text: Chris Harris Grimshaw & Mortimer: The Case Book 
   
   
   The Case Of: The Mysterious Wound 
   Wesley Mortimer woke. The morning shone through parted curtains, blinding him in his dazed state. Shielding his eyes, he rose, and wobbled slightly, steadying himself with his free hand on the bedpost, before getting dressed slowly with all the grace of...well, he didn't know, it wasn't his job to come up with similes. Outside, the sound of wheels echoed, clattering over cobblestones with a slight err to the usual pattern.  Moving away from the house , he thought, remembering the missing cobblestone down the street. 
   Stumbling through the brown-walled kitchen, Wesley pulled a chair from under the kitchen table, before slowly sinking onto, yawning as he did so. Rubbing his eyes, blurred vision cleared and something slowly came into view. His brow furrowed. He blinked. And then he stood slowly up, hands shaking as he backed away from the table. 
   “Grimshaw?” 
   His companions face appeared behind him, shortly followed by the rest of his body. “Ah, good morning!” 
   “No, Grimshaw...This is is not a good morning. Why,” Wesley sighed, exasperated, “is there a corpse on the kitchen table?” 
   “Oh, the same reason for the skin in the kettle.” Grimshaw pointed at said kettle, which whistled away on top of the stove. “Tea?” 
   “No thanks.” 
   “Shame.” Grimshaw almost pouted. “Have you seen the magnifying glass?” 
   Wesley looked at the kettle, and quickly voiced a burning question. “Why?” 
   “You remember Henry Herman?” Grimshaw tossed a slice of bread aside, delighted to find his magnifying glass lying beneath. 
   “Yes, missing chap.” Wesley cocked his head, leaning forward to watch Grimshaw pour most of the contents of the kettle onto a small china plate, and the rest into a cup, which he stirred with the magnifying glass's handle. “What are you doing?” 
   Wiping the magnifying glass dry, Grimshaw observed the small bubbling square of boiled skin he'd poured onto the plate. “Well, it appears that Stangerson's boys have proved moderately adept for once. You probably heard them leave.” 
   “Yes.” Wesley took a deep breath. “But why is his corpse on our kitchen table?” 
   Grimshaw waved his hand dismissively at Wesley. “No room on the floor. Anyway, it's on a cloth, it's fine.” He took a sip from his cup, pausing briefly. “Mr Herman's skin certainly gave this tea an extra flavour.” He took another sip, placing the cup gently down next to the stove. “Hand me a knife.” 
   Wesley grabbed a knife from the next chair, and swapped it with Grimshaw's magnifying glass, taking care to hold it by the lens and not the still-dripping handle. 
   “Thanks.” Grimshaw muttered, before slamming the knife down onto the square of skin, cleaving it in two and cracking the cheap china. 
   “What are you doing now?” Wesley moaned; he hadn't intended it to be whiny, but there was only so much he could take. 
   “This man,” Grimshaw explained, “was found floating in the Thames earlier. Obviously he died – hand me the magnifying glass – recently, as his skin is not much paler than I imagine his usual complexion to be.” 
   “So, why do you have it? Him, I mean.” Wesley placed the magnifying glass back into Grimshaw's outstretched hand, taking the knife from him. 
   “Because of the – thanks – nature of the wound.” Grimshaw observed the skin with the glass again, pointing at the wound. 
   Wesley bent to look at the wound closely. “Well, it's a stab wound, but the skin is...blackened? Burnt, maybe?” 
   “Hence the skin in the kettle.” 
   “Wouldn't that just boil the skin?” 
   “Well, yes.” Grimshaw nodded enthusiastically. 
   There was a brief pause. 
   “Am I missing something?” Wesley wanted to shout at his companion, to release the tense knot in his stomach, let the annoyance out. 
   “Yes, you are. You forget also, that I wanted tea. And boiling was close enough.” He looked coyly at Wesley. “Killing two birds with one stone.” 
   Wesley looked confused. “Is that expression around in the 1920s?” 
   “Yes, it's been around since Hobbe used it in 1656.” 
   “Oh, wow.” Wesley nodded appreciatively. “I thought it was a post-World War Two thing.” 
   “Don't be stupid. There'll never be a second world war.” Grimshaw tutted as only an Englishman could. 
   “Why do I put up with you, Grimshaw?” 
   “Because I pay your rent, Mortimer.” Grimshaw reprimanded as he walked out of kitchen, sliding into polished shoes and grabbing his hat and cane. 
   Wesley followed him like a sheep after an insufferable dog. “Where are you going?” 
   “Scotland Yard.” Grimshaw said, opening the door and strolling out into the street. Above the door, a brass plaque read: 
   “Lewis Grimshaw 
   Private Detective 
   Kate Mortimer nee Grimshaw 
   In Loving Memory” 
   “Right.” Wesley stuffed himself into shoes, slamming the door behind him before he could lose sight of his companion. 
   “Indeed.” Grimshaw raised his hand. “Cabbie!” 
   * 
   The cab stopped outside Scotland Yard, just like a cab should have. Whenever he got in a cab, Wesley couldn't help but think of Jefferson Hope. He'd never dare voice that though, just in case nobody got the reference. 
   “Thank you, kind sir!” Grimshaw called to the cab driver as he handed him a tip and walked away, Wesley following. 
   “Kind sir?” Wesley hissed at Grimshaw. “Must you be so patronising?” 
   From the look Grimshaw gave him, Wesley almost expected a flat-out “yes”. Instead, Grimshaw remarked, “Any man who is prepared to endure vast amounts of hardship to aid others must be a kind of gentleman.” 
   “By that logic, I'm a kind sir...” Wesley muttered. 
   “Aren't we all?” Grimshaw asked. 
   Wesley did not answer, for it was rhetorical. 
   Grimshaw strolled into the building; doors were no barrier, or else his presence caused them to shuffle to the side out of discontent. Policemen turned to stare, and the tapping of typewriters paused in his wake. 
   “Stangerson!” Grimshaw called as he approached the grey-haired Chief Constable, whose desk was littered with paperwork in complete ignorance of in-trays. 
   Stangerson turned to face him and rolled his eyes. “Grimshaw.... Lovely to see you twice in one day!” 
   “Indeed.” Grimshaw seemed oblivious to sarcasm, Wesley had noted; an egotistical mind generally was. “A great day this is for you, to be graced by presence, as well as having the case of Henry Herman practically solved.” 
   Wesley swivelled to face Grimshaw, and he could feel lines of confusion etched onto his face. 
   “Really?” Stangerson seemed enthusiastic now. “Who did it?” 
   Grimshaw shrugged. “We don't know.” 
   “Do you have any leads?” Wesley could hear the annoyance in Stangerson's voice. 
   “Not-” Wesley began, before Grimshaw cut him off. 
   “Of course,” Grimshaw beamed, “the murderer is careless, shown by the disposal of the body; floating in the Thames? Not smart. He must then live near the Thames, as he wouldn't want to travel far from home in this winter's cold and pouring rain. Judging by the time he's been missing, Henry must have been kept somewhere out of sight, suggesting an attic or basement. Also, the surname “Herman” is German, so we could assume that the murderer lost either friend or family during the war, and wanted some sort of revenge.” 
   “That really doesn't narrow it down.” Wesley tried to say it gently; he knew how worked up Grimshaw could get. 
   “Also, note the wound. A very large incision; not made by a standard knife, no. I can assume that the murderer is a professional who uses knives in his business.” Grimshaw folded his arms, as if the case was over. 
   “You assume, do you?” Stangerson asked carefully. “Guessing is  not  the same as evidence.” 
   “Assumptions from evidence are not merely guesswork.” Grimshaw abruptly turned away, and walked out of the building, Wesley staring after him. 
   Stangerson looked at Wesley, who shrugged. “You know what he's like.” 
   “I know.” Stangerson sighed, “I'll look into what he said, and send a courier around later.” 
   “Thank you.” Wesley turned and ran after Grimshaw, who was strolling down the street. “Wait!” 
   Grimshaw paused and turned. “Ah, Wesley. You caught up.” 
   “You left me behind!” Nameless faces turned to him for all but a second. 
   “I never asked you to come with, you just followed.” 
   Wesley spluttered, before realising that Grimshaw was right. “Fine....” 
   “What did Stangerson say to you?” Grimshaw asked. 
   “He said he'll look into what you said.” They began to walk again. “Where are we going?” 
   “To where the body was found.” 
   “But Stangerson said-” 
   “The police are too slow.” 
   Wesley tried to keep up with his much-taller companion's larger strides, and soon found himself short of breath.  Everytime...  “Are we walking there?” 
   “Yes.” Grimshaw answered flatly, “Problem?” 
   “Can we not get a cab again? I've got plenty of change here.” 
   Grimshaw sighed. “Wesley, you know in films, where people ask “why didn't they just get the bus” or something foolish like that?” 
   Wesley nodded hesitantly. 
   “Well, the answer is usually something to do with better film-making or story-telling.” Grimshaw explained. “And while this is neither – in fact, the 1920s don't even have films with that content – it operates on the premise that we don't want to do the same thing twice.” 
   “Alright, whatever, let's go.” Wesley was sick of Grimshaw's crap. 
   * 
   The Thames rippled in the morning breeze. Grimshaw's cane was pointing at a specific point. “That,” he proclaimed, “is where the body was found.” 
   “How do you know?” Wesley asked, in awe of his partner's deduction. 
   “Stangerson showed me on a map earlier.” 
   “Oh...” 
   “Anyway, we're looking for a butcher.” Grimshaw's voice held a level of certainty about it. 
   “How can you be of sure of that?” Wesley regarded him with suspicion, expecting another trick. 
   “Heat and knives! Of course it's a butcher. The stench of death and the sounds of customers would easily hide Henry's cries for help, or any stench from his body. Most butchers have a basement for storing stock, and Henry was likely thrown in there. Obviously, in the month he's been missing, he would have been fed, so a place where food originates from would be a perfect source.” Grimshaw grinned. “There is one, not far from here, we'll start there. The investigations begin!” He tucked his cane under his so he could rub his hands together. 
   Wesley shook his head. “What if you're wrong, Lewis?” 
   Grimshaw's face twisted in confusion. “You never call me Lewis.” 
   “What if you're wrong?” Wesley asked, louder this time. 
   “Well...” Grimshaw paused, looking lost just for a moment. “Well, then we go back to see if Stangerson's courier has visited.” He nodded to himself. “Yes. Come on!” 
   * 
   The British flag hung over a window of the butcher's, with the other displaying a selection of meat, none of which Wesley was able to identify. 
   “I've got a good feeling about this one!” Grimshaw smiled. 
   “You said that about the last three.” Wesley huffed. 
   “This time is different!” 
   “You said that about the last two...” 
   Grimshaw shot Wesley a scathing look, before entering the store, a bell ringing as the door opened. He looked around, taking in every detail:  A fire and stove behind the counter, as well as a knife rack; murder weapon there? Probably. Floor is chipped in multiple places: general wearing of feet eroding the ground, or signs of a struggle. Proprietor is bald and clean shaven, so no hair will fall on either meat...or corpse.  
   “You need a hand?” The butcher asked. 
   Grimshaw walked towards him as Wesley entered the store. After nodding at Wesley, Grimshaw smiled, and said “Ah, Guten Tag!”. Wesley winced at the barely-passable German accent while Grimshaw watched the butcher's reaction. Eyes widened. Lips tightened. Eyes squinted back again, and body language became closed, shifting back and crossing his arms.  Gotcha!  “My friend, Henry Herman. You seen?” 
   The butcher's eyes darted unconsciously to the knife rack, before saying with a shake in his voice, “Never heard of him.” 
   “Are you sure?” Grimshaw asked, accent returning to usual now. “Because he's been stabbed recently, and you glanced at your knife rack at the mere mention of his name?” 
   For no more than a second, the butcher's eyes darted left and right, before he reached for a knife. Wesley darted forwards, and Grimshaw lashed out with his cane, hitting the butcher around the head. With a cry the butcher fell, with another blow winding him and knocking him to the floor. Grimshaw stepped over him, noting his name. “Sir butcher, you are under arrest for the murder of Henry Herman.” Grimshaw smiled. “Anything to say Wesley?” 
   “Nothing much.” Wesley shook his head. 
   There was silence. 
   “Grimshaw?” 
   “Yes?” Grimshaw kept the end of his cane on the butcher's face, ready to lash out if he tried to escape. 
   “Do you think we'll ever be as famous as Holmes and Watson?” 
   “We could do with the cash, couldn't we?” Grimshaw nodded, considering it. 
   Wesley agreed, despite it being rhetorical. “But do you?” 
   “No.” Grimshaw shook his head. “They've got a much better author.” 
   
   
   
   The Case Of: The Burnt Man 
   Wesley Mortimer woke, just as he did everyday. He stretched as usual, groaned as usual and smelled the smoke in the air as usual. 
   “Wait a minute...” He muttered, before stretching his arms up. 
   He threw on a dressing gown, his brown one today; the black one was elsewhere, he wasn't sure where. He was certain it just disappeared overnight, but that was unlikely as his room's door was locked, and his window closed, and remained unbroken. He'd probably just put it in the wrong cupboard. Having no real urgency in his day, he checked his wardrobe, finding no trace of it. 
   He shrugged, before leaving the room and heading to the kitchen. 
   “Morning!” Grimshaw called to him. “How you doing?” 
   Mortimer scrunched his face up in disapproval. “That's a bit 1990s, isn't it?” 
   “Don't you mean 1890s?” Grimshaw asked, opening a drawer and rooting around in it. 
   “No, I mean the 1990s.” Mortimer called over the noise of assorted...well, he didn't know what was in that drawer, that was Grimshaw's drawer. “Just seems a bit off for some 1920s fiction.” 
   “Are we fiction? I forget.” Grimshaw wasn't paying attention, Mortimer could tell. So he ignored it and looked around. 
   “Wait a minute...” 
   Grimshaw looked abruptly up and stopped rooting around in the drawer. “What?” 
   “Something's not right this morning, and I'm not sure what.” He sat down at the table and watched Grimshaw closely as he went back to the drawer and withdrew something from it, throwing it on the bonfire. 
   “Wait a minute...” 
   “Is this about the bonfire?” Grimshaw asked, waving an arm at the burning pile of stuff. 
   There was a sigh. 
   “Why,” Mortimer asked, “Is there a bonfire in the kitchen?” 
   Grimshaw looked at it, waving his arm at it again. “You don't like?” 
   There was a sigh. 
   “The body on the table last week was one thing,” he paused, not for dramatic effect like anyone reading this may think, but simply to yawn, “but this is just ridiculous! Not to mention dangerous, what if it burns the house down?” 
   Grimshaw seemed shocked, his face had gone all weird. “It's next to the sink, it's fine.” 
   “So, if it gets out of control, you're just gonna pour water on it until it dies?” Mortimer rubbed his forehead, which was beginning to ache; he couldn't take this every  freaking  week. 
   “Pretty much, yes. Problem?” 
   “What if the sink catches fire?” Mortimer asked, genuinely a bit curious about his friend's plan. 
   “Oh, the sinks full of water. And you can't set water on fire unless there's some fracking nearby, and then its only because the water becomes mixed with methane.” Grimshaw answered quickly and rather dismissively, even waving his hand as if to dispel Mortimer. 
   “What's fracking?” 
   “I think it's a word people use instead of saying...” Grimshaw looked around quickly, before leaning in and lowering voice, “Instead of saying  fuck .” 
   Mortimer was taken aback “Why does intercourse cause methane in the water? How, I mean.” 
   “I dunno, they must be doing it wrong. Or I meant that way of getting oil out from underground. Not quite sure really, but none of that appears to be happening around here.” 
   “The intercourse or the other thing?” 
   “Probably both; it's the 1920s, no-one has sex and, even if they did, we are bloody English, and will not speak of it!” Grimshaw sounded strangely patriotic. 
   “Oh, fair enough then.” 
   There was silence. 
   “Why is it there though?” Mortimer asked. 
   “Don't you like it?” Grimshaw sounded hurt. 
   “Please say it's not just there because you like fire.” 
   There was a sigh. 
   “It is pretty though.” Grimshaw observed. “But there is a practical reason for it; a man was burnt alive a couple of days ago, and I was observing the effects that fire has on clothing to see roughly how long he was burning for.” 
   “Why time it?” 
   “Oh, just to see if the suspect's alibi works out. Apparently, he was visiting his grandma around the time police found him, but the timing of him arriving there seems to be in question. So I'm burning some old clothes to both clear some room around the house and see how long it takes. Currently, the suspect seems to be in the clear.” He picked up a sleeve and threw it on the fire, taking note of the time. 
   Mortimer narrowed his eyes and stood up. “What was that?” 
   “Hmmm?” Grimshaw questioned without words, a universal way of asking someone to repeat themselves. 
   Mortimer walked slowly over to Grimshaw. “What. Did. You. Put. In. The. Fire.” 
   “Oh, just the last piece of that brown dressing gown you hate..” Grimshaw beamed at him. “Hope that's okay.” 
   Mortimer looked at the brown sleeve of his dressing gown. “I'm wearing the brown one, you clod!” 
   Grimshaw looked him up and down, and blinked in surprise. “So you are. Well, that must have been one, I suppose.” 
   “Are you fracking colourblind?” Mortimer grabbed the sleeve out of the fire and patted it down. 
   “No, but I figured that you'd be wearing the black one at night, and they all the same in the dark!” 
   “Wearing it at night...? Why would I wear it in bed?” Mortimer threw the useless sleeve back on the bonfire, which whooshed. “Did you sneak into my room when I was sleeping?” 
   Grimshaw shrugged. “I assume so, it was night-time.” 
   “Why didn't you just ask for it?” 
   “I thought you'd say no.” 
   “Then why,” Mortimer seethed, “did you just not burn something of yours?” 
   Grimshaw gave Mortimer a strange look, as if confused. “Because I like all of my stuff. You do not like some of your stuff. Ergo, we burn your clothes, not mine.” 
   Biting back a vicious retort, Wesley sighed. He knew he couldn't win this argument. “So, you're seeing how long clothes burn for until they reach the state they were on the body of the burnt man in order to test if the suspect's alibi holds up? Am I right?” 
   Grimshaw beamed and clapped his hands together. “Exactly right!” 
   Wesley looked at the wood on the bonfire, opened his mouth, then closed it again. 
   “Problem?” Grimshaw's voice was strangely curt. 
   “Well, if you're burning with different materials, then your results won't be accurate.” Wesley waved his hands as if to address the ridiculousness of the situation, but the action only resulted in adding to it. 
   Grimshaw sighed. “Oh Wesley, you think I am some sort of fool? The suspect burned the victim using a broken-up chair from the victim's home, and doused them in pure ethanol, before setting the pile on fire.” 
   “How do you know?” 
   Grimshaw lit up; he loved showing off. “Well, I ran my finger along the burnt out remains, and took a taste: definitely burnt whiskey, I'd know that taste anywhere.” 
   Wesley's face twisted in disgust and intrigue. “Why?” 
   “Because the plot demands me to.” Grimshaw nodded to himself. “So, I took another chair from the victim's house, added some whiskey and,” he pointed to the still-crackling bonfire, “voilà!” 
   Wesley nodded. “I suppose that's fair. I assume we're taking these observations to Scotland Yard?” 
   “You assume correctly.” Grimshaw picked up a mug, dipped it in the water in the sink and poured it over the fire, which hissed. “Now get changed and ready.” Grimshaw repeated the action. 
   “Yup.” Wesley said, voice monotonous as he stared at the blackened, now wet, patch of carpet. 
   Grimshaw waved him away. “Well? Get on with it.” 
   Wesley tore his eyes away from the patch and trudged back to his bedroom, investigating the lock on the door as he did so; no signs of wherever Grimshaw tampered with it. He tutted and closed the door. 
   * 
   “So, do you have any other leads?” Stangerson asked. “We've got one guy,” Stangerson showed Grimshaw a photograph of a middle-aged man, “who's under suspicion, but that's all right now.” 
   “Not at the moment, no.” Grimshaw looked sideways at Wesley, who looked confused. “Another look around the crime scene would be appreciated.” 
   Stangerson sighed, before nodding quickly. “Yes yes.” He muttered, sounding troubled. “I'll get one of the boys to take you there.” 
   Grimshaw bowed his head. “Thank you.” 
   Stangerson turned to leave them, before looking back and nodding once. Grimshaw acknowledged this with a smile, before turning to Wesley. “What's wrong?” 
   “What happened?” Wesley looked around slowly, as if he was dreaming, or in some sort of trance. “I went to my room...and then I'm here.” His head snapped up to look Grimshaw in the eyes. “Did you drug me again?” 
   “What?” Grimshaw looked genuinely flustered. “No!” 
   “Then what happened?” Wesley asked. 
   “You got dressed, we came here, gave Stangerson the evidence and now we're about to go to the crime scene.” Grimshaw said slowly and clearly, annunciating everything clearly, before bending down to whisper in Wesley's ear. “The author used a transition so he didn't have to write all that stuff. Bit lazy really, you'd think he'd document everything in our lives.” 
   Wesley thought about it for a minute, before nodding. “That is lazy.” 
   “It is.” 
   * 
   Stangerson's “boy”, a young detective by the name of Joe, led them to the crime scene: a small terraced house in east London, cordoned off by a thin strip of tape, which proclaimed “POLICE DO NOT ENTER”. Joe led Grimshaw and Mortimer to the tape, lifted it for them and watched them duck awkwardly beneath it; Joe was only a short lad. Grimshaw reached for the door, which opened with the lightest touch. He turned to Joe. “Did you not close the door?” The patronising tone had crept back into Grimshaw's voice, and Wesley winced as he turned to see Joe's reaction. 
   “I'm certain we did, sir.” Joe's voice had a slight Irish twang to it which Wesley hadn't expected. 
   “Hmmm...” Grimshaw inspected the door closely, whipping his magnifying glass from his pocket. The lock was lined with scratches, and the door-frame was damaged; someone had forced their way in. “Did the murderer get in through the front door?” 
   “No sir, the back. And we boarded that up.” Joe responded, his voice getting quieter as he realised what Grimshaw was implying. He unclipped his truncheon from his belt and readjusted his helmet. 
   “Then someone else has been in here...” Grimshaw trailed off, beckoning at Wesley to follow. “Come. But be careful; they could still be here.” 
   “Do you think it was the murderer?” Wesley whispered to Grimshaw, not wanting to panic the young detective. “Coming back to clear up?” 
   “Quite possibly.” Grimshaw edged forwards slowly, noting the cobwebs in the corners and the mould on the wall; the victim did not live a good life. “Just be ready.” 
   Grimshaw pushed a door and opened and entered the...living room, he assumed. He put a hand out to stop Joe and Wesley going any further, protecting them from the worst of the sight. “My god...” He muttered, looking around. 
   Both the beige wallpaper and carpet were stained with splatters of red, puddles forming on the floor. Grimshaw gulped hard to force the vomit back as slowly entered the room, still holding his hand back to protect the others. Subconsciously, he knew they would be able to see the man hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room, but at least their view was impaired. They couldn't see his face, which, where not covered in bruises, was stained with streaks of blood, still wet as they ran from six spiky letters carved in his forehead: KILLER. In addition to the words carved into his forehead and being hanged, the victim's wrist's were slit open, still dripping into two puddles beneath each limp arm. 
   Wesley pushed Grimshaw's hand down and stood next to him in silence as Joe ran outside and a grotesque retching sound followed. “What the frack...” Wesley slowly walked over to the body. 
   “Don't touch it!” Grimshaw realised that he was more forceful than he needed to be. “Evidence could be lost.” Grimshaw stared at the corpse's face; a middle-aged man, beaten almost beyond recognition. Almost. 
   Wesley caught Grimshaw looking. “You alright, Lewis?” 
   Grimshaw nodded. “Yeah...it's not like it's real, anyway.” Wesley cocked his head in vague agreement. “But this man...he was Stangerson's second suspect, the one in the photograph he showed me.” 
   Wesley looked at the corpse in disgust;  maybe he deserved this.  “You think we've got a vigilante running around?” 
   Grimshaw nodded. “That, or just another killer. Either way,” He gestured around the room as Joe re-entered, “I think we're out of our depth here. Scotland Yard should take it further now.” Joe nodded, and left again, presumably to fetch help. “For us, Wesley,” Grimshaw said solemnly, bowing his head, “this case is closed.”  
     
   
   
   Text: Chris Harris All rights reserved. Publication Date: February 13th 2016 https://www.bookrix.com/-chrissieh