The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

The Question Underneath

John, kneeling next to the body (female: between sixty-two and sixty-three). Leg a problem again; he tucks it beneath him, as if he doesn’t trust it. (My fault.) Watch: careful hands on the body. Shifts (left) arm, tilts head. Pulls down on cheeks to see eyes. Gentle. Deliberate. Squared fingernails hidden under latex. Concentration on his face. Compassion. Compassion for this dead woman on the grass on a foggy afternoon. (Clearly posed.) Arms thrown above her head, legs at an odd angle. Calm face belies her frantic position. (A staged scene created by a person who has only ever seen a heart attack on telly.) Smells strongly of shampoo (artificial strawberry; dreadful) and soap (Sunlight). Hair, face, hands scrubbed overmuch. Some abrasion evident. Faint trace of oil (canola) remains in the hair, under fingernails. (Why?)

“Heart attack.” Anderson. (Idiot.)

“No, I don’t think so.” John doesn’t look up.

Quite right. Not a heart attack. Face, arms hair washed excessively after death: why? To hide the evidence of the oil. Drowned in oil? No. (John will confirm.)

“No?” Anderson: defiant. Arms crossed. Hates having a doctor at a crime scene; John always knows more than he does. Makes him feel inadequate. (He is.)

John catches my eye for a moment. Gives Anderson a withering look. Heart swells. (Oh I love you, John.)

“Asphyxiated.”

“What, drowned in grass and sand?” He laughs. (Why is that funny?)

“No.” John strokes her cheek. “Petechial hemorrhages, here,” he points at her chin, “here”, across the bridge of her nose, “and here.” He drags down against her face and opens her eyes. Burst of red, webs of exploded capillaries. Looks up. “I guarantee you’ll find her heart enlarged. Asphyxiation.” Yes, but how? Why? Missing pieces.

“No ligature marks, no bruising, hyoid intact.” Anderson is still fighting his case. Dull. Distracting. “Heart attack could have the same effect.”

“No.” John shakes his head. “She wasn’t strangled, I grant you. But she failed to get sufficient oxygen for too long a period nonetheless.” He looks down at the body. Compassionate eyes. “I don’t think she even realized it was happening. She didn’t struggle at all.” He pats her shoulder, as if she were still alive. Comfort.

Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even realize? Oh. Of course. John. I love you.

Phone. Search. Canola.

Lottery winner. Husband.

Of course. Of course.

Murder. Over money. (So pedestrian.) Was she about to leave him? In the middle of a divorce? Maybe. Paperwork will tell. Motive clear, in any case.

Perfect. Missing pieces of the puzzle, delivered in situ. From his brain to my ear. How did I ever manage without him? (How would I ever manage without him?)

Turn to Lestrade, standing with his arms across his chest, forehead creased.

“George Simon,” show him the news story on my phone, a man beaming at a press conference, “Did not buy that winning EuroMillions lottery ticket.” (£56 million.)

Lestrade’s bewildered face. (I love this part.) “Go on, then.”

Look over at John. Anticipation. Slight smile. (Affection.)

“This,” point to the body, “Is Mrs. Simon. Her husband will identify her, will claim she’s been missing for days. He’ll be lying, though. He killed her last night. Mrs. Simon purchased that lottery ticket yesterday.”

Kneel down beside John: thigh brushes against his hip. Shiver slightly. John. (Don’t get distracted. Not yet.) Reach in: grab receipt. Lottery ticket receipt. Crumpled. (Didn’t make the connection until John. Burst of warmth in my chest.) Uncrumple it. Hand it to Lestrade. He looks at it, waits. Listens.