Deadly Grapefruit

part two

The address Lestrade sent Sherlock brings them to the wealthier part of London, where the façade of every house is adorned in large Georgian windows and each building has at least three floors.

"Very nice," John mutters as they exit their cab. "Very nice indeed."

"Hurry up, John," Sherlock complains, already past the police security tape and ready to ascend the stairs from the pavement up to the house's ground floor.

"Coming," John calls, jogging over to the taller man. "Ready?"

Sherlock made a hum of assent and they climbed the stairs.

Following Lestrade as he silently led them through the large house, Sherlock and John are brought to a dining room filled by a long thin table that could easily fit about twenty people. Only one place setting was laid: the head of the table at the furthest end of the room, where a man with greying hair sat hunched over.

The walls are covered in dark wooden panelling, the shape of the rectangles reminiscent of a chocolate bar. A picture rail runs twenty inches from the high ceiling, marking the top of the dark panels and bordering the light cream of the ceiling. Between the three large Georgian-style windows, paintings hang from the picture rail, filling the dark spaces with colour.

If John didn't know this was a crime scene and the man didn't look so blue in the face, he might have thought the man had simply fallen asleep at the table. He wore a starched white shirt, pressed to perfection – though creases would no doubt set in thanks to the man's unnatural position. His right arm stretched out beside his plate, his head resting on his bicep, and the back of his cufflink pokes out from under his dressing gown. He was clearly an old-fashioned man as, upon closer inspection, John notices the tell-tale quilted cuffs and collar of a velvet smoking jacket. His other hand, resting on the table beside his plate, has a signet ring on his pinkie finger.

Without anything being said, Sherlock was already all over the body, checking his hands, his face, his pockets, and any exposed skin. The man's skin was soft and pliable, as you'd expect of someone Sherlock would hazard to guess was in his late fifties.

"His name's Michael Rudkin, died aged 58. M.E. says heart attack," Lestrade informs, glancing at his notes.

"Heart attack?" John wonders aloud. "But you said this was an unusual case? How could it be unusual when it's not in the least bit surprising that a man in his late fifties had a heart attack?"

"The man had been taking medication to lower his blood pressure for months," Lestrade answers. "His heart was healthy, so this is surprising."

"Interesting," Sherlock mutters, absorbing as much information as he can. "Who found him?"

"The maid did," the Detective Inspector explains. "She had come in to see if he was done with his breakfast, found him like he is now."

"What's this?" Sherlock points to a small paper cup beside an empty drinking glass. It had been filled to an inch from the brim, the content leaving a soft pink residue on the sides of the glass.

"Uhh, I don't know."

"Then stop being useless and find me someone who does," Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade gives John a look and leaves the room, doing as Sherlock demanded. John walks over and stands on the other side of the corpse to Sherlock, watching the detective quietly.

Sherlock answers his unasked question. "There's no sign of any struggle or disturbance to the room, so the heart attack was sudden and unexpected," he explains. "His Eggs Benedict is half eaten, his mouth empty, and he slumped to the side so he can't possibly have asphyxiated on his food." Sherlock turns to the window behind him. "He's right beside the window and despite the stairs up to this floor, the sky is overcast and the lights in the room are on, putting him in clear view from the pavement. The heart attack came on fast and severely, without giving him time to signal to any passer-by's that he needed help."

"Or call out to a staff member," John adds.

"Yes, speaking of," Sherlock says, just as Lestrade re-enters the room with a woman in a staff uniform. Her face was blotchy and her eyes red from crying. "Were you the one who found him?"

"Yes, sir," the woman nods, solemnly, "I came in an hour after I served him his food. He's normally done in half an hour and no one had seen him leave the room, so I went to check on him." She stops to take a shuddering breath, tears welling in her eyes.

"It's okay, take your time," John soothes.

"But do it quickly," Sherlock urges, leaning over the table. John gives him a look, he ignores it.

"I called his name a few times and when he didn't move and I saw he wasn't breathing I went over to him and tried to take his pulse." She stops again to sob into her hands, tears streaming down her face and her nose running. "When I couldn't feel a pulse, I called to the butler and he called the police."

"I see. And what was in this little paper cup?" Sherlock asks, pointing to the item in question.

"That's what we put Mr Rudkin's medication in. He takes it every day before his breakfast.

Sherlock straightens up and steeples his fingers, resting the tip of his forefingers against his chin. "Interesting," he mutters.

Lestrade ushers the maid out. "Got anything, Sherlock?" he asks.

"Nothing I can say without first doing some experiments." Sherlock strides out of the room before calling back to the Detective Inspector. "Get me a sample of Mr Rudkin's medication and a list of all the staff he employed. I want to know everyone who could have come into contact with his breakfast." He pauses in his exit, "Oh, and send me the contents of his stomach once Molly's done her autopsy. Have you got that?"

"Medication, staff list, stomach contents, gotcha," Lestrade calls back.