Vanessa Ives (mirrorsbehind) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-09-03 21:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !penny dreadful(s), *log, sherlock holmes, vanessa ives |
log: sherlock and vanessa bond over a body
Who: Sherlock and Vanessa
What: Investigating a corpse, possibly tbc.
Where: London, Penny Dreadful
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: Mentions of corpses? Nothing explicit.
Vanessa was outside the station promptly when she had agreed to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man whose reputation preceded him, but not his reality. She knew of the books, trumped up penny dreadfuls, that had been written about him and his cases by his colleague. She had not purchased any in preparation for this moment, and her only memory of them came from a brief perusal in a bookshop a year or two earlier.
She had not prepared because she was more interested in man than myth, and she did like a surprise. Her life was short on them of late, with the exception, of course, of the body.
While Mina had been out gallivanting in other doors, Vanessa had been looking for the murderer, and she had come up empty. She had tracked down the dead woman’s sister, and she had chased down the clothes to a rental shop on the docks, substantiating the guess that she had played dress up doll for someone else. The tarot cards and the pin, so far, had yielded no leads - but she had not tried every jeweler, nor every pawnshop and fence. Without a network through which to gather information, she was purely a one woman army, but she had no doubt she would discover its origins, and soon.
The tarot cards, cheaply printed and flimsy, she had left on the corpse. Her own, however, were in her inside pocket now.
In the night, when the remaining two servants in the cavernous and quiet Murray household had gone to bed, she had spread them on the floor in a broad arc. She had laid out a celtic cross and posed a question of the woman’s origins, but they had come up undecided, unclear as a murky pond, interpretations that contradicted each other and no clear way forward.
She had shuffled them into her hand, spread them again, and took longer the second time, lingering more on each card, laying each one out with more care, waiting for the sign, waiting for the lightning, waiting to reach through the ether and touch the truth of what her Mina was now, what the dead woman had suffered, whether the two were connected in any way at all.
As she stood outside the station, there was no sign of the frayed and loose woman of the evening before, hair roughly plaited then, shift slipping down around her shoulders, dark eyes and quick fingertips running over the card backs again and again with the slip sliver of skin on paper and wood. Now she was dressed in black, the collar of the dress gathered high around her neck, her hair piled atop her head and wound with a silk braid and lace. Her sleeves were buttoned almost to her wrists, but descended in a gauzey material from the elbows, letting the summer breeze more easily cool her skin.
The hem was decidedly up and above the level of the ground, and the dress was in a somewhat out of fashion silhouette, lacking the large, puffed shoulders of the day, rather more slim and fit to her figure. The hem said most; its distance from the ground, exposing businesslike black leather boots. She was a participant in the rational dress movement. How novel.
She did cut a figure, standing and waiting beside the doorway to the police station, gently sending along two separate gentlemen who stopped to offer assistance to a strange lady who stood by the door to the police station but did not go inside. She seemed calm enough, self-possessed and observant. Respectable? Perhaps.
She gave no indication of where her thoughts lay - with Mina, with her worries for her. Gone so long, and simply not coming back? A girl exsanguinated next door the very night before she left? This could not be coincidence, and to think so turned her sense of dread into something more palpable, a thing with fingers and weight clutching her shoulder, a thing that knew what she did not dare admit to herself. Not yet. Not without more proof could she believe the worst.
God help her, she would not see Mina die again.
When Sherlock Holmes approached, however, she was shiny and black as a feather, neat, clean, and confident. No concern, no fear of the death inside this building, no frayed madwoman who cursed the holy at seances, no broken fingernails. Her surgery scars hid under hair, and the brand she had received, so long ago now, was concealed by clothing. She was a warm smile and a lovely dress, and a man had once called her the greatest mystery in London. Perhaps that would appeal, if Mr. Holmes dared divert his attention from the corpse.
Sherlock Holmes came forth alone, sans said companion. He had obviously come from elsewhere, his attire entirely suited for an afternoon tea room: white and cream and suit of black. His fierce, hawklike nose and slightly narrowed eyes gave him a look of ongoing fierceness, but as he came closer, both hands behind his back and without the walking stick most fashionable men carried, it became obvious that his thoughts were entirely elsewhere, and his expression almost vague. Every few steps he formed a faint ‘o’ with his mouth, as if exhaling pipe smoke, and he seemed to press forward, shoulders first, into the future. This was a proper kind of neighborhood, and a proper station to go with it, but several older constables recognized him as they passed, on their way off-duty or on-, and one could be heard to say, “Glad to see you back, Mr. Holmes,” as he touched the brim of his hat.
His time abroad had given Sherlock Holmes a positively heathen tan to his already unfashionable skin, and while naturally tall and thin, he was skinny as a rail and brought with him a bizarre, restless energy. He was practically on top of her before he stopped short, and from under the rim of his top hat (decently fashionable, though without fur), he brought his gaze up from the hem of her black gown. It was the kind of look that men might call him out for if he did it to their wives, but he was looking at her clothes, not her. Then he was looking at her neck, and her ear, and her hair, and then, only then, did he meet her eyes.
Victorian fashion was murder in summer, but he stood there in the afternoon sun and watched her for about ten seconds before giving a proper little bow from the lowest step. “Good day, madame. I apologize for the lateness of the hour. Tea went on much longer than expected.” No civil person would say they were late because of tea without the excuse of some sort of prominent hostess, but Holmes offered none. He also didn’t introduce himself, as he seemed to assume she knew who he was. His mouth formed a flat line of irritation at the experience with Irene, which had served its purpose while at the same time leaving him dissatisfied with the whole thing.
Overconfident, perhaps, Holmes thought he was more likely to get what he wanted out of a corpse than Irene Adler. And up until the moment he caught a glimpse of Vanessa Ives’ hair, he hadn’t much interest in her as a person, either. So far the corpse was ahead by a stride, but the live women were gaining. Holmes gave a little wave toward the station. “After you.”
The short bow drew an enigmatic tic upward in her smile. Oh, she did like a rude man who went through the motions. It was strangely charming, in its way, and she had expected nothing less of him. She was hardly conventional herself. There were certain codes to be performed, certain rules to be obeyed, but she was unruffled by the lack of an excuse for his lateness. "Mr. Holmes," she greeted, in her peculiarly hoarse tones. If Sherlock Holmes was truly late because he had been caught at a polite tea, she would eat every inch of her lovely lace, not with a look on his face as he'd had when he walked up.
He was decently fashionable, but he dressed in such a way that made it ultimately clear he was a bachelor - if the long look at the hem of her dress hadn't given him away. That was not the stare of an avaricious lecher. "I can have the pattern sent round to your residence," she quipped, before traipsing up the stairs in the direction of the dead body. "I was unaware you'd gone abroad," she said. "I thought the papers covered all of your movements, these days. What region were you travelling?"
She had once read a man (a man now missing, and who was missed) from his pocketwatch and the state of his clothes, told him who he was when he claimed to be no one but a carnival sideshow. She had known him for more, and she knew Sherlock Holmes to be more than a fine top hat and a chummy greeting from the local constabulary, and all without a whiff of the sort of reading she'd learned from the Cut Wife.
Inside, the police station was stuffy and warm. The man at the desk was not smoking, but the scent of a pipe rolled out from the the offices of the Detective Inspector, whose door was closed. "I assume you have free reign of the morgue, these days? Otherwise, I may cry." She smiled at him sideways. Tears could open so many doors, if you knew to use them correctly.
“Thank you,” he said, gravely, matching her whispery croak (strangely attractive, he approved, as if she chose her voice from a shop shelf), “but I am already familiar with the dressmaker’s art, and have no need of patterns.” He was absolutely serious, and didn’t give a fig whether she really understood his interest.
A thick eyebrow raised upward in her direction when she spoke of his absence. He thought most of London had been aware of his “death” at the hands of the Professor at the Falls, and certainly his abrupt return had been greeted with a combination of chagrin and delight, depending on to whom you spoke. “France,” he said, shortly, not thinking of making himself pleasant for conversation.
Sherlock Holmes pressed deeper into the shadows of the building, seeing disorganization everywhere and picking up small details of men, women and cases that did not interest him. He was far behind pocket watches and clothes at this point, eying wear patterns at the edge of shoes and indigestion in the colouring of the skin. He mentioned none of this. He glanced sideways at her. “A formidable weapon in a woman’s toolbox,” he said, somewhat contemptuously. “But unnecessary, in this case.” He paraded intentionally past the desk sergeant, who started to stop him but then recognized the hawk-like profile and swallowed his tongue mid-exclamation. Nose first, Sherlock Holmes went past the closed offices and was stopped at a odorous door guarded by a bored man holding a pen.
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” he announced. “Please inform the surgeon that I am here.”
He pledged knowledge of dressmaking, and, to her interest, did not appear to be joking. Had there not been some rumor that Mr. Holmes could adopt any role required to solve a mystery for a client, adopting new identities and shedding them at will? Perhaps a few women lay amongst that panoply of pretended people. He would cut a rather stark figure in rouge with that nose of his.
Vanessa did not question the mention of France, not really, but it was clear she had read nothing of Mr. Holmes' apparent death. She did, however, wonder aloud to herself. "What appeal for a great mind has France? Surely it was not the wine that sent you. Or the women." His disinterest in the latter was as notorious as the rest of him.
Still, rumor aside, she had a difficult time imagining so quintessentially English a gentleman touring the continent purely to see the sights and purchase souvenirs. Perhaps it had been to study others, or learn some new and obscure trade he might apply to his work. Did Mr. Holmes liaise with a dark person in the corners of French public houses? No, such a thing seemed unimaginable. He could not have gone to eat strong food and peruse the lava stone cameos and petite mosaics of Italy that so many travelers took away with them to mark their stays. What did this sort of man travel for, if not to learn, or to escape? What did they all travel for, whatever the pretense, if not to flee something?
She had gone nowhere, though that might soon be rectified. She had dreamed of world-travelling when she was young, and thought that crossing an ocean was required to color a life with darkness and excitement.
When he dismissed her offer of tears with contempt, her smiled pressed a little wider. He could not know the kind of tears she had meant to employ, but nevermind. She knew what it was to be thought exceptional, abnormal. For men like Mr. Holmes, it could bring the acclaim of a nation, but for women it was very rarely so. The best she could do now was to live her reputation down, and conceal what lay beneath with as much banality as possible.
By the time they reached the desk, the turn of her mouth had become dour as a schoolmarm, sloe eyes and tight-pressed lips, severe, unforgiving, and holding herself together with the fragility of grief in all her black. Now she was the mourning woman steeling herself to identify a corpse, an appropriate companion for the great detective. The mirth had gone away, gone as if it never was.
Sherlock knew how to hide everything about himself, including the nose, and could sink into identities not his own with disturbing facility. It was not so much appearance, but expectation and attitude. Indeed, while it was a philosophical conundrum that Sherlock Holmes might know enough about himself to hide identifying features, the more relevant question was how often, and how far his reach went when he was not himself. (Answer: often, and very far.)
As far as France went? “Tar.” That was it. Over his shoulder, distracted, barely coherent, mind obviously elsewhere.
He turned his head back to the man still behind the desk, who was staring at both of them. Sherlock narrowed his eyes contemptuously at the man. Clearly, he found small people who didn’t jump to his immediate bidding irritating. “We are here to identify a corpse, and ideally, a murderer. If you are not helping, constable, then open the door and move out of my path.” Sherlock didn’t care who thought he was abnormal, because the world thought he was abnormal, so for him, to be abnormal was normal.
The constable began to bluster, but Sherlock didn’t allow it, and progressed forward until the man was forced to either physically stop him or get out of the way. Wisely, the man chose to get out of the way. “Thank you. I will inform the surgeon of our arrival myself. Come, Miss Ives. Let us not take any more of the constable’s time.” He linked his hands behind his back once more and leaned forward into the shadows of the cool room under the building. The stench of death and cold meat rose quickly around them, as no building would ever be cool enough to resist the heat of London’s summer.
Unlike the much younger constable at the desk, the first person who turned to meet them recognized Sherlock Holmes immediately. He had an old injury to one leg that caused him to hobble on a cane, and it was blatantly obvious why Holmes treated him with a modicum more respect than anyone else so far. His request to see the corpse was granted almost immediately. Miss Ives was deferentially offered tea and a chair while the detective worked.
Tar? How terribly cryptic. She'd ask, later, when he was least expecting to be asked.
She watched him handle the man at the desk, remaining beautiful and saddened, which provided for much. She followed after him with a hand gathered in her skirt on the stair. There was much to be said about a woman's education by the way she handled steep stairways, and she navigated them with the aplomb of being provided lessons in just such tricky maneuvers.
Once inside the room beneath the building, she smelled the death. More, she felt the death. It was in the corners of this place - in its keeper's crippled leg, seething silently - in the tile that clicked beneath her boots. She stood in it and let it wreathe her like a cloud of smoke. She was not afraid, but it was a change in atmosphere. There were good deaths here, but there were many, many more bad ones. If she had no interest in learning more about them, she would need to remain focused on the present. And what better way to remain focused on the task at hand than to study a corpse?
She accepted the offer of tea with a nod, not a smile, and looked down at the woman as if she'd known her all her life. But there was the puzzlement again, at this doppleganger dressed in a costume of wealth, cold and naked on a table, displayed in full view of herself and two leaning gentlemen. It was difficult not to feel as she'd felt when she first saw it - that the woman on the table being gawped at was herself, made mute, flat and empty as she’d been during her illness.
A sheet preserved decorum, but it did not hide the contusion she had spoken of, small and irritated on the woman's neck. "Was the cause of death determined?" she asked the man with the cane. Her interest could have been a love for the woman, but it was a shrewdly academic question. She, at this point, assumed Mr. Holmes would vouch for any questions she might ask, simply by being in her company.
The doctor was understandably flustered by the presence of a woman, especially when she insisted upon entering the examining room in the great detective's wake. He did not introduce her, either by oversight or some intentional purpose of his own, and the doctor made gawping and fluttering noises in turn. Sherlock did not need the man's skills at the moment, focused as he was on external evidence and not anything a medical man might find. The woman was dead, and given her unusual pallor, probably through exsanguination, like the others. He let the man babble on to Vanessa Ives as he took out a glass and focused it, with the aid of a lamp, on the dead woman's neck.
There was clattering as he put down the lamp in favor of a set of tiny metal tongs that measured in millimeters. After this examination he said, "Hm!" and sat back on his well-shaped heels, contemplating the dead woman's skin as he pressed his lips together in thought. A half-minute went by, in which he entirely ignored any inquiries or conversation directed his way, and then he abruptly bent down and lifted the body with both hands, peering underneath and looking for lividity he didn't find.
In an age where only lesser surgeons touched patients, and more prestigious doctors wouldn't dream of doing more than the distasteful taking of a pulse, Sherlock's hands-on approach was abrupt and shocking. Even the surgeon twitched in surprise as Sherlock set the body back down on the slab as if it was a great disappointment. "Hm!" he said again.
Vaguely, his eyes focused across the room on the surgeon. "Thank you, my good man." And he swept back toward the stairs, pocketing his glass.