A Scandal in Britain, Part 8/13

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

December 15

Together John and I stumbled through the dingy back halls of the arena. The bass thumps of the distant rehearsal, combined with the wail of Addie’s auto-tuned voice and her auto-tuned choir members, echoed through the concrete walls.

We turned a corner into a long featureless corridor. At the very end of it, a uniformed guard sat in a chair reading a magazine - with Addie on the cover. I pulled John into a closet and shut the door. It muffled the sound a bit, but not much.

“Where do we go?” John hissed.

“What?”

“Where do we go?”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Where - do - we - go?” he bellowed.

“Oh! Down! Look for a staircase!”

“What?”

This was ridiculous. I pointed in an exaggerated motion toward the floor. Finally he rolled his eyes, which I took to mean he finally understood. I slowly opened the closet door, glancing left, then right. The guard was much too interested in the article, and no doubt the pictures accompanying the article, to notice us. There was a sign on the opposite wall of a downward zig-zag line and an arrow. Hoping downward zig-zag lines and arrows were the universal sign for staircase this way, I pulled John behind me and dashed across the hall.

Behind a heavy door there was indeed a staircase, lined with concrete and promisingly utilitarian. We rushed down four flights to the very bottom. There was nothing at the lowest level save an ancient vending machine and a door. It wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open.

Now we were in a dark corridor, lined with stone and smelling of must and mould, and lit by a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling above. In front of us was yet another door, painted with flecking black paint and boasting an ancient threatening sign.

DOOR MUST REMAIN SHUT AT ALL TIME
DOOR IS ALARMED

As if this wasn’t deterrent enough, there was a large rusty padlock affixed to the jamb.

“What now?” John panted.

I scrutinised the ceiling. “Now we open the door.”

“What? And set off the alarm?”

I pointed above the door. “No alarm. The wire’s been cut.” Indeed, it hung severed and exposed from the ceiling.

His voice grew higher in desperation. “But how do we know that’s the wire for the alarm? Or that there isn’t a replacement somewhere in the wall?”

I opened my coat and took a little package from an inside pocket. “We don’t.”

John stared.

“Burgling kit,” I explained. “I always carry it with me. Never know when I might need one.” I let it fall open. It expanded like a wallet, revealing a set of silver keys, jemmys, and glass-cutters. I rubbed my palms together, selected an instrument, and leaned over the padlock to examine it. “No one else has tried to force the lock recently, but they must have a key somewhere upstairs. It would be the easiest thing in the world to inquire about it. Or pay someone else to inquire about it.” I poked the silver jemmy into the keyhole and began to prod.

“Hurry up,” he hissed. “I’m not keen on getting arrested right before my date. Which, I’ll have you remember, is at six.”

“You and your dates. Face it; you’re having more fun with me.”

He scowled. I decided not to press the point.

After what seemed like an eternity, the lock gave. I threw my weight against the door and it swung open, revealing five steep steps down to a cold, dank, dirt-lined tunnel that was only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. There was no light, so before I tucked away the kit, I selected the miniature torch and swept it from side to side in the darkness. The beam flashed across a giant rat, which blinked at us, then scurried away.

Satisfied, I hopped down the steps; John followed, slamming the door shut behind us.

Everything fell totally and utterly silent.

“Well,” I finally said. “Welcome to the London sewer.”

“This is disgusting,” he breathed. “How do we get out?”

“How do we get to Addie’s house, you mean?” I took out my phone and turned it on.

John stared at me incredulously. “You get a signal down here?”

I waited for a moment. “No.” I sighed. “Well. I’ll just have to go by memory, then.”

“By memory?” His voice was a near-shriek. “You can remember the layout of abandoned Victorian sewers but can’t be bothered with the names of the candidates for prime minister?”

“Stand still,” I ordered. I took my phone and put it next to his ear, then took a picture. The flash sparked.

“What the - ? Sherlock! My eyes!”

I retrieved the photo. It was nothing but a white blur. “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “If you’re ever stuck in the dark with a cell phone, take a picture of your skin with the flash on, then view the photo. It’s just as good as a torch.”

“Thanks for the tip, but I don’t intend on ever needing it,” he muttered. Nonetheless he took the phone and brandished it. Between the miniature torch from the kit and my phone, we had enough light to move forward.

“So we should be somewhere beneath Jackson Street. Where did she live again? Crowborough Court? That should be…” My eyes narrowed in the darkness. “In that general direction.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good idea.” I thought for a moment how best to continue. “Does your phone have a timer?”

“Yeah.”

“Start it.”

And with that we were off.

***

It wasn’t long before the narrow tunnel gave way to a very large one. I aimed the light up at the ceiling. It arched high above us, like the chapel of some mighty cathedral devoted to the transportation of faeces. The deeper and deeper we tunnelled, the more and more potent the smell became, and the thicker and stickier the muck beneath our shoes. I narrated for John what streets and landmarks we were passing beneath, although he displayed a rather disappointing lack of interest in my geographical knowledge. Finally we turned a corner.

“We’re here. This is it!” I spun around. “Right beneath Crowborough Court. How long did it take?”

“Umm…thirty-two minutes.” He had his mouth and nose covered with his sleeve, and his voice was pinched.

“Excellent. So. Divide our time in half, as she would no doubt have been familiar with the route and gone faster than we did. Divide in three if she’s running. So, approximately eight to fourteen minutes to her house; eight to fourteen minutes back. Four minutes to get out of the sewer and into the house; four minutes to get out of the house and into the sewer. Five, six, seven minutes for the crime. That’s…” I made a quick calculation. “Twenty-nine to forty-three minutes.” A giant grin came over my face, and I hopped about a few times in exaltation. “It works! It works, John! And she doesn’t have to outsource a thing. Wicked clever!”

His exp​ression was more dubious than I expected. “It’s cutting it all a bit close, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” I said, pocketing the torch. “But she’s obviously in shape.”

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?”

I didn’t think such a remark warranted a response. “Come on,” I said, ascending a rusty metal ladder affixed to the bricks. “Let’s get out of here.”

For once he didn’t protest.

***

Once we were above ground (in Crowborough Court as I had ascertained, I might add), we set off by foot for Baker Street.

As soon as we were out of the sewer, I immediately turned on my phone and waited for a signal. Just as I’d hoped, I’d gotten a message during our little underground sojourn.

“Ha! She finally got back to me. Stop spying, she says. Well, turnabout is fair play, isn’t it, Miss Adler? Meet me at Tiki at ten to discuss. Excellent.”

“Sherlock, I have a date.”

“Tiki. Let’s see…” I searched. “It’s a club. Upscale. You’ll want to wear - oh.” I suddenly realised what he’d said. “Well.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, but I - ”

“If you’d really prefer to meet with your girlfriend instead of an internationally acclaimed pop star who has the capability to change world history…then I suppose that’s your prerogative.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “Don’t make me feel guilty. I made plans ages ago.”

I stopped and stared at him. “I’m not making you - ”

“Yes. Yes, you are. You want to drag me into absolutely everything, and then you guilt me if I don’t want to come. I told you yesterday, you’ve got to learn how to get along without me.”

“I do get along without you! I just thought you’d want to be at the conclusion of our little adventure.” I sniffed. “That’s all.”

“Conclusion? You have no proof she did any of this!”

“Maybe not, but I do have enough new evidence to get Lestrade to re-open the investigation. And she’s going to want to avoid even that. Don’t you understand? We have the upper hand, John!”

The scepticism of his gaze made me uncomfortable, and so I stepped out into the street to hail a cab. A few moments later, one pulled up beside us.

I opened the door. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll walk, thanks,” he said.

And he started off down the street.

I watched him for a moment, certain he would change his mind and turn around - but he never did. He disappeared alone into the vast dim-witted crowd I had been cursing in the arena. I grimaced, then sat down in the back of the cab by myself.

***

Sherlock? I still need to read this entry, but they’re not called “choir members.” They’re “back-up singers.”

Choir members. lol You haven’t listened to a single pop recording in your LIFE, have you?

- Comment posted by John Watson


I bet you don’t know anything about the motets of Lasso, either. Not to mention his madrigals. Or his chansons. Or his lieder. In fact, I bet you’re looking up Lasso right this moment. And you’re confused because the first entry is for a type of rope.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Hmm. Hard drive getting a little cluttered, is it?

- Comment posted by John Watson


My hard drive has a special folder devoted to mankind’s greatest artistic achievements. While yours apparently has an entire partition devoted to scantily clad gyrating women who can’t sing without the use of an auto-tuner.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


I wondered why you smelled like the loo that night! It’s all starting to make sense now…

Also…I know we’ve had a couple of fights lately, but…that was really sweet, John. I know how much it means to you to go with Sherlock, and what a big fan of Addie you are, and the fact that you wanted to spend time with me instead… That’s just really sweet. Thank you.

- Comment posted by Sarah Sawyer


The only reason he chose you is that he couldn’t have sex with Addie. Otherwise he would have come along in a heartbeat.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


*sigh* I think I must be developing some kind of horrible immunity, because I know I should be outraged at the previous comment, and yet I can’t seem to muster the energy to care…

Thank you, Sarah. You know I love you.

- Comment posted by John Watson


I love you, too.

- Comment posted by Sarah Sawyer


I love you more. :)

- Comment posted by John Watson


Do you really have to do that on my blog??

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Three words: John and Sherlock in a totally darkened closet. whoooo-hooooooo! Wow I’m drunk. I’m SOOO drunk right now. Sherlock I’m gayer than the Day is long but you make me question all of it I swearrr. i wish I could take you and run my hands

- Comment posted by Harry Watson
- Comment edited by Sherlock Holmes


Although the previous comment was entertaining, my mother does read this blog.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


o_o

What the…?

- Comment posted by John Watson


My boss wants to let you know that he’s delighted to hear you’re getting some use out of your Christmas present. All of his friends at the office enjoyed their kits, too. The silver-plated jemmy has been especially popular.

- Comment posted by Anthea


LOL! I have no memory of posting that!!

I enjoyed this entry. The ending’s so sad, though! JOHN!! You’re supposed to realise how much you LOVE HIM, not abandon him on the street! Don’t you realise he’s YOUR LIFE PARTNER??

- Comment posted by Harry Watson


You still haven’t told her who I am yet, have you?

- Comment posted by Sarah Sawyer


Um…no.

- Comment posted by John Watson