The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Ten

"The red buttonhole thread on my Belstaff coat. Adding color to a buttonhole is Dimitri's signature so to speak."

"I don't understand. He didn't make your coat."

"No, he enhanced it. He does more than create custom clothing. In Dimitri's skilled hands, a shirt or coat that was once a manufactured clone becomes one of a kind."

John shook his head. As long as his clothes fit, were practical, and looked nice on him, he was happy. He couldn't care less whether his shirt or trousers were special.

Maurice Sedwell was much smaller than the last shop. Two tall windows framed the door, showcasing four distinct suit styles. They walked inside, and the hubbub of the city faded away. The walls were lined in a shining cherry wood, and John's feet sank into jade green carpet. If it weren't for the displays of ties, jackets, and suit shirts, John would have thought he'd entered a vintage smoke shop. A slender Indian man stood at a long table, scissors snipping neatly away at a long piece of fabric. A cloth measuring tape hung over his shoulders like a scarf. Sherlock and John approached the counter. The man finished a section, and his dark eyes glanced briefly up at them before he continued his work, scissors following along another white line of chalk. "I hope Dimitri is alive and well."

"For the moment," Sherlock replied. "When he's not busy pickling his liver, he still fashions the occasional suit. He says he won't stop until he's dead."

The scissors slowed, and the cutting ceased. "He'll no doubt leave this mortal coil drunk and with a needle and thread clasped in his cold, Russian hands." A pause. "Considering what happened to his associates, it's not such a bad way to go."

"Indeed," Sherlock said.

Right. Definitely a story there. A shame there wasn't time for it.

Sherlock held out the handkerchief. "Did you make this?"

"I did. Would you like one for yourself?"

"No. The owner of this one won't be needing his any longer. He's dead."

A frown. "I'm sorry to hear that. How can I be of service? Perhaps a suit for the funeral?"

"We need the man's name. His body was found without any identification," John said.

Andrew's gaze sharpened. "While one of you has military bearing, neither of you are Scotland Yard. Shouldn't I be speaking to the authorities?"

"You are. I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and this is Doctor John Watson. We solve crimes together."

Knowing the arrogant assertion wasn't enough, John handed the man Lestrade's business card. "You're welcome to contact Scotland Yard for confirmation. We're here on their behalf."

"Are you any relation to Mycroft Holmes?" Andrew asked Sherlock, head tilting to the side.

Sherlock's expression immediately soured.

"Ah." A quirk of the lips. "You're the brother."

"I used to hold out hope I was adopted, but the DNA test results were irrefutable."

John snickered. Sherlock had been ten years old when he'd ordered the equipment to conduct his own DNA testing. He told John he'd repeated the test thirty times before finally accepting its validity.

This seemed to convince Andrew more than anything else, and he nodded. "I'll do what I can to help you, but I have more than one customer with these initials who requested the same script."

Sherlock held up his mobile. "I have a photo of the man in question."

"That will certainly make things easier." Andrew took the phone from Sherlock and peered at it, face grave. "Yes, this is Michael Alexander Wakefield. I finished his suit eight weeks ago."