The Case of Elaina

The Great Game [8]

Kenny was primping in front of the mirror near the fireplace.

John put down his teacup as he heard the front door open and shut. "That'll be him,"

"What?" Kenny asked.

Raoul showed Sherlock into the living area.

Sherlock had a large bag carrying a long, narrow case over his shoulder. "Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?"

"Yes," Kenny replied.

"Very nice to meet you," Sherlock shook his hand.

"Yes, thank you,"

"So sorry to hear about..."

"Yes, yes, very kind,"

"Shall we, er..." John nodded.

Sherlock walked over to the sofa, put down the case, and started rummaging in his bag.

"You were right." John told Sherlock quietly, "The bacteria got into her another way,"

Sherlock smirked. "Oh yes?"

"Yes,"

Kenny turned away from the mirror and looked at the two. "Right. We all set?"

"Um, yes." John looked at Sherlock, who had taken a camera and flashgun from his bag. "Can you...?"

Kenny leaned one arm on the mantelpiece and posed as Sherlock walked closer and started taking photographs of him. "Not too close. I'm raw from crying,"

Sherlock looked down as a cat walked by his feet. "Oh, who's this?"

"Sekhmet." Kenny replied, "Named after the Egyptian goddess,"

"How nice. Was she Connie's?"

"Yes," Kenny bent down and picked up the cat. "Little present from yours truly,"

"Sherlock?" John called out, "Light reading?"

"Oh, um..." Sherlock lifted a second flashgun and held it towards Kenny, firing it straight into his face. "Two point eight,"

"Bloody hell." Kenny squinched, his eyes shut against the light. "What do you think you're playing at?!"

John immediately reached out and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws and sniffed.

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy," Kenny complained. "What's going on?"

"Actually," John revealed, "I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us,"

"What?"

"Sherlock." John grabbed the case from the sofa and headed for the door. "We've got deadlines,"

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny called after them.

***

John chuckled as the duo walked down the drive and headed towards the main road. "Yes! Ooh, yes!" he cheered.

"You think it was the cat." Sherlock said, "It wasn't the cat,"

"What?" John frowned. "No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant,"

"Lovely idea,"

"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have..."

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother,"

"He murdered his sister for her money,"

"Did he?" Sherlock challenged.

"Didn't he?"

"No." Sherlock admitted, "It was revenge,"

"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough; he fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so..."

"No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a spotless house." Sherlock pointed out, "You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it,"

John sniffed his jacket.

"Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here,"

***

Sherlock walked into Lestrade's office, handing the detective a file. "Raoul de santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. The second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince-it was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers?" he tsked. "Our bomber's repeated himself,"

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade wondered.

"Botox injection,"

"Botox?"

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases," Sherlock pointed to the file that Lestrade was holding. "He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose,"

"You sure about this?"

"I'm sure," Sherlock nodded.

"All right,"

"Hey, Sherlock." John called out, "How long?"

Sherlock turned towards his blogger "What?"

"How long have you known?"

"Well, this one was quite simple, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake,"

"No, but Sherlock...The hostage...the old woman. She's been there all this time,"

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!" Sherlock took out a laptop and opened his website. He typed in a message box:

Raould de Santos, the house boy, botox.

Sherlock sent the message, and the pink phone rang almost immediately after he clicked send. He picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Help me," The elderly woman said.

"Tell us where you are. Address,"

"He was so...His voice..."

"No, no, no, no." Sherlock argued, "Tell me nothing about him. Nothing,"

"He sounded so...soft,"

The phone went dead.

"Hello?" Sherlock called into the phone.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked worriedly.

"What's happened?"