Fic: Measure of Madness: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Measure of Madness
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Summary: Holmes & Watson reflect on a bizarre murder in the country.
“A measure of artistry, Watson, or a measure of madness?” asked Holmes when the case was over. “Or of evil?”
“Can’t it be all three?” I replied gloomily. “A study in pity, really.”
“She was a murderer. Or, as the newspapers call her, a murderess.”
I scowled.
“Yes,” agreed Holmes.
“Did you know?” I asked again.
“No, Watson, for the hundredth time, I had no idea when I agreed to accompany you to that,” he coughed pointedly, “celebration of bucolic charms that we would become entangled in so macabre a case.”
“But you weren’t disturbed.”
“Disturbed? I was delighted! There is only so much appreciation I can muster for antimacassars and jars of chutney. And I’ll admit that the fairy gardens are your line of country.”
I had the decency to blush.
“The fairy gardens were excellent, but even I have to concede the idea of nursery rhyme inspired tableaus is a bit precocious.”
“But when one of them conceals a fatal crime, much less so?”
I hummed.
“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.”
“You knew at once it wasn’t a model or a mannequin lying on her side in that pumpkin despite the ceramic mask.”
“’Someone’s crumpled ‘er face!’” imitated Holmes in the voice of the country lad who’d stuck his own face in the viewing window at the moment I had. “No, I knew it was a lifeless human inside that horrible shell.”
“Horrible in its purpose, but beautiful in its craft, Holmes. I can speak freely here?”
“Of course, my dear man. Do you doubt it?”
“I thought it a pity that they had to break the ceramic mask in the end. Understandable, necessary, but still.”
“Poor Marnie Evans. She was denied her one vocation of becoming a sculptress—”
“Sculptor.”
“—by a weak-willed brother and an avaricious sister-in-law. They squandered her family’s inheritance and conscripted the woman as their maid-of-all-work.”
“All work and lots of it. Resentment grew. Muse thwarted. Then when the organising of the village mid-summer festival arose, Marnie saw her vehicle for revenge.”
“She strangled her sister-in-law and then moulded a mask round her face and arranged her in the Peter, Peter tableau.”
“I don’t suppose Hickory, Dickory Dock would’ve worked.”
Holmes snorted. “It’s that rural wickedness, Watson. I’ve already shared my view on it.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve read the monograph many times,” I teased.
After a moment of silence, I asked,
“Peter Evans. Do you think he’s more aggrieved or relieved that his wife is dead?”
“I don’t care,” said Holmes blandly.
“Neither do I.” I puffed on my pipe. “Holmes?”
“Yes?” His lips curled in a smile.
“Do you think I might be allowed to, well, bring Miss Evans some clay?”
“Before she’s hanged?”
“Oh, she won’t be hanged.”
“No?”
“You’ll see to that, won’t you?”
“My dear Watson, I cannot bend the British justice system—.”
I leveled a look at him that stopped his protest.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered.
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Summary: Holmes & Watson reflect on a bizarre murder in the country.
“A measure of artistry, Watson, or a measure of madness?” asked Holmes when the case was over. “Or of evil?”
“Can’t it be all three?” I replied gloomily. “A study in pity, really.”
“She was a murderer. Or, as the newspapers call her, a murderess.”
I scowled.
“Yes,” agreed Holmes.
“Did you know?” I asked again.
“No, Watson, for the hundredth time, I had no idea when I agreed to accompany you to that,” he coughed pointedly, “celebration of bucolic charms that we would become entangled in so macabre a case.”
“But you weren’t disturbed.”
“Disturbed? I was delighted! There is only so much appreciation I can muster for antimacassars and jars of chutney. And I’ll admit that the fairy gardens are your line of country.”
I had the decency to blush.
“The fairy gardens were excellent, but even I have to concede the idea of nursery rhyme inspired tableaus is a bit precocious.”
“But when one of them conceals a fatal crime, much less so?”
I hummed.
“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.”
“You knew at once it wasn’t a model or a mannequin lying on her side in that pumpkin despite the ceramic mask.”
“’Someone’s crumpled ‘er face!’” imitated Holmes in the voice of the country lad who’d stuck his own face in the viewing window at the moment I had. “No, I knew it was a lifeless human inside that horrible shell.”
“Horrible in its purpose, but beautiful in its craft, Holmes. I can speak freely here?”
“Of course, my dear man. Do you doubt it?”
“I thought it a pity that they had to break the ceramic mask in the end. Understandable, necessary, but still.”
“Poor Marnie Evans. She was denied her one vocation of becoming a sculptress—”
“Sculptor.”
“—by a weak-willed brother and an avaricious sister-in-law. They squandered her family’s inheritance and conscripted the woman as their maid-of-all-work.”
“All work and lots of it. Resentment grew. Muse thwarted. Then when the organising of the village mid-summer festival arose, Marnie saw her vehicle for revenge.”
“She strangled her sister-in-law and then moulded a mask round her face and arranged her in the Peter, Peter tableau.”
“I don’t suppose Hickory, Dickory Dock would’ve worked.”
Holmes snorted. “It’s that rural wickedness, Watson. I’ve already shared my view on it.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve read the monograph many times,” I teased.
After a moment of silence, I asked,
“Peter Evans. Do you think he’s more aggrieved or relieved that his wife is dead?”
“I don’t care,” said Holmes blandly.
“Neither do I.” I puffed on my pipe. “Holmes?”
“Yes?” His lips curled in a smile.
“Do you think I might be allowed to, well, bring Miss Evans some clay?”
“Before she’s hanged?”
“Oh, she won’t be hanged.”
“No?”
“You’ll see to that, won’t you?”
“My dear Watson, I cannot bend the British justice system—.”
I leveled a look at him that stopped his protest.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered.
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