Death Becomes Them

Chapter 3: All Wrapped Up in a Neat, Little Bow

Molly was surprised to find she was far more relieved than she'd thought she would be. Everything was out in the open now. Sherlock knew, and everything had gone alright.

Well, of course everything went alright, she chided herself, feeling a bit silly for the thought. Why on earth wouldn't it?

Molly was sufficiently distracted from this train of thought when she caught sight of their expected visitor. Sherlock had swung open the door to reveal a tall man, slightly hunched, with a walking stick and lean, pale face. Molly didn't think she had to have medical training to see that the poor man wasn't well – the effort of walking up to their room had seemed to tire him, and he was leaning heavily against his cane.

"Ah, Mr. Turner. We were hoping you'd put in an appearance this evening. Come in."

Mr. Turner nodded in greeting, and, balancing each step with great care, moved slowly and painfully into the room, limping visibly on his right leg.

"Please," Molly said, standing up from her chair, which was closer to him than any other.

"Thank you," said Mr. Turner humbly, lowering himself gingerly into it. Sherlock gestured for Molly to take his old seat, while he remained standing himself.

Having sat down, John Turner leaned into its back, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to gather a bit more strength, before finally beginning to speak.

"I suppose you already know everything, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"It was rather rudimentary, as far as cases go, Mr. Turner. The clues, as it turned out, were all very suggestive."

"Yes, I'm afraid – I'm afraid I'm not cut out for this sort of thing – this murder business. Rather clumsy, how I went about it. I see that now."

Molly glanced sharply to Sherlock, who had crossed the room to look out the window.

"Bad luck, your daughter contacting me," said Sherlock, locking his arms behind his back. "If it was the local constabulary investigating, you would have very likely gotten away with it."

Mr. Turner closed his eyes for another moment, as if reasoning something in his head, and then opened them once more, revealing their pale, watery blue. "I don't blame Alice, of course. It's understandable, why she did it. She couldn't have known what I'd done – she cares for James, cares for him very much..."

Sherlock wheeled around to face Mr. Turner again. "Loves him," he corrected, to Molly's surprise. She'd been watching the exchange raptly so far, feeling almost as if a private play were being put on for her benefit – perfectly rehearsed and choreographed – both actors knowing the precise beats to hit, and when to hit them.

Mr. Turner sighed heavily at this, resting his head upon the hand that wasn't clutching his cane. "Nothing escapes you, does it, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He had come to stand in front of Mr. Turner and was now staring down at him intently.

"You'll want to know how I did it, then?" Mr. Turner said.

"Not at all. I already know how you did it," Sherlock said. He turned away, and began to circle the small width of the room, his words firing out rapidly. "Let me relay it to you, and you can see if I've gotten everything right. You sent a message to Charles McCarthy telling him to meet you at a particular time this morning at Boscombe pond. You came out there ahead of time, leaving your cane at home – quite a trek for a man in your state, but then, you were determined. You then waited for him to arrive behind a tree, smoking your preferred brand of cigarettes – Sterling, if I was correct in my examination."