The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 29

A whooshing sound was followed by a high-pitched scream. The young man turned the key in the lock of Standish's door, taking a moment to admire his handiwork before fleeing through the window. It took several minutes for men to break down the Ambassador's door, by which time it was too late. His body had been consumed by the fire, which now threatened to consume the entire room. It was a ghastly sight, the burnt remains of Standish slumped over his desk, a look on his face that would give those who saw it nightmares for years to come.

Inspector Lestrade placed a hand over his nose as he entered the room, wishing he didn't have to see what he was seeing. It was the worst side of the job, not that there were any pleasant sides to what he did. The acrid smell of charred flesh filled his nostrils, coughing a few times in a bid to clear the taste which accompanied it. A pool of water rested on Standish's desk where one of his assistants had attempted to extinguish the fire. Around the body, in a perfect semi-circle were the untouched papers the Ambassador had been working on before being murdered in the most horrendous way.

It was a curious sight to see. Lestrade was momentarily mesmerised by the effect of the perfectly preserved papers set against the blackened body. "Get Sherlock," he said, eventually. "I need him on this one."

Police officers once more stood outside Park Street demanding Sherlock accompany them to the American Embassy. He agreed to go as long as he could bring Lady Haught, the pair setting off in Lestrade's carriage without a clue as to why they were being summoned again. On arriving Lestrade was outside the building puffing furiously on a cigarette, his hand shaking. "She can't come in," was all he said.

"I need her," Sherlock replied, attempting to push past the inspector.

Lestrade grabbed his sleeve, shaking his head. "I've seen a few things in my time, but..."

"Standish?"

Lestrade nodded. "It's not for her eyes."

"I am perfectly capable of viewing whatever Holmes is allowed to see," she replied.

"I'm doing this for your own protection. It ain't pretty."

"I can handle it."

Lestrade shrugged. "Alright. But, I warned you."

As they entered the room Nicole saw what the inspector had not wanted her to see, her stomach heaving as the stench hit her. She turned on her heels, racing for the entrance where she relieved herself of her breakfast. Sherlock was deep in thought when she returned, Nicole glad she had nothing more to bring up. "Sorry," she said, as she stood beside him.

"I must take you to more autopsies," he replied. "And, exhumations. Rotting flesh has a smell unlike no other."

The colour in Nicole's face vanished, her legs wobbling, Lestrade saving her with a chair. "You wanted to see."

"I'm fine."

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade said, moving towards Sherlock. "Fucking odd."

"Not really. The intensity of the fire suggests the use of chemicals. Notice the clear pattern of burn marks on the desk, the containment of the flames."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Whatever caused the fire was on, or near Standish's body. Most likely his clothes. It merely took something to ignite it. A match perhaps."

"He didn't smoke," Lestrade offered. "Or drink."

"He had a visitor," Sherlock continued, retrieving the crumpled letter from the floor. "Ah, Blackwood."