I Dream of Disney (Volume II)

The Mystery of the Oval Window [Professor Ratigan x Reader] Part III

Part III - In Which It Is Revealed That Scotland Yard Will Be Of No Help

The house had been described by the locals as "quaint", "nondescript" and, as they suggested, "if the walls could talk, they would be quite taciturn as it seemed to be the place where nothing happened". But all that had changed in but a few weeks.

(Y/n) stood in the garden by herself. They had arrived by hansom fifteen minutes hence, the house quiet and undisturbed by but a few of the mind-boggled policemen as they discussed strategies and possible motive, but the detective had longed for silence. The day had been wearying and she felt almost drained by her constant exposure to slack-jawed, bug-eyed people who demanded she reveal her methods, blinking at her explanation absently and then dismissing it all as hogwash when they couldn't understand it.

There was a pain in her wrists that made her move stiffly, pulling a soft grimace on her lips as she paced up the ruined flagstones of the property, making her path the length of the garden from the front porch to the mangled cluster of lawn ornaments and deckchairs. The detective did not utter more than breath as she paced, feeling the sinking sensation in her stomach as moss squished underfoot. Thoughts were lingering in her brain - no, not thoughts, she corrected herself - but complaints. She didn't wish to be in a dingy, ramshackle garden at this ungodly hour. She craved for the warmth of the American summer days, that she had been promised back in Washington, and the company of familiar surroundings. . .

"Are you ready to begin, detective?"

Dawson stood behind her, sheltered in the sparse shade of a crookedly-grown sycamore tree, one of the only full-grown trees on the property. The detective replied with but a short nod of her head as she reached for the bag in the doctor's hands. The stone table in the corner of the garden wobbled as she dumped it on the surface, undoing the clasps with tiny, precise motions.

"It looks like a magician's bag," Dawson said cheerily, "Are you about to perform a magic trick?"

"Of sorts," (Y/n) muttered as she took off her coat.

Unceremoniously dumping the fabric on the wooden lawn chair, the detective set to work as she unpacked what she would need. From the leather bag, she produced manifold plastic evidence bags, a small circular plate of glass that she assured him was a magnifying glass, a tweaser and a few wickedly-sharp tools that she carried in a sash tied around her waist. Dawson accepted the latex gloves that she offered him and tried not to make high, squeaky noises when the rubber snapped against his fingers too hard. The detective straightened as she reached for the doorknob.

"Come along, Doctor," (Y/n) invited him, "The show's just about to begin."

Three sash windows brought in ample light to illuminate the parlour, though it was of the detective's opinion that some thick curtains were in need to buffer the artificial cheer that the decor seemed to bring. The vinyl walls were cerulean blue, dotted with white orchids and springs of a fetching purple flower that she didn't know the name of. She touched the petals with a latex-covered finger.

"It's called a dianthus," A voice provided.

The Scotland Yard detective was average height, just tall enough that the tips of his snowy ears touched the ceiling. In a tweed suit the colour of sangria, his dress was formal but not vocational. She was about to ask him to introduce himself and the reason why he had intruded in the crime scene - interrupting her train of thought - when Dawson cried out.

"Anderson!" Dawson acknowledged, "I didn't know you would be here."

The detective, revealed as C. J. Anderson, smiled wryly, "Despite Scotland Yard's insistence that this detective," He said the word pointedly, "will fail in her attempt to solve this case, we feel that it would be fair to offer you the facts."