A case of identities (2/5)

[marysutherland]

BBC Sherlock

Rating 12 (implicit slash)

Spoilers: ACD's A Case of Identity

Summary: Martha Caithness' fiancée has disappeared, but Sherlock may have the answer.

Part 1


 

Years ago, you met someone at a gas fitters’ ball, or the PG Wodehouse Appreciation society, or at least the house of a friend of a friend of a friend, and you had some idea who they were. Now, Sherlock has a file a foot thick of dodgy internet romances. (Well, it’d be a foot thick if he printed it out. It’s probably a few dozen megabites of data, but it sounds less impressive. He has a lot, anyhow).

I looked at Sherlock when Ms Caithness said about the website, and he gave me one of those ‘stop thinking so loudly, you’re disturbing me’ glares, so I dropped my eyes and tried not to distract him. I’m rather good at distracting him nowadays.

“You met her via an internet dating site, did you?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I’ve never done that kind of thing,” Ms Caithness replied. “And I’ve never really got into the scene. I, I came out first when I met one of my old students again, I mean someone who lodged with me years ago. We’d always kept in contact, and she was back in the UK, and...I suppose I realised I had been attracted to her for a long time, I just hadn’t understood in what way. But it didn’t work out, unfortunately, we weren’t very...compatible. We only went out for a couple of months, but we stayed friends, after that, at least, sort of.”

“So were you looking for someone after your first relationship ended?”

“Not really. I met Angela via a women’s fiction forum. We got talking about classic authors, she wanted some recommendations, hadn’t really read much. And then a month or two later, she was asking if I’d read Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness, so we started discussing lesbian fiction, and then we started sending each other e-mails more generally, just talking about books, and art and things like that.”

“What did she tell you about herself?”

“She was a bit reluctant to say anything at first, said she felt embarrassed talking about herself. But I gathered that she was based in London, youngish, liked films and paintings, but perhaps didn’t know that much about them. But when we got to know each other better, I finally persuaded her to tell me more.”

“What did she say?” said Sherlock. I could almost see his mind clicking through the possibilities, working out the routes to take through the conversation, the way he can race through the streets of London and always know exactly where to go.

“That her name was Angela Hosma. She’s of Indonesian ancestry, though she’s lived in London all her life. Obviously bright, but she wasn’t allowed to go to university, but expected to work in her parents’ restaurant instead.”

“Did she say much about Indonesia?”

“Not much, she’s hardly ever been there, doesn’t really feel connected to it. She’s very westernised in most ways.”

“So you were e-mailing one another for a while?”

“Yes, and then instant messaging. We’d chat at weekends, it was a lovely way of unwinding. I’d come home on a Friday night, and know my angel would be waiting to talk to me. We really, we were so compatible, despite all the obvious differences. And I thought, I hoped, there might be something more. So I asked her to meet me.”

“How did she react to that?” Sherlock asked. His voice was casual, his glance wasn’t. He’d once told me that 87% of romance scams were online only.

“She said she’d like to, it was just a bit difficult,” Miss Caithness said. She had a sad little smile on her good-humoured face. “She didn’t talk much about her parents, but there were plainly problems. I suspect it was bad enough that she was interested in a woman, let alone a white woman. So we always used to meet in public places, go to the cinema sometimes, art galleries.”

“When you met her, did she seem the same as when you chatted to her online? You talked about the same sort of things?”

“Oh yes. She was just as I’d imagined her when I’d talked to her online.” So no ringer had been used, I thought.

“You say you went to art galleries. Any one in particular?” Sherlock asked. I couldn’t see where this line of questioning was going.

“Tate Modern mostly. I preferred the National Gallery, but I think Angela was a bit intimidated by that.”

“Did you go to the cafe at the Tate, the riverside one?”

“Once, I think. It was very nice.”

“What was the service like? I always find it slow.”

“I can’t say I remember.” There was a slightly vacuous expression on Martha Caithness’ face now. “Angela didn’t really like eating out, we tended to get sandwiches. I think she didn’t have much money.”

“Did you pay for her when you went out?” Sherlock asked. I could see where he was heading now.

“No, she insisted we went fifty-fifty. I think she was quite embarrassed about being poor. Maybe that was why she never wanted to come back with me to ‘Viewfield’, my house. It’s ridiculous really, that I have this huge place.”

“So you went out on dates with her for a few months,” said Sherlock calmly. “What happened then?”

She hesitated.

“Please,” said Sherlock, with the fake sympathetic earnestness that convinces you he cares, rather than the jerky awkwardness when he actually does. “I need to know the details. It may be crucial to tracing Ms Hosma.”

“I, I thought maybe we should take things to a more...serious level,” Martha Caithness said slowly, “so I suggested we got engaged.”

“You wanted to become closer, express your feelings for her more deeply.”

“Yes. Angela, she was quite a shy girl in some ways. I think her background. And of course, when you’re always out somewhere, never at home...We’d kiss sometimes, and I think she enjoyed that, but she...” Her voice trailed away.

“She was uncomfortable with further intimacies?”

“She was used to being covered up,” said Ms Caithness. “I don’t mean...I don’t think she’s really that devout, she’d eat smoky bacon flavoured crisps, but she did wear a headscarf. I wondered if it was to please her parents. She wore western clothing otherwise, she had a lovely figure, tall, slender, not like me. She ‘d look just like a western girl, tight jeans, trainers, T-shirt, long-sleeved T-shirt, but also the hijab.”

“But her face was uncovered?”

“Yes, it was just her hair was covered. Except once. I’d been asking her to show me her hair, it sounds silly, but I wanted to see it, see more of her. And I said surely it wasn’t against her religion to let another woman see it. So she took off her scarf, and she had this gorgeous blue-black hair, very glossy, cut quite short. But she said she felt naked without the scarf, put it back on a few minutes later.”

“Did you hope, when you became engaged, that the...physical aspect might develop?”

“I must admit...but I didn’t want to rush her. I wasn’t sure if she’d been with a woman before, like that, I mean.”

“Was she happy with the engagement? It was your suggestion, you were saying.”

“She was a bit surprised, but then very pleased. She said she knew then that I really loved her, that I cared. But...”

“But what?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, understanding. Angela was already married, I thought, or had a sick brother desperately needing expensive medical treatment. Sherlock had probably figured out the details quarter of an hour ago.

“She was worried about her family.” Here it came.

“In what way?”

“That they’d disapprove of this. She told me that they might try and stop the engagement, break it off in some way. But she said she wasn’t going to let them, she would be true to me whatever happened, and she begged me to be true to her.”

“Did she mention any more specific worries?”

“No,” Martha Caithness said. “The last time I saw her, three weeks ago, she was very cheerful. Hoped she might be able to get more time off, it’s always complex arranging meetings because we both sometimes work shifts. We agreed to meet on Tuesday morning, the 2^nd, but she never turned up. She isn’t answering her phone or e-mails, or anything. I’m worried about her, Mr Holmes, but when I went to the police, they weren’t interested. I didn’t know what to do.”

“She gave no sign that she might be going to disappear? And you’ve heard nothing indirectly, from friends or relatives of hers?”

“No, I’ve never been in contact with any of them. We, we were keeping it secret, you see.”

“And, you’ll pardon me asking, there hadn’t been any change in your relationship since the engagement? Did she have any worries, money worries in particular?”

“No, she never said anything like that.” The police asked about that as well. But you mustn’t think she’s gone off with my money, or anything like that, Mr Holmes. My angel never accepted a penny from me.”

I’d have choked on my coffee at that point, if I’d still been drinking it. It had seemed so obvious that I had wondered why Sherlock was interested in the case.

“I see,” said Sherlock, and suddenly I knew he did. He paused and then went on: “You contacted each other by e-mail and presumably mobile phone. Do you have an address for her, or her parents’ restaurant?”

“She didn’t want to tell me that, in case her parents found out.”

“And again, it’s an awkward question to ask, but are you sure her name is Angela Hosma?”

“I, it’s what she told me. I don’t...you hardly ask someone you’re going on a date with to produce your passport, do you?” There was something noble in her faith in her fiancée. (Or possibly stupid, it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes).

“But she paid for things by cash, rather than credit card?”

“We never bought anything expensive. As I said, I think she’s quite poor. But she wasn’t after my money, Mr Holmes, she can’t have been, could she? I just...even if she never comes back I want to know what’s happened to my angel.”

“Do you have a photo of her?” Sherlock asked. It’s the question an ordinary detective would ask right at the start. I suspected he hardly needed to ask it.

“A rather bad one, on my phone, the camera’s not very good. She’s tallish, about my height, slender, very nice figure, as I said. Beautiful eyes, lovely deep brown. And her hair, of course, that amazing black. Do you think she’s OK, Mr Holmes, or has something happened to her?”

“If a serious crime has been committed, the police will have heard about it,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll talk to them, discreetly, of course.”  (I’d like to hear Sherlock talk discreetly to a police officer. So would a lot of them).

“That would be a comfort. So what should I do now?”

“If you let me download the photo from your mobile,” said Sherlock, “that’s the first stage. Then the next thing is for us to come out to your house in Hadley Wood.”

“Is that necessary? I don’t really want my neighbours or...other people to know about this.”

“We’ll say we’ve come to look at the house, might want to do a feature about it for a home interiors magazine,” Sherlock replied.

“But why do you need to come?”

“I want to check your computer, look at the e-mails you’ve been getting, could get a lot of data from that. And it’s always vital to visit the crime scene.”

“But nothing happened at the house, Angela never came there.”

“Even so,” said Sherlock, “I think we might pick up some clues. What time would be convenient for you?”        

Part 3