"Deducing all of this is actually quite elementary," Sherlock said, stepping back to the corpse. He hoisted one of the woman's arms. "Look. The entire limb is as rigid as a wooden stake, curving slightly outward. That isn't rigor mortis; it's the result of the axillary tendons being severed. It completely robs the arm of any capacity for movement."
He pointed noncommittally toward the legs. "The lower limbs were handled with the same technique—severing the medial muscle groups. Thus, the victim collapses entirely, left to be slowly dissected by the killer. She cannot struggle. She cannot even scream, because the killer used a hook through the trachea to destroy the vocal cords and the glottis."
His tone was conversational, as if he were discussing the weather, yet his words painted a picture of absolute, unmitigated agony.
"This particular technique... it's an old way of preparing beef from the town of Rochester."
"A way of... preparing beef?" Catherine asked, unable to suppress her confusion once more.
"Indeed. To ensure the absolute freshness of the meat, that is how they handle live cattle. They carve the meat while using the juice of the Nizihua flower to staunch the bleeding. The cow's body twitches throughout the process—quite fascinating, really. Though some twenty years ago, local councilmen banned it under the guise of 'animal cruelty.' Meddling fools. If you're ever curious to try it, I could recommend a few excellent underground restaurants. They're a bit pricey, though." Sherlock offered Catherine a thin smile.
"Focus on the case!"
"Right." Sherlock continued. "At any rate, a skill this refined isn't learned overnight. If you nick the brachial arteries, the subject bleeds out in seconds. Our killer possesses an extreme level of patient experience; he likely finds joy in the duration of the act. The underground dens in London can't provide the environment for this kind of training. The killer must have his own means—or, more likely, he raises his own livestock. I lean toward the latter; it's far more discreet. Nizihua sap is an excellent hemostat, but prolonged contact causes skin irritation and hair loss. Form-fitting cotton shirts are the only thing that effectively soothes that particular itch."
He turned his attention to the victim's face. "As I mentioned, he destroyed the glottis. There is a distinct tear at the corner of the mouth. As you know, to reach the glottis with a hook, one must apply downward pressure. It's nearly impossible to achieve that angle without prying the jaws open to a breaking point."
Silence met his explanation. Perhaps they couldn't keep up with his speed, or perhaps the sheer depravity of the knowledge left them mute.
Sherlock didn't care. If anything, his speech accelerated. "In short: during the dissection, the victim's face became hideously distorted by pain and the tearing of the mouth. Yet, after the fact, the killer took the trouble to painstakingly rearrange the facial muscles into a state of repose. I told you, this was around five or six in the morning. That he insisted on finishing this 'beautification' at such an hour suggests an obsession with the aesthetics of his victims. A sort of 'the ugly do not deserve my blade' philosophy. He is willing to risk being seen just to perfect the art.
"A man like that, given his affluent background... well, he either invites beautiful women to his home for crude pleasures, or, if he's of a more 'refined' sort, he collects their portraits. I suspect he might even be a painter himself. Either way, those are the most common outlets for such a fixation."
"But what you say... it's entirely without evidence," Catherine interjected, her voice wavering between skepticism and intrigue. "It's merely a collection of your own assumptions."
"I never claimed to have evidence," Sherlock chuckled. "This is simply the most logical framework at this stage. You might as well exert your efforts in this direction. After all, you lot aren't exactly the type who wait for a mountain of proof before making an arrest, are you? Oh, and one more thing: our man has an old injury to his right ribs. I'm certain of it. There are distinct hesitations in the sternal incisions—his arm tremors slightly when performing fine horizontal movements. Muscle adhesion."
Sherlock mimed a cutting motion with an invisible blade.
This massive dump of information was delivered in less than a minute. Sherlock spoke with crystalline clarity but at triple the speed of a normal man, utterly disregarding whether his audience could process it. It was as if he didn't care for their admiration; he treated his brilliance as something mundane, a common tool of the trade.
The surrounding crowd, however, did not share his nonchalance.
Catherine's expression had shifted from cold indifference to deep contemplation, finally settling on a look of sheer, complex wonder. Even the silent Baidel's features fluctuated between a scowl and a look of dawning realization.
To be honest, this caught Sherlock off guard. Based on his usual impression of the Adjudication Department, he expected them to be bloody-minded pragmatists who only wanted a name so they could begin the hunt. He hadn't expected them to actually listen to a logical proof.
Baidel even gave a slight, solemn nod. It was a terrifying sign—the man had followed the entire thread and, after digesting the massive data load, had signaled his affirmation.
Only the young guard in the steam-armor at the alley mouth remained utterly lost, his jaw hanging open behind his visor.
"Based on the scene, this is the limit of what can be deduced. That is why I said my presence is no longer required," Sherlock said, bringing the conversation back to his initial request. "Taking these unresolved questions back to my flat to think is the most productive thing I can do for the case."
Catherine hesitated, her gaze flickering between the corpse on the stones and the man in the trench coat. Finally, she looked at Baidel, searching the face of the widower. After a moment, she spoke.
"Remember. You have less than twenty hours. If you succeed, you will have the gratitude of the Church. If you fail, you will receive the punishment you deserve."
"Punishment?" Sherlock's tone wasn't particularly curious. "With all due respect, given the absurd constraints of this case, failing to find the killer is the only logical outcome. Why should there be a punishment?"
"Pressure ensures focus," Catherine replied tonelessly.
She knew the demand was unreasonable, but she didn't care. Punishing a commoner required no justification. Sherlock suspected that if his immediate death could somehow summon the killer, these people would hack him to pieces without a second thought.
And the most terrifying part was how reasonable it seemed to everyone involved.
It was a structural disparity so vast it transcended morality. No one would question a Cleric for stepping on a commoner any more than they would question a man for stepping on a blade of grass. No one cared if the grass had been sentenced to death.
Sherlock, naturally, didn't bother judging the social order. He was just a Detective. He offered a polite, weary smile.
"Then might I request a carriage to take me home? Baker Street, Lower District. It's quite a long walk."