The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Five

Fists clenching, Donovan jerked forward a step and snarled. "If you've done anything to endanger my chances, I swear I'll-"

A low chuckle echoed off the alley walls. "Oh please. You're more than capable of endangering your chances all on your own, Sergeant." The last word came out sounding less like an honorific and more like a hideous fungus found lurking between someone's toes.

"You arrogant, manky maggot. You bloody freak." If the snow hadn't already melted, Donovan's steady stream of scathing epithets would have done the trick. Her elbow drew back as if she were about to take a swing at Sherlock.

"Easy." Lestrade placed a quelling hand on her arm. "Why don't you go canvass the area and see if there are any other witnesses?"

Managing a stiff nod, Donovan spun on her heel and stalked back down the alley.

"Was that really necessary?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I can only handle so much stupid."

John had little sympathy for the woman. The surly Sergeant went out of her way to antagonize Sherlock. While John was fully aware that a number of people disliked his friend, very few were as hateful as Sally Donovan.

John knelt beside the dead woman, and the damp seeped into the knees of his trousers. A brown hand bag lay a short distance away. Lipstick, a pair of reading glasses, a small box of pseudoephedrine, and a handful of butterscotch candies spilled out of it. "Any ID?"

"Not even a library card," Lestrade said.

"Do you think it was an attempted mugging gone wrong?"

"It would appear that way," Sherlock said, his tone as bland as his expression.

If John had learned one thing from his friend, it was not to take anything at face value. "Go on then, tell us what you've found."

"You first."

"So you can mock me? Absolutely not."

"Coward." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Lestrade? Any astute observations you'd care to share, or would you prefer not to try at all?"

Lestrade's gaze bounced around the alley. "She doesn't belong here," he muttered.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Oh, really? Do tell."

"There's only night clubs and bars along this street and everyone knows Stratford is a magnet for muggers, pickpockets, and thieves."

"So?"

"She's at least seventy-five years old. She's got on heavy work boots, wool trousers, and the tackiest New Year's jumper I've ever seen. Doesn't really fit in here, does she?"

A row of mutilated looking fireworks meandered across the front of the red jumper, if they could even be called fireworks. They were more like neon green blobs with noodle arms.

"John has one worse than that," Sherlock said.

"I do not. My gran knits lovely geometric patterns, not blobby whatever those are. Whoever made this wasn't very good. The stitches aren't even." Guilt pricked at him. "Not that I'm insulting her, if she was the one who made it. Maybe she was learning."

"Or blind," Sherlock said.

"My point is that no elderly woman with any sense would set foot within this ten kilometer radius of East London. She had no reason to be here," Lestrade said.

Sherlock turned the woman's head to the side. Jelly-like blood oozed from a massive wound on the back of her head.

Peering closer, John frowned. "That's odd."