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13th_sherlockby Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR
Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”.
PART 71 – THE CURIOUS END OF JULIA MORSTAN
“Now that the touching reunion is out of the way,” Sherlock said with his usual lack of discretion, “perhaps you can tell us how you ended up as the shop girl of a charlatan who uses drugs to make his followers dependent.”
“Sherlock!” John and Mycroft hissed in unison, but Mary silenced them with a raised hand.
“No, he’s right. You need to know the truth; although, men of influence as you appear to be, I assume you’ve already checked my stepfather’s background.”
“We have,” Mycroft admitted. “And yours as well. I’m sorry, Ms Morstan, but it was necessary… or do you prefer Ms Marsti?”
Mary shook her head. “No. Mira Marsti is but a creation of my stepfather; a fantasy, a puppet, playing its part to cover what is truly going on in his house.”
“If he really has everything and everyone under such tight control, I wonder how you managed to break out long enough to marry John in the first place,” Sherlock said,
“It was different while my mother was still alive,” Mary explained. “She did not exactly support my decision to live outside Hindu tradition, but she loved me enough to let me make my own choices.”
“She still didn’t like me, though,” John commented dryly.
“No,” Mary agreed. “If she could have had her way, I’d have married Cousin Sendhil and helped him run the Babur, so that the money would remain in the family and tradition would be respected.”
Mycroft’s eyebrow rose a millimetre in surprise. The Babur was a stylish Indian restaurant in south-eastern London, the popularity of which had been steadily increasing in the recent years, so that one had to book a table at least a month in advance. Marrying the manager would have been an extremely good match; and not only financially. He had visited the Babur once or twice himself and knew that said manager, Sendhil Kumar Jhanji, looked like every woman’s wet dream: tall, slim and beautiful like a bronze statue.
And Mary had chosen John Watson instead? Women never ceased to surprise him.
“In any case,” Mary continued, “when our mother died – she was killed six years ago in a railway accident near Crewe – my stepfather persuaded me to get a divorce and come and live with him and with my sister.”
“What kind of persuasion are we talking about?” John asked, his eyes dark with barely controlled rage.
“He sold our house without asking me,” Mary replied with a sigh. “And he kept drilling me how lonely Julia was without me and how her depression might lead to a tragedy if she was left alone.”
“I can’t remember Julia being depressive,” John said.
“She wasn’t; not until Mother’s death,” Mary replied. “But after that, she became strangely moody and more and more obsessed with our stepfather’s obscure teachings. I’m quite sure, in hindsight, that he was feeding her drugs because she only seemed herself when we visited Aunt Honoria.”
“That terrible old hag is still alive?” John asked in surprise; then, for the Holmes brothers, he added. “Miss Honoria Westphal was the maiden aunt of Mary’s late father. She used to live near Harrow. Mary dragged me there once or twice, hoping that we might get some support from her, but she didn’t seem to like me, either.”
“She didn’t like men in general,” Mary smiled sadly. “Don’t take it personally. But no, she’s not alive anymore. She died roughly two years ago; shortly before Julia did.”
“What the hell happened to Julia?” John asked, frowning. “She was as healthy as an ox, despite the ridiculous vegetarian diet she kept; how could she just have died without forewarning?”
“That’s a question that has been torturing me for the last two years,” Mary admitted. “She appeared to be getting better, so that we were allowed to spend Christmas at Aunt Honoria’s. There she met a certain Navy officer, the son of one of Auntie’s old friends. They were instantly attracted to each other, and for the first time in her life, Julia acted spontaneously and with great courage. By the end of the holidays, she became engaged to her Lieutenant Commander and called our stepfather to tell him that she won’t be returning to his house. Aunt Honoria offered her to stay with her, and Julia gladly accepted.”
“I can imagine that Dr Roylott wasn’t happy about this turn of events,” Sherlock commented. “I saw the will of your mother; the marriage of either of you would have caused him severe financial losses.”
“Still, he couldn’t raise any objections, since both Julia and I were of age and could legally do as we pleased,” Mary said. “So he pretended to be happy for her; merely concerned about the swiftness of this engagement. Then, within a fortnight of the day which had been chosen for the wedding, Aunt Honoria suddenly died of a heart failure.”
“How… convenient,” John muttered.
“It was a bit too convenient,” Mary agreed, “but she was an old woman – nearly nineteen, in fact – and the autopsy showed that she’d died of natural causes. The wedding had to be postponed, of course, and Julia moved back to our stepfather’s house.”
“Why?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “Couldn’t she have stayed in the old lady’s house?”
“She could have; more so as Aunt Honoria had willed the house to the two of us,” Mary replied. “But I could not move in with her – couldn’t leave the shop untended to – and she was afraid to stay there alone. She told me that in the night of Aunt Honoria’s death she’d been awakened by a low, clear whistle. Then there was a clanging sound, apparently, as if a heavy object made of solid metal had fallen. She ran into Aunt Honoria’s bedroom and found our dear old aunt convulsing in terrible pain, shrieking something about a speckled band.”
“A speckled band?” Sherlock replied, honestly baffled. “Curious. What that might mean, I wonder.”
“I don’t know, Mr Holmes,” Mary answered with a weary sigh. “Julia called an ambulance, of course, but by the time it arrived, our poor aunt had lost consciousness. The doctors tried to revive her but to no effect; she died some twenty minutes later, without recovering her consciousness.”
The men in the room exchanged meaningful looks with Martha.
“Sounds like poison,” John finally commented.
“But wouldn’t the traces of poison show up at the autopsy?” Martha asked.
John shook his head. “Some natural poisons, like those of certain snakes and plants, can either be absorbed by the body completely, or they are successfully camouflaged by the seemingly natural symptoms they cause. And almost ninety year old lady had a bad dream, took a terrible fright and died of a heart failure – who would ever suspect foul play?”
“Julia did,” Mary said quietly. “She was sure that our stepfather had been in that house in the night Aunt Honoria died.”
“Had she seen him?” Mycroft asked.
Mary shook her head. “No. But she recognised the strong Indian cigars he sometimes smokes. The scent has long impregnated all his clothes; I can even smell him in the midst of my spices whenever he enters the shop.”
Sherlock nodded. “I remember that scent; frankly, it is quite offensive. Still, I’d like to examine the ash. I can’t remember having it in my collection.”
“Sherlock, focus!” John chided him; then he turned back to Mary. “Why did Julia return to Roylott’s house again?”
“Because she was deadly afraid of staying there alone,” Mary replied. “She felt safer with me, even in his house; not that it did her any good. Two weeks later she was dead, too.”
“Dead by what?” Mycroft asked.
“Heart failure,” Mary answered with a grim smile. “Sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? She wasn’t even thirty and, as John said, healthy like an ox. The police weren’t happy with the verdict, but there was simply nothing else to find.”
“Have you spoken with sour sister before her death,” Mycroft continued his investigation.
Mary nodded. “Yes. Back then, I weren’t sleeping above the shop yet, and our bedrooms were side by side. I woke up hearing something – or someone – taking a heavy fall (John could tell you that I’m a light sleeper), and hurried over to Julia. She was lying on the floor, writhing in pain. Before she would lose consciousness, she stared at me in horror and whispered. The band, Mira! The speckled band! I saw it!”
“She called you Mira?”
“Yes; our stepfather demanded that we use our Indian names, and it was easier to just let him have his way. We needed to pick our battles carefully. Anyway, I ran to get help then, but it was already too late for Julia.”
“Did you tell your stepfather what she’d said?”
“Of course not, I’m not an idiot!” Mary rolled her eyes. “If he knew that I’d learned about the speckled band, whatever it might be, I wouldn’t be sitting here, chatting with you. He’d have long killed me, too.”
John wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, love. He can’t get you here, and anyway, his killing days will soon be over, won’t they, Mycroft?”
There was a clear warning in his voice while saying that.
“Oh, yes,” the elder Holmes drawled. “Before we could arrest him, though, we need to get hold on whatever poisons and drugs he has to his disposal. In the wrong hands they could cause great harm and, as we know, not even the police are above suspicion.”
“And yours are the right hands, I suppose?” John asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Unfortunately, being a Holmes made one immune against sarcasm.
“Naturally,” Mycroft replied simply.
“And how exactly are you planning to find the stuff?” Sherlock asked with an astonishing mix of utter dismay and eager curiosity.
Mycroft shrugged. “Anthea is working on it; but if we want to find hard proof against Dr Roylott, we need to do more than just find the drugs. We need to catch him red-handed.”
“In that case,” Sherlock said, “a nice little trap would be rather handy, don’t you think? We should use the fact that Anthea currently looks like Ms Morstan to our advantage.”
~TBC~
(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-01 12:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-06-01 07:30 pm (UTC)