Brown's Mouse

I went to see the dead man's fiancé - Sherlock was right again, engaged and living together - once I got her name and address from his wallet and phone. Following is what happened.

I told the cabbie to wait, hoping that the interview wouldn't take too long, and approached the door with some degree of trepidation. It was only after I'd rung the doorbell that I realised I was the first person to come here...which meant I'd be the one informing her her fiancé was dead. I couldn't in good conscience wait until after I'd conducted the interview to tell her something like that, so I'd have to break the news first and then somehow get her back on track. Poor woman...

My worried musing was interrupted when a mouse of a woman opened the door still on the latch. Light brown hair, light brown eyes, all wrapped up in an apron that wouldn't have looked out of place in the 50s - and by the staining and general state of it probably came from then. Her clothes were clean but well worn, and her hands calloused.

"Hello?" she asked through the small gap. "What do you want?"

"Amanda Bairnes?" I asked her, trying to be professional in a profession that technically wasn't mine. I wasn't trained for this. "Simon Brown's fiancé?"

"Yes?" she confirmed warily, worry clear in her voice. "Oh, what has he done now?"

"May I come in?" I suggested, not wanting to have this conversation in the street, conscious of several curtains twitching up and down the lane. The meek Amanda nodded and opened the door, more worried about her fiancé than her own safety - or perhaps conscious herself of tongues wagging in the area.

Inside the house was well kept enough, clean but not obsessively tidy. Amanda switched off the TV that had been playing in the lounge, bustling about until we were both settled on uncomfortable armchairs with cups of mediocre tea.

"Ms Bairnes," I began, then stopped, not knowing how to say the next. I fell back on what I'd seen on TV with Mrs Hudson. "I regret to inform you that your fiance Simon Brown is dead. He was killed this morning in Piccadilly Station."

Her face immediately crumpled and she burst into tears, burying her face in her apron. I sat there uncomfortably - I have never been good with weeping women, although I fancy myself better than Sherlock - and gave her some time to compose herself, handing over my handkerchief when her apron was soaked through. It was some time before her sobs eased into sniffles that gradually slowed into the occasional sniff, accenting her now red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I offered lamely, and she nodded, struggling to keep from bursting into tears again. "I have some questions for you if you don't mind."

"Questions? Why?" she asked, startled. "I thought he just...oh. Well. Yes, I suppose."

"Sorry, you thought he just what?" I asked, seizing on the half-finished sentence.

"I thought he just fell onto the tracks," she explained. "He was running late for work this morning, hangover from last night. I mean, you hear about people falling in all the time don't you? But, if you're asking...what happened to him?"

"Ah, well, no, this was no accident I'm afraid. Your fiancé was murdered, in a very professional manner. What can you tell me about him? His friends perhaps, anything you know of that might shed light on why someone would want him killed?"

"Well, no one, I don't think. He wasn't involved in gangs, if that's what you're asking. He ran about with his mates from rugby a bit - I think they're going to Bristol in a fortnight for the weekend - but he's just a normal guy. He'd go to work, go to the pub for a bit, then come home for dinner. Sometimes on weekends we go out, down the pub for dinner or out to the pictures. Last month we saw Toy Story 3 - that was nice. I can't think...I mean, he isn't the easiest of men to get on with, but you don't just kill people for being rude."

"No,  no of course not. This pub, which one did he go to? You said he was drinking last night, was that at the pub?"

"He'd always go to the local, the Rampant Boar. They knew him there, even kept a tab for him when money was tight. Last night he was out quite late, didn't come in until well after dark and so drunk he couldn't even...well. I got him to bed and couldn't wake him as usual this morning, so he was running late for work, never mind he couldn't see straight. And now...oh God. He's really dead, isn't he? Simon's dead."

The shock seemed to be wearing off, so I offered to call someone for her but she declined, curling in on herself in the armchair and staring into space. It was clear I wouldn't get anything else out of her so I let myself out and went back to the idling cab.