Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [98]
‘Is that likely?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I mean, I’m not a relative or anything, and even if you claim I am, they’ll know as soon as I open my mouth that I’m not Scottish.’
‘There’s a fine trade goes on in these parts in letting citizens with spare change observe criminals in their cells,’ Dunham replied darkly. ‘The middle classes like to see the poor in police custody – it lets them sleep more securely in their beds. I’ll slip the sergeant a shilling and tell him that you’re the son of a visiting English lord. He’ll be happy to let you have ten minutes alone with her, no questions asked.’ He saw Sherlock’s shocked expression and snorted. ‘What, you think the police are any better than the criminals? The only difference is that they have uniforms and we don’t.’
He walked off into the police station and came out five minutes later.
‘There’s a constable on the desk who’ll take you to the cells,’ he said. ‘Be out in quarter of an hour, otherwise they’ll want another shilling.’
Dubiously, Sherlock entered the police station. It smelled musty, unpleasant. A uniformed constable was indeed waiting just inside the door. He had mutton chop whiskers and a bushy moustache. ‘This way,’ he said gruffly, without making eye contact. ‘Fifteen minutes to look at her and talk to her. No funny business, you hear?’
‘No funny business,’ Sherlock agreed, without knowing quite what he was agreeing to.
The cells were down a set of stone steps that had been worn into curves by generations of feet. They reminded Sherlock uncomfortably of the time he had visited Mycroft in a police station in London. He hoped that this visit would have as successful an outcome as that one.
The constable stopped in front of a door and unlocked it with a large key from a hoop on his belt. He pushed the door open and gestured Sherlock in. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he warned. ‘She spends most of her time crying, so I don’t think she’ll do anything stupid, like attack you, but you can’t tell with this sort. If she makes a move towards you, bang on the door. I’ll be just out here, waiting.’
Sherlock entered. The door closed behind him, and he heard the key turn in the lock. He was alone with a potential murderer.
The potential murderer was lying on a metal bed that seemed to be attached to the wall by hinges and chains. She looked up at him. She was about thirty-five years old, with hair like straw and blue eyes. There was something about the shape of her face that reminded Sherlock of her brother, although she was smaller and more delicate. Her face was dirty, and streaked with tears, and her clothes were crumpled, as if she had slept in them – which she probably had.
‘I don’t need a priest,’ she said. Her voice was weak, but firm. ‘I am not yet ready to make my peace with God.’
‘I’m not a priest,’ Sherlock said. ‘Your brother sent me.’
‘Gahan?’ She pushed herself upright. There was panic in her eyes. ‘He mustn’t get involved. He mustn’t.’ She glanced towards the door, as if the constable might be listening outside. ‘If the police think he has anything to do with this, they will chase him to the ends of the Earth and never rest until they catch him!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘He’s not involved. I asked him if I could come to see you. I want to find out what happened.’
‘What happened?’ She looked away, eyes filling up with tears. ‘Sir Benedict is dead, and the police think I did it, sir. That’s what happened.’
‘And did you?’
She looked back at him, shocked. ‘I couldn’t kill Sir Benedict! I’d worked for him for twenty years. Sir, he was like a father to me!’
Sherlock nodded. ‘All right – then why do the police think that you killed him?’
She put her head in her hands. ‘Because I am his cook. Or at least, I was his cook. I prepared all of his food. And he was poisoned, or at least that’s what they say. So if he was poisoned, then I must have done it. It stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
‘But other people must have touched his food, or carried it, or been able to access it, surely?’
She shook her head. ‘Sir