole, uncut sandwich and ate with relish.
"Let's say thank you, Sherlock!" Sitangna gave him a gentle elbow in thanks. This time she was sitting in the back with Sherlock; that sly Watson had been the first to climb into the front passenger seat.
Sherlock didn't eat. He had always believed that digesting food would divert the blood supply his brain needed, so he ate very little at every meal.
Once, to keep his nerves sharply focused, he had even starved himself unconscious, and Watson had carried him home.
"Don't eat too much. I hear there are two bodies at the scene, and they're in a gruesome state."
Too late. Sherlock helplessly pinched the bridge of his nose. The two starving ghosts, having missed two meals in a row, had already wolfed down their entire sandwiches in a few bites.
Watson was all right. He had a big appetite, and one sandwich only left him half full. Sitangna was genuinely full, though, and had nearly choked on hers.
"Could you bring me a bottle of water next time? I'm so choked up I can't even swallow my saliva." She thumped her chest. Once they got there, she'd have to ask for bottled water first.
"Wait, don't drive in. Stop here." Sherlock had found a layout of the villa's surroundings on a real estate forum. The spot before them was where he had deduced the intruder had entered, based on the fax from the scene.
"This is the villa's garden gate. It seems this MP Andrew didn't care at all about the greenery at home." Sherlock led them along a path shared by the villa community, with the deceased's garden on the left and the neighbor's on the right.
The contrast between the two was indeed stark. The vegetation in one garden was sparse, with only wildflowers and weeds growing lushly; the other had obviously been tended by a gardener, and the low shrubs had even been trimmed into attractive shapes.
"Look, there are signs someone climbed over here." As an army doctor, Watson was also very good at counter-surveillance.
He soon discovered that someone had trampled the garden lawn, then covered it again with fresh grass clippings. At first glance, there wasn't a single footprint, just a stretch of green.
But it was a lot of work, so it seemed this was another group operation.
"Judging by the length and size of the footprints, the intruder should be over 1.8 meters tall and weigh around seventy-five kilograms." Sitangna held the measuring tape for Watson. Sherlock had trained him to the point that he carried one everywhere.
"Very good, a highly authoritative deduction. The same measurements as the intruder's corpse." Sherlock strode to the villa's side door. The traces here were faint and shallow, and very familiar.
Like an old friend they had met before.
Lestrade stood beneath the residence's grand portico. It had stopped raining outside, and the rain had stopped as soon as Sherlock arrived. It seemed like a good omen.
Rainwater dripped from the eaves, spreading into darker patches on his dark uniform. His face was gloomier than the leaden sky.
Lestrade was wondering why Sherlock still hadn't arrived when a subordinate turned up to report that the detective had already reached the study and was examining the scene.
"Why didn't you come through the front door? I've been waiting there for ages." The inspector hurriedly brought over the medical examiner's preliminary report for them to see.
"We came in through the garden. Why didn't you cordon it off? That was the intruder's first route in."
Sherlock took the medical gloves offered by the examiner. Watson had already put his on and begun examining the body. Sitangna didn't dare touch it, so Sherlock assigned her to take notes in a little notebook.
"The preliminary finding is suicide." Perhaps because his savior had arrived, there was a hint of relief in the inspector's hoarse voice.
"The ink marks in the notes on the desk and the logbook fit the picture of someone working late into the night. John, pull his eyelids open. Hmm-typical signs of extreme fatigue, and symptoms of internal bleeding too, but there's something abnormal about the pupil constriction. Write that down."
"The cause of death was the back of his head striking the copper base of the antique globe: a skull fracture and brain injury. He died on the spot." He frowned. "There was an intruder, but it was suicide?"
"The killer deliberately opened the window beforehand, letting the wind and snow dilute the information in the air."
The hem of Sherlock's long black coat swept across the ornate woven carpet like a crow's folding wings. He walked straight into the area cordoned off by the police, running his fingers over the bloodstained copper globe stand.
This spot was sheltered from the wind, and the smells were somewhat muddled. The air carried a mixture of expensive cigars, old leather, and a trace of fresh, metallic blood. In London's weather, a room without heating was no different from a refrigerator's fresh-food compartment.