The Musical Museum at Kew Bridge wasn't an enormously imposing building. It didn't have too many floors, nor was it gaudy in its design. It stood on High Street, not quite off the beaten path in Brentford, at its nondescript design refused to make it stand out if you didn't know to look for it. It was a modest sort of size for a museum that held the history of the finest self playing instruments in the world. It wasn't precisely a huge tourist spot, but for any music lover, it was a genuine place of interest.
As Sherlock walked through the halls, rife with musical history and instruments from the time before the advent of recording devices, he was filled with a very sharp sense of fascination. There was very little sentimentality within him, but music definitely held a decent sized chunk. He had grown up surrounded by music — one of the only entertainment medias that his mother vivaciously approved of — and he felt almost bitter, as if this place was now profaned by the body he was summoned to investigate. It was an odd sensation for him.
He had left Kairi in her home, albeit a little sullenly, to come to the newest scene that Lestrade had assured him belonged to The Sandman. He had rung up John, it being a few hours after his dance lesson and asked for his assistance, knowing better than to try to drag a post-coitus satiated Kairi from her dwelling after she had showered and got comfortable. So the infamous pair walked through the silent halls, closed for the past few months due to renovations required on a building that was soon to be fifty years old.
Everything had that stale sort of smell. Due to its fiftieth anniversary, no life had been passing through the halls for a few weeks now as they handled the restyling of the old museum. The grand re-opening would hopefully not be forestalled because of a desiccating corpse. At least that seemed to be the attitude of the now nervous owner who was talking with some police officers.
As they approached the scene, the smell of putrid flesh struck both John and Sherlock so abruptly it caused them to falter. For a moment, Sherlock was happy that he did not bring Kairi to this particular scene. As hardy as she pretended to be, the smell wafting through the enclosed space would be too much for her rather delicate sensibilities. He also had no desire to push the visage and the olfactory knowledge of a decomposing murder victim into her already jaded mind. The stench of a corpse was offensive enough, but this, this was the foul sort of fetor that crept into your bones and stayed there for a few days. This was not the smell of a fresh corpse.
This caused Sherlock some pause in his thoughts.
Lestrade brought them into the scene where the smell of decomposition was painfully odious, so much so that even John's skin went a little pale. Sherlock charged into the room as he was wont to do and he actually stopped short.
The body of a woman was lying in the center of the room, pegged down with railroad spikes and sliced up the center just like all of the previous victims. The organs were arranged in The Sandman's usual patterns, artfully and precise, though they had all started to wither from their time spent outside their intended vessel.
Above the victim was the display for the Mighty Wurlitzer, a fully restored theater organ attached to a grand piano. One of few still fully functional. It was a grand sort of vision, the body lying beneath the elegance of one of the most impressive hand crafted musical instruments, as if to pay homage to the delicacy and intricacy of its majesty.
However, in this case there was one oddity, despite the exact replication of The Sandman's crime scenes, the body was already a few days into decomposition. The longest they had ever found a corpse from The Sandman had been close to ten hours.
This was new.
Something was changing.
"How long?" Sherlock snapped at Lestrade, whose eyes went wide at the ferocity of Sherlock's tone and he was actually shocked into a moment of silence.
