Chapter Text
When Father John Watson returned the large brass key to his pocket and turned away from the massive green doors of St. Edmund King & Martyr Catholic Church, the last thing he expected to see was a man leaning on the pillar only feet away from him. He was tall, that much was obvious, but since he faced away from the wall light it was hard to make out any other details.
“I’m assuming you’re not the pastor of this church,” the stranger remarked in a deep baritone.
John, who had gone very still as he assessed the potential danger of his situation, relaxed minutely. Surely if he was going to be mugged, he wouldn’t be asked such a mundane question.
“No, I’m just an associate priest,” he answered, taking a few steps forward in hopes of getting a better look at the stranger. “I didn’t hear you come up the steps, sorry.”
“I was on the other side of the pillar when you came out.”
Perhaps mugging was still on the table. “Were you waiting? You could have come in, I was just cleaning up after Mass.” He could see a bit of the stranger’s face now; the dim moonlight bounced off his face in such a way that made his prominent cheekbone cast a shadow across his face.
“Didn’t want to risk the thunderbolt strike,” the stranger deadpanned.
John smiled tersely before shivering slightly--it was mid-November, after all, and the sun had long since set. “I’m sure Father Braun would be more than happy to talk to you tomorrow, if you’re looking for him. He has open Confession from noon until two.”
“I’m afraid this is rather urgent; I’m with Scotland Yard. Is he around?”
John’s eyebrows raised slightly; with each sentence, this conversation became more bizarre.
“Has there been a crime?”
“Yes.”
John pulled his brown leather jacket tighter around himself as he considered his response for a few moments. “Can I see your badge?”
The man sighed, reaching into the pocket of his peacoat and flashing the requested item for the briefest of moments. Satisfied by his confidence if nothing else, and figuring himself and his colleague rather low-risk anyway, John started down the handful of steps. “He should be at the rectory, he’s normally reading in his study by now. I can let you in.”
The man followed several steps behind as they took the very short trip to the building next door. “I would also like to talk to you as well, assuming you have been at St. Edmund’s for at least several months.”
As John stepped onto the small stoop and reached into his pocket to retrieve his house key, he nodded. “I’ve been here about ten months. Got here the week before Ash Wednesday.” The door swung open, revealing a small foyer. John dropped his keyring and the brass church key into a dish to the left and shrugged off his jacket. “I can take your coat, if you’d like.”
John turned, but the man either ignored him or didn’t hear him; he was looking around the room intently. Foolishly, John wished for a moment that he could have tidied up a bit before having a guest; the house was always kept fairly clean by a housekeeper, but Susan only visited twice a week and John had a habit of leaving books out.
“Is the study upstairs?” the stranger asked, eyes still roaming the room.
“No, it’s just off the sitting room,” John replied, realizing he’d been staring at the man and turning away. He couldn’t help it; now that he could get a good look, he realized that the stranger from Scotland Yard was quite striking. He wouldn’t call him handsome, but something about him--maybe his opaque, turquoise eyes--made him quite good-looking. He blushed at the thought, hoping sincerely that the stranger still paid him no attention.
“I suppose I could talk to you first.”
“You don’t want to talk to us together?” John asked, a little surprised that the stranger had suddenly taken an interest in him when before he had seemed so interested in Father Braun.
Finally, the stranger looked at John (who ignored the strange fluttering feeling in his stomach). “No. It’s always good to get separate accounts when possible.”
“Was it a bad crime, then?” John asked, immediately wishing he’d picked more sophisticated words.
“Yes. We could sit down, if you like; this might take several minutes.”
“Right, of course. I can put on a kettle,” John replied as he led the stranger into the sitting room. It was rather small, with a couch and two armchairs surrounding a coffee table dominating most of the room. A television was mounted on the wall opposite the couch, and John turned it off with the remote sitting on an end table. “Father Braun has a bad habit of keeping the telly on,” he said, feeling the need to explain for some reason, but the stranger ignored him to now examine this room.
“Tea sounds lovely, thank you,” the stranger said as he pulled off his leather gloves and put them in his coat pocket, settling gracefully into the tan armchair nearest the doorway.
“Right,” John repeated, oddly glad to take leave of his visitor; he felt strange and off-balance somehow; perhaps it was because of his profession, or because of his strange introduction, or--and John immediately repressed this thought--because of his rather nice appearance. As a priest, thoughts like those simply weren’t on.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he got himself a glass and filled it with tap water; he sipped it, looking out the window into the tiny, dimly-lit garden just outside. His nerves were beginning to subside; part of it was the familiarity of preparing the tea tray, how automatic it was for him to open the second cupboard to the left for teacups and saucers, the satisfaction of spooning just the right amount of tea leaves into the filter of the teapot. By the time he returned to the sitting room with two cups of tea and their fixings, John had a few questions to ask, and he started with the most basic one.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch it on the badge--what’s your name again?” He set the tray down on the coffee table between them and settled onto the couch, saucer in hand.
“Sherlock Holmes. And you are?” The stranger--Sherlock--looked up at him from under his lashes as he bent forward for his own tea.
“Father John Watson,” John replied. “Can I ask what you’re here investigating? I’m not a… suspect, am I?” He chuckled uneasily. Sherlock did not.
“You have not been ruled out, but there is no reason to suspect you are the perpetrator, no.”
“Cheers to that,” John muttered to himself. “I suppose you have some questions for me then?”
“Does the name Anna Mueller mean anything to you?”
“Yes, Anna used to be our housekeeper, but she moved to another parish several months ago.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows raised minutely. “Do you know what parish she transferred to?”
John bit his lip as he thought. “It was one of the Sacred Heart parishes in North Walsham… Saint John of the Cross I think it was. Yeah, Father Schmidt joked that he was leaving one John for another.”
“Who?” Sherlock asked, voice level, but John could sense a sudden current of energy coming from him now.
“Henry Schmidt. He was another associate priest here, but he got transferred to Aylsham in July. Anna went with him.” He started to say more, but decided that unless he was asked, he wouldn’t add any more than the hard facts.
Almost before he had finished his sentence, Sherlock had whipped out a mobile and was tapping rapidly at it, standing and pacing in the small room. After he finished what John assumed was a text and shoved his mobile back into his pocket, he turned on his heel and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as his gaze returned to John.
“I need you to tell me everything about the relationship between Anna Mueller and Henry Schmidt.”
John licked his lips nervously, standing. “I don’t--I think Father Braun would be better--”
“No. I need you to tell me. Father Watson, lives may depend on this.”
His mouth fell open. “Anna isn’t--she wasn’t--is she dead?”
“Father Watson,” Sherlock pressed, bracing his hands over the back of the armchair and nearly buzzing with suppressed energy.
“John,” he corrected without thinking as his brain caught up. “I--I don’t know for sure, it’s just speculation, but I think--well, all the staff, as far as I know--think they were having some sort of affair. Henry would sleep… well, not here, a few times a week, especially towards the end. We were afraid gossip would spread amongst the parishioners, so we--Father Braun, I mean--requested that Henry be moved to another parish. We hoped Anna would stay here and find someone else, but she went with him to Aylsham.”
“Was there anything odd about Father Schmidt? Was he well-liked?”
“He was quiet. Erratic, maybe, he would get easily agitated sometimes. Apparently his homilies were rather eccentric, too; I never heard one, but from what I could infer from the welcome I got from parishioners, they were glad that Henry would not be saying Mass as often.”
Sherlock had begun pacing again. “A killer like that--” John’s stomach swooped as his fear was confirmed-- “has had practice. This wasn’t his first murder. While Father Schmidt was here in Bury St. Edmunds, were there any unsolved murders? Freak accidents?”
John’s eyebrows furrowed as he searched his memory, his adrenaline starting to spike in response to Sherlock’s frantic energy. “I mean, he was here for two or three years before I got here, but in May a little girl went missing. They never solved it.”
“The killer would need someplace private for this.” John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was talking to him or himself. ”I’m assuming a murder could not take place in this building without someone finding out.” He glanced at John again. “Are there any places Father Schmidt could have enough privacy to potentially dismember--”
“Dismember?” John blurted out before he could stop himself.
Sherlock paused, having the good grace to look rather sheepish for the briefest of moments. “Yes, Anna Mueller was dismembered, but it was too clean of a job to be a first try. Are there any places, on property owned by Saint Edmund’s especially, that he would have the time and space to do that? A…storage shed, or…?” He trailed off.
“We don’t have a shed, but… I guess the basement of the church isn’t used often. It’s where the furnace is, and we keep decorations down there, a few relics that we have, spare furniture… Last time someone would have been down there was probably to put away the Easter things towards the beginning of April, and the only other time we decorate is Advent and Christmas, so probably no one has been down there since.”
“Show me.” Again, Sherlock turned toward John, eyes shining. “The Yard is looking into Henry Schmidt, and Aylsham is nearly two hours away anyway, I’d be too late. We have time.”
John only thought about it for a few moments. “Alright. I’ll get the keys.”