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mainecoon76 The Case of Dr Frances Henry Lark, R
Nov. 3rd, 2013 08:05 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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acdholmesfestWith huge apologies to the author: RL work and stuff has been kicking the modly backside bigtime...
Title: The Problem of Doctor Frances Henry Lark
Characters: Holmes and Watson, appearances by Lestrade and OCs
Rating: Mature (warning for murder)
Word Count: 1804
A/N: A little bit of casefic for you, mainecoon76! Some details borrowed from historical reality – Dr Lark and all OCs are purely the product of fiction. :)
Summary: There are those cases which, though resolved, found this resolution through other mechanisms than the work of Sherlock Holmes. Such was the matter of one Doctor Frances Lark.
There are among my records many stories that are unsuited for publication, for one reason or another, though I keep the records for my own reference. Some detail crimes which must remain outside the domain of public knowledge, while some are trivial in their detail, or lack those facets of deductive reasoning and detection that permitted my friend to shine most brilliantly in his element.
And then also, there are those cases which, though resolved, found this resolution through other mechanisms than the work of Sherlock Holmes. Such was the matter of one Doctor Frances Lark.
It was a cold clear morning in January, the first year of the new century, and I made my way back to Baker Street tired but vindicated after a sleepless night spent ensuring that Inspector Lestrade's little family would continue to thrive. His youngest daughter had been struck hard by the influenza that was so prevalent in London this winter, a harsh disease that joined forces with the weather to drain all health from the body, and could kill by fever, by exhaustion, by inanition. But Lestrade's little Madeline was strong, and her fever had broken cleanly in the night and seemed set to stay away, provided she continued to rest and recover.
From the joyfully protective look of Mrs Lestrade, and the fervent emotion only half concealed in the Inspector's pointed features, I had good reason to suspect the child would be well insulated from the cold for the next decade of her life, and possibly longer than that. But she would live to be coddled, and I confess there is a part of me that rejoiced at that more like a soldier than a doctor. There was for me an almost martial joy in defeating, even just for one battle, for one life, the disease that took my Mary.
And so I made my journey in high spirits, though the snow that had fallen overnight was grey with London dirt and ash, and much of it already churned away into slush by the time I had left the Lestrade's house. There was enough whimsey in me to imagine it fresh and white, and to see London as beautiful regardless, even as the mud splashed up to wet the leg of my trousers, and the grey-cast sky swirled with a chill January wind.
Holmes was in the midst of dissecting our morning papers when I entered, and called out to me at once.
"Watson! Did you know that one of the great stones has fallen at the circle of Stonehenge? There is debate as to the meaning of such an event, and a Mister Coswald wishes the readers of the Times to know that it is a sign of the times! It is as though a softening of the ground has precipitated a softening of the head in today's reading public."
He flung the papers down in a heap, and reached across to the breakfast tray, where the morning's post was sharing space with the remainder of a plate of toast. "Never fear, Watson, we shall soon have something better to consider than the places of druids. Read this."
I skimmed over the letter, which read thus:
Dear Mister Holmes, I am writng to you to ask will you help me find my sister, for she is not the kind of girl that doctor is saying and I need your help to prove it. Doctor Lark has gone from the house a fortniht but none of the neybors have seen Lucy for longer than that. Please will you agree to help me- sinceerly Sally Gufton
"Not my usual clientele, Watson, I can see your expression, but this letter intrigues me a great deal." In a rare moment of consideration, Holmes allowed me to finally avail myself the teapot, and rose himself to rifle through his filing system. "Miss Gufton and her sister are unknown to me, besides the obvious- that they are both in service, that she has lived in the north for some time, and that Miss Gufton is possessed of greater sense than spelling ability."
"Well the last I can see clearly, but then whom are you hoping to find?"
"That she is sensible may be inferred from her writing to me, but also she has not reacted with hysteria to whatever accusations were made, and has sought evidence. And I expect to find- Aha!" He paged rapidly through the 'L' volume, stabbed his forefinger into the page, and thrust the book across to me. "Here he is."
Pasted into the book was an article a few years old, the mention of an engagement broken off. The young lady was a Miss Virginia Fairling. The name of the ex-fiance was Doctor Frances Henry Lark. Below was a second cutting, and that was the young lady's obituary.
I looked up and Holmes nodded at my surprise. "Indeed. I suspect Doctor Lark of having been very deeply involved in Miss Fairling's death, but as you can see from the date, I was out of the country at the time. I very much doubt his hands have remained clean in the interim, but I shall welcome the opportunity to investigate."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "And now, my friend, you must have a little sleep. I shall want you later, and I have places I must be!"
And so it was that I descended refreshed to the sitting room in the early afternoon, to find Holmes in the company of a young woman of strong country stock, soon introduced as our client Miss Sally Gufton.
"Watson! You are just in time. We must be off at once, I have spoken to the agent of the house where Miss Gufton's sister was employed, and it has yet to be re-let. Nor has the owner, in his infinite parsimonious wisdom, bothered to send to have it cleaned. There is no time to waste!"
The journey was swift, and Miss Sally proved a pleasant and, indeed, sensible girl, though deeply worried for her sister. The house seemed at first glance perfectly ordinary, one of many in the column of row houses, much akin to Baker Street itself in its basic construction, yet there was an air of disquiet about the place from the moment we stepped inside. As we made our way deeper into the house, nearing the kitchen at the rear, I became aware that it was not merely an aura but an odour, one I knew all too well, however faint, and always hoped not to smell again. I looked to one side, and found that Holmes had noticed it even as I had, and in his face I saw reflected my own realisation.
I turned at once to Miss Sally, urging her to retreat to the front of the house, but though her eyes widened and her fingers trembled, she stood firm.
The rest of the downstairs rooms had been unevenly furnished, as though some pieces had been removed and others left, but the kitchen seemed simply abandoned, and something skittered in the corner and vanished into the pantry as we entered. Pots remained both in the sink and on the stovetop, and the wooden chopping block was stained dark where cabbage and something wrapped in butcher's paper had rotted across its surface.
One door led outside to the small paved courtyard behind the houses. The other led down to the cellar. In a trice, Holmes had retrieved a lamp from the disordered servants' cupboard, and I held a match to its dusty wick. In single file, we made our way down the cellar steps, and my pleasant fantasy that the smell had been confined to the kitchen's rotting board dissolved in the increasingly fetid air. Sally pressed a thick country handkerchief to her face, and I confess I was tempted to do the same.
There were shelves along the connecting wall, and further in the gloom a box and a torn valise. Holmes swept the lamp in a broad arc, and I fear some of the shadows on that dark floor were less shadow than stain. Then, at the edge of the coal-bin, Holmes raised the lamp high, and I heard his breath catch.
"Come no further! Miss Gufton, you must remain where you are. Doctor-" He beckoned me closer, and I came to his side.
It was as I had expected to find, yet the reality held an awful and grotesque finality all the same. Beneath the spill of coal, from what must have been the most recent delivery, lay the body of a girl a few years older than Sally was. The body had been cut about most brutally, and the vermin denizens of the kitchen had been here also. But worst of all, under the bloodstained black and white of Lucy Gufton's uniform, another sleeve protruded, clothed in mouldering pink.
Poor Lucy was not alone.
Holmes remained there beside them, examining the surroundings, as I drew Sally away up the stairs and to the front of the house, where we were able to flag down the beat constable and send word to Scotland Yard. It was Lestrade himself who came to us, and while he conferred with Holmes I was at last able to persuade Miss Gufton into a cab and away from that dreadful house. The coroner's wagon with its burdens was a sight we every one of us wished to spare her.
In the end I returned to Baker Street that night alone, for Holmes spent long hours at the docks and elsewhere. When he joined me the next morning, it was with the news that he had tracked Lark as far as the ship he had taken, but that he had departed for Canada a full twelve days before Sally had known to seek for help. And all my friend's knowledge, all his resources were to no avail, for we had come to the crime too late.
The other girl's identity remained unknown, but Sally wished to bury her with her sister Lucy nonetheless. 'So that they'd each have a friend, as it were.' An anonymous donation helped to provide funds for the burial. I have paid half of it back to Holmes, I am glad to know those girls rest somewhere peaceful.
Notation, dated January 3, 1901: Frances Henry Lark, alias Doctor Frederick Lane, alias Harry Frances was killed in Toronto while attempting to escape arrest for the murder of a young girl. Though it pains me to hear of his crime, his death can only be a relief to the world.
On the thirty-first of December, a storm felled a stone and lintel at the great Stonehenge, where another stone fell a year ago. I laughed to read it aloud. Holmes has thrown the article in the fire.
Title: The Problem of Doctor Frances Henry Lark
Characters: Holmes and Watson, appearances by Lestrade and OCs
Rating: Mature (warning for murder)
Word Count: 1804
A/N: A little bit of casefic for you, mainecoon76! Some details borrowed from historical reality – Dr Lark and all OCs are purely the product of fiction. :)
Summary: There are those cases which, though resolved, found this resolution through other mechanisms than the work of Sherlock Holmes. Such was the matter of one Doctor Frances Lark.
There are among my records many stories that are unsuited for publication, for one reason or another, though I keep the records for my own reference. Some detail crimes which must remain outside the domain of public knowledge, while some are trivial in their detail, or lack those facets of deductive reasoning and detection that permitted my friend to shine most brilliantly in his element.
And then also, there are those cases which, though resolved, found this resolution through other mechanisms than the work of Sherlock Holmes. Such was the matter of one Doctor Frances Lark.
It was a cold clear morning in January, the first year of the new century, and I made my way back to Baker Street tired but vindicated after a sleepless night spent ensuring that Inspector Lestrade's little family would continue to thrive. His youngest daughter had been struck hard by the influenza that was so prevalent in London this winter, a harsh disease that joined forces with the weather to drain all health from the body, and could kill by fever, by exhaustion, by inanition. But Lestrade's little Madeline was strong, and her fever had broken cleanly in the night and seemed set to stay away, provided she continued to rest and recover.
From the joyfully protective look of Mrs Lestrade, and the fervent emotion only half concealed in the Inspector's pointed features, I had good reason to suspect the child would be well insulated from the cold for the next decade of her life, and possibly longer than that. But she would live to be coddled, and I confess there is a part of me that rejoiced at that more like a soldier than a doctor. There was for me an almost martial joy in defeating, even just for one battle, for one life, the disease that took my Mary.
And so I made my journey in high spirits, though the snow that had fallen overnight was grey with London dirt and ash, and much of it already churned away into slush by the time I had left the Lestrade's house. There was enough whimsey in me to imagine it fresh and white, and to see London as beautiful regardless, even as the mud splashed up to wet the leg of my trousers, and the grey-cast sky swirled with a chill January wind.
Holmes was in the midst of dissecting our morning papers when I entered, and called out to me at once.
"Watson! Did you know that one of the great stones has fallen at the circle of Stonehenge? There is debate as to the meaning of such an event, and a Mister Coswald wishes the readers of the Times to know that it is a sign of the times! It is as though a softening of the ground has precipitated a softening of the head in today's reading public."
He flung the papers down in a heap, and reached across to the breakfast tray, where the morning's post was sharing space with the remainder of a plate of toast. "Never fear, Watson, we shall soon have something better to consider than the places of druids. Read this."
I skimmed over the letter, which read thus:
Dear Mister Holmes, I am writng to you to ask will you help me find my sister, for she is not the kind of girl that doctor is saying and I need your help to prove it. Doctor Lark has gone from the house a fortniht but none of the neybors have seen Lucy for longer than that. Please will you agree to help me- sinceerly Sally Gufton
"Not my usual clientele, Watson, I can see your expression, but this letter intrigues me a great deal." In a rare moment of consideration, Holmes allowed me to finally avail myself the teapot, and rose himself to rifle through his filing system. "Miss Gufton and her sister are unknown to me, besides the obvious- that they are both in service, that she has lived in the north for some time, and that Miss Gufton is possessed of greater sense than spelling ability."
"Well the last I can see clearly, but then whom are you hoping to find?"
"That she is sensible may be inferred from her writing to me, but also she has not reacted with hysteria to whatever accusations were made, and has sought evidence. And I expect to find- Aha!" He paged rapidly through the 'L' volume, stabbed his forefinger into the page, and thrust the book across to me. "Here he is."
Pasted into the book was an article a few years old, the mention of an engagement broken off. The young lady was a Miss Virginia Fairling. The name of the ex-fiance was Doctor Frances Henry Lark. Below was a second cutting, and that was the young lady's obituary.
I looked up and Holmes nodded at my surprise. "Indeed. I suspect Doctor Lark of having been very deeply involved in Miss Fairling's death, but as you can see from the date, I was out of the country at the time. I very much doubt his hands have remained clean in the interim, but I shall welcome the opportunity to investigate."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "And now, my friend, you must have a little sleep. I shall want you later, and I have places I must be!"
And so it was that I descended refreshed to the sitting room in the early afternoon, to find Holmes in the company of a young woman of strong country stock, soon introduced as our client Miss Sally Gufton.
"Watson! You are just in time. We must be off at once, I have spoken to the agent of the house where Miss Gufton's sister was employed, and it has yet to be re-let. Nor has the owner, in his infinite parsimonious wisdom, bothered to send to have it cleaned. There is no time to waste!"
The journey was swift, and Miss Sally proved a pleasant and, indeed, sensible girl, though deeply worried for her sister. The house seemed at first glance perfectly ordinary, one of many in the column of row houses, much akin to Baker Street itself in its basic construction, yet there was an air of disquiet about the place from the moment we stepped inside. As we made our way deeper into the house, nearing the kitchen at the rear, I became aware that it was not merely an aura but an odour, one I knew all too well, however faint, and always hoped not to smell again. I looked to one side, and found that Holmes had noticed it even as I had, and in his face I saw reflected my own realisation.
I turned at once to Miss Sally, urging her to retreat to the front of the house, but though her eyes widened and her fingers trembled, she stood firm.
The rest of the downstairs rooms had been unevenly furnished, as though some pieces had been removed and others left, but the kitchen seemed simply abandoned, and something skittered in the corner and vanished into the pantry as we entered. Pots remained both in the sink and on the stovetop, and the wooden chopping block was stained dark where cabbage and something wrapped in butcher's paper had rotted across its surface.
One door led outside to the small paved courtyard behind the houses. The other led down to the cellar. In a trice, Holmes had retrieved a lamp from the disordered servants' cupboard, and I held a match to its dusty wick. In single file, we made our way down the cellar steps, and my pleasant fantasy that the smell had been confined to the kitchen's rotting board dissolved in the increasingly fetid air. Sally pressed a thick country handkerchief to her face, and I confess I was tempted to do the same.
There were shelves along the connecting wall, and further in the gloom a box and a torn valise. Holmes swept the lamp in a broad arc, and I fear some of the shadows on that dark floor were less shadow than stain. Then, at the edge of the coal-bin, Holmes raised the lamp high, and I heard his breath catch.
"Come no further! Miss Gufton, you must remain where you are. Doctor-" He beckoned me closer, and I came to his side.
It was as I had expected to find, yet the reality held an awful and grotesque finality all the same. Beneath the spill of coal, from what must have been the most recent delivery, lay the body of a girl a few years older than Sally was. The body had been cut about most brutally, and the vermin denizens of the kitchen had been here also. But worst of all, under the bloodstained black and white of Lucy Gufton's uniform, another sleeve protruded, clothed in mouldering pink.
Poor Lucy was not alone.
Holmes remained there beside them, examining the surroundings, as I drew Sally away up the stairs and to the front of the house, where we were able to flag down the beat constable and send word to Scotland Yard. It was Lestrade himself who came to us, and while he conferred with Holmes I was at last able to persuade Miss Gufton into a cab and away from that dreadful house. The coroner's wagon with its burdens was a sight we every one of us wished to spare her.
In the end I returned to Baker Street that night alone, for Holmes spent long hours at the docks and elsewhere. When he joined me the next morning, it was with the news that he had tracked Lark as far as the ship he had taken, but that he had departed for Canada a full twelve days before Sally had known to seek for help. And all my friend's knowledge, all his resources were to no avail, for we had come to the crime too late.
The other girl's identity remained unknown, but Sally wished to bury her with her sister Lucy nonetheless. 'So that they'd each have a friend, as it were.' An anonymous donation helped to provide funds for the burial. I have paid half of it back to Holmes, I am glad to know those girls rest somewhere peaceful.
On the thirty-first of December, a storm felled a stone and lintel at the great Stonehenge, where another stone fell a year ago. I laughed to read it aloud. Holmes has thrown the article in the fire.
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Date: 2013-11-03 09:37 pm (UTC)What a wonderful gift, dear anon, thank you! Your style is flawless, the characters are spot-on, and I loved the atmosphere you created, as well as the small details that are mentioned in passing.
Also, yay, a case-fic! And a good one, too. Poor girls, though, all three of them... And now you've got me wondering. I may be embarrassing myself, but was that man truly an OC?
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Date: 2013-11-03 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 10:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-06 02:16 am (UTC)Doctor Lark is purely fictitious, but he's based on some of the murderers whose portraits were on Holmes' bedroom wall (http://lynndyre.dreamwidth.org/95370.html). (some of these include murderers of children, as a warning)
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