Lucius Malfoy escaped from Azkaban, and turned up dead a few months later in a high-end penthouse in Muggle London. Hermione is investigating, but so are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
I just love the idea of these four confusing the heck out of each other while trying to solve a murder.
***
Sherlock leaned over the body, bent nearly in half at the waist. He was frowning. “This man was in prison. Not here. I’m guessing a third-world country; there were chains.”
“They don’t really say that anymore,” John said. “The term is developing nation.”
Sherlock looked around the room, then back at the man’s eyes and partially-open mouth. “The prison was near the ocean. Despite the deficiency in nutrients, he received omega-3 fatty acids from a diet largely of fish.”
He lifted the man’s hand and pushed his loose sleeve up. It exposed a tattoo of a snake coming out of a skull. “He believed in the paranormal. The skull, the snakes… they were meaningful.”
“I guessed that myself,” John said mildly. “Do you think that’s a prison tattoo? And did he escape prison or was he released?”
Their friend Lestrade strode heavily back and forth in the entryway to the penthouse, past an arch and a hat stand where each hook was a snake.
He was speaking into his phone. “Name on ID is Linus Malvoy. No next of kin or emergency contact on his rental application. One previous address listed in France. Background check turned up nothing.”
Sherlock returned his attention to the victim. “Not a prison tattoo. Earlier than that. The shape indicates his forearm was more muscled and thicker when it was new.” He rubbed it. “It’s not a normal tattoo. True black ink is made from pigment, acrylic resin, glycerine, water, witch hazel, and isopropyl alcohol. The needle punctures heal, but there’s a distinctive look of western tattoos. This is not it.”
“Maybe he got it in that third world country?”
Sherlock smirked. “Developing nation, John.”
“Sod off.”
Sherlock stood to his full height. Three crime scene techs were taking photos and cataloging the furniture, documenting the placement of the few decorative items, and lgetting photos of the murdered man. A few evidence numbers had been propped up.
“That woman,” Sherlock said, looking beyond the body to one of the technicians, “is… weird.”
“Weird?” John repeated. “Did you just say weird?”
Sherlock didn’t respond—John didn’t expect it—but strode over to the woman. She had curly hair in a French braid. She wore well-fitted trousers and a white button down shirt. Her lanyard said her name was Jean Granger. She was very pretty.
“Why didn’t I see you before?” Sherlock demanded.
“I’m fairly new on the staff.”
“No, I mean, today. How long have you been in this room?”
She cocked her head. “About an hour, with the rest of the team.”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s impossible. I didn’t see you. John, did you see her?”
“I must’ve, but I didn’t really notice.” John stuck out his hand. “John Watson, nice to meet you.”
She returned it with a smile. “Jean Granger, likewise.”
“You should’ve noticed her,” Sherlock said. “She’s exactly your type, yet you didn’t see her until I pointed her out.”
John took a step back. “My type? What’re you—?”
But Sherlock had already moved on. He was analyzing the young woman. “You’re new to the job, but not new to violent death. Your parents were dentists. You have an orange cat; no husband, no kids.”
She raised her chin, frowning him down. “Very good, but I’m not the mystery here. Perhaps focus on the murdered man.”
She gestured around the room, from the empty fireplace to the man to the windows that looked down on London. You could see the Eye from here.
She barely glanced toward the man on the floor. Her gold pen bounced once against her notepad.
“You knew him,” Sherlock said.
“No, I didn’t.”
Even John spotted the lie that time.
***
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