How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 11: A Puzzle to Solve

Sherlock knelt on the cold ground, examining the even colder body of a young woman with his magnifying glass.

She was pretty, objectively speaking, and a mass of contradictions.

Lestrade, John, even Sherlock had assumed from first glance that she was one of the many homeless in the city. When he got to the scene though, Sherlock had done a double take. She was dressed in typical attire for a homeless person and she was messy but her nails were manicured and her skin was soft, the type of soft that came from expensive skin treatments. Her hair had been colored, and recently, as there were hardly any of the roots showing. There were faint traces of makeup too.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Not homeless. Pretending to be. Why? What was she hiding from?

He glanced down at her face again, his brow furrowed. She was familiar but he couldn't think why.

John ambled over and looked down at her too.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor knelt on the other side of the woman and checked her out. The body was in near pristine condition as far as a visual examination went, with the exception of some stiffness in the neck.

"Hard to say without a more thorough examination." He peered at the woman's face for a minute. "Huh, that's funny."

Sherlock glanced up at John before returning his attention to the body. "I seem to recall you saying that crime scenes aren't funny."

 John gave him an exasperated glare. "Not 'haha' funny, Sherlock. Funny as in odd."

"Well spit it out then."

Huffing out a sigh at his former roommate's rudeness, John answered, "She just looks like a woman from the papers, that's all."

"Ah!" Sherlock's face lit up and he rubbed his hands together. "For once, your inane society knowledge is useful." He stood and readjusted his scarf and coat, ignoring John's exaggerated eye roll.

"Okay, I'll try to take that as a compliment. Explanation, Sherlock?"

"But it's so obvious," Sherlock whined.

John beckoned Lestrade over then crossed his arms. "Humor me."  

Sherlock shook his head at them. "Got some theories, need more data, assumptions are sloppy." He turned to Lestrade "Do you have a name?"

Greg shook his head, his lips pursed. "She had nothing on her. No id, no phone, nothing. We're checking the database now."

Sherlock spun on his heel, striding off, and called back to the DI, "Get the body to Bart's so Molly can examine it."

"Oi, where you off to?" Greg yelled back.

"Research!" was the response before he turned a corner and disappeared from their view.

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Sherlock's fingers were busy folding up a 20 pound note as he strolled up to a rather filthy young girl. She sat on a bench, watching people pass by and held out a cup to those who deigned to stop and drop some change into it. He dropped down onto the bench next to her and she turned to him, giving him a wide smile that showcased her dirty teeth. The detective handed her the bill along with a picture of the dead woman. She grasped it, staining the corner with dirt, and examined it closely.

"What can you tell me about that one?" Sherlock leaned back against the backrest and watched the cars go by on the street.

The girl scratched her head a moment. "Not much, boss. Been seein''er 'round 'ere a bit. Not long tho'. Just showed up one day." She lowered her voice confidentially. "Been talk she ain't right tho'. She don't belong 'ere."