The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 17

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening at the morgue, tirelessly cataloguing the hands; he'd gotten enough sleep in the dull countryside to last him a week.  There was so much information to be gathered by just a person's hand!  Beyond their simple measurements, there were: imperfections and peculiarities; calluses; nail-length and neatness.  He plucked tiny hairs from fingers and the backs of the hands to examine the colour and texture of each.  He made copious notes complete with detailed sketches, labeling each mark and including the length and direction of the lines in each palm.  He concluded each bundle of notes with the likeliness of age and occupation for each hand. 

His conclusions: five victims, as none of the hands were a matched pair; three male, two female; they had all labored for a living, though it would have been quite startling if they had not.  A missing noble or person of wealth would have been all the more noticeable than the droves of lower and working class.  He prepared a list of careers: chef, marine, seamstress, prostitute and dock worker, though he felt a wave of irritation for Anderson.  The alcohol may have preserved the flesh, but vital evidence washed away.  He could not smell them, for instance, for the alcohol was pungent and cleansing.  He could not even properly place residue at the bottom of the jars to a profile, for several hands had been shoved into one jar.

Incompetents.  It was no wonder guilty men walked free and the innocent were hanged. 

When the sun finally rose again over the city, Sherlock examined each hand again by daylight in case the lamplight had obscured some color or detail.

Anderson opened the door in the morning for the overnight deliveries piled on the coroner's wagon pulled up outside.  Sherlock's continued presence in his morgue perturbed him, though, of course, he had locked him in when he left the night before.  Sherlock hadn't noticed, but if he had, the bolt plate on the heavy door would have posed little trouble to the reputed lock-pick.

"I don't suppose you'll vacate so I can get some work done in peace today?"

Sherlock stood and waved at the open jars and clutter of hands.

"Do find separate jars for each this time, Anderson."

With that, he left for Bow Street to inquire about the results of Lestrade's investigation so far.

"All of the university labs have been accounted for; however, while nothing was reported missing, it isn't like they keep the best records.  Some anatomy labs don't want to know where the cadavers come from and, once used, don't particularly make sure they've been given a proper burial."

"All the more reason to check into missing persons, Lestrade."

Lestrade sighed.

"What do you think about that cryptic letter, eh?  Any idea who sent it?"

"Well, I can narrow it down from several million speakers of English – and in conjunction with literacy rates and the mention of the hands, I can narrow it down even more.  However, more investigation into the identity of the sender is required."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"This is hardly the business of Bow Street, Lestrade.  There is no crime in sending a letter.  You hardly believe in a crime where a bagful of hands is discovered in an alley by a merchant man.  Thus I will continue the investigation into the letter myself."

"Holmes…"

"I will not hear it, Lestrade.  It was addressed to me, after all."

"And why is that, do you think?" Lestrade countered irritably.

But Sherlock didn't hear him, much as he said he wouldn't.

"How long will it take to sort through the reports for missing persons fitting these descriptions?"  Sherlock handed over a single sheet with only the most relevant facts written in the most looping scrawl.  He had tucked the rest of his notes quite awkwardly into the pocket of his greatcoat where they swelled and bunched up and ruined the line.

"Descriptions?  None of our reports will have descriptions of hands."

"No, Lestrade," Sherlock said in the most exasperated voice, as if explaining things to Lestrade were the most tiresome duty he'd ever been assigned.  "But they will have occupation, approximate weight, hair color, and burns, scars, notable defects.  I have listed what I can deduce about those things, and none of the hands have notable defects, so you can remove files that do have them.  You need only go back a month or two."

"A month or two?  For all the city?  That will take days, Sherlock, weeks even."

"And you have more important things to do?"  Sherlock's eyes glittered quite dangerously when he thought he might not get his way.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, that I only tolerate your demands because you have a keen nose for the queer and bizarre.  You sniff out the truth like a hound.  But I warn you not to push me too far.  I don't care that your brother does have the ear of the Regent.  The Regent is far too above to notice an ant like me."

"Really, Lestrade.  Hounds and ants and my nose for goodness sake?  You are awfully imaginative for a common thief-taker."