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eveglassA new story for my Call of Cthulhu game, in which my character takes her first step into learning forensics at the hands of an NPC modelled after Sherlock Holmes. Good times, good times...
Elementary, My Dear Painter
The good news, Marie reflected as the elevator car trundled slowly upward, was that she had finally been released from the hospital, back to the comforts of her own apartment and her own bed. She was free from the constant harassment of nurses and orderlies, free to wake and sleep and wander as she chose.
The bad news was that she no longer had Aegis coming to check in on her; she needed to go to them.
The doors opened with a clang as they reached the sixth floor. Light streamed in through the window. Marie stepped out of the lift and the doors shut behind her as the car began its slow descent back to the main floor.
At least they didn’t hassle her. Aegis had gotten used to her hours. They wouldn’t be concerned until evening. Some of the long-time staff might have been positively shocked to see her stepping into headquarters in the light of the mid-morning sun. The hospital had her waking at hours respectable people might consider reasonable. No doubt it wouldn’t last.
It wasn’t a long-time staffer at the desk today, however. Agent Charles Anderson sat elegantly poised, eyes closed. Marie walked the half-dozen paces to the desk, wondering if he had fallen asleep, and why Captain Faraday had not yet been informed.
“Ah, Painter,” said Agent Anderson without opening his eyes. “It’s early for you, isn’t it?”
Marie frowned. “How did you know it was me?”
The agent from Scotland Yard opened his eyes. “There are few enough people who enter the sixth floor wearing heels. And none of them with your choice in perfume.”
Marie blinked. It seemed so simple when he said it that way. “Well, I’m here. Is there anything you need today, or…”
Agent Anderson shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I shall note in my shift report that you are alive, that you don’t appear to be possessed or otherwise under duress, and that your recovery seems to be progressing as planned. Dr. Evans mentioned that you had an appointment this week, but unless I am mistaken – and I am rarely mistaken – that is not until tomorrow. You’re free to spend the rest of the day as you wish.”
Marie nodded. She had been meeting with her psychiatrist regularly in the hospital, at least two or three times a week. She still did not feel back to her usual self. Even beyond the dizziness and headaches that sometimes afflicted her, she was having trouble fully separating her own memories from Elizabeth’s. Boston had not been good to her. She hoped not to need to go back for some time.
Thinking of Boston brought back other memories. She paused. “I’m still interested in what we talked about at the square,” she said tentatively. “About learning how you found out all that information after the fight. It was remarkable.”
Anderson’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”
Marie took a breath. “If you’re willing to teach me, that is. When you have time.”
Anderson leaned forward slightly in his chair. “I have time right now,” he said.
Marie furrowed her brow. “Aren’t you on shift right now?”
“Clearly,” said the Agent with a dismissive gesture. “But one can use deductive reasoning at any time, and now is as good as any. Let us take an easy example. Who was on shift before me?”
Marie cocked a head to the side, wondering if the question was some sort of trick, but Anderson seemed serious enough. Marie shrugged and turned to Faraday’s office door, where the duty roster hung.
Agent Anderson held up a hand. “No cheating,” he said. “Answer the question based on your own observations.”
Marie’s mouth hung open a moment, and she closed it. “How could anyone answer that question?”
Anderson gave her a chiding glance. “I will give you some information for free: I have been on shift for one hour, twenty-three minutes, and I have not touched the desk since I came on duty.”
Marie shook her head. “I don’t see how that helps me.”
“You can begin by looking at the desk. What do you see?”
Marie held his glance for a moment more, but it was clear Anderson was not giving away any secrets. She shrugged and turned her gaze downward. “A newspaper. A coffee cup. An ashtray. A lamp. An inkpot.”
“Good,” Anderson replied. “And what does that tell you?”
Marie widened her hands in confusion. “I don’t know.”
“The newspaper,” Anderson prompted. “Is it neat or messy?”
Marie looked at it. It seemed to have been opened and folded backwards several times. The pages in the middle stuck out at odd angles. The edges were smudged. “Messy,” she replied with barely a pause.
“And? Does that eliminate any options for you?”
It took her barely longer to answer than the previous question. “Madame Suzanne,” she said. Indeed, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it herself. The idea that Suzanne would have left the newspaper in anything but near-pristine form, at perfect angles to the table, was ridiculous.
“Quite so,” Anderson replied. “What else?”
Marie studied each of the objects in turn, still uncertain.
“Turn your attention to the ashtray,” Anderson prompted when she had struggled a sufficiently long time. “What do you see?”
Marie shrugged. “Ashes. A lot of them.”
“And…”
Marie bit her lip. “Monsieur Kyle doesn’t smoke,” she said after a moment.
Anderson nodded. “Precisely. What else?”
Marie tried to think of other associations. But what? Everyone in the office drank coffee, she was fairly certain. The lamp and the ink pot were always exactly the same. She had already discussed the newspaper and the ashtray. What else was there?
Anderson pointed at the desk. “Do you see this?”
Marie looked at it. “Dirt,” she said. “Or mud.”
Anderson lowered his brows, a schoolteacher instructing a remedial student. “It is of the utmost importance to be precise in this line of questioning,” he said. “Is it dirt or is it mud? Where must it have come from? Is it the dust of neglect? Expended gunpowder? Soot? Dirt dropped from a disruption in the ceiling? Any of these possibilities would lead to entirely different possibilities and lines of analysis. We cannot afford to be flippant.”
Marie bit back a sharp rejoinder. Anderson seemed as passionate about dirt as some men were about their lovers. Then again, she had had equally passionate conversations about the best hair for a paintbrush. And no doubt a non-painter would have found a conversation on the merits of sable versus ox hair to be equally tedious.
She looked closer. The dirt in question was heavy and brown, several large pieces and a few smaller ones, mostly in one spot. “It looks like… dried mud?” she ventured.
“Good,” said Anderson, the edge in his voice replaced once more by his normal neutral tone. “And what does that tell you? How could mud have gotten onto the desk?”
Marie thought about it. Most mud was found on the street. It was unlikely anyone would have dropped it on the desk intentionally – Aegis was a professional organization, not a madhouse. Any mud in the building would have accumulated on pant legs and boots, not hands. She pursed her lips a moment. “Could… someone have put their boots up on the desk?”
Anderson’s eyes sparkled. “Ah,” he breathed out. “We come to the heart of the matter. Go on. Put the pieces together.”
Marie let her glance hover over the desktop. “Someone who’s messy, who drinks coffee and smokes, and who puts their boots up on the table…” She grinned abruptly and looked up at Anderson. “Monsieur Chuck.”
Anderson smiled, the satisfied smile of a tutor who has led his idiot student at long last to the correct answer in their homework. “Quite so. Had you been directed to, you might also have noticed the quantity and quality of ash in the ashtray – clearly from a cigar, but an unfinished one. There is also the fact that the smudges on the newspaper are more plentiful in the sections detailing violent crime and the results of horse races. You might have also tasted or smelled the remnants of the coffee cup, which you will find to be that particular nose-assaulting blend that Agent Thompson tends to favor. And if you had come around to this side of the desk, you would have noticed some drops of oil on the ground of the consistency of that used in gun polishing kits. Also, the contents of the waste-bin would have proven informative.”
Marie gaped. She had been certain that she had uncovered everything there was to know about the desk, and she had only barely begun. She wondered what it must be like to be Anderson, to be constantly seeing the tiny clues that everyone missed – and moreover to make them mean something, form them into a coherent narrative about what must have caused them to be that way.
She regained her composure and smiled. “So… when is our next lesson?”
Anderson straightened the newspaper on the desk and wiped off the mud. He looked up at her with piercing eyes. “I believe I’m free tomorrow.”
Elementary, My Dear Painter
The good news, Marie reflected as the elevator car trundled slowly upward, was that she had finally been released from the hospital, back to the comforts of her own apartment and her own bed. She was free from the constant harassment of nurses and orderlies, free to wake and sleep and wander as she chose.
The bad news was that she no longer had Aegis coming to check in on her; she needed to go to them.
The doors opened with a clang as they reached the sixth floor. Light streamed in through the window. Marie stepped out of the lift and the doors shut behind her as the car began its slow descent back to the main floor.
At least they didn’t hassle her. Aegis had gotten used to her hours. They wouldn’t be concerned until evening. Some of the long-time staff might have been positively shocked to see her stepping into headquarters in the light of the mid-morning sun. The hospital had her waking at hours respectable people might consider reasonable. No doubt it wouldn’t last.
It wasn’t a long-time staffer at the desk today, however. Agent Charles Anderson sat elegantly poised, eyes closed. Marie walked the half-dozen paces to the desk, wondering if he had fallen asleep, and why Captain Faraday had not yet been informed.
“Ah, Painter,” said Agent Anderson without opening his eyes. “It’s early for you, isn’t it?”
Marie frowned. “How did you know it was me?”
The agent from Scotland Yard opened his eyes. “There are few enough people who enter the sixth floor wearing heels. And none of them with your choice in perfume.”
Marie blinked. It seemed so simple when he said it that way. “Well, I’m here. Is there anything you need today, or…”
Agent Anderson shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I shall note in my shift report that you are alive, that you don’t appear to be possessed or otherwise under duress, and that your recovery seems to be progressing as planned. Dr. Evans mentioned that you had an appointment this week, but unless I am mistaken – and I am rarely mistaken – that is not until tomorrow. You’re free to spend the rest of the day as you wish.”
Marie nodded. She had been meeting with her psychiatrist regularly in the hospital, at least two or three times a week. She still did not feel back to her usual self. Even beyond the dizziness and headaches that sometimes afflicted her, she was having trouble fully separating her own memories from Elizabeth’s. Boston had not been good to her. She hoped not to need to go back for some time.
Thinking of Boston brought back other memories. She paused. “I’m still interested in what we talked about at the square,” she said tentatively. “About learning how you found out all that information after the fight. It was remarkable.”
Anderson’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”
Marie took a breath. “If you’re willing to teach me, that is. When you have time.”
Anderson leaned forward slightly in his chair. “I have time right now,” he said.
Marie furrowed her brow. “Aren’t you on shift right now?”
“Clearly,” said the Agent with a dismissive gesture. “But one can use deductive reasoning at any time, and now is as good as any. Let us take an easy example. Who was on shift before me?”
Marie cocked a head to the side, wondering if the question was some sort of trick, but Anderson seemed serious enough. Marie shrugged and turned to Faraday’s office door, where the duty roster hung.
Agent Anderson held up a hand. “No cheating,” he said. “Answer the question based on your own observations.”
Marie’s mouth hung open a moment, and she closed it. “How could anyone answer that question?”
Anderson gave her a chiding glance. “I will give you some information for free: I have been on shift for one hour, twenty-three minutes, and I have not touched the desk since I came on duty.”
Marie shook her head. “I don’t see how that helps me.”
“You can begin by looking at the desk. What do you see?”
Marie held his glance for a moment more, but it was clear Anderson was not giving away any secrets. She shrugged and turned her gaze downward. “A newspaper. A coffee cup. An ashtray. A lamp. An inkpot.”
“Good,” Anderson replied. “And what does that tell you?”
Marie widened her hands in confusion. “I don’t know.”
“The newspaper,” Anderson prompted. “Is it neat or messy?”
Marie looked at it. It seemed to have been opened and folded backwards several times. The pages in the middle stuck out at odd angles. The edges were smudged. “Messy,” she replied with barely a pause.
“And? Does that eliminate any options for you?”
It took her barely longer to answer than the previous question. “Madame Suzanne,” she said. Indeed, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it herself. The idea that Suzanne would have left the newspaper in anything but near-pristine form, at perfect angles to the table, was ridiculous.
“Quite so,” Anderson replied. “What else?”
Marie studied each of the objects in turn, still uncertain.
“Turn your attention to the ashtray,” Anderson prompted when she had struggled a sufficiently long time. “What do you see?”
Marie shrugged. “Ashes. A lot of them.”
“And…”
Marie bit her lip. “Monsieur Kyle doesn’t smoke,” she said after a moment.
Anderson nodded. “Precisely. What else?”
Marie tried to think of other associations. But what? Everyone in the office drank coffee, she was fairly certain. The lamp and the ink pot were always exactly the same. She had already discussed the newspaper and the ashtray. What else was there?
Anderson pointed at the desk. “Do you see this?”
Marie looked at it. “Dirt,” she said. “Or mud.”
Anderson lowered his brows, a schoolteacher instructing a remedial student. “It is of the utmost importance to be precise in this line of questioning,” he said. “Is it dirt or is it mud? Where must it have come from? Is it the dust of neglect? Expended gunpowder? Soot? Dirt dropped from a disruption in the ceiling? Any of these possibilities would lead to entirely different possibilities and lines of analysis. We cannot afford to be flippant.”
Marie bit back a sharp rejoinder. Anderson seemed as passionate about dirt as some men were about their lovers. Then again, she had had equally passionate conversations about the best hair for a paintbrush. And no doubt a non-painter would have found a conversation on the merits of sable versus ox hair to be equally tedious.
She looked closer. The dirt in question was heavy and brown, several large pieces and a few smaller ones, mostly in one spot. “It looks like… dried mud?” she ventured.
“Good,” said Anderson, the edge in his voice replaced once more by his normal neutral tone. “And what does that tell you? How could mud have gotten onto the desk?”
Marie thought about it. Most mud was found on the street. It was unlikely anyone would have dropped it on the desk intentionally – Aegis was a professional organization, not a madhouse. Any mud in the building would have accumulated on pant legs and boots, not hands. She pursed her lips a moment. “Could… someone have put their boots up on the desk?”
Anderson’s eyes sparkled. “Ah,” he breathed out. “We come to the heart of the matter. Go on. Put the pieces together.”
Marie let her glance hover over the desktop. “Someone who’s messy, who drinks coffee and smokes, and who puts their boots up on the table…” She grinned abruptly and looked up at Anderson. “Monsieur Chuck.”
Anderson smiled, the satisfied smile of a tutor who has led his idiot student at long last to the correct answer in their homework. “Quite so. Had you been directed to, you might also have noticed the quantity and quality of ash in the ashtray – clearly from a cigar, but an unfinished one. There is also the fact that the smudges on the newspaper are more plentiful in the sections detailing violent crime and the results of horse races. You might have also tasted or smelled the remnants of the coffee cup, which you will find to be that particular nose-assaulting blend that Agent Thompson tends to favor. And if you had come around to this side of the desk, you would have noticed some drops of oil on the ground of the consistency of that used in gun polishing kits. Also, the contents of the waste-bin would have proven informative.”
Marie gaped. She had been certain that she had uncovered everything there was to know about the desk, and she had only barely begun. She wondered what it must be like to be Anderson, to be constantly seeing the tiny clues that everyone missed – and moreover to make them mean something, form them into a coherent narrative about what must have caused them to be that way.
She regained her composure and smiled. “So… when is our next lesson?”
Anderson straightened the newspaper on the desk and wiped off the mud. He looked up at her with piercing eyes. “I believe I’m free tomorrow.”
