A Study in Reason

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014

I woke up the next morning to a text from Sherlock.

Figured it out. Come to Baker Street.

SH

When I arrived, Sherlock and John were in the kitchen, as expected. John was making tea and Sherlock was sitting, eyes closed, deep in thought.

'Ah, Clara, do sit down,' he said, eyes still closed, when I walked in. Feeling bewildered, I did as instructed and waited. John handed me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully.

'You told me you'd figured something out?' I asked after a minute of silence. Sherlock snapped out if his reverie and opened his eyes.

'Yes, well. As we saw yesterday, the silver bullets just wouldn't work because the silver wasn't hard enough to withstand the force created by the air resistance. But the bullets found in the victims were definitely silver and weren't looked into very thoroughly. So, how did they get the silver bullets to work well enough to kill three people?' I shook my head, indicating I didn't know. Sherlock rose and went to the fridge, returning with a tray of silver bullets.

'And these ones work?' I asked.

'He woke me up with them this morning,' John confirmed.

'Once I figured out how it was done, it became clear the size of the bullets didn't matter. These are not silver bullets,' Sherlock informed us.

'Then what are they?' I asked.

'These are normal bullets with a silver coating.'

'Oh, of course,' I said as realisation dawned on my still sleep addled brain. 'That actually makes sense.' Then another question popped into my head. 'So why coat them in silver in the first place? I mean, why bother?'

Sherlock smiled. 'Now we're asking the right questions,' he said. 'To answer that particular question, we must look at the motive, which is almost impossible without knowing the suspects.'

'So that's what we're going to do today?' I asked. 'Interview people who knew the victims or who may have heard or seen anything.'

'Exactly.'

*

Half an hour later, with a list in my hand, the three of us stepped out of a taxi onto the pavement in front of a unsuspecting London flat.

'So who are we talking to first?' John asked.

'Lynn Bardsley. Alec Bardsley's wife,' I answered.

'Which one was Alec Bardsley?' John asked.

'He was one of the ones who were definitely murdered,' I answered. I walked in front of the two boys and knocked on the door. After a few seconds it was opened by a young teenage girl. 'Hello,' I said. 'Is Lynn here?'

'Mum!' The girl yelled over her shoulder. A woman in her early forties appeared behind her.

'Thank you, Josie,' she said kindly. 'I'll take it from here.' The girl left. 'And who are you?' she asked.

'Hi, I'm Clara Lane. I'm a journalist working on a story on high profile crimes of last decade. We were wondering if you'd be interested in an interview-' the door was about to be slammed in my face but I stuck my foot in the gap. 'Wait! We're here because we think the police got it wrong!' The door was opening again.

'What would you know about my husband's death?' Lynn asked slowly.

'I've been reviewing the police reports, photos and other documents regarding your husband's case and there are a number of things that don't add up.' I could hear Sherlock shifting impatiently behind me but I ignored him.