MGS: untitled (1/?)
Aug. 4th, 2010 11:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: Untitled (1/?)
Series: MGS/Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED and will remain so.
Summary: Apart from being a MGS/Sherlock Holmes crossover, I'm not sure this has any outstanding features.
Snake had performed HALO jumps. He had also parachuted from planes flying at more reasonable altitudes, and had soared the skies in hang-gliders. He had participated in fast-rope descents from choppers, and from balconies and skylights. He had fallen from a five-story window and managed to limp away, albeit having made the descent in parts. He was, in short, extremely familiar with long, uncomfortable, dangerous drops.
If he had had to describe the experience he had just been through, though, he would not have compared it to any of the above. He would have found it much more similar to being picked up by the neck and thrown across a room into a wall. Possibly through a window. But that thought would have required a much higher degree of consciousness.
His immediate awareness had to do more with the nature of the place he now found himself in. He was lying on a cold stone floor, the rough stone of an outdoor street or sidewalk. The cold air was thick with the smell of smoke, not the green smell of a wood fire, nor the sharp eye-watering smell of a chemical fire, nor yet the sickly heavy smell of a gasoline fire, but the dirty scent of burning coal. Twitching his numb fingers, he found them brushing against a dusting of powdery snow, which was slowly becoming more solid as its edges melted from the heat of his hands. He could hear people chattering in the distance, no nearer than fifteen metres, gruff male voices with a lilt slightly different than the American English he was used to.
All these things his senses picked up and fetched back to his groggy mind, which was trying to pull itself together. They also informed him that his back was bruised, that his heart rate was faster than it should have been, that his bones were aching oddly, and that something was digging uncomfortably into his left leg. He opened his eyes, and found himself somewhere completely different than he last remembered.
He was lying on his side in a dark alleyway, although by squinting upwards through lines of tattered laundry and clouds of smoke he could tell that it was not any later than mid afternoon by the light of the grey sky. There was a light dusting of snow, as he already knew, covering the large uneven cobblestones making up the alley's floor. The buildings on either side were made of old coarse brick of a dark sooty colour. He was lying awkwardly pressed up against the wall of one of these buildings, his leg leaning oddly against the stoop of a back door, as though he had been thrown sideways out of the exit and left to lie where he had landed.
Glancing left and right without significant head movement he found that the alley was fairly deep and dark, contained several offshoots, and that the people he could still hear talking were not in sight, but in the main street to his right.
Having established an idea of his surroundings and situation, Snake pulled himself to his knees, stretching his muscles and testing his joints as he did so, and then to his feet. Nothing was broken or twisted, although his bones continued to ache oddly, and his eyes had begun to. He rubbed them briefly, to no affect, and tried to remember.
He had been in a lab. With Otacon. Not Otacon’s lab, he had lost his in Shadow Moses. Otacon. Put that thought aside. Lab. He pictured it in his mind, with a soldier's eye.
Two exits, one of which he had entered through, the other directly across the room, walls twelve metres long, eight wide. Windows on the right, leading onto a back alley three floors up. Fire escape. Left wall covered by computers, super computers bearing a superficial resemblance to others he had seen in Shadow Moses. Two long tables covered in the sort of glassware he associated with chemists; test tubes, flat-bottomed beakers, tree-shaped things made of twisted metal holding more glassware in their branches. Chemicals, carefully stopped. The smell of pine and bleach, and under it the sickening scent of formaldehyde or something similar.
They hadn’t been alone, he and Otacon. There had been someone else. White lab coat, like his partner. Shorter, long hair. Blonde. Woman. Wearing plastic goggles, and a name-tag pinned to the pocket of her coat. Name-tag read Alice Black. First thought: false name. Calm and competent, not flirtatious, not interested. A cold scientist. Deep voice. Holding a test tube, filled with red liquid. Blood- he remembered in a flash. His blood.
He didn’t know the woman. Did Otacon? Was she his acquaintance. Think of him. Standing to the left, away from the windows, near the computers. But not looking at them. Watching her. He had looked left at the computers and caught a glance of Otacon, face unusually closed, serious. Worried or suspicious. He either did not know the woman or did not like her.
They walked in, woman in front. She took them halfway down the table closer to the window. Stopped, turned to the table. She said something, scientific jargon going over his head, meaning nothing to him. He stared at the phial of his blood, and the table before the woman. A round-bottomed beaker was suspended above a blue flame, a yellowish mixture inside bubbling merrily. It was stopped with a cork, directly underneath which a yellow-greenish smoke was swirling. Something the woman said called his attention back to her. What was it. He played back parts of her conversation in his mind. “Have experienced...” “very interesting reaction when...” “suspect FoxDie-” yes, that was it, remember- “suspect FoxDie might account for these unpredicted variations. We’ve written to the laboratory in Washington.” Who said laboratory? Something jumped in his mind, and he replayed her words again. English accent.
She pulled the cork out, gas slipping out around it in thick tendrils, saw Otacon take a step back out of the corner of his eye and mirrored the move instinctively. Woman didn’t notice or care, but unstopped the tube of blood and without ceremony or measurement poured it in. Snake was not at all a fanciful man, and so was sure there was some scientific explanation for why the two liquids did not blend immediately, the bright red blood slipping through the yellow like a snake in water for nearly a minute before it instantly disappeared.
Otacon was saying something angrily to the woman, who smiled blankly. The smile unnerved Snake. She wore the smile like a coat, like something she had read about and knew was to be expected without understanding why. The liquid in the beaker was turning from yellow to green. When it had passed through what Snake thought of as vomit green and pea green to dark emerald green, the woman reached out and picked the beaker up out of the ring in a smooth and unconcerned movement. Otacon said something else harshly. She was still wearing the smile. Snake, alarm pouring like quicksilver from his brain down his spine, grabbed Otacon by the arm and began to step back. She dropped the beaker. The world exploded into blackness, tinged with green.
Snake blinked, and brought his thoughts back to the present, wherever the hell that was. Had he been carried out of the lab? That would explain why he was lying in the alley. Wait. He glanced up again. There were small windows in the building above him, but they were no where near big enough to be the long bay of windows he had seen in the lab. Assuming they had been drugged and then moved, thrown outside like garbage, where was Otacon? Had they taken him?
Galvanized into action, Snake stumbled further into the alleyway. He was not yet ready to deal with a crowd. His thoughts were still too slow and groggy, memories confused. His chest ached. He wasn’t sure why they had been in the lab in the first place, or London for that matter, assuming that was where they had been. When he didn’t spend the energy to force his way through his memories systematically they were patchy and unhelpful at best. He could attend to that later.
Wherever he was, he was definitely not dressed for the weather. He was wearing leather loafers rather than boots, dark jeans, a long sleeve shirt and loose woollen sweater. No coat, gloves or hat. He made a quick search of his person, and found he had his wallet with false papers in it made out to Chris Thornton, some pounds in a silver money-clip- definitely Britain then- a pen, some string, a pocket knife and most importantly an M9 with two spare clips in his waistband and pockets respectively. These were, he was fairly sure, the clothes he had been wearing during his visit to the lab.
Walking down the alley further brought him to a narrower one, perhaps four feet wide, ominously dark even during the afternoon. He was passing it by when a glimpse of white cloth on the ground caught his eye. A memory flashed through his mind, Otacon standing next to him, face serious, in his white lab coat.
He pulled out his M9, checking clip and safety, and slipped into the alleyway. Inside there was light enough to see by, although not well. The alley didn’t seem long, coming to a dead-end some ten metres in, he judged.
There was definitely a person lying in the alley, wearing something long and white. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to breath calmly and silently, Snake slipped up to stand alongside the body and found two things immediately. First, it definitely was Otacon dressed in the lab coat. Second, he was lying partially on top of another man.
Snake bent down quickly, and checked his partner’s pulse. Steady and strong, although faster than normal. He made to do the same for the other man, and stopped as soon as his fingers touched his throat. It was cold, and the flesh stiff. The man was long dead.
This was getting too complicated, too fast. Snake pulled Otacon partially up, and shook him. The engineer didn’t wake immediately. Tucking his gun away in his waistband again, Snake lifted and held his partner up with one arm and searched for a head-wound with the other. As he was doing so Otacon shook slightly, breathing pattern changing, and then shifted heavily. He opened his eyes and starred blearily at Snake, blinking heavily several times.
“Dave?”
“Snake,” corrected Snake immediately. Otacon sat up a little straighter at the answer, and then made a face.
“Where are we? God, it’s cold,” He wrapped his arms around himself to suit action to words, and looked around. “And what the hell am I sitting- oh, god.” Otacon glanced down before Snake could stop him, and blanched sharply, so sharply Snake worried he might pass out again. Instead he made to get up, scrambling awkwardly into Snake in his hurry to get off the corpse. Snake pulled him up and stepped backwards himself, the two of them jutting uncomfortably into the cold brick wall behind them. Otacon’s arms, wrapped around his chest initially for warmth, wrapped tighter, fingers clenching into his thin coat as he starred in horror at the man lying on the cobblestones in front of him. “Who-what is this?” He pressed himself harder against the bricks, whether trying to escape the scene before him or find security in the wall's solidity Snake was unsure.
“I don’t know,” replied Snake grimly. Otacon looked at him, eyes wide and shocky behind his glasses. He swallowed and evened his shoulders out slightly, glanced around more carefully. His fingers remained knotted in the light fabric of his coat sides.
“Where are we?”
“Don’t know that either. Last thing I remember, we were in some lab with some woman. She dropped a beaker of something in front of us and bang, I woke up here.”
“Some kind of drug?”
“Seems likely.” It was at least the best solution. Whether it was likely was a different matter. “We shouldn’t stand around here,” he glanced down to the body at their feet. Otacon released his grip around his chest, ran a hand through his hair, straightened his glasses with shaking hands, clenched his hands around his upper arms instead.
“N-no, you’re right.”
Snake took a last look at the man lying on the ground. Dark hair, a well-kempt moustache in an old-fashioned cut, thick winter clothes, a walking-stick. Utterly unfamiliar. Aware that Otacon was getting fidgety, that the police might already be on their way, that they were sitting targets standing here when they had no idea where here was or the best routes to take to avoid pursuit, Snake turned and walked out of the alleyway, turning right towards the larger street. They needed a crowd now, needed to blend in and get the hell away. Otacon was conspicuous in his lab coat- Snake checked quickly to make sure there were no blood stains which would have made it considerably more conspicuous- but as he was only wearing a t-shirt under it Snake couldn’t reasonably tell him to take it off.
It took a minute for Snake’s eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness outside the alleyway. And even when he could see it properly, he still couldn’t believe it.
Passers-by, men and women alike, all wore hats or caps, and were dressed mostly in drab browns and blacks as they shuffled down the cobbled street past elaborate doorframes and small windows. The women wore long bustled dresses and cloaks with impractical hats perched on piled-up hair, the men suits and heavy coats and frequently moustaches and beards, many carrying walking sticks. Here and there a horse-drawn carriage clattered by, or a boy in britches, coat and cap peddled past on a old-fashioned bicycle. There were no jeans, no hoodies and backpacks, no bright synthetic fabrics, no leather coats. Even more shocking, perhaps, there were no cars or traffic lights, the cobble road was not even painted with street lines. It was, in short, a scene straight out of the nineteenth century.
“What the hell?” said Snake.
----------------------------------------
The two men stared as a brown horse trotted by, harnessed with full equipment to a small black four-wheeled carriage, complete with driver and whip. They caught a brief glimpse of someone sitting inside. Others continued to walk by, some glancing at the alleyway and staring, before shuffling on through the slushy snow.
Snake stepped back abruptly into the sheltering darkness of the alley, and pulled Otacon back in with him.
“Snake, what the-”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“What? Uh-” he continued, seeing the urgency in Snake’s face and putting aside whatever complaint he might have made. “I remember... green and black. Before that... some kind of office? No, a lab. Supercomputers, damn good ones. We were on a tour?”
“Where?”
“At a lab...”
“No, where was the lab?” Snake stared straight into Otacon’s eyes, projecting urgency in order to keep the other man on track.
“Uh... We flew... to New York? No, we went through Customs. I was worried about my passport because it was a new one and Heathrow’s a horror-show- London! Yes; driving on the wrong side always makes me car sick at first.”
“Definitely London?”
“Yeah.”
“Season?”
Otacon opened his mouth to reply, and then paused. “I’m not sure...” he said slowly, looking away as he thought. “I should know. What day is today? What was yesterday? Why don’t I know? What the hell’s going on?” He looked back to Snake, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
“The stuff, whatever it was, must have screwed with our memories.”
“Maybe we weren’t even in London.” Otacon glanced out at the street.
“Maybe, but when you mention it, I remember Heathrow too, and taking a cab. And the lab.” Snake surreptitiously rolled up his sleeve, but found no needle's mark, no sign of any blood having been drawn. Of course, if it had been several hours since then, as seemed likely, the needle mark would have healed...
“Fine. We’re in London. Maybe this is some sort of Historical Recreation park, or something? I mean, everyone out there looked like they were straight out of Elizabethan England.”
“I think you mean Victorian.”
Otacon paused, considered. “If you say so,” he conceded. “Late eighteen hundreds, anyway, judging from the carriages.”
Snake considered asking how the engineer knew, and then decided he didn’t want to know. Historical details, his partner was sketchy on, but he was a genius with mechanics. “So, if it’s a park, we can just walk out, right?”
“I guess, but Snake...” Otacon watched the street again from where he was leaning up against one of the building’s walls, huddled slightly with the cold. “Did you notice...?”
“If it’s a park, where’s the rest of the visitors like us? And where are the signs?”
“And the electric lights. There aren’t even wires. I mean, fun’s fun but lights are a practicality.”
“I’m liking this less and less,” grumbled Snake. Something in the street caught his attention, and he missed Otacon’s reply, mind filtering it out as unimportant. There was an unusual conference taking place. He turned to watch, and saw a man dressed in a thick blue woollen uniform step out of the group and head over towards them. He was wearing the stereotypical bobby’s curved helmet and carrying a wooden truncheon. “Ooh boy,” whispered Snake.
“’Ere, you two. What’re you doing loiterin’ ‘round in ‘ere?”
Completely and utterly cliché, from the uniform with its shiny gold buttons and badge to the thick moustache and heavy, dull face, to the lower-class English accent.
“We’re a bit lost,” began Snake, crushing his instinct to bite in the face of situational uncertainty.
“Are you now?” Asked the officer, tone one of scepticism and unhelpfulness.
“We were going to visit my uncle, officer,” broke in Otacon, “But we promised to be there at a certain time, and I was just checking my watch and saw it had stopped, so we stepped in here to wind it and keep out of the way of traffic,” babbled the engineer. The policeman turned his gaze on the smaller man, face becoming even less helpful upon taking in his state of dress. Snake mentally rolled his eyes at the excuse. Given even a few seconds, he could have come up with a better one. While he strived to be helpful, falsehoods were definitely not a strength of his partner's. “Do you think you could give me the time?”
The policeman, still sceptical, dug into a pocket with a chain hanging out of it, and pulled out a nearly fist-sized watch. He clicked it open, and Otacon leaned out to look at it more clearly. Snake glanced at it as well, and read 4:12. He twisted his left wrist slightly, felt the friction of his skin against a plastic band. He would be able to check the time against his own watch later.
“Oh,” said Otacon, “we’ve already missed our appointment. I told you-” he said, turning to Snake with every sign of mild irritation, “we should have left earlier.”
“American, the two of you?” asked the officer.
“That’s right,” said Snake, following Otacon’s cue and playing along. “We’re over visiting family.”
“But now we’re late and my uncle hates that, so if you’ll excuse us we really should be going,” prattled Otacon, grabbing Snake’s arm and making to leave.
“Just a minute, gents. Your names and addresses please, before you take off.”
“Christopher Thornton,” replied Snake promptly, glancing at Otacon. "We haven't found a hotel yet."
“Jeremy Hill,” said Otacon, taking the hint and sticking with the identity he had papers for. The constable wrote them down in his little notebook, nodding.
“Alright, then,” he said grudgingly. “About your business, if you please.”
Otacon and Snake slipped past him into the street, ignoring the now more obvious stares of passers-by.
Snake took the lead, cutting a path along which to guide Otacon through the urban sprawl. The streets remained cobbled, and there was no change in the dress of pedestrians nor in the horse-drawn cabs which rattled by. “Snake,” whispered Otacon, “his watch. I took a good look at it. It’s new, but old. I mean, it’s newly made, no scratches and clean glass and surfaces. But it’s a wind-up, and by that size a pretty old one. You couldn’t get one nowadays for cheap. No way an amusement park would stock its extras with them.”
“Maybe it was a fake.”
“I...it’s possible but... I’m pretty sure it wasn't. Snake, what if this is real?”
Snake glanced at the engineer, who was staring at him with wide, thoughtful eyes. “You mean, what if we’ve gone back in time,” replied Snake dryly. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“But-”
“Look, what is real here is what we left behind us in that alley,” hissed Snake. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and that cop won’t take a look around, but he was looking at us pretty damn funny, and if he finds ... it, then we’re up the creek without a paddle, or anything else.”
“People are staring,” whispered back Otacon.
“And not in a good way. In here,” he took an abrupt turn into another handy alley. This one, like the previous one, had lines of hanging laundry. “I guess it’s not supposed to snow again for a while,” he mused, watching the clothes rustle in the slight breeze.
“Oh, good. Maybe by the time it does we’ll have found out where we are, or at least where to buy a coat.”
“Based on everything we’ve seen so far, what do you think would happen if we went into a store and gave them this,” asked Snake, pulling out his money-clip filled with modern pounds.
“A call to a near-by policeman?”
“Almost certainly.” He looked skyward again, calculatingly this time, and then around the alley. It was mostly empty, here and there a dilapidated wooden box or barrel lounged against the walls. He strode down the alley until he came to a decent looking box of about three feet square, which he gave a shove. It didn’t give in.
“Give me an hand with this.” Snake motioned Otacon over, and directed him to take the other side of the box. With considerable tripping and cursing, they manoeuvred it to Snake’s destination. He then clambered up onto it, crouched, and made a leap for the end of a clothes-line.
He caught it with the tips of his fingers, just enough to break it from the wall and bring it down with him. Agile as a cat, he landed silently on the ground just next to the box and shook the clothes line. Two pairs of pants, a white shirt and a dark worn frock coat fell to ground. Snake gathered them up off the cobbles before they could dampen with the snow, and handed the coat to Otacon.
“Put this on,”
“This is theft Snake.”
“Very astute.”
“I’m not-”
“Look, that coat of yours is responsible for about 90 percent of the suspicious looks we’re getting. We need to get out of this neighbourhood without attracting more of them. Put it on.” As he gave orders he was quickly and neatly folding up his other prizes, making a bundle of them in the shirt, which he tied carefully to look like a plain white package. Otacon reluctantly emptied his pockets into his pants, dark slacks, and pulled the coat on. It was tighter than his loose-flowing lab coat, but fit his thin frame well enough. He too folded his coat carefully and tucked it under his arm. “Keep a lookout for any spare hats, we’re conspicuous there too,” Snake added. Otacon muttered something about aiding and abetting, but followed as Snake led the way through the alley to come out on the other side.
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The winter of 1889 was one of the coldest in memory. Even London's unceasing activity found itself slowed by a January filled with blizzards which clawed their way on into February, lightening for several days only to be replaced by a biting ice storm, all of which wrought havoc upon the city and her inhabitants. I myself, better accustomed to the heat than the cold, found the chill days and freezing nights a hard trial, and spent most of my days wrapped in rugs scouring the papers in search of a useful occupation. My patients were no more willing than I to venture out in the harsh cold, and thus I found my days mostly empty.
Holmes, who has never seemed unduly bothered by either heat or cold, watched the snows of January pass by in a fit of lethargy, but was roused into activity in the beginning of February.
Spending much of my time, unoccupied as it was, dozing in front of the fire, I had not seen Holmes for several days before he turned up unexpectedly, waking me from a mid-afternoon nap by appearing directly between myself and the fire. Although his cheeks were red from the cold and biting wind, the light of the chase burned in his pale eyes, an inner fire which seemed to keep him warm regardless of the state of the thermostat.
"Tell me Watson," he began, upon my awakening, "have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the papers?" His eyes fell from mine to rake across the heaps of newsprint clustered about my preferred chair, left untidied by me in my current languid state.
"Apart from articles pertaining to the weather, there has been nothing which caught my eye. You have a case, then?"
"Perhaps. Lestrade has asked my opinion on an investigation of his, which you may have noted and classified as 'pertaining to the weather.' Yesterday, late in the afternoon, the body of a man by the name of Joseph Archer was discovered in a back alley of Whitechapel."
"I believe I may have seen a mention of it. But it was my belief he died of exposure due to the cold." The story had indeed been in the paper today, just a brief note that a Mr. Joseph Archer, a thirty-something engineer, had been found in Whitechapel dead of exposure, investigations ensuing.
"So the coroner ruled, and indeed that fact is not disputed, neither by myself nor the energetic Lestrade. Yes, the direct cause of his death most certainly was exposure; he died in the early hours of the morning yesterday, that is to say, Monday. The less direct cause was not mentioned in the papers at the request of the police, who are keeping it as their ace in the hole while at the same time seeking to lure the murderer into a false sense of security."
"So it was murder, then?" I asked, struggling to keep up with my companion's somewhat unorthodox method of storytelling.
"Yes, Watson, that much is certain. Mr. Joseph Archer was bashed violently on the head and, I suspect, transported to the alley where he was later discovered by a police constable investigating the alley after having spotted suspicious activities therein."
"What were the suspicious activities?"
"Two men were noticed by passers-by loitering in the alley at 4 p.m yesterday. They were noticed particularly due to their unusual clothing and, as I said, their loitering in the entrance of the alleyway."
"The same afternoon?" I asked, something beginning to occur to me.
"Yes," affirmed Holmes, watching me keenly, a smile on his lips.
“But Archer died in the night before that, did he not? Surely there cannot be a connection; no murderer would return in broad daylight and then linger suspiciously, it is folly.”
“Good, Watson! Yes, that is certainly a fundamental question, which Lestrade and his esteemed colleagues are, by the way, completely failing to address. They have directed all their energies in that direction, and are running after these two men with the single-mindedness of a hound on the scent. Certainly, the murderers might have forgotten a piece of incriminating evidence at the scene and returned to retrieve it. However, why should both of them return? It surely cannot be that they distrust each other, for if they both must go what would do harm to one would surely do the same to the other and nothing could be gained by leaving it to be found. And why, as you point out, would they loiter so suspiciously as to actually attract the attention of several passers-by and a policeman? It makes no sense, Watson.”
“Is there any further evidence, Holmes?”
“Ah, there you hit the point upon which Lestrade wished to consult me.”
“Well? There was none, then?”
“No,” replied Holmes, eyes sparkling. “There was one item recovered at the scene which Archer’s family has identified as not belonging to him. A kind of fountain pen, unlike any I have seen. The ink flow is considerably less than usual, and does not require blotting. The nib itself also retracts into the casing of the pen with the click of the end. An exceedingly clever, but strange device.”
“It certainly sounds so.”
“I thought you might be intrigued by the case. I stopped back to inquire whether you would like to accompany me to interview the constable who chased away the loiterers.”
“Nothing would please me more.” I pushed off the rugs and rose, returning to my room to don an ulster. Holmes, caught in the excitement of the chase, began pacing.
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James Dougal, the police constable who had found the body, lodged alone in a bachelor's residence not far from the Whitechapel alley where he had made his sinister discovery. We waited in the apartment's seedy hallway as the landlady knocked him out of his bed and then departed. Some minutes later he appeared in the hallway himself to fetch us, face somewhat a mixture of shame at his circumstances and irritation at being woken. He was a tall, strongly-built man with a naturally peering expression. His clothes were rumpled, and one of his shirt buttons had been incorrectly done-up, telling of his hasty rise from bed.
He ushered us into his bedroom, clearly the only room he had the sole use of. Apart from the bed, the covers of which lay disturbed by his sudden departure, the only furniture in the room was a small wooden desk and chair, and a shallow wardrobe. The room was otherwise unfurnished, even with books or photographs. It was clear the constable did not spend much time there, or had an exceedingly limited pocket.
"What can I do for you then, gentlemen?" asked he without preamble, looking from one of us to the other with his suspicious gaze.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, "and this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson," he continued, gesturing to me. "We have come to ask you a few questions in regards to your discovery of Mr. Archer's corpse."
"Is that so?" demanded the constable, face assuming an even more unfriendly hue.
"I note," said Holmes, completely unruffled by the constable's hostility, "that you have not long been a constable, Mr. Dougal."
"I don't know who it is you've been talking to, Mr. Holmes, but I've nothing to be ashamed of!" cried the man heatedly, stepping forward. I too took a step towards him, foreseeing possible mischief, but Holmes put the both of us off-guard by beginning to chuckle. Dougal looked at him askance, and with the anger of a man who feels he is not being taken seriously. Holmes moved immediately, however, to belay this anger.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Dougal. Nobody is questioning your conduct, which I am sure was exemplary. Nor have we been making inquiries into your habits; I merely noted from your somewhat uncertain stride, as well as the newness of your uniform coat which I see hanging on the back of your door, that you have not long been used to police work.”
At this mention, both the constable and I turned to regard his coat, which was indeed as Holmes pointed out, hung on a peg on the back of his door. It bore the definite stiffness of a newly purchased suit, without the give and wear which would in time come to mark it.
“As for why we are here, your inspector Mr. Lestrade recommended your testimony to me. I am helping him with his inquiries as to this case. I trust I may now in all reasonableness ask you a few questions? I can assure you, it would be much appreciated,” he added, producing a half-sovereign from his pocket.
The constable’s nature had changed entirely, from that of a suspicious and irritated man to one of sudden understanding and amiability. He smiled widely, and nodded. “I apologize for my rudeness, sir. I’m not used to the force yet.”
“Quite so. It is concerning the two men you reported having seen in the alleyway where Archer was found that I wished to inquire.”
The constable nodded, brows contracting as he thought. “They was plenty suspicious, standing there whispering to themselves.”
“Is it that which attracted your attention?”
“No sir. They was pointed out to me by some passers-by who said as they’d been there some little while. It was on account of their dress that they was noticed in particular.”
“Ah, yes. Please describe it to me,” here my companion looked at me, raising his eyebrows significantly.
“Well, sir, there was two of them as I says. The first one was tall, maybe your height, Mr. Holmes. His hair was plenty wild, which I had the opportunity of noticing seeing as he wore no hat. His face was sharp-like, and he hadn’t shaved in some days. He was wearin’ dark trousers and a woollen sweater. No coat, gloves or stick. His speech was polite enough, but I got the impression he was one to watch. In my mind, once we track him down we’ll be a good sight closer to knowing who did in the gentleman. As to the other, he was even stranger. He was shorter than his friend, maybe the doctor’s height, and had grown his hair out long, almost down to his jaw. He wore no hat either, nor any gloves, and although his trousers were common enough he wore a sort of white frock-coat, with an outside pocket here,” the constable placed a hand over his heart. “What was stranger still was his glasses. I’ve never seen none like ‘em. The frames were thick and squarish, of some sort of black metal. Apart from all that, they must have been mighty cold. It was a frosty afternoon, and there they were with no coats to speak of, nor gloves or mufflers.”
“Did you note their names?”
“Sure enough I did. They said they was Mr. Chris Thornton, and Mr. Jeffrey Hill, Americans here to visit relatives. Well, that may be sir, but I’d wager money against it.”
“They struck you as dishonest?” asked Holmes, a slight smile on his lips.
“Well sir, they was quick enough about their names and explanation, but I didn’t like the way they kept glancin’ at each other. Like men keeping secrets they was, I thought.”
“Did they give any further information about themselves? Where and when they had landed, or where they were staying?”
“They said they had just got in, sir. No address yet. They didn’t give the ship.”
“I see. Is there anything else about them which struck you?”
“Well, sir, the one in the white coat, Hill, asked me for the time saying they was late. I took out my watch, which he seemed very eager to look at. Afterwards, I was wondering how he knew he was late, when he told me his own was broke.”
“That does seem peculiar. May I see your watch?”
The constable walked to his coat and from a pocket drew out a handsome gold watch, quite out of keeping with the sparseness of the rest of his belongings. He gave it to Holmes, who opened it, compared the time to his own, and then returned it with a shrug. “It is common enough. A presentation, I mark, from your family? At the gaining of this post, I suppose.”
The constable again looked surprised, but assented amiably enough. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes. Our dad gave it me when I came up a fortnight ago.”
“Well, that seems to be all. I am exceedingly grateful to you for your assistance.” He handed the constable the half-sovereign, and nodded to the man. “I trust you will find your career a stimulating one.”
We saw ourselves out, the landlady not making an appearance. Holmes waited until the outside door had safely shut after us before turning to me with a smile. “Well, Watson, what do you make of that?”
“I note that the second man, Hill, was wearing a white coat. While the constable obviously did not note its importance, it points to the man being a scientist or a physician.”
“Excellent, Watson! Yes, Dougal certainly missed the importance of the man’s dress, although his point as to its value in this weather is certainly pertinent. We may assume from the fact that neither of these two men were apparently dressed for the weather that they had only immediately arrived from a different climate, unprepared for the cold weather, and had not yet had the chance to purchase themselves the required garments. Alternatively, it could be that they lacked the capital to. What else?”
“It seems to me,” I began slowly, “very likely that these men were lying about having only recently arrived.”
“And why is that?” inquired my companion, beginning to walk northward with purpose.
“Well, the man’s coat for one. If it was indeed a white coat, why would he be wearing it outside? The most obvious inference is that he had just come from his place of work. Even if we were to argue that these men were too poor to afford proper winter clothing, one would surely have come from America in a more suitable travelling coat than a simple white coat.”
“Good, good,” murmured Holmes.
“In addition, unless they were severely lost it seems unlikely two men looking for relative would end up in a Whitechapel alley, and if they did why would they not ask directions of the constable unless they were there under a sinister purpose?”
“You surpass yourself, Watson,” said Holmes. “A very tidy deduction in all. What, then, do you make of the watch?”
“The watch?” I paused, uncertain. “I make very little of it. I did not see much of it, but it seemed to be most ordinary. I am uncertain how you deduced as much as you did from it.”
“Oh, it was quite simple. That the constable was living in poor circumstances was clear; he could not have afforded such a watch which would certainly be worth some five pounds. It was bought for him, then. By whom? He lives alone, and there was no trace of his having a sweetheart. By his family, clearly. The watch was new, almost unmarked and still with its original lustre. What occasion, near in the past, would his family have bought for him such a handsome present? Clearly his appointment to the force. There is no mystery in that. No, the mystery is in the attention paid the watch by the strangers.”
“Perhaps they really did want to know the time?”
“That is certainly the most likely possibility. But if we follow your assumptions as to their guilt, you must ask yourself: if you had returned to the scene of your crime and with the knowledge that a body lay behind you awaiting discovery, would you prolong a conversation with a police officer if at all avoidable?”
“Perhaps they did so to allay suspicion?”
“But there was no suspicion at this point. Furthermore, by initiating further conversation, they were drawing more attention to themselves and allowing the constable a further opportunity to memorize their features and clothes.”
“Seen like that, it does not seem the action of guilty men.”
“It is certainly a puzzle, Watson. I confess I find myself more and more drawn into this case. Originally I saw the pen as the only interesting feature, but I may have been hasty in that determination.”
As he spoke he turned a corner out of the narrow street we had been walking along into an alleyway. It was relatively wide, with space enough for at least five men to walk abreast, and was quite deep. The atmosphere inside was closed and dark, the tall brick buildings on either side seeming to lean in over one. There was a thin layer of snow here, although it had mostly been trampled away, probably by the police men. Holmes gave an exclamation of annoyance and paused at the corner of the mouth of the alley.
“Stand out of the way for a moment, if you would,” said he as he began to tiptoe back and forth along the alley wall peering at its floor. Finally he sighed and entered the alley proper, eyes downcast. He motioned for me to walk along the wall behind him, which I did. He finally paused at a turn-off halfway down. Here was stationed a constable, who watched us with suspicion.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes, looking up. “Inspector Lestrade informed you I might come by?”
“Yessir,” said the constable with a lightening face. “You can go in. Mind your step, it’s infernally dark.” The constable took a lantern up off the cobles beside him, lit a match on his boot and then applied it to the wick. He rose and handed the light to Holmes who took it with a nod and proceeded into the narrow offshoot, again walking slowly and keeping to the wall.
This second alley was much narrower, with only enough space for two men to walk side by side comfortably. Holmes raised the lantern, and I saw in its flickering beam, which overshadowed the poor light flooding down from above, that the alley was of hardly any length.
On one side, only a few paces in, was a small dark stain with a marker beside it. Here Holmes paused and looked all about for a long moment before closing in and bending down by the stain. The ground of the alley was spotted with small patches of snow here and there, but those from the stain to the alley’s mouth had been destroyed under over-active boots, and there were no traces which I could see of any one person’s entrance or exit, never mind the murderer’s. Holmes examined the ground here closely, then rose and made a careful sweep of the rest of the alley. Finally, he returned to me and we left the alley together, pausing only to return the lantern, and then re-entering the main road and stopping to watch for a cab.
“Well?” Asked I.
“Bah!” exclaimed Holmes. “Had they exercised the Infantry in that alleyway they could not more completely have effaced any marks. There are here and there the impression of an odd shoe of a type I have never seen before, round with little curved markings on the sole, but I could not find one entire print to examine, nor any two in a row so as to determine anything about the nature of the wearer. Apart from that there was only the bloodstain, which was of course too small to have been the original stain emanating from such a wound. Clearly the blow was struck somewhere else, but the body was moved soon afterwards, as is shown by the fact that any blood had continued to flow.”
“Surely the body would provide more clues?”
“I have no doubt that it would, had not Lestrade in his energies already had it taken off to the morgue. I fear he underestimated the difficulties of finding his quarries in this urban mire.”
“That certainly seems to be the case. What will you do now?”
“I think,” said Holmes as he hailed a cab, “that I shall have to make some discreet inquiries.”
Series: MGS/Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED and will remain so.
Summary: Apart from being a MGS/Sherlock Holmes crossover, I'm not sure this has any outstanding features.
Snake had performed HALO jumps. He had also parachuted from planes flying at more reasonable altitudes, and had soared the skies in hang-gliders. He had participated in fast-rope descents from choppers, and from balconies and skylights. He had fallen from a five-story window and managed to limp away, albeit having made the descent in parts. He was, in short, extremely familiar with long, uncomfortable, dangerous drops.
If he had had to describe the experience he had just been through, though, he would not have compared it to any of the above. He would have found it much more similar to being picked up by the neck and thrown across a room into a wall. Possibly through a window. But that thought would have required a much higher degree of consciousness.
His immediate awareness had to do more with the nature of the place he now found himself in. He was lying on a cold stone floor, the rough stone of an outdoor street or sidewalk. The cold air was thick with the smell of smoke, not the green smell of a wood fire, nor the sharp eye-watering smell of a chemical fire, nor yet the sickly heavy smell of a gasoline fire, but the dirty scent of burning coal. Twitching his numb fingers, he found them brushing against a dusting of powdery snow, which was slowly becoming more solid as its edges melted from the heat of his hands. He could hear people chattering in the distance, no nearer than fifteen metres, gruff male voices with a lilt slightly different than the American English he was used to.
All these things his senses picked up and fetched back to his groggy mind, which was trying to pull itself together. They also informed him that his back was bruised, that his heart rate was faster than it should have been, that his bones were aching oddly, and that something was digging uncomfortably into his left leg. He opened his eyes, and found himself somewhere completely different than he last remembered.
He was lying on his side in a dark alleyway, although by squinting upwards through lines of tattered laundry and clouds of smoke he could tell that it was not any later than mid afternoon by the light of the grey sky. There was a light dusting of snow, as he already knew, covering the large uneven cobblestones making up the alley's floor. The buildings on either side were made of old coarse brick of a dark sooty colour. He was lying awkwardly pressed up against the wall of one of these buildings, his leg leaning oddly against the stoop of a back door, as though he had been thrown sideways out of the exit and left to lie where he had landed.
Glancing left and right without significant head movement he found that the alley was fairly deep and dark, contained several offshoots, and that the people he could still hear talking were not in sight, but in the main street to his right.
Having established an idea of his surroundings and situation, Snake pulled himself to his knees, stretching his muscles and testing his joints as he did so, and then to his feet. Nothing was broken or twisted, although his bones continued to ache oddly, and his eyes had begun to. He rubbed them briefly, to no affect, and tried to remember.
He had been in a lab. With Otacon. Not Otacon’s lab, he had lost his in Shadow Moses. Otacon. Put that thought aside. Lab. He pictured it in his mind, with a soldier's eye.
Two exits, one of which he had entered through, the other directly across the room, walls twelve metres long, eight wide. Windows on the right, leading onto a back alley three floors up. Fire escape. Left wall covered by computers, super computers bearing a superficial resemblance to others he had seen in Shadow Moses. Two long tables covered in the sort of glassware he associated with chemists; test tubes, flat-bottomed beakers, tree-shaped things made of twisted metal holding more glassware in their branches. Chemicals, carefully stopped. The smell of pine and bleach, and under it the sickening scent of formaldehyde or something similar.
They hadn’t been alone, he and Otacon. There had been someone else. White lab coat, like his partner. Shorter, long hair. Blonde. Woman. Wearing plastic goggles, and a name-tag pinned to the pocket of her coat. Name-tag read Alice Black. First thought: false name. Calm and competent, not flirtatious, not interested. A cold scientist. Deep voice. Holding a test tube, filled with red liquid. Blood- he remembered in a flash. His blood.
He didn’t know the woman. Did Otacon? Was she his acquaintance. Think of him. Standing to the left, away from the windows, near the computers. But not looking at them. Watching her. He had looked left at the computers and caught a glance of Otacon, face unusually closed, serious. Worried or suspicious. He either did not know the woman or did not like her.
They walked in, woman in front. She took them halfway down the table closer to the window. Stopped, turned to the table. She said something, scientific jargon going over his head, meaning nothing to him. He stared at the phial of his blood, and the table before the woman. A round-bottomed beaker was suspended above a blue flame, a yellowish mixture inside bubbling merrily. It was stopped with a cork, directly underneath which a yellow-greenish smoke was swirling. Something the woman said called his attention back to her. What was it. He played back parts of her conversation in his mind. “Have experienced...” “very interesting reaction when...” “suspect FoxDie-” yes, that was it, remember- “suspect FoxDie might account for these unpredicted variations. We’ve written to the laboratory in Washington.” Who said laboratory? Something jumped in his mind, and he replayed her words again. English accent.
She pulled the cork out, gas slipping out around it in thick tendrils, saw Otacon take a step back out of the corner of his eye and mirrored the move instinctively. Woman didn’t notice or care, but unstopped the tube of blood and without ceremony or measurement poured it in. Snake was not at all a fanciful man, and so was sure there was some scientific explanation for why the two liquids did not blend immediately, the bright red blood slipping through the yellow like a snake in water for nearly a minute before it instantly disappeared.
Otacon was saying something angrily to the woman, who smiled blankly. The smile unnerved Snake. She wore the smile like a coat, like something she had read about and knew was to be expected without understanding why. The liquid in the beaker was turning from yellow to green. When it had passed through what Snake thought of as vomit green and pea green to dark emerald green, the woman reached out and picked the beaker up out of the ring in a smooth and unconcerned movement. Otacon said something else harshly. She was still wearing the smile. Snake, alarm pouring like quicksilver from his brain down his spine, grabbed Otacon by the arm and began to step back. She dropped the beaker. The world exploded into blackness, tinged with green.
Snake blinked, and brought his thoughts back to the present, wherever the hell that was. Had he been carried out of the lab? That would explain why he was lying in the alley. Wait. He glanced up again. There were small windows in the building above him, but they were no where near big enough to be the long bay of windows he had seen in the lab. Assuming they had been drugged and then moved, thrown outside like garbage, where was Otacon? Had they taken him?
Galvanized into action, Snake stumbled further into the alleyway. He was not yet ready to deal with a crowd. His thoughts were still too slow and groggy, memories confused. His chest ached. He wasn’t sure why they had been in the lab in the first place, or London for that matter, assuming that was where they had been. When he didn’t spend the energy to force his way through his memories systematically they were patchy and unhelpful at best. He could attend to that later.
Wherever he was, he was definitely not dressed for the weather. He was wearing leather loafers rather than boots, dark jeans, a long sleeve shirt and loose woollen sweater. No coat, gloves or hat. He made a quick search of his person, and found he had his wallet with false papers in it made out to Chris Thornton, some pounds in a silver money-clip- definitely Britain then- a pen, some string, a pocket knife and most importantly an M9 with two spare clips in his waistband and pockets respectively. These were, he was fairly sure, the clothes he had been wearing during his visit to the lab.
Walking down the alley further brought him to a narrower one, perhaps four feet wide, ominously dark even during the afternoon. He was passing it by when a glimpse of white cloth on the ground caught his eye. A memory flashed through his mind, Otacon standing next to him, face serious, in his white lab coat.
He pulled out his M9, checking clip and safety, and slipped into the alleyway. Inside there was light enough to see by, although not well. The alley didn’t seem long, coming to a dead-end some ten metres in, he judged.
There was definitely a person lying in the alley, wearing something long and white. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to breath calmly and silently, Snake slipped up to stand alongside the body and found two things immediately. First, it definitely was Otacon dressed in the lab coat. Second, he was lying partially on top of another man.
Snake bent down quickly, and checked his partner’s pulse. Steady and strong, although faster than normal. He made to do the same for the other man, and stopped as soon as his fingers touched his throat. It was cold, and the flesh stiff. The man was long dead.
This was getting too complicated, too fast. Snake pulled Otacon partially up, and shook him. The engineer didn’t wake immediately. Tucking his gun away in his waistband again, Snake lifted and held his partner up with one arm and searched for a head-wound with the other. As he was doing so Otacon shook slightly, breathing pattern changing, and then shifted heavily. He opened his eyes and starred blearily at Snake, blinking heavily several times.
“Dave?”
“Snake,” corrected Snake immediately. Otacon sat up a little straighter at the answer, and then made a face.
“Where are we? God, it’s cold,” He wrapped his arms around himself to suit action to words, and looked around. “And what the hell am I sitting- oh, god.” Otacon glanced down before Snake could stop him, and blanched sharply, so sharply Snake worried he might pass out again. Instead he made to get up, scrambling awkwardly into Snake in his hurry to get off the corpse. Snake pulled him up and stepped backwards himself, the two of them jutting uncomfortably into the cold brick wall behind them. Otacon’s arms, wrapped around his chest initially for warmth, wrapped tighter, fingers clenching into his thin coat as he starred in horror at the man lying on the cobblestones in front of him. “Who-what is this?” He pressed himself harder against the bricks, whether trying to escape the scene before him or find security in the wall's solidity Snake was unsure.
“I don’t know,” replied Snake grimly. Otacon looked at him, eyes wide and shocky behind his glasses. He swallowed and evened his shoulders out slightly, glanced around more carefully. His fingers remained knotted in the light fabric of his coat sides.
“Where are we?”
“Don’t know that either. Last thing I remember, we were in some lab with some woman. She dropped a beaker of something in front of us and bang, I woke up here.”
“Some kind of drug?”
“Seems likely.” It was at least the best solution. Whether it was likely was a different matter. “We shouldn’t stand around here,” he glanced down to the body at their feet. Otacon released his grip around his chest, ran a hand through his hair, straightened his glasses with shaking hands, clenched his hands around his upper arms instead.
“N-no, you’re right.”
Snake took a last look at the man lying on the ground. Dark hair, a well-kempt moustache in an old-fashioned cut, thick winter clothes, a walking-stick. Utterly unfamiliar. Aware that Otacon was getting fidgety, that the police might already be on their way, that they were sitting targets standing here when they had no idea where here was or the best routes to take to avoid pursuit, Snake turned and walked out of the alleyway, turning right towards the larger street. They needed a crowd now, needed to blend in and get the hell away. Otacon was conspicuous in his lab coat- Snake checked quickly to make sure there were no blood stains which would have made it considerably more conspicuous- but as he was only wearing a t-shirt under it Snake couldn’t reasonably tell him to take it off.
It took a minute for Snake’s eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness outside the alleyway. And even when he could see it properly, he still couldn’t believe it.
Passers-by, men and women alike, all wore hats or caps, and were dressed mostly in drab browns and blacks as they shuffled down the cobbled street past elaborate doorframes and small windows. The women wore long bustled dresses and cloaks with impractical hats perched on piled-up hair, the men suits and heavy coats and frequently moustaches and beards, many carrying walking sticks. Here and there a horse-drawn carriage clattered by, or a boy in britches, coat and cap peddled past on a old-fashioned bicycle. There were no jeans, no hoodies and backpacks, no bright synthetic fabrics, no leather coats. Even more shocking, perhaps, there were no cars or traffic lights, the cobble road was not even painted with street lines. It was, in short, a scene straight out of the nineteenth century.
“What the hell?” said Snake.
----------------------------------------
The two men stared as a brown horse trotted by, harnessed with full equipment to a small black four-wheeled carriage, complete with driver and whip. They caught a brief glimpse of someone sitting inside. Others continued to walk by, some glancing at the alleyway and staring, before shuffling on through the slushy snow.
Snake stepped back abruptly into the sheltering darkness of the alley, and pulled Otacon back in with him.
“Snake, what the-”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“What? Uh-” he continued, seeing the urgency in Snake’s face and putting aside whatever complaint he might have made. “I remember... green and black. Before that... some kind of office? No, a lab. Supercomputers, damn good ones. We were on a tour?”
“Where?”
“At a lab...”
“No, where was the lab?” Snake stared straight into Otacon’s eyes, projecting urgency in order to keep the other man on track.
“Uh... We flew... to New York? No, we went through Customs. I was worried about my passport because it was a new one and Heathrow’s a horror-show- London! Yes; driving on the wrong side always makes me car sick at first.”
“Definitely London?”
“Yeah.”
“Season?”
Otacon opened his mouth to reply, and then paused. “I’m not sure...” he said slowly, looking away as he thought. “I should know. What day is today? What was yesterday? Why don’t I know? What the hell’s going on?” He looked back to Snake, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
“The stuff, whatever it was, must have screwed with our memories.”
“Maybe we weren’t even in London.” Otacon glanced out at the street.
“Maybe, but when you mention it, I remember Heathrow too, and taking a cab. And the lab.” Snake surreptitiously rolled up his sleeve, but found no needle's mark, no sign of any blood having been drawn. Of course, if it had been several hours since then, as seemed likely, the needle mark would have healed...
“Fine. We’re in London. Maybe this is some sort of Historical Recreation park, or something? I mean, everyone out there looked like they were straight out of Elizabethan England.”
“I think you mean Victorian.”
Otacon paused, considered. “If you say so,” he conceded. “Late eighteen hundreds, anyway, judging from the carriages.”
Snake considered asking how the engineer knew, and then decided he didn’t want to know. Historical details, his partner was sketchy on, but he was a genius with mechanics. “So, if it’s a park, we can just walk out, right?”
“I guess, but Snake...” Otacon watched the street again from where he was leaning up against one of the building’s walls, huddled slightly with the cold. “Did you notice...?”
“If it’s a park, where’s the rest of the visitors like us? And where are the signs?”
“And the electric lights. There aren’t even wires. I mean, fun’s fun but lights are a practicality.”
“I’m liking this less and less,” grumbled Snake. Something in the street caught his attention, and he missed Otacon’s reply, mind filtering it out as unimportant. There was an unusual conference taking place. He turned to watch, and saw a man dressed in a thick blue woollen uniform step out of the group and head over towards them. He was wearing the stereotypical bobby’s curved helmet and carrying a wooden truncheon. “Ooh boy,” whispered Snake.
“’Ere, you two. What’re you doing loiterin’ ‘round in ‘ere?”
Completely and utterly cliché, from the uniform with its shiny gold buttons and badge to the thick moustache and heavy, dull face, to the lower-class English accent.
“We’re a bit lost,” began Snake, crushing his instinct to bite in the face of situational uncertainty.
“Are you now?” Asked the officer, tone one of scepticism and unhelpfulness.
“We were going to visit my uncle, officer,” broke in Otacon, “But we promised to be there at a certain time, and I was just checking my watch and saw it had stopped, so we stepped in here to wind it and keep out of the way of traffic,” babbled the engineer. The policeman turned his gaze on the smaller man, face becoming even less helpful upon taking in his state of dress. Snake mentally rolled his eyes at the excuse. Given even a few seconds, he could have come up with a better one. While he strived to be helpful, falsehoods were definitely not a strength of his partner's. “Do you think you could give me the time?”
The policeman, still sceptical, dug into a pocket with a chain hanging out of it, and pulled out a nearly fist-sized watch. He clicked it open, and Otacon leaned out to look at it more clearly. Snake glanced at it as well, and read 4:12. He twisted his left wrist slightly, felt the friction of his skin against a plastic band. He would be able to check the time against his own watch later.
“Oh,” said Otacon, “we’ve already missed our appointment. I told you-” he said, turning to Snake with every sign of mild irritation, “we should have left earlier.”
“American, the two of you?” asked the officer.
“That’s right,” said Snake, following Otacon’s cue and playing along. “We’re over visiting family.”
“But now we’re late and my uncle hates that, so if you’ll excuse us we really should be going,” prattled Otacon, grabbing Snake’s arm and making to leave.
“Just a minute, gents. Your names and addresses please, before you take off.”
“Christopher Thornton,” replied Snake promptly, glancing at Otacon. "We haven't found a hotel yet."
“Jeremy Hill,” said Otacon, taking the hint and sticking with the identity he had papers for. The constable wrote them down in his little notebook, nodding.
“Alright, then,” he said grudgingly. “About your business, if you please.”
Otacon and Snake slipped past him into the street, ignoring the now more obvious stares of passers-by.
Snake took the lead, cutting a path along which to guide Otacon through the urban sprawl. The streets remained cobbled, and there was no change in the dress of pedestrians nor in the horse-drawn cabs which rattled by. “Snake,” whispered Otacon, “his watch. I took a good look at it. It’s new, but old. I mean, it’s newly made, no scratches and clean glass and surfaces. But it’s a wind-up, and by that size a pretty old one. You couldn’t get one nowadays for cheap. No way an amusement park would stock its extras with them.”
“Maybe it was a fake.”
“I...it’s possible but... I’m pretty sure it wasn't. Snake, what if this is real?”
Snake glanced at the engineer, who was staring at him with wide, thoughtful eyes. “You mean, what if we’ve gone back in time,” replied Snake dryly. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“But-”
“Look, what is real here is what we left behind us in that alley,” hissed Snake. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and that cop won’t take a look around, but he was looking at us pretty damn funny, and if he finds ... it, then we’re up the creek without a paddle, or anything else.”
“People are staring,” whispered back Otacon.
“And not in a good way. In here,” he took an abrupt turn into another handy alley. This one, like the previous one, had lines of hanging laundry. “I guess it’s not supposed to snow again for a while,” he mused, watching the clothes rustle in the slight breeze.
“Oh, good. Maybe by the time it does we’ll have found out where we are, or at least where to buy a coat.”
“Based on everything we’ve seen so far, what do you think would happen if we went into a store and gave them this,” asked Snake, pulling out his money-clip filled with modern pounds.
“A call to a near-by policeman?”
“Almost certainly.” He looked skyward again, calculatingly this time, and then around the alley. It was mostly empty, here and there a dilapidated wooden box or barrel lounged against the walls. He strode down the alley until he came to a decent looking box of about three feet square, which he gave a shove. It didn’t give in.
“Give me an hand with this.” Snake motioned Otacon over, and directed him to take the other side of the box. With considerable tripping and cursing, they manoeuvred it to Snake’s destination. He then clambered up onto it, crouched, and made a leap for the end of a clothes-line.
He caught it with the tips of his fingers, just enough to break it from the wall and bring it down with him. Agile as a cat, he landed silently on the ground just next to the box and shook the clothes line. Two pairs of pants, a white shirt and a dark worn frock coat fell to ground. Snake gathered them up off the cobbles before they could dampen with the snow, and handed the coat to Otacon.
“Put this on,”
“This is theft Snake.”
“Very astute.”
“I’m not-”
“Look, that coat of yours is responsible for about 90 percent of the suspicious looks we’re getting. We need to get out of this neighbourhood without attracting more of them. Put it on.” As he gave orders he was quickly and neatly folding up his other prizes, making a bundle of them in the shirt, which he tied carefully to look like a plain white package. Otacon reluctantly emptied his pockets into his pants, dark slacks, and pulled the coat on. It was tighter than his loose-flowing lab coat, but fit his thin frame well enough. He too folded his coat carefully and tucked it under his arm. “Keep a lookout for any spare hats, we’re conspicuous there too,” Snake added. Otacon muttered something about aiding and abetting, but followed as Snake led the way through the alley to come out on the other side.
----------------------------------------
The winter of 1889 was one of the coldest in memory. Even London's unceasing activity found itself slowed by a January filled with blizzards which clawed their way on into February, lightening for several days only to be replaced by a biting ice storm, all of which wrought havoc upon the city and her inhabitants. I myself, better accustomed to the heat than the cold, found the chill days and freezing nights a hard trial, and spent most of my days wrapped in rugs scouring the papers in search of a useful occupation. My patients were no more willing than I to venture out in the harsh cold, and thus I found my days mostly empty.
Holmes, who has never seemed unduly bothered by either heat or cold, watched the snows of January pass by in a fit of lethargy, but was roused into activity in the beginning of February.
Spending much of my time, unoccupied as it was, dozing in front of the fire, I had not seen Holmes for several days before he turned up unexpectedly, waking me from a mid-afternoon nap by appearing directly between myself and the fire. Although his cheeks were red from the cold and biting wind, the light of the chase burned in his pale eyes, an inner fire which seemed to keep him warm regardless of the state of the thermostat.
"Tell me Watson," he began, upon my awakening, "have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the papers?" His eyes fell from mine to rake across the heaps of newsprint clustered about my preferred chair, left untidied by me in my current languid state.
"Apart from articles pertaining to the weather, there has been nothing which caught my eye. You have a case, then?"
"Perhaps. Lestrade has asked my opinion on an investigation of his, which you may have noted and classified as 'pertaining to the weather.' Yesterday, late in the afternoon, the body of a man by the name of Joseph Archer was discovered in a back alley of Whitechapel."
"I believe I may have seen a mention of it. But it was my belief he died of exposure due to the cold." The story had indeed been in the paper today, just a brief note that a Mr. Joseph Archer, a thirty-something engineer, had been found in Whitechapel dead of exposure, investigations ensuing.
"So the coroner ruled, and indeed that fact is not disputed, neither by myself nor the energetic Lestrade. Yes, the direct cause of his death most certainly was exposure; he died in the early hours of the morning yesterday, that is to say, Monday. The less direct cause was not mentioned in the papers at the request of the police, who are keeping it as their ace in the hole while at the same time seeking to lure the murderer into a false sense of security."
"So it was murder, then?" I asked, struggling to keep up with my companion's somewhat unorthodox method of storytelling.
"Yes, Watson, that much is certain. Mr. Joseph Archer was bashed violently on the head and, I suspect, transported to the alley where he was later discovered by a police constable investigating the alley after having spotted suspicious activities therein."
"What were the suspicious activities?"
"Two men were noticed by passers-by loitering in the alley at 4 p.m yesterday. They were noticed particularly due to their unusual clothing and, as I said, their loitering in the entrance of the alleyway."
"The same afternoon?" I asked, something beginning to occur to me.
"Yes," affirmed Holmes, watching me keenly, a smile on his lips.
“But Archer died in the night before that, did he not? Surely there cannot be a connection; no murderer would return in broad daylight and then linger suspiciously, it is folly.”
“Good, Watson! Yes, that is certainly a fundamental question, which Lestrade and his esteemed colleagues are, by the way, completely failing to address. They have directed all their energies in that direction, and are running after these two men with the single-mindedness of a hound on the scent. Certainly, the murderers might have forgotten a piece of incriminating evidence at the scene and returned to retrieve it. However, why should both of them return? It surely cannot be that they distrust each other, for if they both must go what would do harm to one would surely do the same to the other and nothing could be gained by leaving it to be found. And why, as you point out, would they loiter so suspiciously as to actually attract the attention of several passers-by and a policeman? It makes no sense, Watson.”
“Is there any further evidence, Holmes?”
“Ah, there you hit the point upon which Lestrade wished to consult me.”
“Well? There was none, then?”
“No,” replied Holmes, eyes sparkling. “There was one item recovered at the scene which Archer’s family has identified as not belonging to him. A kind of fountain pen, unlike any I have seen. The ink flow is considerably less than usual, and does not require blotting. The nib itself also retracts into the casing of the pen with the click of the end. An exceedingly clever, but strange device.”
“It certainly sounds so.”
“I thought you might be intrigued by the case. I stopped back to inquire whether you would like to accompany me to interview the constable who chased away the loiterers.”
“Nothing would please me more.” I pushed off the rugs and rose, returning to my room to don an ulster. Holmes, caught in the excitement of the chase, began pacing.
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James Dougal, the police constable who had found the body, lodged alone in a bachelor's residence not far from the Whitechapel alley where he had made his sinister discovery. We waited in the apartment's seedy hallway as the landlady knocked him out of his bed and then departed. Some minutes later he appeared in the hallway himself to fetch us, face somewhat a mixture of shame at his circumstances and irritation at being woken. He was a tall, strongly-built man with a naturally peering expression. His clothes were rumpled, and one of his shirt buttons had been incorrectly done-up, telling of his hasty rise from bed.
He ushered us into his bedroom, clearly the only room he had the sole use of. Apart from the bed, the covers of which lay disturbed by his sudden departure, the only furniture in the room was a small wooden desk and chair, and a shallow wardrobe. The room was otherwise unfurnished, even with books or photographs. It was clear the constable did not spend much time there, or had an exceedingly limited pocket.
"What can I do for you then, gentlemen?" asked he without preamble, looking from one of us to the other with his suspicious gaze.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, "and this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson," he continued, gesturing to me. "We have come to ask you a few questions in regards to your discovery of Mr. Archer's corpse."
"Is that so?" demanded the constable, face assuming an even more unfriendly hue.
"I note," said Holmes, completely unruffled by the constable's hostility, "that you have not long been a constable, Mr. Dougal."
"I don't know who it is you've been talking to, Mr. Holmes, but I've nothing to be ashamed of!" cried the man heatedly, stepping forward. I too took a step towards him, foreseeing possible mischief, but Holmes put the both of us off-guard by beginning to chuckle. Dougal looked at him askance, and with the anger of a man who feels he is not being taken seriously. Holmes moved immediately, however, to belay this anger.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Dougal. Nobody is questioning your conduct, which I am sure was exemplary. Nor have we been making inquiries into your habits; I merely noted from your somewhat uncertain stride, as well as the newness of your uniform coat which I see hanging on the back of your door, that you have not long been used to police work.”
At this mention, both the constable and I turned to regard his coat, which was indeed as Holmes pointed out, hung on a peg on the back of his door. It bore the definite stiffness of a newly purchased suit, without the give and wear which would in time come to mark it.
“As for why we are here, your inspector Mr. Lestrade recommended your testimony to me. I am helping him with his inquiries as to this case. I trust I may now in all reasonableness ask you a few questions? I can assure you, it would be much appreciated,” he added, producing a half-sovereign from his pocket.
The constable’s nature had changed entirely, from that of a suspicious and irritated man to one of sudden understanding and amiability. He smiled widely, and nodded. “I apologize for my rudeness, sir. I’m not used to the force yet.”
“Quite so. It is concerning the two men you reported having seen in the alleyway where Archer was found that I wished to inquire.”
The constable nodded, brows contracting as he thought. “They was plenty suspicious, standing there whispering to themselves.”
“Is it that which attracted your attention?”
“No sir. They was pointed out to me by some passers-by who said as they’d been there some little while. It was on account of their dress that they was noticed in particular.”
“Ah, yes. Please describe it to me,” here my companion looked at me, raising his eyebrows significantly.
“Well, sir, there was two of them as I says. The first one was tall, maybe your height, Mr. Holmes. His hair was plenty wild, which I had the opportunity of noticing seeing as he wore no hat. His face was sharp-like, and he hadn’t shaved in some days. He was wearin’ dark trousers and a woollen sweater. No coat, gloves or stick. His speech was polite enough, but I got the impression he was one to watch. In my mind, once we track him down we’ll be a good sight closer to knowing who did in the gentleman. As to the other, he was even stranger. He was shorter than his friend, maybe the doctor’s height, and had grown his hair out long, almost down to his jaw. He wore no hat either, nor any gloves, and although his trousers were common enough he wore a sort of white frock-coat, with an outside pocket here,” the constable placed a hand over his heart. “What was stranger still was his glasses. I’ve never seen none like ‘em. The frames were thick and squarish, of some sort of black metal. Apart from all that, they must have been mighty cold. It was a frosty afternoon, and there they were with no coats to speak of, nor gloves or mufflers.”
“Did you note their names?”
“Sure enough I did. They said they was Mr. Chris Thornton, and Mr. Jeffrey Hill, Americans here to visit relatives. Well, that may be sir, but I’d wager money against it.”
“They struck you as dishonest?” asked Holmes, a slight smile on his lips.
“Well sir, they was quick enough about their names and explanation, but I didn’t like the way they kept glancin’ at each other. Like men keeping secrets they was, I thought.”
“Did they give any further information about themselves? Where and when they had landed, or where they were staying?”
“They said they had just got in, sir. No address yet. They didn’t give the ship.”
“I see. Is there anything else about them which struck you?”
“Well, sir, the one in the white coat, Hill, asked me for the time saying they was late. I took out my watch, which he seemed very eager to look at. Afterwards, I was wondering how he knew he was late, when he told me his own was broke.”
“That does seem peculiar. May I see your watch?”
The constable walked to his coat and from a pocket drew out a handsome gold watch, quite out of keeping with the sparseness of the rest of his belongings. He gave it to Holmes, who opened it, compared the time to his own, and then returned it with a shrug. “It is common enough. A presentation, I mark, from your family? At the gaining of this post, I suppose.”
The constable again looked surprised, but assented amiably enough. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes. Our dad gave it me when I came up a fortnight ago.”
“Well, that seems to be all. I am exceedingly grateful to you for your assistance.” He handed the constable the half-sovereign, and nodded to the man. “I trust you will find your career a stimulating one.”
We saw ourselves out, the landlady not making an appearance. Holmes waited until the outside door had safely shut after us before turning to me with a smile. “Well, Watson, what do you make of that?”
“I note that the second man, Hill, was wearing a white coat. While the constable obviously did not note its importance, it points to the man being a scientist or a physician.”
“Excellent, Watson! Yes, Dougal certainly missed the importance of the man’s dress, although his point as to its value in this weather is certainly pertinent. We may assume from the fact that neither of these two men were apparently dressed for the weather that they had only immediately arrived from a different climate, unprepared for the cold weather, and had not yet had the chance to purchase themselves the required garments. Alternatively, it could be that they lacked the capital to. What else?”
“It seems to me,” I began slowly, “very likely that these men were lying about having only recently arrived.”
“And why is that?” inquired my companion, beginning to walk northward with purpose.
“Well, the man’s coat for one. If it was indeed a white coat, why would he be wearing it outside? The most obvious inference is that he had just come from his place of work. Even if we were to argue that these men were too poor to afford proper winter clothing, one would surely have come from America in a more suitable travelling coat than a simple white coat.”
“Good, good,” murmured Holmes.
“In addition, unless they were severely lost it seems unlikely two men looking for relative would end up in a Whitechapel alley, and if they did why would they not ask directions of the constable unless they were there under a sinister purpose?”
“You surpass yourself, Watson,” said Holmes. “A very tidy deduction in all. What, then, do you make of the watch?”
“The watch?” I paused, uncertain. “I make very little of it. I did not see much of it, but it seemed to be most ordinary. I am uncertain how you deduced as much as you did from it.”
“Oh, it was quite simple. That the constable was living in poor circumstances was clear; he could not have afforded such a watch which would certainly be worth some five pounds. It was bought for him, then. By whom? He lives alone, and there was no trace of his having a sweetheart. By his family, clearly. The watch was new, almost unmarked and still with its original lustre. What occasion, near in the past, would his family have bought for him such a handsome present? Clearly his appointment to the force. There is no mystery in that. No, the mystery is in the attention paid the watch by the strangers.”
“Perhaps they really did want to know the time?”
“That is certainly the most likely possibility. But if we follow your assumptions as to their guilt, you must ask yourself: if you had returned to the scene of your crime and with the knowledge that a body lay behind you awaiting discovery, would you prolong a conversation with a police officer if at all avoidable?”
“Perhaps they did so to allay suspicion?”
“But there was no suspicion at this point. Furthermore, by initiating further conversation, they were drawing more attention to themselves and allowing the constable a further opportunity to memorize their features and clothes.”
“Seen like that, it does not seem the action of guilty men.”
“It is certainly a puzzle, Watson. I confess I find myself more and more drawn into this case. Originally I saw the pen as the only interesting feature, but I may have been hasty in that determination.”
As he spoke he turned a corner out of the narrow street we had been walking along into an alleyway. It was relatively wide, with space enough for at least five men to walk abreast, and was quite deep. The atmosphere inside was closed and dark, the tall brick buildings on either side seeming to lean in over one. There was a thin layer of snow here, although it had mostly been trampled away, probably by the police men. Holmes gave an exclamation of annoyance and paused at the corner of the mouth of the alley.
“Stand out of the way for a moment, if you would,” said he as he began to tiptoe back and forth along the alley wall peering at its floor. Finally he sighed and entered the alley proper, eyes downcast. He motioned for me to walk along the wall behind him, which I did. He finally paused at a turn-off halfway down. Here was stationed a constable, who watched us with suspicion.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes, looking up. “Inspector Lestrade informed you I might come by?”
“Yessir,” said the constable with a lightening face. “You can go in. Mind your step, it’s infernally dark.” The constable took a lantern up off the cobles beside him, lit a match on his boot and then applied it to the wick. He rose and handed the light to Holmes who took it with a nod and proceeded into the narrow offshoot, again walking slowly and keeping to the wall.
This second alley was much narrower, with only enough space for two men to walk side by side comfortably. Holmes raised the lantern, and I saw in its flickering beam, which overshadowed the poor light flooding down from above, that the alley was of hardly any length.
On one side, only a few paces in, was a small dark stain with a marker beside it. Here Holmes paused and looked all about for a long moment before closing in and bending down by the stain. The ground of the alley was spotted with small patches of snow here and there, but those from the stain to the alley’s mouth had been destroyed under over-active boots, and there were no traces which I could see of any one person’s entrance or exit, never mind the murderer’s. Holmes examined the ground here closely, then rose and made a careful sweep of the rest of the alley. Finally, he returned to me and we left the alley together, pausing only to return the lantern, and then re-entering the main road and stopping to watch for a cab.
“Well?” Asked I.
“Bah!” exclaimed Holmes. “Had they exercised the Infantry in that alleyway they could not more completely have effaced any marks. There are here and there the impression of an odd shoe of a type I have never seen before, round with little curved markings on the sole, but I could not find one entire print to examine, nor any two in a row so as to determine anything about the nature of the wearer. Apart from that there was only the bloodstain, which was of course too small to have been the original stain emanating from such a wound. Clearly the blow was struck somewhere else, but the body was moved soon afterwards, as is shown by the fact that any blood had continued to flow.”
“Surely the body would provide more clues?”
“I have no doubt that it would, had not Lestrade in his energies already had it taken off to the morgue. I fear he underestimated the difficulties of finding his quarries in this urban mire.”
“That certainly seems to be the case. What will you do now?”
“I think,” said Holmes as he hailed a cab, “that I shall have to make some discreet inquiries.”
