The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 22

"Holmes, you can't just break into my office whenever you have a theory."

Lestrade was neither surprised nor angry to find Sherlock Holmes sitting at his desk with stacks of papers in front of him.  It didn't pay to be either.

"You mean to say I shouldn't, Lestrade.  Obviously, I most certainly can."

"Have you at least found anything?"  Lestrade removed his hat and coat, hung them on their hook by the door, and eyed Sherlock's unlikely "organizational method."  Not only had papers found their way into a multitude of stacks on the desk, but there were now nine haphazard piles on the floor as well.

"There are at least two possibilities for each extremity, though I have categorized them in order of likelihood due to the date they were last seen and the relative lack of decomposition of the feet.  With the hands I could not be sure they had not been preserved since I did not have the chance to examine them immediately."  His attitude was sharp, but Lestrade ignored it.  "With the feet, there was no lingering preservative odour; they smelled of the burlap, the Thames mud, and only faintly of rot."

"So they couldn't have been sitting around too long.  But they could have been taken months ago, held captive, and then murdered all at once."

"All at once!  Exactly!  The similar state of early decomposition shows that the feet were likely removed within hours of each other."

"Jesus, Holmes."  Lestrade didn't like this investigation one bit.  "You're not going to let me hold on to my cadavers-from-the-university idea for even the rest of the morning, are you?"

"Why would I let you labor under that misapprehension one moment longer?"

"Because it's much less grim, Holmes."

"Boring!"

"The post, sir."  One of the young lads hired for general errands around the building knocked once lightly and held out a stack of mail.

Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the letters from the boy, turning his back to Lestrade in an effort to hoard them, and flung them aside one by one as he examined their direction.

"Holmes, honestly."  Lestrade waited until Sherlock had finished flinging papers before bending to gather them back up.  He didn’t notice until he stood again that Sherlock was staring quite thoroughly at one carefully folded and sealed note.

"Boy, come here immediately!" Sherlock shouted into the hallway.  His tone was so forceful that three young men flew to stand before him.  Sherlock proffered the letter at the middle one.  "Where did you get this?"

"Downstairs, sir, at the desk.  Mr. Hampton always takes in the post and sorts it out."

"And you never set it down from Mr. Hampton's hands to mine?"

"No, sir, never," he gasped.

"No one else gave you anything extra to slip this in the pile."

"No, sir."

Sherlock barely waited to hear the answer before dashing down the nearest stairs and confronting the unfortunate Mr. Hampton.

"How did this come into the building, Mr. Hampton?" Sherlock demanded in a most hostile tone.

"I beg your pardon?"  Hampton stuttered.  He was not overly familiar with Sherlock Holmes.  He'd heard stories, of course.  Sherlock was simultaneously admired and reviled through the magistrate's court.  He hadn't had cause, as a mere clerk, to really work with the man himself.  All he really could do was stay out of Sherlock's way when he was on a mission to see Lestrade and allow some of the other officers to complain in his presence with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

But to be confronted with the man's wrath a mere two inches from his face was quite the shock.

Lestrade quickly intervened, tugged Sherlock back.

"This letter, Hampton.  How did it come into the building and how did it come to be sent to my office?"

Hampton ducked around to peer at the letter in Sherlock's hand, responding nervously even to Lestrade's even voice.

"Was in with the regular post," he said quickly.  "I sent it up to your office just like the last because everyone knows he only works with you."

Sherlock examined Hampton with an intense glare.

"No special messenger arrived with it, then?"

"No, sir.  I'm certain of it."  It may have been on the tip of Hampton's tongue to ask what the letter was, why its origin was so important, but he wouldn’t dare speak out of turn.

"Thank you, Hampton."  Lestrade nodded to the man after Sherlock had turned and started back up the staircase again.  "If any other messages for Holmes arrive, notify me immediately.  If they come special delivery, delay the courier."

"Yes, sir.  Of course, sir."