I would like to apologise for taking so long. But my desire to keep things as accurate and as logical as possible forces me to start reading a lot of books about history, geography, economics, medicine and more. What you read should be as logical and 'possible' as it could be, while still being a fanfiction.
Quality over quantity. I hope you enjoy.
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Mycroft was sitting in the library, the grey morning light falling across a neat stack of envelopes and prospectuses — documents he had received about the potential universities he might attend. He leafed through them quickly, noting admission requirements, term dates, and the names of distinguished professors, but his mind wandered. The scratch of the pen from a nearby desk, the faint smell of binding glue and aged paper, all registered and were quietly filed away. Even while considering his academic future, Mycroft's senses were engaged, alert for the next puzzle to demand his attention.
He had been thinking about the lack of "credit" he had received for his part in the last affair, no mention in the reports, not a whisper in the public accounts and papers. While he had expected such anonymity, knowing the Yard's tendency to keep the unusual tucked quietly away, it still struck him as a small injustice. Recognition mattered little to his ego, but the deliberate silence irked him, particularly as he had intended to use the matter to bolster his credibility once he established his own official detective business.
His mind wandered back to the stack of envelopes before him, in particular, the three most promising institutions available to a young man next year, in 1889. Cambridge, with its centuries of scholarship and a small but formidable circle of legal and forensic minds; Oxford, rich in resources and famed for its debating societies, where he could sharpen the rhetorical skills a detective must command; and the relatively new, expanding University of London, whose modern curriculum and connections to the city'scity's courts might prove invaluable for rapid professional establishment in the capital.
Each interesting for a different reason, each a tool to shape the reputation he intended to forge in the dawning decade — not for vanity's sake, but to gain unimpeachable credibility. If ever he should need to act in a legal case, the study of law would serve him well. Medicine would deepen his understanding of the human body in both life and death, invaluable for investigation. Economics and politics would equip him to navigate the corridors of influence where many cases were born or buried. All, in their way, were weapons to be added to his future arsenal as a professional detective.
And with his knowledge and the newspapers quietly humming of tensions on the continent, the arms build-ups, the shifting alliances, the nationalist murmurs in the Balkans, he could not help but think that such knowledge would serve him beyond mere cases. The Franco–Prussian War was still fresh in memory for many, and the map of Europe seemed to shift with every new treaty or alliance whispered about. Something would break, like Bismarck had said, and when it did, perhaps in a quarter of a century or sooner, the whole continent would be drawn into a conflagration the likes of which no one had yet seen, the Great War that would eclipse any criminal intrigue in scale and consequence.
In Mycroft's mind, the line between the political and the criminal was thin; both relied on motive, opportunity, and the careful concealment of truth. Preparation, therefore, would never be wasted, for the detective who understood the world's political undercurrents would be ready when those undercurrents became a tidal wave and swept over Europe and the whole world.
Mycroft heard footsteps behind him, firm and deliberate, the tempo carrying the faint squelch of rain-wet leather. Without turning, he noted the slight scrape of a boot's heel, a habit he had heard on many a foggy night.
"Back so soon, Inspector?" Mycroft asked, eyes still on the papers before him.
"How… how on earth did you know it was me?" Abberline asked as he came to stand beside him, removing his damp hat.
Mycroft looked up and smiled faintly.
"The rhythm of your step, the faint scent of your tobacco, are all too familiar to mistake for anyone else."
"Is that so?"
"Another case?"
"Yes. If you could spare the time."
"Most certainly."
.
The rain had followed them indoors. It clung to Abberline's coat, dripping from the hem as he stood in the narrow doorway of the dead man's lodgings. Mycroft, on the other hand, placed his umbrella down and walked in dry. The place smelled faintly of smoke, boiled beef, and the bitter tang of stale gin. Mycroft's eyes started to take everything in right away.
"He was found this morning," Abberline began, his voice low. "By the landlady. Door locked from the inside. She thought he'd overslept, knocked twice, then fetched a neighbour to force it. They found him… there."
He pointed toward the lavatory. The door hung half open, having been forcefully opened, revealing the hunched form of the stout man still on the toilet seat. His trousers were at his ankles and his head bowed forward, as far as his belly allowed, like a penitent. Mycroft nodded his head and looked at the man. He pulled down his collar slightly, then his socks and then picked up his hand to check his nails.
While Abberline continued to speak, Mycroft started to drift about the room, eyes skimming over each surface without seeming to linger on anything particular. On the mantel, he found a small tin of shag tobacco and a clay pipe. He lifted the tin, sniffed, and set it down again.
Abberline observed the young man as he went about his things, without listening.
"Is something the matter? Did you find something?" Abberline asked.
"A heavy smoker," Mycroft said.
"And you think he was given some strange herb which killed him?"
"No."
"Aha..." Abberline said and carried on.
"No marks of violence. No sign he was moved after it took him. He could have been placed, though. The doc says the heart stopped. Sudden, but not surprising. They'll check the usual powders and draughts — arsenic, prussic acid, laudanum, antimony — but there's nothing obvious. Might be natural, might not. I need to make sure."
"Hmm, you want to make sure that a criminal didn't kill him after finding out that he was your informant, you mean."
"What? How could you possibly know that?" Abberline asked, surprised.
"Your sleeve cuffs bear a faint smear of coal dust, the sort found in the stoves of the telegraph office at Whitechapel High Street, and here—on the desk—half a note in the same hand as the letter I saw upon your desk this morning at the Yard. Same slant, same cramped loop on the 'g'. That office serves no private citizens, only local constables and their informants. So, unless you've taken to corresponding with strangers in that quarter for pleasure, I conclude this man was in your employ."
Abberline's brow furrowed, then his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but as much as his face would allow.
"Blast it, Holmes… you make a man feel positively transparent."
Next, Mycroft stooped before a narrow icebox. The block inside was half-melted; beside it, wrapped in muslin, sat a small hunk of salt pork, a wedge of yellow cheese, and the cold remains of a suet pudding. Mycroft's expression didn't shift, but his fingers traced the faint grease on the wrappings.
"Sorry, Mycroft, is this boring you?"
"On the contrary, Chief Inspector. Please carry on," Mycroft said.
Abberline, still standing in the doorway, continued.
"No witnesses. No struggle. Judging by the cooling, the doc thinks it was likely an hour or two before they found him."
Mycroft nodded his head and then looked at the Chief Inspector.
"Tell me, Chief Inspector, where is the landlady who found him?"
"She should be back at the Yard, making a statement. Why? You have a theory?"
"Did she perchance say anything about our dear Mr. Cromby?"
"Say? Like what? His habits and the like?" Abberline asked.
"That sort of thing, yes. Was he a rather friendly fellow, a quick one? Did he ever talk to her? Did he rush up the stairs?"
"She said, he seemed to be in a hurry all the time, yes. Always out of breath as if he was rushing somewhere, since he complained about his ankles. That's also why I was thinking that something was in the works. He must have heard something and couldn't reach out to me before it took him."
"Yes... Yes, that makes sense."
"It does? Tell me. Do you have another profile?" Abberline asked, his face lighting up.
"Oh, more than that. I can tell you exactly what killed him."
"You can not! How would you bloody know that?" Abberline asked.
"Well... I'm rather smart."
"Haha, alright. Enlighten me, genius. Who was it?"
"It was shit."
"Yes, I know that it's shit, but who was it that killed him?"
"No, Chief Inspector, it literally was, shit, that killed him. Or the act of defecation would be more accurate."
Abberline looked at Mycroft like you would at a child who told you the dumbest joke you could imagine. His face was blank, and there was a show of disappointment and wasted time. He shook his head and sighed.
"Alright, it was worth a shot. Let's go."
"Contrary to what you may believe right now, Chief Inspector, I was not making a morbid joke. And if you could spare the time, I will make it rather clear to you."
Abberline sighed again.
"Alright, tell me."
"First off, let me placate your worries, Mr. Cromby was not murdered. Heart failure is indeed the cause of death — but it was not random."
Abberline blinked, momentarily silent.
"Yes, we already know it stopped — but you're telling me how and why."
"The pipe. Its stem is dark with use, telling me he smoked a lot. The food he was eating was high in fat and salt, precisely the diet to advance arterial narrowing. I doubt a green vegetable has darkened his plate this fortnight. You might say that we can see that by his stout appearance, and you would be correct. But it goes a bit further.
You said the landlady told you Mr. Cromby seemed in a hurry and was out of breath. He wasn't. Heart failure occurs when the heart muscle doesn't pump blood as well as it should. When this happens, blood often backs up and fluid can build up in the lungs, causing shortness of breath. That's what the landlady observed.
Shortness of breath during activities is one of the symptoms, as are fatigue and weakness. The swelling caused the pain in his ankles and feet. You can still see it if you look at them. As I mentioned, fluid can accumulate not only in the lungs but also in the periphery, including the feet, ankles, and legs. You can clearly see that."
"I saw your lips move, but I don't understand what you said," Abberline said.
"Right."
Mycroft went over to the dead form of Mr. Cromby and crouched, his gaze travelling not to the obvious, but to the minute. He turned to Abberline and showed him what he meant.
"Observe the face, note the slight bluish cast about the lips and earlobes. Cyanosis, indicating that the blood ceased to carry oxygen well before you found him. Yet the skin elsewhere is pale, even waxen."
Mycroft leaned closer and continued when the Chief Inspector didn't say anything.
"Small beads of sweat upon the brow, dried now, but their pattern speaks of a final effort, and here..." He indicated Cromby's neck. "The veins stand more prominently on the left. Strain, Chief Inspector."
"Strain?"
"Are you familiar with the anatomist *Antonio Maria Valsalva?" Mycroft asked. *
"Who?"
"I didn't think so. This Italian gentleman has discovered something. A Valsalva manoeuvre, as one might call it, is forced exhalation against a closed airway. Common enough when… well, engaged in certain natural functions. You see, the Valsalva manoeuvre has the effect of causing bradycardia, meaning it slows down the heart rate."
"Meaning?" Abberline prompted.
"The act of defecation, Chief Inspector."
"So? I still don't see what all of this means."
"Well, you need to add all the information we now know into one picture. We have a man here, or had, who is rather stout; I doubt he has seen his feet in the last few years. He eats fatty and salty foods, smokes and shows signs of heart failure already. His ankles, feet and legs are swollen, we see the strain on his neck, and he died on the privy.
Taking what we know and placing ourselves into the situation where he was defecating. In this man, the Valsalva manoeuvre would have sharply stimulated the vagus nerve, slowing the heart to a dangerous bradycardia."
"You mean he died, literally, because he was trying to take a shit on the privy?" Abberline asked
"In the young, it may cause a mere faint; in a man with a diseased heart, it proved instantly fatal."
Abberline frowned. "And you see all of this?"
"Observe the ankles: mild pitting oedema — press and the hollow remains. Fluid retention is a sign of chronic heart failure. And here — the nails, with their slight clubbing and the faint brown lines under the beds, betray longstanding cardiac strain—no convulsions, thus no seizure. The pupils are mid-dilated, fixed, a heart stopped, not a brain which starved slowly. Rigour has set in a while ago, which places his death scarcely eight hours past. The latrine door is locked from within, the candle, as you told me, was still burning, all consistent with a sudden collapse."
Abberline glanced once more at the inert figure.
"No poison, no assailant, no foul play?"
"None," Mycroft said.
"That's quite the theory."
"Theory? I never theorise, Chief Inspector. What I told you are facts, and I demonstrated it for you."
"..."
"You ask me for help, I grant it to you, and when I tell you what I see, you doubt it. I am not a cheap tool to be used, Chief Inspector. A title, which you earned through my involvement, if we are being honest."
"Sigh... you're right. I apologise. It's simply because I have never heard any of this."
"Well, I told you what I know. I'll take my leave then. Good day, Chief Inspector."