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Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter One

-

6^th of August 1884

Case: The unrobbed woman
File I: Alone

A question often asked when telling a story is “Where to begin?”. Now, I am by no means a famed writer or scholar, and yet I believe that every story is best told forwards, rather than backwards. Hence, I shall start right there– at the beginning.

The first thing you should know about me is that my name is “Enola". "Enola Holmes” to be more precise. I admit, it is quite the odd name (though not as odd as many another), but my mother insisted on it. Firmly. For you see, “Enola” spelled backwards says “Alone” and my mother has always been rather fond of word play.

The second thing you should know about me is that, after solving my first case, the case of the Missing Marques, I have realized that being alone does not equal being lonely. Knowing this has...solved many a question I have had all my life, as for being called “Alone”, well – it isn’t the most flattering of meanings, don’t you agree? But my mother has always had only the best of intentions and I am convinced that she has merely wanted to teach me this lesson specifically.

My mother always has had her own way of going about things.

For you see, I may not live close to Edith Grayson, but I talk to her occasionally. I may hardly ever see Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, but his letters do bring me joy.

But fear not! I made him swear not to tell my address to either of my brothers – or anyone else for that matter! And anyway, the place I make him sent them to varies from each letter to another. I simply cannot allow myself to be sloppy lest my brothers – well, Sherlock mostly – may find me!

Speaking of my brothers, I may not speak to (or write. Or see) them at all, but I am convinced, should I ever be in a place of high need, my brothers – well, Sherlock again – would help me out. And anyway, I do not require my brother’s assistance, as, as I aforementioned, my name is “Enola”.

Alone.

The last thing you should know about me, is that I’m currently learning how to ride a bicycle.

“OY! Watch it, miss!”, a fruit seller yells after me as I make my way through the busy streets of London. I almost hit his cart before swaying to the right, scattering a group of streetworkers. London really is too busy to learn how to properly ride a bike, but then again, I am nothing if not persistent.

Quickly, I shout “My apologies!” over my shoulder, but do not pay any more attention to the fruit seller’s squabbling. I am on a mission after all, and nothing will keep me from it. Phase one of today’s scheme has already been properly conducted – I paid a girl five pounds for switching clothes with me, after we both entered Edith’s. You see, I have it on good authority that something of importance will happen at Edith’s dojo today. I may not have been informed of what – but I know it will.

My informant is rather trustworthy.

Phase Two of my plan is taking me a bit longer – getting back to Edith’s, after leading any possible pursuer astray.

“OY!”, another man yells - this time, it is a newsman.

London really is too busy, isn't it?

.o.O.o.

“Morning”, I greet the waitress as I enter the tea rooms Edith uses as a front for her dojo. I have been told the beverages here are excellent, but I have yet to try them, hardly ever finding the time to sit down at one of the tables. I wouldn’t want to anyway. My mother used to say that those tearooms are devil incarnate. “Enola”, she’d tell me:”A tearoom is a place where ones gathers to discuss nothing of importance. Do try to avoid them if you wish to be more than a pretty flower.”

I have headed that advice ever since.

Mayhaps that is why Edith chose a tearoom as a front.

Anyway. I already know my way around these parts – having visited regularly to gather news about my mother, that I have yet to receive – I suppose Edith is not being entirely honest with what she knows or doesn’t – and quickly make my way up the stairs, politely nodding to the other patrons of the establishment. Not a single one of them pays any mind to the regular thumps drifting down from the upper levels and I am not surprised that most conversations centre around the latest suffragette protests.

Perhaps my mother has been a bit off when describing tearooms.

The stairs’ creaking is almost comforting by now and I exhale soundly after making it upstairs. My brother’s would not be allowed back here and if they should be spotted downstairs, I know my way across the rooftops. Mother used to train me in climbing and I can’t help but wonder, whether she may have envisioned me scaling London’s walls at some point.

I am reminded of Sherlock telling me he was forced to take calligraphy classes when he was younger and what a useful skill it is to have, now that he is older and an outstanding detective. Even my short time at Miss Harrison’s finishing school for girls has come in handy – or will. I may have to disguise myself as a proper lady again eventually.

Preparation is key, my mother used to say.

I am greeted by Edith herself, a soft smile gracing her features as she welcomes me into her dojo, returning from the back. I cannot help but wonder what was so important for her to leave her lessons – but it is not my place to ask. I have learned my lesson the first time I came and while I have finally mastered the “Corkscrew”, I have no intention of taking on the jiu-jitsu master herself.

“Enola Holmes! What a surprise for you to be here!”, Edith says, quickly leading me into the back. She already knows I am not here to train – and what we discuss is more often than not a private matter.

“Did something happen? You rarely ever visit twice in a row.”

I assume you may be confused by this, for Edith is a very good friend of mine, but I do have reasons for my sporadic visits.

Ever since I have found Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, I have every reason to believe that not only is Mycroft – and by extent Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard – looking for me, but rather Sherlock – the world-famous detective who is renowned for solving every task he has ever taken on.

I may only be 16 and I may have lived my entire life on the countryside, but I am convinced he won’t solve this one. And most definitely not today. I already successfully distracted him from Edith’s by deploying that other girl in my clothes as a decoy after all. I am now dressed in an entirely new set of clothes – a maid’s. I have never disguised myself as one before and I have every reason to assume I will not be recognized by anyone. By anyone who doesn’t know me, that is, which is a scarily low number of people – my mother, Edith, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether and maybe our housekeeper, Mrs. Lane.

Should Sherlock be able to see through my disguise regardless – which I doubt, as he rarely ever recognizes me at all – I have made use of another scheme to hide any tracks I might leave behind: I only ever visit Edith’s dojo at random. In fact, I roll dice to determine when I will. As dice are not influenced by me whatsoever – other than the angle and force with which I throw them and I am positive, not even a detective as genius as Sherlock Holmes would ever be able to deduce that information – rolling dice is the most random way to determine the date of my visits. If there is no code at all, no secret message can be found out either.

But enough of that.

“It is my mother!”, I quickly say, answering Edith's question and unable to mask my voice's eagerness:”She sent me a notice – through the “Magazine of Modern Womanhood” - and she told me I had to be here today!”

That is not entirely correct. In fact, my mother simply wrote “Dlm atn irpih bsey nhevyucalmuut”. Which, of course, is no message at all, however if you just rearrange the letters a little, the message will read “Ivy and Blue Tulip, Chrysanthemum.” which, evidently, still doesn’t make sense at all. Yet. my mother has always had a penchant for codes and this is no different. “Chrysanthemum” is what we call each other and both “Ivy” and “Blue Tulip” refers to a friend – one who is loyal and whom you share history with.

It was obvious she was referring to Edith.

“Your mother? I haven’t heard anything from your mother lately...” - I don’t believe her. She just doesn’t want me to know and it is infuriating - “...I am surprised you are asking for her at all. I thought you might have found out about a letter that was send to me for you?”

I halt my thoughts, processing what Edith tells me before realizing - I forgot. I told Tewkesbury to send his next letter here. I was planning on picking it up during my next scheduled visit.

“Oh, he has written back already?”, I reply, stepping closer, a bit too hastily maybe. Because Edith’s mouth quirks up into a smirk and she raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

I have given myself away, have I not?

“”He”? Is it that “useless boy” you supposedly got rid of?”

Instead of answering Edith - she knows the answer regardless anyway and I will not give her the satisfaction of saying it out loud, I snatch the letter from her waiting hands, moving to sutff it into my – my bag.

It is gone.

I must have handed it the girl I sent away earlier. That is a pity. I would, of course, prefer to read the letter right now, but I will not do so with Edith in the same room as I am. She is devious, as I have experienced myself, and would not put it beneath her to try and spy for my mother.

I am about to shove the letter down my corset – they do come in handy at times – but Edith’s smirk simply widens.

“I will leave you to it. My students are waiting.”

And up she goes, leaving the room.

I suppose that works too.

Hastily, I unfold the letter, sitting down at the small desk situated just next to me.

Clove Brudrock,

 

I thank you for your latest letter – it has amused me greatly hearing about the tale of the corrupt roast thief – did I not tell you it must have been an animal? – and I wish you’d have more tales to tell about Misses Grenwod’s vanishing dinners. Regardless, I am glad you solved this latest mystery. It must have been your fourth case, if I am not mistaken.

 

You may not know, but Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether is lying. This was, in fact, my fifth case, but he refuses to view his own as a case. For reasons unbeknownst to me. Not to mention that I myself do not view any of these mysteries as cases - seeing how they have been solved within a day's time, at most.

However, I share your sentiment to hope for a more exciting case in the future. My own life has become rather boring – my mother is keeping me busy with studies and my uncle insists on teaching me fighting. I have yet to have a proper talk with my grandmother – at the very least she is not violating the house arrest she has been put under.

I hope you will visit again soon, therewith I can show you the estate in a different light. I assume having visited only twice, once as detective and once under less than favourable circumstances, may have cast a shadow on the estate's image and I wish for nothing more fervently than for you to come by the manor as a friend instead.

 

I will deny any accusations saying that I blushed at the words, or, heaven forbids, my heartbeat sped up.

I could show you the gardens and the woods and we can speak in person, instead of writing. I am sure that any tale told is more exciting than one read – especially if it just so happens to be told by you.

I wish you the very best and may we soon meet again.

Sincerely

Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether

 

P S: Please write back quickly. Your letters brighten my day whenever I am lucky enough to receive one. I cannot wait to hear the retelling of your next case and wish I could be there in person.

 

I smile stupidly wide at his words and silently add a “So do yours” in my mind, before realizing what I am doing and dropping the letter like a piece of hot coal. Entertaining any idea of visiting the Viscount is risking my hotly fought for freedom. I will not endanger my own person just to visit a friend. Even if I wish I could.

Regretfully, I have learned to like that nincompoop during his absence and I have learned to miss him even more.

You may not remember, but we parted on the day of the vote regarding the “Representation of the People Act” and have yet to see each other since. A while ago I sent him a letter, telling him to write an answer and sent it to 52 Hindstreet. Obviously, I didn’t use my real name – doing so would have been rather foolish – instead choosing to go by the name “Clover Duckrob”. I wanted to call myself “Clove Brudrock” at first, - I told him that much a few letters ago, hence the way he addressed me - however, – as you can probably imagine – I was unsure whether Tewkesbury would find the secret message. You see, both “Clover Duckrob” and “Clove Brudrock” can be rearranged to form “Clover” and “Burdock”, the first two plants he named after we had jumped off the train.

It has been four months since the first letter was sent back by him.

Regardless. Entertaining such thoughts is foolish and I am not foolish.

I am about to pick up the letter again and to put it away, but then something catches my eye.

The closed door.

You see, Edith has rarely ever left me alone in this room. In fact, the first and only time she ever did was when I first came to her and ever since that, I have only ever been allowed back here under surveillance - even if it is masked with pleasant conversations.

But Edith has yet to return. And I am convinced my mother wished for me to be here. Maybe Edith is hiding something, maybe she misunderstood my mother and I am allowed to know more than she thinks, maybe...And next thing I know, I’m searching through the secretary.

I know I shouldn’t. My mother has always insisted of keeping private things private, but I am a detective and I simply cannot resist the call of finding a new lead. Quickly, I open the first closet door, finding myself a box with pieces of paper in it. They seem to be irrelevant – information about orders of tea and sugar and such – but I try to commit the details to memory anyway. God knows it might be another code – one I do not have any time to discern just yet.

I close the door and my eyes travel up, looking at the drawer, locked, but the key still stuck. I smile – Edith is most likely keeping anything important in there – what an oversight of her to simply forget to lock the drawer, or, mayhaps, I interrupted her. I open the drawer, inching it out piece by piece and...

“That is quite enough, young lady.”

I slam the drawer shut with too much force as I shoot up straight, the sound resounding from the walls.

Edith has returned, her eyes faltered and her lips pressed into a thin line. In fact, Edith has not just returned, she just caught me, red-handed, going through her private things. I lower my gaze in shame. I shouldn’t have done it, I know, but I could swear I spotted a letter with a dragon symbol on it, not unlike the one I spotted on several explosives, just in that drawer...

I’d rather not think what they were meant for.

“I assume you have finished reading that letter of yours?”, Edith asks, her voice harsh and angry. I nod, waiting a second before quickly grabbing Tewkesbury’s letter from the table I had left it on – if I were to forget it, Edith is sure to read it.

“Very well. I do not know whatever message your mother has left for you here – I don’t have it. Perhaps you misunderstood her. Whatever the case is, I suggest you leave.”

Again, I nod, following Edith out of the room and down the stairs like a scolded puppy, not daring to talk back. Perchance, had I not been caught going through Edith's belongings, I would have been able to convince her of the urgency of the matter – my mother wouldn’t communicate with me unless there is something of importance going on – but with Edith mad and me having nothing but a four word message to go off on, that hope has been crushed, wholeheartedly.

Edith escorts me all the way down the stairs until the very end where she stays, arms crossed across her chest. I can feel her eyes burn into my neck and I do not like it one bit. Edith is one of my few friends and I did not wish to offend her – though I should have expected it.

I did go through her things, after all.

I make my way through the busy tearoom, trying to swallow my disappointment. Did I misunderstand my mother, did I read it wrong? Was it, perhaps, not my mother’s doing at all? I frown as I try to make sense of the situation and -

“Enola Holmes?”, a voice calls out to me and I freeze. It is a woman’s voice, so I am not at all worried my brothers might have caught on to me. No, I freeze for an entirely different reason, as I do not know this voice, however she has been looking for me!

Perhaps my mother had not wanted me to talk to Edith and had merely wanted for me to visit her. Surely, this encounter cannot be coincidence!

“Enola Holmes? Are you, by any chance, Enola Holmes?”

I turn around, glancing at Edith who is silently watching me. Surely, she will not kick me out for answering the call of my name, right?

The woman in front of me is of petite statue and is wearing an expensive silk-dress with elaborate jewellery. It is enough to tell me she is a woman of status and immense wealth – how she may have gotten to know my mother is a mystery to me. She is, however, reading “Essays on the Pursuits of Woman” by Frances Power Cobbe.

Maybe it isn’t as much of a mystery than I thought.

“Yes, I am. Is there anything I may help you with?”, I ask, trying not to sound too curious. She looks somewhat displaced within the tearoom, though I do not know why. Still, her person stands out in a way it shouldn’t and I am sure that I have found my lead.

At this, I might have to diverge: When I was younger, I once lost my favourite book. I had had a hunch from the start that my mother might have taken it. I looked for it all day and, as it turned out, my mother had indeed taken it. “Enola”, she had said:”You are an observing girl. If you ever have a hunch – follow it. It might just lead you down the right path.” I have followed her advice ever since.

That woman doesn’t belong here and was sent by my mother.

“I am so glad you have come today! I was concerned I might have to wait, once, twice, thrice or longer to find you!”

I shift uncomfortably. I suppose me staying hidden is keeping customers away from me – but it keeps my brothers away as well and hunting for hungry stray dogs is more fun than a finishing school for girls of Mycroft’s choosing.

I wonder whether she may not still be a spy but disregard that notion quickly. Sherlock doesn’t work with other people and Mycroft would most certainly never ask a woman for help.

“I was told to come here today, by an...” - how much should I tell her? - “...acquaintance of mine. However, I was not informed as to why. Could you, perhaps, fill me in, Mi...” I glance at her finger. “...sses..?”

“Misses Hughesbury. Ada Hughesbury”, she answers, smiling politely, before a frown makes its way onto her features and she continues:”It is...”

Misses Hughesbury halts her words and I feel myself growing impatient. But I do not interrupt her for she has evidently been sent by my mother. My mother has never sent me a single message and I cannot allow myself to let any loose ends hang.

“My room was broken into. But no one believes me because nothing was stolen!”

The woman get closer to me, grabbing my hands with hers and staring at me from big, blue eyes.

“My husband says I’m being paranoid, but I know someone was there. My files were all disordered. I would never leave it like that – besides, the locker I store my correspondence in was open – and I lock it! Always!”

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself and I listen silently.

“I went to the police nonetheless – I am my own woman after all – but they did not take me seriously either and Floyd – my husband – got mad and forbid from reporting the crime again.”

I slowly untangle my hand from hers and step back, eyeing the woman in front of me. She seems perfectly sane to me – panicked and scared, but sane nonetheless.

“Someone broke into your room, not stealing anything and your husband, and by extent the police, believe you have gone mad?”

“Precisely. I was told by a friend of mine that there is a lady detective somewhere in London going by the name “Enola Holmes” and that I’d be able to find you here.” And then she smiled her perfectly polite little smile again and adds:”Is it true you are sister to the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes?”, I respond, unsure how to feel.

You see, when I was younger, I used to practice my introduction in front of the mirror all the time. And it was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done. “Greetings. My name is Enola Holmes”, I’d say, making a silly little courtesy:”Sister to Sherlock Holmes.” I used to collect paper clippings, too, anything I could find detailing his various cases. I stored them under my bed and I am sure, if I were to return to my families estate, I’d still find the book neatly tucked away in between other stuffy belongs.

I was the proudest sister one could have been. And yet, and yet, the comparison makes all of it feel silly and – and hollow.

“Oh splendid! I am sure you will be able to help me!”

Oh. I forgot. She is a possible client. I should probably answer her, shouldn't I?

“I...will do my best. I assume you’ll want me to find whoever broke into your room and find out why they did so?”

“Yes!”, she exclaims, clapping her hands together and I catch a glimpse of her finely manicured nails:“Exactly! I can barely get a proper night’s rest, wondering whether I missed or overlooked something!  It’d help me sleep if I just knew why someone had broken into my room. Of course, I’ll pay you for your work, too!"

She smiles at me, leaving behind the proper smile she had worn before and that Miss Harrison tried to teach me at her school.

I wonder whether Misses Hughesbury has gone to a similar finishing school as I have been sent too.

“So, will you help me?”, she asks me, her eyes pleading once more and her hands folded in front of her chest.

I wonder whether she knows how ridiculous she looks. A perfect caricature, one could say.

Regardless. It is a case. Not just that, it is a case that will be well-paid and that will lead me closer to finding my mother. Of course, Edith has told me not to do so, but I am Enola Holmes.

I am alone.

Smiling, I nod:“Of course. May I suggest we talk somewhere more private?”

I quickly glance at Edith who is eyeing me warily and I can’t help but beam at the prospect of discovering the mysteries that lay ahead of me.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Two

-

6^th of August 1884

Case: The unrobbed woman
File II: To look like a wallflower

“Enola.”, mother once said:” London is not only an English city anymore. It is a city made by this world, made for this world and that is a good thing.”

She had told me after I had read my very first article on Sherlock’s deducing undertakings and hadn’t fully understood what she meant, until she explained further. You see, London, to my mother, was as diverse as its people and now that I have lived here for just short of half a year, I am inclined to agree.

People from all over the world – India, Hong-Kong, Australia, Guiana, Bahamas, the Gold Coast and plenty of others – have made their home in the country’s capital and it makes for such a vibrant life, rarely found anywhere else. I’ll have to admit, I could hardly keep up at the beginning – I was used to the boredom of the English countryside after all.

But not anymore. And I am proud to tell you that I have gotten used to London’s bustling and hustling streets – most of the time – riding a bicycle still is not the most pleasant of undertakings – and that I have come to enjoy each of its corners as much as the other. You can tour through the better off neighbourhoods and admire their lavish architecture. Or you might take a walk through the poorer districts, housing the working class and offering all the different spices of life. Or one can visit the factories on London’s outskirts – though I do not know why one would want to go there – or-or one takes a stroll through the parks in its centre, enjoying the peace and quiet only found in nature, a welcome relief from modern society.

And, against all odds, all of that can be accomplished within a day’s time.

You see, dear reader, growing up on the countryside any and all excitement had to be crafted by oneself and many a day was spent in boredom. I knew the fields around my family’s estate by heart and after years of exploring, they all looked the same. Before, I had never seen so many different neighbourhoods and places so close together, each one of them is deserving of their very own, detailed description.

Now, to describe the place Misses Hughesbury had pointed me to just earlier today, one best uses the phrase butter upon bacon. The streets are wide and well-cared for and while busy, they aren’t nearly as crowded as most other places I have been to. I have never seen such lavishness before – except for when I had visited Basilwether Hall maybe – and I find myself momentarily stunned by the beauty of the place.

But enough of that. As you may have concluded already, I did not come here today to ogle the buildings – I am on a mission and I intent to take it seriously. You may remember, but today a woman called “Ada Hughesbury” came by Edith’s and asked for my help, as she felt like her room had been broken into – but nothing had been taken. However, you most likely do not know yet that she asked me to come in tomorrow. To search her room and to do “whatever it is that detectives do” – claiming ill health and exhaustion as reasons why she did not want me to come in today.

You may be surprised then, to find me already at the houses doorsteps, but let me explain!

My first case has thought me many a things – my name is a blessing, not a curse, boys are not always a nuisance, Sherlock is better than Mycroft and the extent of human cruelty does not always spare their own next of kin.

And, of course, one should never reveal their full hand – to anybody, be it by accident or be it someone you think you can trust.

Why I ever thought I could fully trust Sherlock is a question I myself have yet to find an answer to and I regret I gave up my mother’s and my method of communicating. I can only hope Sherlock has not spared the time to check the newspapers for our messages.

Regardless. Tomorrow, the servants will – undoubtedly – be informed of my arrival – be it by an official announcement or the gossip that is bound to travel through the house faster than I could possibly question them. Therefore, it is of the highest importance to me to preserve my cover if I want to stand even the slightest of chances to interview the servants without raising suspicion – they might just hide away important information that is of highest concern to this case!

Which is why I decided to visit the Hughesbury’s estate earlier than I was asked to.

I find myself smirking slyly as I look down, smoothing over my skirts. After all, I’m wearing a maid’s uniform already. I might as well make use of it, am I not right? And then...

“Good Afternoon”, I say, as I walk up to a group of tattling woman:”My name is Clove Burdock – the new maid?”

.

.o.O.o.

.

In all fairness, the servants would, most likely, not have been so gulpy, had not so easily mistaken me for a maid had I announced myself at the front door.

But I didn’t. In fact, I sneaked in through an open window and simply started working. It is astounding how easily people believe you anything if you simply look unassumingly enough and a maid folding sheets is as unassuming as one could possibly appear.

But I digress – now that I have successfully infiltrated the Hughesbury household, I’ll have to find a way to unobtrusively ask questions – and the best way to get answer to suspicious questions is by not asking them in the first place. It may seem to be quite a daring undertaking, but fear not! Mother used to claim that men tend to loosen their tongues when under the influence of liquor or when it company of people they deem unimportant and I have figured such traits hold true for most human. It is a rather advantageous fault of mankind and I intent to utilize it to its fullest extent.

“A new maid?”, the woman next to me questions:”And we weren’t even told!”

The woman shakes her head and I try to hide my discomfort to the best of my abilities, as to not give me away – I can't have her asking too many questions, or my cover might not hold up. And while I am sure Misses Hughesbury would not mind me disguising myself as one of her maids – she seemed open enough for it – it certainly would do me no good to admitting I don’t fully trust her either.

Her case is fairly dodgy and I can’t bar anyone from suspicion. Npt until I have found evidence, that is.

“Oh, well, she is going mad anyway, that woman. Don’t tell anyone, but have you heard what she said?”, Charlotte – I remember from when she first introduced herself – says, shaking her head as she giggles.

I smile at her encouragingly. It feel like I might have gotten lucky – Charlotte seems to have no qualms divulging information. And without any prompting too!

“And? Have you?”

Oh. Well, I suppose I can’t get away without any question at all. But I could be worse of, couldn’t I?

“No. What happened?”

Of course, I already know what Charlotte is talking about, but mayhaps she has some more information. Maybe she heard rumours and perhaps she has even seem something – I just need to play along a little bit longer.

You may be surprised to hear, but mother insisted on me learning how to act. I despised every single lesson I had to endure, but it does seem to pay off at times like these.

“You have not been told? Pity! Pity!”

Charlotte leans closer and looks around conspiratorially. If the situation had been any different, I might have told her she is merely making things worse, but I wisely keep my mouth shut – I can’t have her feel offended.

“The Misses says someone broke into her room – but she has no proof! We had a great laugh about it already!”

Charlotte leans back again, opening one of the doors leading to another bedroom. To my chagrin, it is not Misses Hughesbury’s room – oh well, I will get a look at it tomorrow.

“When Mister Hughesbury asked her, she simply said she could “feel” it – but that’s it! Can you imagine?”

I frown at those last words. That – Now, it seems weird, doesn’t it? It doesn’t line up with what I know – but perhaps I was simply mistaken.

“No evidence at all? Nothing? Not even the smallest bit?”, I ask. I must have been mistaken. I simply must.

But I am not.

“No! She simply said it has happened and after that – nothing! It is ridiculous, if you ask me...”

Charlotte cackles again and I try my best to smile – while carefully filing away the information she has provided me with.

You see, I find it...interesting that Misses Hughesbury has not told anyone else of the exact reason as to why she suspects someone to have been in her room. She mentioned her correspondence and some other things being out of place to me, but she seemingly did not want anyone else to know about this and it makes me wonder what she could be hiding.

Charlotte’s and mine conversation trails off as we start cleaning this next room, but I try my best to pick it up again once we’re done. Charlotte seems to know her place around these halls and I am sure she has yet more information to divulge. If I pose as a gossiping maid, I might get my hands on all of it and get a step closer to solving this mystery.

“Do you know why? Why she would make up such a thing?”, I inquire, hurrying to keep up with Charlotte. We’re making our way down a flight of stairs, which I assume lead to the laundry room.

Charlotte’s answer is not what I expected.

“Of course I do! I know about everything that happens in this house – nothing passes by me...”, she says and smirks, before shaking her head and continues:”And what for her reason and all...I suppose it all makes sense, with her husband and all and...”

And then Charlotte just...stops. In the middle of the sentence. She glances at me, before opening the door to the kitchen and leading me inside the laundry room. We both put the dirty covers down into a boiler, greeting the woman washing them, before I am lead away again.

“We will need help with this evenings dinner – the misses is expecting guests.” Expecting guests? Did she not claim exhaustion earlier today? “As you have yet to receive your working place and the proper uniform...”

At this, Charlotte eyes me curiously, before shaking her head.

“...I think it’d be best if you stay out of sight for now.”

I hastily agree and follow her, wondering why she stopped her explanation earlier? Had she not wanted to speak in front of the other maid?

I keep pace with her, regretting the lunch I bought myself prior to coming here – it seems places like these are always hectic. But I do not let it dissuade me from my goal.

“May I ask what you were talking about earlier?”, I question, trying to sound casual. To my delight, Charlotte does not seem to pick up on any disguised intentions. Instead she ask:”What I was talking about?” and I hurry to reply.

“About why Misses Hughesbury claimed her room to have been broken into?”

Strangely enough, Charlotte’s steps slow and I notice her casting a glance at me several times. I wonder what it is that could possibly be so important and I prepare myself to commit anything she say to memory – just to be disappointed.

“I-Oh, I am terribly sorry, but I really shouldn’t. Mister Hughesbury’s private matters should stay that way – private.”

I force myself to smile and nod along.

“I would not want to overstep any boundaries.”

Surely, you’ll agree with me to find it strange, insulting one could say, that Charlotte was so ready to gossip about Misses Hughesbury’s business, but refuses to talk about her husband’s. I had never thought much of such notions when I had lived in the country side. We had been three woman and one of them valued privacy more than anything. I had never occurred to me someone might not view mine as important as that of another.

Oh well. I am London’s very own lady detective. I am specifically here to change such points of view.

We come to a halt in front of yet another door and the kitchen is revealed behind it.

I almost forgot. I was ordered to help prepare dinner – and quite frankly, I will have to find a way to avoid doing that. I have never really cooked before – even when I had jumped from the train – you may remember the first time Tewkesbury was almost murdered – something that has happened entirely too often to him already – and I don’t think posing as a maid is a good time to learn it.

I might have to polish some of my more – mundane skills, so to say, as to avoid situations like these in the future.

Mother thought nothing of them, claiming if her husband had not known ho to take care of a household neither does she have to know, or I for that matter, and I am inclined to agree with her – at the same time, it is a useful skill to have.

“Oh, that’s Anne!”, Charlotte suddenly exclaims, startling me.

“She’s a real church bell, if you ask me – but she is good at what she does!”, Charlotte adds and laughs, as she points at the other side of the kitchen. I follow her finger, eyeing the other maid carefully.

She looks meek. It’s the first thing that comes to me mind. Meek and entirely uninteresting, which makes her so much more suspicious.

Mother used to say that the most ordinary looking people can accomplish the most extraordinary of feats and my mother has always been a very wise woman. I will have to get closer to her, but before I can make a move, I am already ushered away by Charlotte and put in front of a stove.

“We are to prepare the salad! Now get to it!”, another maid, whose name I don’t know, practically shouts in my ear and I make a grab for a knife sitting close to me.

Well. I should be able to cut vegetables. I think.

Apparently, I already picked up the wrong knife.

. O .

I manage to escape the kitchen after chopping up vegetables for entirely too long and I regretfully stare at my finger, which I have cut. It is rather unfortunate, but not of great concern – mother once said the most painful things are the least important and for now, she proves to be right. I still have to find more information and staring at my finger won’t help me. The three maids I questioned down in the kitchen had nothing of interest to offer and I never managed to talk to Anne. Charlotte had been gone for the entirety of the time I had spent in the kitchen and the only lead I have found so far is that of Mister and Misses Hughesbury’s relationship.

In short, my time is almost up and I have yet to show something for it.

I duck into another room and pretend to clean, looking around to see whether I can find something suspicious – especially along the windows. It is not Misses Hughesbury’s room I am in, but I am on the right floor. If the burglar came from the outside, they might very well have gotten in through another room. It’d be strange, as that would mean whoever entered had been explicitlyhere for Misses Hughesbury’s room – but it is a train of thought I refuse to rule out just by improbability alone.

The windows don’t seem to have been tempered with – and neither seems anything else out of place. I curse the lateness of my investigation – the room was broken into already a week ago and many a clue might have gotten lost by now.

I am almost ashamed to admit, but it is only now that I come to the conclusion that I might lose more clues if I don’t act now.

You see, while I am convinced I will be a great detective, I have yet to make any experience and it shows.

Checking whether the halls are clear or not, I hurry along. And eventually, I reach my destination.

Ada Hughesbury’s room.

And it is here that I find Anne – the maid Charlotte had been talking about earlier.

In fact, once I enter the room, I observe her flinching back and picking up a previously discarded duster.

I take my time closing the door behind me – time to think and to plan my next step – you see, every good detective is prepared for questioning of any kind and I do not intent of blundering a second time. I had not expected for Anne to be here, in fact, I hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Misses Hughesbury was said to rest in the garden and I had hoped to find the room empty. I won’t be able to follow my usual procedure with anyone in this room – but perhaps, I can hide my investigation well enough and mask my questions as mindless gossip like I had done earlier.

It is almost evening and I will have to leave soon. Mayhaps it may prove to be advantageous, this meeting, after all. Mother used to say as a woman I would not be dealt a great many cards in life and that I will have to use everyone last of them to their most. And the situation I find myself in right now is such a card.

“Good afternoon”, I greet Anne, smiling politely. I see her shift uncomfortably and am reminded that I had interrupted her doing something – I am left to wonder what.

I seem to have found a suspect after all, don’t you agree?

“Afternoon”, Anne greets me back and then proceeds to dust the shelf closest to her.

She seems nervous, I note. And she is the first person I have met today who did not want to know my name.

“I’m Clove”, I introduce myself regardless and smile at her once more, hoping to initialise a conversation this time, but Anne doesn’t even smile back.

“Anne”, she replies, her voice cautious and I am left to wonder what exactly Charlotte meant with Anne being a “real church bell”. So far, she has answered more of my questions that Anne has.

We spent some time in silence. I pretend to clean. It almost feels like Anne does the same.

It is after five minutes or so that I grow bored and find myself wondering what to ask first – until ultimately deciding to find an answer to the last burning question I have on my mind.

“Anne, if I may ask, what do you know of the relationship between Mister and Misses Hughesbury.”

“Mister and Misses Hughesbury?”, she asks, confused and I smile shyly. She has seemed to loosen up – which is exactly what I want.

“Yes? It seemed like their relationship is rather...strained...”

“Oh, no! No!”, Anne responds, immediately:”He adores her! It just seems – a bit excessive sometimes...But regardless! Where did you hear that rumour? I’ve seen you talk to Charlotte earlier, but she is always most tight-lipped about Mister Hughesbury’s matters...”

“Oh, I was just told earlier something was off? I didn’t fully understand...” Why would Charlotte hide information so – so mundane? “...It had everything to do with those strange claims Misses Hughesbury seems to make. The one where someone broke into her room?”

At this point, I must tell you something first: Humans, for the most part, enjoy talking, as I have learned today, and most of them will give up information freely if it just keeps the silence away.

And just as I predicted, Anne continues our conversation in the most pleasant of ways I could have imagined.

“Oh that! I-I haven’t heard much. You see, I wasn’t on duty that day...”

I make a note to verify that claim. If she truly wasn’t on duty, it could cast her innocent – as well as guilty.

“I’ve heard Misses Hughesbury was simply unsettled by something in her room – perhaps it wasn’t anything but, who knows – maybe she has been robbed.”

Her voice turns almost bitter and again, I make a note of her strange behaviour.

“Misses Hughesbury owns so many things – I wouldn’t be surprised if it simply slipped her mind to check for some of her jewellery. Not that I would know – and, of course, I do hope nothing like that has happened!”

I agree – neither do I, though it would make the case a simple burglary. But, surely, you agree with me – having a case like this is so much more interesting than a burglary.

Mother used to tell me simplicity was boring more often than not, and I am tempted to agree with her.

Anne and I spent the next few minutes silently tending to the room. It is only after I have brushed and dusted my side of things – and after I inconspicuously checked the windows – that I am reminded I will have to leave soon.

I think I am fairly well-trained but even then, braving London streets at night without any company is a challenge I have yet to overcome.

“Well, it seems that we are done for today”, I say, smiling at Anne and for a few tense seconds I feel like I have been found out – as if I have forgotten an elementary details. But then Anne nods and smiles to and together we leave the room.

And I use that moment of loneliness to slip away, into a darker corner.

It is getting late and I have talked to enough people today – it is time for me to go home and go over all that I have learned today. It may not be much – but it is so very much more than I knew before.

. O .

I should have known today would not end as easily as it has begun – and of course, my investigation could not end as smoothly as I had hoped.

I am on my way out, prepared to tell anyone who might ask I was sent to make some last minute purchases – I had listened closely enough to the maids’ complaints to know of things they might need, but luckily I am not questioned as a get closer to the servant’s exit.

That is, until I catch the eyes of a butler.

I should have known to stay more hidden and I greatly regret I did no. I hastily try to escape his view, but I fail to do so. Yet, I could have imagined his interest and it is only when the butler marches up to me, his steps determined and firm, that I realize he is indeed, coming for me.

It is now that I must retell you a story from my youth – or rather my mother’s. You see, my mother was a very clever young girl who knew how to get in trouble – and she did so quite frequently – It is here that I have to add that my mother did not get her rebellious streak from anywhere. Supposedly, my grandmother hadn’t been all that different and her father had been rather lax as well. It was only when she got married that things turned sour.

Regardless. One day, mother sneaked downstairs, into the kitchen, intending to grab a cookie she had not been allowed earlier – and she had managed to stay undetected, until she was caught with her fingers in the proverbial – and not so proverbial – cookie jar.

Of course, my mother bolted immediately, but being the young girl she was she had not been able to outrun the maid and had soon enough been caught and brought to her father, to be properly scolded.

You may now wonder, how that is linked to this rather...precarious situation I have found myself in, but fear not – the story is not finished yet. For you see – the maid had not known about the former installed ban. In fact, when she had spoken to my mother, she had simply offered her assistance and it was only when my mother had run that she found out something was amiss.

If my mother had not acted suspiciously, no suspicion would have fallen onto her, because no misconduct would have been noticed. And it is a similar position I find myself in. I could run. And while I am quite confident in my own abilities, I might get caught or worse – might cause a scene I am not yet ready to explain.

If I do not run, there is a chance he simply has an errand for me to run or some other mundane question. I would keep my cover and slip out unnoticed, evading any suspicion. I may have to clear it up tomorrow, with Misses Hughesbury, but I am positive I will have found an appropriate reason by then.

But if I do not run and he already knows, not only is my cover blown, but I will have been caught to and might be brought before the Lord of the house – which would not only put me, but Misses Hughesbury in danger.

I squint, eyeing the butler walking towards me. He is an older gentleman and I suppose I could defend myself.

My mind is made up. Luck favours the bold. I can always try to reason myself out of any peril and if not – Edith and mother have taught me well.

The butler comes to a stop in front of me and I ready myself.

Now. I am not a friend of violence. But I believe every lady should be able to defend herself and I don not plan to get involved with the police – it be a sure-fire way for Mycroft to send me back to Mrs. Harrison’s finishing school for girls. I doubt Tewkesbury’d be able to help me out a second time and, as much as it pains me to admit, I don’t think I’d be able to escape without any help.

Mayhaps my decision not to run was wrong after all.

It is too late now.

But to my utmost surprise, the butler seems to know my name.

“Miss-Miss Holmes? Are you Enola Holmes?”, he exclaims and I relax my stance. He isn’t supposed to know my name. But he doesn’t seem to want to call me out either.

Perhaps we should wait a bit, don’t you agree?”

“It must be you! I was informed you might arrive today!”

I nod, before frowning. You, my dear reader, will most likely agree that this is highly suspicious. The only person who could have possibly known about my arrival was Misses Hughesbury – but I hadn’t told her either.

When the butler steps closer to me I take an intuitive step back and it seems to remind him of common propriety and he backs away a few steps, smiling apologetically.

“I offer my excuses for my rather...bold demeanour. It was not my intention to scare you – but I thought I had recognized you and couldn’t help but wonder, whether, perhaps, you are here on behalf of her ladyness?”

I give myself a moment to think about that – he knows who I am, he knew I had come here today and he searched me out, but not to chase me away.

It is suspicious, isn’t it? I am tempted to question him now – but I fear I may drive him of, which is why I will reign in my curiosity – for now.

“Indeed, Mister...”

“Mister Grayson.”

“Indeed, Mister Grayson. I...was undercover. To question the staff without any prejudice – I hope your forgive my intrusion.”

Mister Grayson beams at me and waves it off with a simple gesture of his hand.

“Do not worry, Miss Holmes – I understand.”

He nods and I mirror his gesture, still guarding my features.

I do not trust this man.

“Am I to believe you will depart already?”

“I was planning to, yes. I need to be home soon and have been able to gather some information that will surely prove helpful...” - Never give away your full hand - “...once I examined Misses Hughesbury’s room.”

I give him a court smile and am about to say my goodbyes, but Mister Grayson is faster. It is almost as if he would try to keep me from leaving had I taken another step back and the longer I stay within this house, the more tense I get.

I want to leave. Now. I need to write down what I found out – however pitiful it may be – and I need to see whether I can come up with a conclusion yet. Perhaps I will have an epiphany as to what could have happened!

“I am glad to hear that”, Mister Grayson says and he is smiling, again:”However, may I take up five more minutes of your time, perhaps, Miss Holmes? For you see, I have some...concerning information that could help you – and Misses Hughesbury.”

He’s still smiling. I force myself to smile back and yet, can’t keep myself from taking another step away from him.

Perhaps I did find another suspect after all.

You see, when I was younger, my mother taught me that there is no such thing as “good luck”.

“Convenient coincidences don’t exist, darling. If something is too good to be true, it most likely is the wrong conclusion, a deception to lead you astray. If you did not have to fight for something, it is nothing but a pretty lie that will only help you rest your conscious and nothing else.”

I remember the exact day she told me and I can’t help but agree with her. This offer is is entirely too convenient. However, it is a lead – even if it may be a wrong lead – hence why I decide to listen. And if Mister Grayson does lie, it will reveal so much more of his true intentions.

“Well – I have seen a man hanging around the house these past few weeks – almost a month, I think. Perhaps that could help?”, he says and I nod. Maybe Anne was right. Maybe someone had taken something and Misses Hughesbury hadn’t noticed. Maybe the thief got almost caught and had to flee, not taking much, maybe not taking anything at all.

“He...He seemed like a real Skilamalink and when I saw him slink around the back alley, I had him chased away – though some maids claim they have seen him hang around the backdoor again. You may be lucky and catch him.”

“They did? That-that might indeed be helpful. I’ll make sure to look into it, Mister Grayson”, I reply, smiling courtly.

He smiles back.

I suppress a shudder.

He clears his throat and I remember – I have yet to ask him something.

“Oh, before I forget, Mister Grayson”, I exclaim:”May I be so bold to ask as to why you knew I was here?”

I could have added something to that question. But anything else would have given him a reason to latch onto and I do not want to take away from his answers honesty – which in this case, is the flicker of uncertainty that appears in his eyes before he clears his throat another time, stepping back too.

He’s hesitating, I note. Perhaps you find that as suspicious as I do.

“Misses-Misses Hughesbury had her suspicions you may want to come in today and told me – in case something were to happen. Her ladyness apologizes for her boldness and expresses her hopes you may not resent her over this – it was only in your best interest.”

He most definitely hesitated. It gives me more information than that fimble-famble of his.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”, Mister Grayson asks and I affirm, hastily, hoping he has not caught me getting lost in my own thoughts.

“Of course – I will have to conduct some more investigations. I have yet to examine Misses Hughesbury’s room – it is the scene the crime took place in after all and whoever disturbed the room’s peace and quiet – they must have left a clue of some kind.”

I really hope they did and I just have not spotted them yet. I do not have many leads as of now – maybe tomorrow will hand me something more concrete.

Mister Grayson smiles at me and extents a hand. I shake it and nod to him.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Holmes”, he says and I respond:”’Till tomorrow, Mister Grayson.”

I shudder once more. He should not have known that I had been here. Either Misses Hughesbury is cleverer than I give her credit for – or he knows something I don’t.

And I don’t like that feeling.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Three

-

7 ^th of August 1884

Case: The unrobbed woman
File III: An interesting client

I still remember the first time I ever solved a puzzle. I was five – or maybe a bit older – and it was the first word in a coded letter my mother had wanted to sent to someone – I assume it may have had something to do with the group she and Edith are in.

I, of course, didn’t know at that time.

I came up that day to my mother and asked her about it. And she smiled at me and called me her bricky little girl, before explaining the code.

She was proud of me and proud of every single one of my unladylike abilities, which I am eternally grateful for. I like to believe my father would have been as well, though all reason disagrees with that sentiment.

“Your father was a gentleman, Enola”, my mother once told me:”He never once hit me and he rarely ever raised his voice – but he was from the countryside and – if he were still alive, god bless his soul – you’d have learned how to stitch silly little trinkets instead of wounds.”

It saddens me to know that only my father’s untimely demise allowed me to be the young woman my mother is so proud of, but at the same time, I am relieved. You see, I remember my time at Misses Harrison’s finishing school for girls well, however, I do not remember a single one of my classmates.

It is a bitter fate that awaits every single one of them.

Regardless. I digress. You see, it was a year or so after Sherlock’s first big case broke in the newspapers that I told my mother I’d like to become a detective, just like him. I was holding the latest clipping in my hand, clutching it and getting it all wrinkled. My eyes were shining with excitement, or so I assume they did, as I could already imagine myself becoming Sherlock’s apprentice, helping him solve the many cases that were sure to be delivered to his doorstep every single morning.

But my mother’s expression turned grave that day. It had come to me as quite the surprise, because not once had my mother ever been disappointed by my hopes and plans for the future – until that moment.

“Enola”, she had said, smiling bitterly, and now that I think of it, her advice is quite reminiscent of the advice given to me by Edith, the first time I met her.

“Whatever you do in life, do it for yourself. Not because you want to impress someone. Not because you want to live up to someone else’s name. Do it only for yourself – and only then you’ll find happiness.”

Needless to say I rarely ever bothered her with newspaper clippings ever again.

I still collected them, though. And I still loved riddles and mysteries and dreamed of becoming Sherlock’s apprentice – the more ironic it is that, now, I am my own detective, hiding out from the very brother I’ve wanted to acknowledge me all my life, as I make my way to a case that promises all that I have ever wanted.

Life truly does tell the greatest stories, doesn’t it?

Regardless. It isn’t easy trying to escape detection – especially not if London’s best detective is sworn to find you and the entire police force is looking out for you too.

But it is possible. And, as much as Misses Hughesbury’s case confuses me – I have yet to find a lead, although the butler, Mister Grayson, the maid Anne and the skilamalink I was told about are all on my list of suspects – I am grateful for this opportunity.

It even lead me along another post office, which I can send my response to Tewkesbury from – Sherlock Holmes once deduced a burglar’s position from the post offices he used.

I suppose having collected all those newspaper clippings has been helpful after all. But for now, I will try to solve a case worthy of its own news article – though, I do suppose, getting any form of press coverage may not be to my advantage.

.

.o.O.o.

.

I have never thought myself to be as self-centred as Mycroft or as socially awkward as Sherlock. And yet, I find myself sitting in a beautiful parlour, with a view on the gardens, trying my very best to seem like the lady I am expected to be, desperately wishing to be released from captivity.

My brothers and I may be more similar than I wish for us to be.

I was welcomed into the house by Mrs. Hughesbury herself and then asked to sit down with her and chat – over tea and cookies that is – before starting my investigation.

She insisted.

“You are my esteemed guest, after all”, she had said:”And it would be insulting if I were not to invite you to come and sit with me for a while.”

I would have liked to tell her I was very much fine with not having to drink tea and to simply start my search – as the longer we wait the more evidence gets lost due to accidental and deliberate meddling – but I have learned enough of modern society to know that such would be considered rude. Yet I find myself out of place, trying to remember the pitiful lessons on how to behave that I have learned from Mrs. Lane or the rules taught to me by Misses Harrison.

I fear it is not enough.

However, simultaneously, I find myself excitedly awaiting our chat. My mother knew of this case, which means my mother knows Mrs. Hughesbury, which means, in turn, she might have information on my mother. If I play my cards the right way, I might just be able to find out more about her. Where she is, for example. She may have visited me some time ago, but I do wish I could contact her more reliably.

Hence, why I am currently sitting at a neatly decked table, holding a cup in my hand and preparing myself for a conversation filled with gratuitous and mundane topics.

But as it turns out, I have misjudged Mrs. Hughesbury. Quite greatly, in fact.

“Miss Holmes, what is your opinion on the matter described in the latest headliner of the “The Journal of Dress Reform”?”, is the first thing she says after we’ve been served.

She doesn’t even wait for the maid to have left – meaning she is quite content with discussing such...controversial topics in public.

Her question catches me off guard. You see, Mrs. Hughesbury – Mrs. Hughesbury is everything one imagines if you were to portray an upper class woman. She wears fancy dresses with expensive jewellery and has manners thought to you only by lifelong indoctrination.

She seemed to be the perfect portrait, pretty and polished and entirely mindless. But on top of the table lies an issue of the “Magazine of Modern Womanhood” and I am surprised she knows of the “Journal of Dress Reform” at all. Perhaps I had been too quick to judge – my mother warned me to do so and I regret I did not listen to her – as Misses Hughesbury seems genuinely interested in my opinion.

“Well...”, I say, smiling awkwardly and buying time by taking a sip from my team. I hurry to look for a response – yet I do not have one. I know the headliner – the “Journal of Dress Reform” is one of the publications my mother might use to contact me, after all – yet I never paid much attention to it, nor any possible controversy surrounding it.

You see, clothes and, more importantly, their social relevance, have never played any role in my life – up to the point when I arrived in London and even now, I often find myself pathetically unknowing of anything related to fashion.

My mother was the one seeing to it that I was dressed and more often than not it exposed my ankles or didn’t fit me in some other way. And now that I live in London, while I have learned about clothes’ significance in everyday life, I find myself judging their worth neither by appropriate meaning nor by their beauty, but by their usefulness. I have worn crinolines, corsets, trousers, over skirts, underskirts, bustles and any variety of them, usually relaying on second hand clothes, that rarely ever fit me. I have spent five ponds on simple servant clothes and I have haggled (I am finally getting the hang of it) for hours just to save myself five schillings on a beautiful silk gown.

In short, I do not care about whether my ankles are seen. Life poses too many much more significant questions as to waste time on such trivial issues. But the question was posed and it almost feels as if Misses Hughesbury is awaiting my response like a prayer.

I shift uncomfortably.

I wonder what she expects me to say.

“I believe it to be an...interesting topic”, I say, lifting my tea cup to my lips once more.

“You think so?”, she responds, mirroring me.

“Yes. Quite. It...”

I trail off, putting my cup down again, without drinking and, with a frown and a few seconds of hesitation, Misses Hughesbury does the same.

I force myself to smile once more.

“It...seems so ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”, she ask, eagerly leaning forward, before casting her eyes downwards in an expression that almost seems...ashamed.

“I myself...If I’ve ever had to uncover my ankles in public, why, I think I would feel...well...undressed.”

She whispers the last word and I have to strain my ears to understand her. It almost felt as if she were ashamed to say it.

“Really?”

“Yes. It feels – scandalous, almost. Don’t you agree?”

I do not. In fact, I think, just like a corset, having to hide your ankles is a sign of oppression, if one is forced to do so. But I suppose, to Misses Hughesbury it seems differently.

“I am sure, the “Journal of Modern Dress” merely wishes to open up the possibility for anyone who wants – without facing repercussions”, I explain further. I do hope my answer will satisfy Misses Hughesbury’s curiosity and although she frowns, she does lean back, seemingly content with my answer.

I force another awkward smile on my lips.

And the conversation continues.

Now, I will spare you the loathsome details as, soon enough, our conversation moves on from somewhat relevant topics to rather uninteresting ones and while I do find myself enjoying them – it isn’t what I am here for.

At last, Misses Hughesbury picks up on my nervousness.

“Is anything the matter?”, she asks and I flinch, because I had hoped she wouldn’t notice. But no time like the present, so I find myself answering:”I was just wondering when...”

I halt my speech. Would it be rude of me to ask? Was it, perhaps, even expected of me right now? I do wish I were talking to Edith instead, or my mother – social rules are strange and so much easier to ignore than to maintain.

“...when I should start the investigation? I was under the impression you’d want me to look at your room.”

Misses Hughesbury has yet to ask me about coming here yesterday – in disguise – and perhaps, the butler never told her. I haven't met Anne or Charlotte yet either, so I assume I am safe as of now.

I wouldn’t want her to feel offended, after all.

“Oh, of course!”, she exclaims, her expression turning sheepishly:”Of course. It is just, your mother, Miss Holmes, is a truly magnificent woman and I couldn’t miss my chance to meet her daughter – I do hope you forgive me for coercing you into this meeting.”

She smiles apologetically at me and I force myself to smile back.

So she does know my mother. Personally, from what it seems. Mayhaps she has met her not too long ago?

“My husband will not return until later tonight, so I did not think anything of it – I must admit, I welcomed you myself to keep your arrival from most of the staff.”

“Your husband?”, I ask, surprised – though I shouldn't be. Hadn’t I been told just yesterday of their rather strange relationship? Though I was under the impression it was a happy one.

“Oh, yes. He is convinced I merely imagined the break in and fears people might...talk should I keep insisting. It is another reason – besides your recommendation that I have received, of course – as to why I chose to come to you – I was sure you’d be more understanding of my situation.”

She smiles and I nod, though my thoughts are racing. It almost sounded as if…

“Does Mister Hughesbury not know that I am here?”

“Of curse not! And...”

At this, Misses Hughesbury leans closer once more, nervously glancing at the door leading outside:”...I wish for that to stay that way – I wouldn't want him to get mad.”

She leans back again and I -

“Does he hit you?”

The question is asked before I could properly think about it – and how inappropriate it is of me to ask such things. Or rather, I assume it to be an inappropriate question, though I wish it weren’t.

But luckily, while Misses Hughesbury does freeze at first, she doesn’t seem to mind all that much either.

“Ha, oh, no! No!”, Misses Hughesbury starts laughing, perfectly hidden behind her hand.

“Miss Holmes, really! He does not, in fact, I love him dearly...”

She smiles shyly, down at her cup of team and her eyes take on a rather dreamy expression.

“In fact, I am glad he asked for my hand in marriage. My father wanted to betroth me to someone else first – a certain Sir Brickny. I was quite overjoyed when Floyd asked instead...”

She looks up from her cup of team again and the moment our eyes meet, a surprised “Oh!” escapes her lips, before blushing.

“I-I am sorry. I love my husband dearly – but he does not like me keeping secrets and I do not wish to disappoint him. I – He is-He can be rather conservative at times, but he is a perfectly splendid husband! He rarely ever even shouts!”

Her words – they remind me of my mother’s almost. And while my mother has never spoken ill of my father, I do know she hadn’t been happy either.

“But I digress – you wished to start investigating, did you not?”

.

.o.O.o.

.

Misses Hughesbury’s room is pretty. I, of course, knew already, but I find myself admiring the carefully selected furnishing once again – and this time, I can do so openly.

“Oh, do you like it? I have chosen many a thing myself – I am especially proud of the fabrics. They were handwoven, by weavers not too far from London!”, she beams, before hurrying towards a wardrobe and pulling out a drawer.

“I have this...oh, here it is!”

Misses Hughesbury turns around again, holding out a sneezer, proudly displaying the finely woven fabric.

“It was made by the same women – no machine will ever be able to achieve this kind of craftsmanship!”

I look at it and it does seem of splendid quality – but I am the wrong person to judge that.

“It is”, I say, smiling politely, before turning away once more – I hope Misses Hughesbury does not find my lack of manners – I supposed I do lack them after all – too appalling. But my brother does have a certain reputation and perhaps I can make use of that

I make my way through the spacious room, taking in as many details as possible, before checking things I couldn’t inspect yesterday. I start with the windows, opening them once, examining the lock – it seems not to have been tempered with – before taking a closer look at the other side of the glass. There aren’t any smudges there and neither are there any on the wall below – it is highly unlikely anyone scaled it.

“I’m glad you like it. I bought it at an adorable little shop down, on Rupert Street. There’s another store close by that sold me that painting there, over the bed. One of my husband's drawings used to hang there, but I believe supporting the local art scene is an admirable lane to pursue.”

I close the window again and turn around, checking other parts of the room that I might have to look closer at, before following Misses Hughesbury’s gaze.

The picture proudly displayed over the bed is – well, it isn’t pretty. Not necessarily.

It is sad. It shows a scene in one of the many factories that have popped up all over the country throughout the last century or so. And the imagine it paints is anything but pleasant. Working women are standing there, exhaustion visible in every one of their limbs as their clothes – barely even rags – almost blur into the grey of the machines they’re working with.

It isn’t a pretty picture by any means, but it is a great painting. That is not what is keeping my attention, however. Something about it seems...off. I just can't seem to be able to put my finger on what.

“They used to be weavers, the women in the painting. They now work in a factory owned by Sir Brickny – Remember? My former fiancée? Anyway, it is – shocking to see how greatly their life has been changed due to modern inventions, don’t you think?”

Misses Hughesbury looks down at the sneezer, wearing a wistful expression. I take another look at the painting. It really does seem off, but that is not why I am eyeing it at the moment. No, instead...

“Misses Hughesbury”, I start saying. I turn around, trying my very best to sound confident. I am detective. Understanding my client is elementary for finding suspects – it may reveal possible enemies or anyone who might be holding a grudge.

And fighting for women’s right is a sure-fire way to make those.

Though I fear, I may be overstepping boundaries regardless.

“Misses Hughesbury, you...seem to be greatly invested in the suffr...”

“...Suffragette movement?”, she interrupts me, finishing my sentence, before she slaps her hands in front of her mouth in an entirely too exaggerated manner.

“Oh, my excuses, I forget myself...I should not have interrupted you. But yes. I – I am quite new to the movement, you see, but – I have never been convinced of something’s importance more than now. I – four years ago, I gave birth to my sixth child...”

I can’t help but wonder how many of them are still alive and scold myself at the same time for thinking such dark thoughts.

“She was my second daughter and...Maria, my first daughter, god bless her soul, died shortly after birth, but Elaine! She’s four years old now and a beautiful, happy girl, always running around with her brothers and-and so full of life!”

Misses Hughesbury falls silent for a moment, before using the sneezer to dab her eyes.

“I remember stories I was told about myself when I was younger and it is...so different from who I am now. I-I love my family dearly, but I want my daughter to have as many chances as her brothers have. To bee able to keep that liveliness all throughout childhood and become a gorgeous and happy woman and I fear, should society not change, she may be squashed.

This-It lead me to looking for other people like me – that is how I got to know Miss Grayston. It isn’t much, but I want to do something to better this country – in fact, I see it as my duty as a British citizen! You do understand, don’t you?”

She is looking at me now and I am somewhat speechless by the sheer intensity of it.

“O-Of course”, I stutter. Misses Hughesbury smiles at me and I fall silent, turning away and inspecting another part of the room.

The more I learn about this woman the more I wonder what truly happened in this room. I would not at all be surprised if this case were connected to the suffragette movement.

But how..?

I do not get to finish my thought, as a hesitant knock on the door disrupts the room’s peace and both, Misses Hughesbury and I, look up at the same time.

“Yes?”, my host says, her voice filled with curiosity and I step back, as to better observe what will happen. We have been interrupted and it may just be a coincidence, but it may also be a decoy, deployed to distract us.

One can never be suspicious enough, my mother once told me. I remember it was during a shopping trip – and a salesman tried to cheat us.

“Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them.”

I smile bitterly at that memory. Humans are indeed tricksters – even my own family.

“Mylady?”, a timid voice asks and the door is opened. It is neither Anne nor the Butler, nor the other maid, Charlotte, and the newcomer doesn’t even pay attention to me –it does seem she truly simply had to speak to her mistress.

Perhaps I am being too paranoid. But surely, you agree with me when I say something seems off about this home, don’t you?

“Milady, we have run into some trouble regarding the preparations for the banquet – may I ask for a few minutes of your time?”

The maid glances at me shyly and I perk up. A banquet? It seems my sudden movement has caught Misses Hughesbury’s eye, as she her next words are undoubtedly directed at me:”Oh, don’t worry, Miss Holmes – it is simply a small celebration in honour of my husband’s company – they will open another factory in three weeks. Nothing to be concerned about.”

But then she fully turns to me, her expression turning apologetically:”But, I do fear I must depart for now – I like to personally oversee most of the planning. I am sure you understand.”

I do not. I’ve never been to a banquet before, as we neither had the money to afford one, nor did they ever spark my mother’s interest.

“A banquet is nothing but an excuse to dress up prettily, Enola. Be more than a doll. And if you ever wish to be one – don’t look for silly excuses as to why.”

But I do suppose, as the household’s mistress, it is part of Misses Hughesbury’s duties.

Yet another reason as to why I’d never want to marry.

“I will try to return quickly – until then, feel free to search the room. I’ve left all key necessary and a list with any valuables on the secretary – I do hope you will forgive my sudden departure.”

Of course I do. Quite frankly, I am glad for it – it did feel rather awkward, looking through the room as Misses Hughesbury was watching me and not a moment after she left, silently closing the door behind her, I let out a breath of relief.

I check the room once again, more thoroughly than I did yesterday, but still, I find nothing. The locks aren’t tampered with and there really isn’t anything wrong with the window. Her wardrobe is neatly organized without a trace of tampering, though that may very well have been cleaned away already.

I do wish Misses Hughesbury would have come to me earlier, but such hopes are fruitless. She did not and I am convinced I can solve this case regardless – I simply must put my intelligence to use.

Eyeing the door suspiciously, I check it one last time. But the lock is in perfect condition – in fact, I try it from both sides, just to be sure – and this leaves me with yet another possibility – so far there are three as to how the intruder entered.

The first one is easy. Someone, somehow, snuck into the mansion – maybe that skilamalink the butler mentioned yesterday – but they did not enter through the window. If that is the case, I will have to check the other doors as well – and the windows – and, perhaps, question the staff once more. As I’d be introduced to them as a detective, I’ll surely have an easier time asking my questions. Though obtaining an answer may pose more difficult.

Of course, there is also always the chance that, mayhaps, Misses Hughesbury has been mistaken. Maybe no one had been in this room after all – though I sincerely hope that is not the case.

50 pounds may be a fortune, but life in London isn’t necessarily cheap.

The last possibility is that no force was needed to enter the room at all – the culprit might have been part of the staff.

Witch leaves me with yet another question I must ask myself – why did anyone break into this room?

Hoping to find answers, I look at the list left for me on the secretary and I double check everything. But Misses Hughesbury was indeed right. Nothing had been taken.

I look through the room once more. Knock on walls and floors. Still, my search is not to be rewarded.

Well. I will need to take a look at the outside once more anyway – I might as well check for any hidden rooms by comparing the height of each room to the one outside. Perhaps that will give me a lead what else to look for. Because what else could have happened? If nothing was stolen, something must have been hidden in here from the very start, something Misses Hughesbury did not even know about. Or, perhaps, whoever broke into this room may have run out of time and had to leave – it could have been a servant, who had been surprised by another one – or maybe, whatever the intruder had been looking for simply hadn’t been here.

There are too many possibilities for me to start narrowing them down yet, but I have some ideas that are worth looking into – it isn’t more than I had had this morning, yet, as least I could check some things.

I turn away from the secretary once more, finding myself face to face with that picture once more – that picture that had seemed so off to me.

The door is still closed. I may not get this chance a second time.

The painting is hung right above the bed and I have trouble to get to it, especially as I do not want to leave any clues behind.

I do not know why I mistrust Misses Hughesbury, but I suspect it is because this case seems as if many secrets are still being kept from me.

She knows my mother, I believe. And wherever my mother goes, secrets will follow.

I, carefully, as to not break or damage it – bedsheets can be smoothed over, a painting can not – take the picture from the wall, before putting it on the bed.

There is nothing behind it.

I knock on the wall, where it had been hung – but nothing indicates of the wall being hollow.

I left out a huff and hang the painting back, getting off the bed and smoothing over the wrinkles I had caused.

Maybe it is simply the scenery that has me alarmed – it does speak to me, even if it is through horror. It is disappointing, however – though I do not know why. It was a simple picture.

It doesn’t matter. The picture had nothing to hide – it was merely a fleeting thought I paid too much attention to. Giving the bed one last check, to make sure my movements have been properly concealed, I turn around, to the last piece of furniture that I have yet to inspect.

The secretary.

Of course, I have already looked at the list with valuables, but I do need to check each individual drawer for clues.

It doesn’t take me long either. There aren’t many of them, drawers, and their contents are as mundane as is to be expected. Paper. Post stamps. Pens. Stylographs. Bottles with ink. In fact, only one of the drawers is looked. The one containing Misses Hughesbury’s correspondence, I suppose – though I cannot be sure.

The lock does not seem to have been tempered with, not unlike the locks on the door or the window, – a curious details. You may remember – yesterday, when Misses Hughesbury talked to me in Edith’s tea house, she told me one thing that had tipped her off was that this specific drawer had been open – and she swore she had never left it that way. If that is true but the lock seems to be in perfect condition, someone must have had the key, meaning that whoever had broken into this room was either a dipper talented enough to steal a key, copy it and put it back in time without being discovered – which only someone from the staff could have accomplished – or, it was someone who was allowed inside the room regardless.

It may not be much, but it does narrow down my list of suspects.

And now, to the letters themselves.

I look at the key in my hand, before opening the drawer. I turn it. A “click” resounds – the lock is open. Pulling open the drawer, I eye the correspondence inside – I wonder whether I may read it?

Should I? Would it be helpful?

My eyes lock on the dates and names they display – it is nothing out of the ordinary. I shuffle through the stack of papers. They go back all the way to last year, but their contents seem to be of innocent nature. The written conversation of two friends who cannot see each other more regularly. The letters sent to a mother, by a daughter who misses her dearly. A note meant for a son studying far away from home.

The dates make sense, the names make sense and so do the post stamps. None of this is important – so why would anyone want to look into them? Did the intruder suspect to find something else? Did they, mayhaps, wonder if this one, locked drawer contained something valuable? But if their intention was a mere robbery...why not take the jewellery in the wardrobe? Or on the vanity table? It – It doesn’t make sense. Was perhaps another letter taken? But, they do seem complete and…

And that’s when I notice. A small, fine line, right where the drawer stops, right at its walls. And I realize...

There’s a second layer. Of course there is a second layer.

“Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them.”

I already knew that and yet, I underestimated Misses Hughesbury once more.

Mother would be so disappointed.

I glance at the door. I don’t hear anything yet. I glance back at the drawer and take out all the letters, setting them on a neat stack, careful as to not mix up their order.

No one can know what I am doing. Clearly, Misses Hughesbury did not wish for me to find this hidden compartment. She would have told me, otherwise. Which means she does not believe that the contents of whatever is hidden in this secret compartment are of any importance, when it comes to this case at the very least. Which, in turn, is a rather strange way of thinking, don’t you agree? She specified that this drawer had been broken into, surely she’d believe anything inside of it could help me! Quite frankly, I don’t understand and I…

I remember a lesson my mother taught me, when I was once again reading about one of Sherlock’s many cases.

It had been about a woman who had poisoned her daughter’s, rather violent, fiancée, just before the weeding, but had, in court declared that “she was no murderer!”

“Enola. A woman may go to any length to protect the thing she views most valuable to her, even if this means sacrificing something else, of almost equal, value, in return. That woman surely was no murderer – but her own morality did not matter to her as much as her daughter’s happiness and thus, she found herself poisoning that Admiral of the red. It may have been wrong of her and you may not understand – but keep in mind that you have never found yourself in a similar situation.”

I had listened, of course, before going back to my reading.

The woman from the case had been hanged for her crime.

I violently shake my head. Regardless. This is not about hanged women and I do not have a lot of time. Misses Hughesbury is keeping secrets from me, most likely to protect something that is of higher value to her than figuring out why her room had been broken into.

Now, it was wrong of me to have read her private correspondence earlier and it is entirely wrong of me to pry into her privacy even more, but I do not have any other choice. After all, I’m not here merely to find the intruder, but rather to find out about my mother’s residence. And, as a matter of fact, it is entirely wrong of my mother, and of Misses Hughesbury, to keep that information from me!

With shaking hands, I try to unhinge the drawer’s floor, but I fail to do so. I grow nervous, my eyes flickering between the door – I pray it does not open – to the secretary, searching for anything I might – there. A letter opener. That should do.

My hands shake even more now as I use the sharp edge to get in between the drawer’s wall and bottom, but – after several attempts that make me curse my own excitement – I get it open, pushing it up and – revealing more letters.

I suppose I should have expected that.

They are different than the others though. They are clearly written on different paper. They display an anonymous sender – as far as using code names can be considered anonymous – and a sigil is printed on top – the sigil of a...solar eclipse? No, that isn’t right...but it does show both, the sun and the moon.

But it is not the sigil that I find myself interested in – not for long, anyway. For you see, these letters…

They are coded.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Four

-

7^th of August 1884

Case: The unrobbed woman
File IV: An inconvenient meeting?

“7 15 15 4 13 15 18 14 9 14 7, 5 14 20 12 1!”

I was five years old when I found this rather particular message on my doorstep. When I had woken up that morning it had seemed like any other day – I had gotten up, had gotten dressed and was just about to head downstairs when I saw the note – and I had been overjoyed by it. You see, growing up on the countryside like I did offered little to no excitement at all and I jumped at the idea of having an adventure, my imagination having already cooked up a story filled with intrigue and mystery. Breakfast was all but forgotten that day and I took the note into my room and brooded over it for hours.

It took me two to realize it must have been written by my mother – I’d like to claim I was able to recognize her handwriting by comparing it to other sample, but I must disappoint. I merely realized that Mrs. Lane would not have played such games with me – and, quite frankly, I had been rather disappointed by that news.

As exciting a life my mother was living, I had never imagined her to participle in intrigue and mysteries.

Regardless. The code I found that day was simple. I am almost ashamed by how long it took me to solve it – though I suppose most of my time was spent dreaming rather than doing any actual thinking.

As you may probably already have guessed, to solve this code one merely has to match the numbers to a letter of the alphabet, according to their position. “One” equals “A” “Two” equals “B” and so forth. Therefore, the message does, in fact, not say “7 15 15 4 13 15 18 14 9 14 7, 5 14 20 12 1!” but instead “Good Morning, Enola!” a much more comprehensive message, don’t you think?

Anyway. It had been simple code for the simple mind I possessed, but as I grew up and – may I say so myself – became more sophisticated, so did my mother’s codes.

“Epslt Lewl?” - Slept well? It’s easy still – in fact, I solved this one much faster than I solved the first one.

“e p o h l e t w u y l l a v e“ - “Have you slept well” This one was tricky, as the letters weren't grouped into words anymore – it took me some time, but after three days I mastered it too.

“21 9 4 25 6 21 13 15 15 21 15 18 1” - “U I D Y F U M O O U O R A” – “I am proud of you.” Now, I had to bring the letters into the right order as well. It was an easy solve with the knowledge I had gained from the previous two codes.

Those were the first four codes I had ever been given to solve and they had been handed to me over the span of a week. My mother stopped surprising me with them after the last one and a week later I complained to her about it.

She seemed quite satisfied with my nagging and resumed to teach me more – the messages getting more and more complicated every time another one appeared at my doorstep.

Now, you may not understand why I am telling you this, but, you see: My mother prepared me well. She taught me many a thing useful to the modern woman and more often than not those things were common codes or various ways to hide messages. And yet, I find myself staring at a coded message, I assume my mother has sent, and find myself unable completely unprepared to solve this specific riddle.

“3 CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL RVEIR IARENTA VISBNOAEID HPEALC. V LNANEI SNTEUS. HULABIHT PRASEONTTOI. ROROMT DUAUNNPSURDUSH SUPDORONRNJE IEACL. HDHEJE HJEAFF HKLIFI.”

There must be a message in there somewhere – surely it is connected to that one, singular “3” right at the start. But I don’t know yet. It could be anything and – I need to write it down.

I glance at the door, try to listen to any footsteps but here nothing and then, my gaze drifts down, to my corset. The first time I ever hid anything inside a corset it was money, though it was a terrible hiding spot, as I realized not much later. However, it is storage room and I make great use of it.

I have to copy those letters, as many as possible. But Mrs. Hughesbury can’t know.

Cautiously glancing at the door, I take out the piece of parchment I have brought with me on a whim and which I am eternally grateful for.

Now I just need a pen and my eyes catch on to the many scattered across the desk.

I glance at the door once more. Still, I hear nothing.

Quickly, I lean over the desk, my eyes switching between letter and my own piece of paper.

“CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL RVEIR IA”

I freeze. Are those...foot steps?

“...NTA...”

Faintly now, I can hear sounds coming my way, but surely I still have some more time…

“...NOA...”

They’re coming closer. I bite my lip, my hand moving faster over the pieve of paper.

“...EAL...”

There at the door now and the doorknob is being turned and…

“Miss Holmes?”, Mrs. Hughesbury asks as she enters the room. I startle, before I whirl around, facing her, but keeping my hands behind my back.

The parchment is safely tucked away in my corset. The pen is laying next to the others and the hidden compartment is hidden once more.

But the uncoded letters are still laying on top of the desk, in a neat pile, and I nervously glance at them. Mrs. Hughesbury raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing, Miss Holmes?”

I force myself to relax. I have eradicated any evidence of me having found the secret letters – and I was asked to…

“Investigate?”, I respond, turning to face the desk once more.

“Oh. Is that so?”

Mrs. Hughesbury forces herself to smile and I must say, she is a terrible actress – but it would be of greater advantage to me not to mention that. Carefully, I take the pile of letters and put them back into the drawer, before closing it shut and locking it.

“Indeed. Yesterday you mentioned it had seemed as if someone had looked through your private correspondence – and I figured considering you handed me the key to this very drawer you expected me to take a look at it...”

I turn to face her.

“I haven’t read your correspondence, of course. That’d be a breach of trust after all.”

Now it is I who has to force herself to smile, as I try to turn out memories of my mother.

“Privacy is – and will always be – one of mankind’s most important rights, Enola. You should never deprive one of it”, she had told me plenty of times. And I agree, yet I feel like this once, one should make an exception, should they not?

But, as much as I dislike what I am doing, it seems to be working.

“Oh.”

Mrs. Hughesbury steps closer now, further intruding into the room.

“Well. Have-Have you found anything?”

She sounds nervous as she asks me and Ido not blame her – I am convinced no one was supposed to find these letters. But perhaps I should lay any worries she may have to rest – be it just to keep her from suspecting me.

“No. Sadly, I discovered no leads. The lock does not seem to have been tampered with and neither does the drawer appear to have been damaged.”

Which, come to think of it, means whoever entered this room must have had a key. According to Mrs. Hughesbury the drawer had been open, after all.

“That-That sure is a pity!”, she says awkwardly and – perhaps it is just a trick of my mind, cruelly played on me – but it seems as if she is ever so slightly disappointed.

I am about to ask whether I could read her correspondence anyway, to keep up the charade, but we are interrupted once more. This time, the interruption is a lot louder, too. And a great deal less welcome.

It starts with the hurried tip-taps of feet coming up the halls, interrupt Mrs. Hughesbury’s and mine conversation for the time being, as we both look at the door. Then a voice calls out “Ada! Ada!” and I avert my gaze from the door, instead choosing to eye Mrs. Hughesbury. Someone is using her first name..?

The voice itself seems to belong to a woman so I am not at all worried it may be her husband – though that deduction was just a tad off.

Not a second later, a maid barges into the room and it takes me entirely too long to realize it is Anne – the woman I talked to yesterday, in this very room. I shift uncomfortably, hoping my clothes will distract her from the obvious similarities I share with a certain “new maid” that disappeared after just a single day of work.

It seems as I am out of luck, as she does recognize me. She freezes for a split second upon taking note of me – but she guards her expression once more fairly quickly and doesn’t say a thing on it.

I am quite grateful for that. I’d prefer not having to tell Mrs. Hughesbury about my earlier exploits.

“Ada, your husband has returned early.”

...What?

“What?!”, Mrs. Hughesbury shrieks – the very same thing I was thinking not a second earlier.

“Floyd is home already? But...he isn’t supposed to be here any earlier than six pm!”

“He arrived not a minute ago”, the maid responds:”He appears to be in a rather cheerful mood, though I did not stay around to find out more.”

“He-He is?”, Mrs. Hughesbury stutters and I eye both of them curiously.

Anne called Mrs. Hughesbury by her first name. Several times – it cannot have been a mistake.

“Indeed. I will can leave now, if you may excuse me A-” Finally, Anne glances at me once more, her expression taking on a rather stubborn edge. “...mistress”, she finishes her sentence. I can hardly contain my smirk at that and Anne scowls when she notices.

“I can try to distract him, mistress, but – if you were to care for my humble opinion –“

She glares at me another time.

“I’d advice you to send that detective away for now, lest your husband shall see her.”

Mrs. Hughesbury seems to be in a daze as she doesn’t not answer and Anne takes her chance to shoot me another dirty glare.

I did deceive her after all. Though it was, somehow, on her mistress’ orders.

“Yes...Yes, of course, Anne...”, Mrs. Hughesbury eventually murmurs and Anne scurries out of the room, not losing any time hurrying.

And neither does Mrs. Hughesbury.

“You must leave. At once!”

It seems she has shaken off her previous daze, as she grabs my by my wrist and drags me out of her room, pausing for just a second to make sure the hallway is empty. And then we are off, rushing through the hallway, our footsteps clattering through the building, too loudly as to not be heard.

I’d much prefer to sneak around.

I use the time wisely – by reflecting upon what I just witnessed and then asking:”The maid we just talked to...”

“Yes?”

“You seem to be quite close to her.”

She called Mrs. Hughesbury by her first name after all. Luckily, she does not seem to be bothered by my question at all.

“Oh, yes, yes we are. She is my best friend, in fact. I trust her with anything!”

We hurry to turn a corner and I notice we have entered a servant’s passageway.

I am surprised she knows this place at all.

Mrs. Hughesbury seems to catch on fairly quickly.

“I familiarised myself with these parts of the house as well”, she say, before I can even ask the question:”My husband did not like it at first, but I suppose I-as a modern woman I shouldn’t let that stop me, should I?”

Mrs. Hughesbury stops and looks at me expectantly and I nod.

“Exactly! Your mother must have raised you brilliantly, dear Miss Holmes, oh, and we’ve almost reached the area already so we...”

I frown at that. She wants me to leave...entirely? I presume that is what they have been talking about – yet it does not mean I am in agreement with it.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Hughesbury, but I have yet to interrogate the servants”, I object:”Perhaps they have seen something!”

“Oh, you can come back tomorrow but we cannot let my husband see you!”, she dismisses my inquiry and I would have objected once more, had it not been for yet another voice interrupting us.

“Mistress? Mistress, are you here?”

We both freeze as we hear the person approach and Mrs. Hughesbury bites her lips, before giving me a light shove.

“We’ll meet ad Edith’s in two days – you can interrogate the servants then. Now go!”

And she rushes off already, answering the servants call with a high-pitched and slightly out of breath:”What is the matter?”

I watch her leave and when she turns a corner, I dart into another hallway.

“Time is always of the essence, Enola – one never knows what misgivings one could encounter if they were to wait.”

Time is indeed of the essence.

It seems as if I’ll have to go behind my clients back once more.

. O .

It does not take me long to find Anne and, luckily, we are alone in the boiler room when I do.

It shall make my questioning a great deal easier, I suspect.

Come to think of it, this is my first interrogations as myself, isn’t it? I hadn’t needed to question anyone while I was working the case of the Missing Marquess and this is my real one anyway!

This being my first real case doesn’t stop Anne from being extraordinary frosty, though – her expression sours the moment she lays eyes upon me.

I can’t say I blame her.

“Miss Holmes. What a pleasure to finally be...properly introduced to you.”

“Likewise. Quite likewise.”

I smile. Anne does not. I stop smiling.

I straighten my back and try to shake the feeling of silliness that overcame me for just a second, getting ready to follow the only proper lead I have found so far.

I am a detective. This is a case – and Anne is a suspect.

“My apologies, but I fear I must ask some more questions.”

You may think I am being quite bold, but do I have much of a choice at this point?

“You do?”, Anne responds, her voice filled with a great deal of derision.

“And you came straight to me?”

Her eyebrows raise and I am caught off-guard by her question – she is right, of course. I had indeed been looking for her, yet I did not expect her to notice.

“That-I mean no offence, but you are Mrs. Hughesbury’s most trusted servant and...”, I splutter, but do not get to finish my, well, excuse, as Anne interrupts me, quite harshly, if I may say.

“And I suppose that makes me the prime suspect?”

She sounds angered and hurt and she is scowling now, and yet I find it hard to stop wondering why she sounds so defensive.

Now, it may puzzle you, but Anne is right. She is indeed one of my prime suspects. Her, that suspicious butler from yesterday and the skilamalink I was told about. If she is indeed the most trusted servant – by Mrs. Hughesbury, that is and I have no doubt she is, as Mrs. Hughesbury told me herself – Anne could get away with sneaking into her mistress’ room undetected easily. She may get away with stealing something, even, but – most importantly and this is what clued me in – she behaved so differently, yesterday. She did not speak with any more fondness of her employer than one expects of a maid and yet she is Mrs. Hughesbury’s best friend?

Quite suspicious, if you were to ask me. Yet, I don’t have much of a choice but to start of tame – I can’t accuse her of anything without proof and I am severely lacking any sort of evidence so far.

“Seeing as you know Mrs. Hughesbury well, do you know what could have occurred that night?”

Knowing what exactly happened is the most pressing question I have yet to find an answer to – I doubt Mrs. Hughesbury was only imagining things – she appeared to be of too much of a sound mind for such a thing to happen. And those letters I have found are reason enough for her to always lock the desk drawer.

Sadly, Anne sticks to the canon story so far.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone tried to steal something and had to leave early-”

“The windows weren’t damaged”, I interrupt her, but Anne seems unimpressed. I nod. Right. I shouldn’t have interrupted her.

“I’m sorry. Please do continue.”

“As I was saying – a failed robbery. Mrs. Hughesbury keeps plenty of priceless jewels in her room. Though, perhaps someone was simply scouting the room for a break in at a later time – nothing has been taken. We checked several times.”

That...is an option I had not considered yet. I’ll have to follow up on it.

“Does anyone come to your mind who might want to harm Mrs. Hughesbury?”, I ask next and Anne frowns.

“Is there anyone who might want her harm, well...”

Anne stares at me for entirely too long, before shaking her head and mumbling something underneath her breath I don’t quite catch.

“Of course. She-She just recently took up work within the suffragette movement! There are plenty of people who’d wish harm upon her! Society! Her husband! Her own mother sent her a letter condemning her actions!”

She did? I try to imagine what it would be like to have one’s own mother so opposed to their own ideas – yet I fail to do so. You may know already, but my mother has never been anything but supportive.

“Enola – society is putting enough weigh into a woman’s cradle – we must not make it any more difficult for each other!”

My mother is right. We mustn’t. And I suppose, for all that matters, Mrs. Hughesbury’s mother is not the one to have broken into her room – but then again, Tewkesbury’s own grandmother had tried to get him assassinated.

Perhaps it was the mother all along.

“Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

It is now that Anne hesitates ever so slightly before answering and I make sure to take note of it.

“No. No one.”

She sounds almost bitter saying it – and I wonder whether I might not have just found a lead.

I really did wish I had brought more paper.

“Very well. Any political enemies...”

“Political enemies?”, Anne says, letting out a dry laugh that sounds faintly sarcastic:”Miss Holmes, Mrs. Hughesbury rarely ever leaves to house! Quite frankly, she would not have any time to get involved with parliament’s intrigues!”

She does make a point. Which means next up is...

“...Spurned lovers?”

Now, Anne positively splutters, before turning her full attention to me, her eyes sparking with irritation.

“If you are looking for information, Miss Holmes”, she says sharply:”I advice you to look into a man called “Jimmy Foster”. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

She turns around violently, grabbing a chemise and dunking it into the basin with enough force to spill some water.

She curses silently.

“Jimmy Foster?”, I ask.

“Yes. he’s some-some gentleman with four outs that we’ve spotted hanging around these parts a few times. He tried to cosy up to Charlotte, that’s why we know his name.”

“Cosy up?”, I ask, raising an eyebrow,

“Oh, yes. If it weren’t for societal standards, she’d wear her hair in follow-me-lads all the time...”, Anne says and I glance down to my own hair, regarding the loose curls hanging all around my shoulders. Anne does not seem to notice – or mayhaps she simply doesn’t care.

I presume it is a petty concern to have, anyway.

“Charlotte? The other maid I talked to yesterday? The one who showed me to the kitchen?”

“That very maid, indeed.”

I frown. That might be helpful.

“May I ask whether Charlotte would have had access to any keys?”

Stunned, Anne eyes me – until her expression turns dark once more.

I fear I may have posed that question a tad too hastily. My mother used to warn me of such things, after all.

“There is a time and place for everything, Enola, and a rushed thing is never a good thing” yet I seem to have forgotten her lesson already.

“Yes. She has”, Anne responds curtly:”As do most servants in this house, as most of us are trusted by our mistress!”

Most?

“Most?”

Anne’s expression sours even more. I really should watch what I am saying, should I not?

“Enough of that”, she hisses sharply:”Now, if I recall correctly, Ada wanted you to have left already and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment, so now leave!”

She points at the door leading to the servant’s entrance and I follow it, before taking a step away from it.

“I understand your worries, but...”

“I will make sure no one knows when you will come back, here, Miss Holmes”, Anne interrupts me once again. She looks over her shoulder and then take my wrist, dragging me towards the area.

“And should anyone be missing for any reason, I’ll tell you, but now leave! You shouldn’t be here anymore at all!”

She is right. I shouldn’t.

“Very well. I thank you for your answers...”

“Oh, get over with it, will you?”

. O .

I decided that this time, I will honour Mrs. Hughesburry request to leave. I have collected enough evidence, and as my mother once said, after we she had come home from getting groceries.

“One must never poker too high, Enola. Perhaps I should teach you sometime!”

She never did come around to teaching me.

She disappeared before she ever had the time.

But nevermind that. I am about to reach the area, my mind already whirling with all the clues I have collected so far, when I am yet again interrupted by an ominous voice whose speaker I just can’t quite make out yet.

Though this time the voice calls out my name. And it’s words it so much less pleasant than the previous two.

"Miss Holmes, it seems you are leaving already. I must say, I am quite disappointed you did not say your proper goodbyes. But then again, I have heard from your brother that you are a rather...simple girl?”

I freeze as I hear that voice. It has that perfect, arrogant pitch that one only ever hears when conserving with London’s upper class.

Or their henchman.

Cold Coffee, I curse underneath my breath. i should have left earlier - and now I will have to face th music. 

I take a deep breath and put up my best, polite smile, preparing myself to encounter yet another suspect -Mother said first impressions are the most important interactions in one’s life – and I do hope I will be able to salvage something, if I have not yet fully ruined it.

Regaining my calm (at the very least I tell myself I have regained my calm – I suppose I move rather stiff and I doubt my smile looks anything but terrified) I turn around – and freeze again.

“Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them.”

You may wonder why I am reminded of my mother’s words just then, but you see – it is not Mr. Hughesbury I am looking at. Instead it is the butler.

“It is great to see you back, Miss Holmes - and I am quite glad and I managed to catch you on time. Mr. Hughesbury has been looking forward to meeting you ever since I infromed him of your presence yesterday.”

.

.o.O.o.

.

I am reminded of my childhood once more as I am seated in the parlour, my head lowered in a picture perfect expression of childish meekness.

Of course I do not really feel that way – far from it – but you already knew that, didn’t you?

“Was I not clear, darling, that you were not to bring a detective into this house?”

Mrs. Hughesbury is sitting next to me, looking very much like a scolded child and I can’t help but swallow the bitterness rising in my throat.

They are married.

“Yes. You were clear”, Mrs. Hughesbury responds meekly and I am tempted to huff. Though I do not want to tempt fate – or rather, Mr. Hughesbury.

I am in enough trouble already, as it is.

“Then, pray tell, why did you go against my orders and invite this-this detective into our home?”

“I-I told you about the incident, darling”, Mrs. Hughesbury stutters, looking down at her neatly polished nails, her voice barely a whisper.

“I asked her to come to have a look at my room, to see if she could find any...”

She does not get to finish her sentence and I scowl at Mr. Hughesbury from underneath my lashes when he carelessly interrupt her:“You’re making a stuffed bird laugh! Don’t be ridiculous!”

Mr. Hughesbury lets out a huff and crossing his arms above his chest. It makes him look quite like a spoiled brat who did not get what he wanted.

He is quite acting like one, too, don’t you agree?

“I ought to punish you for your transgression”, he says and Mrs. Hughesbury lowers gaze even more.

I never wish to marry. I truly, never wish to marry.

“But I suppose I can’t sent Inspector Lestrade back home after he has just arrived...”

Mr. Hughesbury trails off and both, I and Mrs. Hughesbury perk up at his words, though for different reasons, I suppose.

I, because any place Inspector Lestrade is, is a place I’d rather avoid and Mrs. Hughesbury because, apparently, this is good news.

“You-You asked Inspector Lestrade to inspect my room?”

“Why, of course, dear! Your well-being is important to me – and I wish for you to be able to sleep peacefully. If a simply inspection is what is needed to put your concern to rest – then why, what a terrible husband I’d be if I were to refuse this?”

He glances at me and forces himself to smile and I am unsure what to make of it. It seems almost apologetic – though I do not believe a single word he says.

“My apologies for my behaviour earlier, Miss...”

I suppose the butler did not think it necessary to tell Mr. Hughesbury my name, when despiceably betrayed me to his master - it adds insult to injury and I decide to keep him on my list of suspect a little bit longer, be it just to spite him.

“Holmes”, I answer, hurrying to respond and - to my amazement - my last name seems to ring a bell.

Of course, most everyone i Lodnon has heard of the legendary Sherlock holmes by now, but not many people know he has family, lest a younger sister. But Mr. Hughesbury seemingly does. His expression turns surprised and his lips form a silent “oh”, before his smile morphs into something ever so slightly less faked.

“Holmes? Like the famous detective?”

“Yes. Like the famous detective. In fact, Sherlock is my brother.”

Once again, the comparison tastes bitter, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. Perhaps my relation to Sherlock will be useful for once. Yet, I am surprised he knows we're related at all.

“Really? What a surprise!”

Mr. Hughesbury steps closer, his posture losing all of its stiffness and I am surprised – I had expected Mister Hughesbury to turn curious or maybe show even the slightest bit of respect – though I suppose his behaviour so far hasn’t been...well, he wasn’t necessarily rude. I did, sort of, break into this house, after all.

Even if I was merely following his own wife's wishes.

“Why, I know him!”, Mr. Hughesbury goes on, positively beaming now, which is, well, quite a surprising twist of events. Most people, you see, tend to grow a severe dislike of Sherlock the moment they meet him face to face and all the glamour of toldstories dissipates like smoke lifting from a mirror. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for Mr. Hughesbury to think differently and while I do know I am being quite rude, I can’t help but ask:”You do? You know Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?”

Now, his next words make a whole lot more sense.

They also force me to smile awkwardly.

“Oh, oh, goodness no! Not Sherlock! No, I know your eldest brother – Mycroft? Why, he visited not too long ago, agonizing about that no...”

Mr. Hughesbury voice slows down and he eyes me for a second.

“...good sister...”

It slows down even more.

“...of his...”

He trails completely off now and I force myself to keep up with that smile, though I suppose Mr. Hughesbury just had an epiphany of sorts.

“You...do not have another sister, by any chance?”, he asks. My smile falters. So does his.

I’ll have to answer, don’t I?

“No, sir, I do not have another sister. There’s only Mycroft, Sherlock and me.”

Mr. Hughesbury’s expression sours. A painful silence descends upon us. Mrs. Hughesbury is desperately looking for words, by the looks of it.

It is fascinating, really, how easily my brother can ruin the mood even if not present, isn’t it?

Mr. Hughesbury clears his throat. Mrs. Hughesbury giggles nervously.

“Regardless”, he says. He takes a second to scrutinize me and it feels as with every passing second he is adding yet another thing to an every-growing list of things to say to my brother once they eventually meet again. I do wonder just what exactly Mycroft has told him. Does he know I am technically speaking a runaway? Will he force me to stay? Will he, mayhaps, simply sent for my brother and tell him about my investigation?

Would I be able to escape if it came to that? Can I somehow contact Tewkesbury on time if I am sent back to the finishing school?

Mr. Hughesbury clears his throat once more.

“Well. I suppose your family matters aren’t of any concern to me.”

I let out a breath of relief, masking it by coughing. I can’t have him suspect me of any “unladylike shenanigans”, as Mycroft would probably deem anything I do.

“And considering you haven’t stolen anything...”

Now, that is just unnecessarily rude and I frown at the implications – I am an honest woman and I haven’t stolen a thing in my life, unless you count the money given to me by my mother, which Mycroft claimed to be his own.

I do, in fact, not count that.

Luckily, Mrs. Hughesbury seems to be as offended as I am.

“Darling!”, she exclaims loudly, rising to a stand:”How could you say such a thing! Miss Holmes is...”

“Honey, please, now is hardly the time...”

“Miss Holmes is a respectable woman and I will not let you insult her like...”

“Darling, please!”, he interrupts her and Mrs. Hughesbury flinches back, lowering her gaze. They stay that way for a few seconds, him looking at her, half turned and her starring at the floor.

But then something unexpected happens. In fact, it seams as if Mrs. Hughesbury had merely counted to five, seemingly collecting herself, before meeting her husband’s gaze and opening her mouth in an attempt to respond.

She doesn’t get the chance to. Letting out a huff Mister Hughesbury says:”Not now, darling? Later? We have guest!”

Mrs. Hughesbury closes her mouth again. And then she smiles.

“Later?”

He lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Yes. Later.”

Mrs. Hughesbury positively beams.

I shudder. You see, my mother did not talk about my father very often – but I do know that, when they had first gotten married, she had very much been in love with him.

“Your father was a great gentleman, Enola. He was everything a woman could dream of during our courtship – the very gentleman every man should strife to be. It was only after he told me to be quiet while he had friends over – in front of the entire company – that I realized, no matter how much he claimed to love me, your father would never see me as his equal.”

I have never forgotten those words. Neither did I forget the words that followed them.

“The worst a woman can do to herself is giving in to the idea that love alone will make her someone’s equal, Enola. Love alone will not bring you respect, nor will it give you the power to take your life in your own hands – never forget that, Enola. Never forget.”

I wonder if Mrs. Hughesbury believes love alone will make her her husband’s equal in his eyes – or her own. And yet I can’t help but feel like an intruder as she lovingly looks at him and I see him – surprisingly – gaze back very much in the same way.

I have to clear my throat to break the spell, but it is enough for Mr. Hughesbury to turn to me, his expression stern and a far cry from what it had been just seconds earlier.

“Of course, I can’t have people talking, Miss Holmes. I hope you understand that this is quite a...delicate matter. And I expect for it to be kept quiet”, he says, eyeing me strictly.

“Naturally”, I respond and it seems to be enough of an answer, as Mr. Hughesbury turns back to his wife once more.

“Splendid. Sweetheart, would you be a dear and show Miss Holmes out? I will be in my study, if I am needed and do please talk to Inspector Lestrade. That good man is making time for this case and we ought to be grateful for that...”

. O .

I find myself walking the halls of the Hughesbury’s house for a fourth time today – only this time, I am not lead to the servant’s entrance, I notice not too far into my journey.

“Now that my husband knows you are here, I’m sure we can return to my room and you can continue that investigation of yours...”, Mrs. Hughesbury says, as she leads me ack to her room.

She smiles at me happily and it almost seems as if she was merely doing me a favour – humouring me instead of taking my craft serious.

It is quite the insult, I must say.

At first, I reincorporate her smile, until I realize what going back to her room involves – and I have had one too many unpleasant surprises today already.

“Mrs. Hughesbury, I’m not sure if that...”

“Oh, I am sure Inspector Lestrade won’t mind if you are to finish up your investigation. Mayhaps you could assist him, no?”

I smile awkwardly.

That’d be a disaster. An absolute disaster that would most likely involve a wild chase through the house and a broken window, perhaps.

I cannot be seen by Lestrade. Who knows how much Sherlock could find out about my residence with such a simple clue alone!

“That is not my concern, Mrs. Hughesbury, it is simply that...”

Mrs. Hughesbury halts, her features lighting up as if she had just had an epiphany – though I fear it still is not what I am trying to say.

“Oh, don’t worry dear! Of course you will still get paid, regardless whether you find a clue or not, do not worry!”, she exclaims happily and I can’t help but feel offended once again.

It seems I have given her the wrong impression, have I not?

“Oh, no, this...”

I step closer again, nervously checking every nook and corner.

“You see...I can’t be seen by Inspector Lestrade.”

“You cannot?”, she asks, turning to me, with a great deal of surprise:”But-Doesn’t your brother Sherlock work with the police all the time? Why do you not wish to see him, Miss Holmes, if I may be so bold and ask..?”

Now, how to say this..?

“He...just happens to have orders from my brother. Mycroft. To find me and bring me back home and...I’d prefer if that were not to happen.”

Mrs. Hughesbury’s bewilderment only deepens, until her expression turns to horror and I fear I may have chosen the wrong words yet again.

“Bring you back home..?What-What do you mean by that?”

She pulls me to the side, into a small niche, hidden away from prying eyes.

“Enol-Miss Holmes, are you saying you ran away?”, she asks, sounding incredulously.

“Well”, I respond, hunting my thoughts for a pacifying answer to that question. If she were to disapprove she is sure to alert Lestrade – and outrunning him might prove difficult, if I am caught in a house with everyone against me.

“I-I wouldn’t call it “running away” as much as...making my own way in this world. Aside from society’s expectations for young girls?”

I sincerely hope my response is convincing enough – I did try to connect to what Mrs. Hughesbury told me about her own hopes for her youngest daughter earlier today – though I fear it is not, as Mrs. Hughesbury has gone completely silent, her eyes widened in terror.

I prepare to make a run for it. We are on the ground floor and there are windows in this hallway, perhaps I can…

“Are-Are you insinuating you are living alone?!”, she interrupts my thoughts, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“Yes?”

I hate how much it sounds like a question, but I am too busy to slowly try and step away from her to properly voice my thoughts.

“That-Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh, not at all. As a matter of fact, my mother made sure I am quite adapt at defending myself!”

But still, it seems not to be enough, as Mrs. Hughesbury’s worry only seems to increase tenfold.

“And what about that other brother of yours, Sherlock? Isn’t he a detective, too? Can’t you stay with him? Per-Perhaps he'd take you on as an apprentice!”

“Yes, but – I am Mycroft’s charge and I’d – I’d rather be safe.”

“I-I...”

Mrs. Hughesbury is clearly searching words and I start to get nervous, as I really do not want to encounter Lestrade today.

“What about your mother? Can’t you stay with her?”

Oh. I forgot.

She doesn’t know, does she?

“I-I currently do not know where my mother resides. She has kept it a secret from me and...well, I was actually hoping you may know more?”

Mrs. Hughesbury’s gaze softens and I am hopeful she will give me a clue, anything, really…!

“I-I don’t know much, you see, we have merely ex...”

And then Mrs. Hughesbury stops herself. Averts her gaze.

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence though for me to know what she was trying to say – and I can feel disappointment rise in my throat like bile. It seems as if everyone is dead set on me never figuring out just where my mother is.

“Regardless. I – I understand concerns. I may disapprove of your living arrangements, but I understand.”

She smile. I smile.

I steal the glance at the hallway. I wonder whether Inspector Lestrade is still in Mrs. Hughesbury’s room.

“Oh, am I keeping you too long? My apologies, that was not my intention...Regardless, I need to ask you to return in two days to collect your pay – Of course, you do not need to question any more servants. I am quite sorry for wasting your time like this...”

She smiles politely and I frown, wondering what she means by that, until I realize-

“You...expect me to drop the case completely?”

“Why, of course, dear! The police is taking care of it now and...”

“Mistress? Mistress?”

We both turn around, facing the intruder – another maid.

Charlotte, in fact. She looks at me once, her lips forming a silent “oh”, but then turns her entire attention to Mrs. Hughesbury.

“Mistress, there is another problem regarding the banquet – the cake?”

“Another problem?”, Mrs Hughesbury says:”Oh dear, I better go leave and deal with this...”

She turns to me once more, a dazzling smile adorning her expression in such a way, I am almost blinded by it.

“Do please visit in two days – I’d hate to not properly reimburse you for all the trouble you have been to and – and thank you for taking your time. I will forever be grateful you did not doubt me!”

And then she leaves.

And I am left with a rather unsatisfying conclusion to my very first real case, haven’t I?

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Five

-

9^th & 12^th of August 1884

Case I: The unrobbed woman
File V: A merry lead

“Dearest Enola,

I am so very grateful for the letter you have sent me – I found it surprising you found a way to respond so quickly and I fear, I might get used to it – so you'd better watch out!

At home all is fine and well – my mother is still pestering me with constant lessons, though it has gotten better, now that uncle has left for a deployment – he’s off to Egypt, for the war.

I wish he hadn’t needed to leave – we may disagree on most everything we say, but he is my uncle and I hold him very dear. I am worried he might not return for quite some time, too – they say the war won’t last long, but I am unconvinced. My mother told me not to fret – those kind of wars never last long – but I can’t help but do.

I really want him to come back.

But enough of that. As you can imagine, I find myself with a lot more time on my hands now and I almost wish parliament were back in session – though I suppose I will regret ever uttering these words once I am back in London. As of now, I am spending most of my time growing roses – I have found myself becoming fascinated with the many hybrids that have popped up in recent years and wish to find my very own one day.

I am convinced I have found a matching name already.

Mayhaps you may join me at Basilwhether Hall sometime and I can show you around the gardens? Once you have found yourself some time in-between cases? I must admit, I am intrigued by this very first case of yours – both the nature of the case itself and the extraordinary circumstances which have brought Mrs. Hughesbury to you. If it had been me, why, I think I would have thought it a gust of wind, which unsettled her as much as it did, but then again, I could never disagree with your intuition.

Please write quickly, as I want to know more about this “unrobbed woman” as you put it – your letters are the light of my day and your adventures shall bring me a smile on darkened days.

 

Best wishes

Viscount Tewkeybury, Marquess of Basilwhether

 

PS: Mother just told me about her plans to visit London soon, to attend a formal dinner hosted by her friend – and she’d like me to accompany her. It may be coming as a surprise, yet I was hoping we might be able to meet? I know you are worried about your brothers finding you, but I am convinced neither of them will know about my visit and perhaps we can take a stroll through Covent Garden? It is beautiful this time of the year and I’d love to catch up in person.

Please, do write back quickly!

 

I smile sillily as I put the letter aside and watch Edith put a cup of tea down in front of me. I am surprised Tewkesbury managed to write back this quickly – but I am glad he did. I had asked him to send it to Edith once more and I had been rather surprised when she surprised me with it.

This time, I accepted it with more grace than I had before, trying my best to mask my emotions regarding it’s arrival.

Edith did not say a thing, instead telling me to sit down and I take it for what it is – her turning a blind eye for once.

I do need to get my facial expressions under control, don’t I? Mother used to tell me one should never feel ashamed of what one felt – yet I do believe, sometimes it comes in hand when one is able to hide their emotions.

My mother was able to – I had not a sliver of an inkling as to what she was planning, when she left that day.

It does not matter, I suppose.

“Your tea, Enola, and, you wanted to speak to me?”

Edith rips me from my thoughts and I am thankful for the distraction, as I do not like where my mind is leading e.

“Thank you.”

I accept the steaming cup and take a sip, before setting it down in front of me, pleastering a polite smile across my face.

From the way Edith raises an eyebrow, I notice that I must look ridiculous.

“Yes. I did want to talk to you, you see, I seem to have run into...a lull regarding my ongoing investigation and...”

Edith nods along as she sits down herself and I continue the conversation, explaining the situation I find myself in.

You may now be wondering why I had gone to visit Edith’s in the first place. Some may remember my earlier thoughts, when I elaborated on my rather well thought-out plan to throw Sherlock of my trail and they may assume my visit has merely been decided by a throw of dice – though you’d be incorrect.

For all purposes and intentions, I am here with a task. That task being to question Edith about Mrs. Hughesbury. She may have pulled me from the case, but I am most certain I will be able to solve it faster than Inspector Lestrade ever could – if he solves it at all, that is.

Not to mention that, perhaps, I can, discreetly, question Edith about the code I did manage to copy whilst Mrs. Hughesbury had been out and about.

“3 CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL RVEIR IARENTA VISBNOAEID HPEALC. V LNANEI SNTEUS. HULABIHT PRASEONTTOI. ROROMT DUAUNNPSURDUSH SUPDORONRNJE IEACL. HDHEJE HJEAFF HKLIFI.”

Undoubtedly, the one “3” at the beginning, it being the only number and all, is of great importance and equally undoubtedly, those words must have been scrambled together somehow – it is a staple my mother used in almost everyone of her codes and I must assume this is no exception to the rule.

Which leads to a fascinating amount of possible solutions, of course, as the letter contains an astounding 174 letters.

Either Mrs. Hughesbury is a genius at decoding or I must find a pattern, which I believe to have found.

HCEIOS RVEIR HPEALC SNTEUS ROROMT IEACL HKLIFI

The first thing I did was regarding onlyevery third word. Now, obviously they still don’t make a lot of sense, yet if one were to unscramble them, you’d receive the message “Choice River Chapel Sunset Tomorr Alice”

You may have noticed that the last word “HKLIFI” is missing – I simply cannot make any sense of it, yet I suspect it may be an unfamiliar family name of sorts.

The rest of that message, however, is clear as the day. Some place at the river in, I assume, Whitechapel was chosen for a meeting point which commenced at Sunset, the day after the message had been delivered.

And a certain “Alice Fihkil? Lihkif?” would be present as well.

It’d be a great result, really, if it hadn’t seemed to be just a tad to easy – you see, I am used to my mother making most things unnecessary challenging at times, not to mention the many abbreviations seemed off – there was no need for them, really.

Additionally, there is yet another message I found coded within the letter, by reading every third letter.

“Meet Perse at Lara Pahel.”

More strange names, yet a perfectly fine message, too – and there is no indication which one should be right. The first one seems hidden too hastily to hold the letters true meaning, yet the second one seems to be so void of any meaning.

The presence of at least one red herring leads me to the conclusion that neither of those two messages are what I am truly. supposed to be looking for. And that I have yet to uncover an entirely different message.

That, or either one of those two messages would indeed bring me a lead on my mother whereabouts – which is precisely why I just now handed Edith a list with name – all variations of that mysterious Alice’s last name.

With alternating first names, of course, as anything else would be suspicious. Now, I doubt Edith will tell me anything regardless, even if she were to recognize a name on that list, however I do hope to get a rise out of her.

It’d help me along greatly.

Sadly, I am to be disappointed, as Edith merely raised an eyebrow at me.

“Is this...supposed to some kind of joke?”, she asks, as she puts the sheet of paper down in front of me again.

“No. I was hoping you might know a name from that list – I suppose that could help me with my investigation.”

It is not a lie, though I purposefully did not specify which investigation I am talking about. Edith has been adamant about me not getting involved with whatever it is that my mother is doing and I do not wish to displease her again – not after our last parting was less than favourable.

“Hm. I have never heard Ada...”

I take note of Edith’s use of Mrs. Hughesbury’s first name – did she, perhaps, take part in Edith’s self-defence course at some point? Or are they close for some other reason?

“...speaking of these people either. Perhaps you are mistaken?”, Edithsays and I neatly fold the paper again, before dropping it into my bag.

Somewhere far away a clock strikes one o’clock and a glance at my teacup reveals it to be empty.

“It is getting late”, I remark. Edith nods along.

“It has been some time now, hasn’t it? Must you be off to somewhere else?”

“Yes. The Hughesbury’s?”

Edith smiles and I wonder whether I have missed something, as it is entirely too knowingly. Yet I do not find any other clue within her expression and decide to drop the thought.

It will bring me no good after all.

“Of course. Well, it has been nice, seeing you again, so soon. I did miss you after that first visit – perhaps you can drop by more often? I have yet to spy Sherlock – or any of Mycroft’s underlings – watching the shop.”

Her words are assuring and I promise to try and stop by tomorrow – yet I will refuse to abandon my dice completely.

Old habits die hard.

I get up, grabbing my bag and then the letter, when I feel Edith’s expression shift. I look up – and indeed, her expression is positively worried now as she silently observes me.

“I noticed that letter was sent by that same boy again”, she remarks. I frown.

“It...is. Yes. Why? Was there any trouble?”

I doubt it – those were two rather inconspicuous letters and Edith just said she had not seen anyone suspicious looking, yet my brother is the famed Sherlock Holmes.

It isn’t what Edith was referring to, though.

“You’re more than just a pretty doll, Enola”, she explains, putting away the cups. I freeze at those words – but not for long.

“I know”. I respond, my voice slow and tentative. I do not like where this conversation is headed, if I am right with my assumptions. and it has yet to properly start.

Mayhaps it is best if I squash it before any further attempts are made.

“Though I fear I have to take my leave now . Have a good day, Edith.”

I grab the letter from the table and turn around. Perhaps I am being rude, but I feel quite uncomfortable and my mother once told me, if one feels uncomfortable in a situation, one has to change that – either by changing the situation itself, or simply by removing themselves from it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edith shake her head.

“He might think you refreshing and exciting now, Enola – but that will not last. It never does.”

“Have a good day, Edith.”

“… Have a good day, Enola.”

I leave the room, fleeing through the café until I have found myself outside, where I relish a deep breath of air.

Edith’s words should not have hit as hard as they did, I conclude. And anyway, it does not matter, as Tewkesbury and I are friends – pen pals, really - I remind myself.

It does not matter at all.

.o.O.o.

When I arrived at the Hughesbury’s home, I expected a lot – I expected to talk to Mrs. Hughesbury, to ask her whether, perhaps, I might continue investigating, as I have no intention to drop this case until I have seen it through.

I hoped to be able to search the other rooms as well – and I especially hoped to find more clues as to what could have transpired within these walls. Now, my mother once told me the best expectations once could have where none, as it would enable you to keep a clear mind and judge fairly – and it keeps you from being disappointed.

I should have listened to her advice, as I currently find myself begging a certain Anne – Anne White, as the maid was quick to correct me – to help me out.

Mrs. Hughesbury was afraid her husband might see me again. And she is deeply convinced that Scotland Yard will solve her case in no time.

“Why would I even help you?!”, said maid hisses as she pulls me away from the window’s view.

I suppose her reaction is fair – I did deceive her – though one must admit, my intentions were pure – and then suspected her of robbing her mistress’ jewellery.

But then again…

“Don’t you want this case to be solved?”

“Why, yes, of course...”

“Great. Because Inspector Lestrade won’t be the one to solve it.”

I hope my voice sounds convincing enough, though I fear it doesn’t, as Anne steps back and grimaces.

“Inspector Lestrade is an inspector at Scotland Yard and you are barely a young lady, who just so happens to be the daughter of questionable influence that my mistress seems to admire, for some reason or another.”

I ignore Anne’s blatant disregard for my mother – who is a great woman and no bad influence at all. Why, I’d argue society is a bad influence and my mother is quite the opposite. But such petty discussions won’t help me with my case.

“What makes you think you could solve this case faster than he can? Or that you could possibly solve this case at all?”

I suppose she’d have a point if it weren’t or certain individuals, living within this city, proving her wrong time and time again.

“My brother beats the police force all the time!”

“Your brother is the famed detective Sherlock Holmes, which you are not!”

Now, that is just insulting.

“...which is why I advice you to leave at...”

“The first case I ever solved, I solved faster than Sherlock did”, I interrupt her. Finally I seem to have surprised her and for a moment she eyes me suspiciously, before asking:”Come again?”

“The first case I ever solved – the Case of the Missing Marquess – I solved faster than my brother, the famed detective Sherlock Holmes, did. It was all over the papers, too.”

I do leave out the tidbit that Tewkesbury had been more willing to help me than my brother, but I must ask you to keep in mind I did figure out who had tried to murder him.

Well, I figured out the motive, I got the person wrong, but, in opposition to my brother, I never had all that much time to properly investigate in the first place.

“The Case of the Missing Marquess? The one where his own grandmother tried to have him killed?”

“Yes. The very same.”

Now, Anne seems to be unsure of what to say next and I decide that now is the right time to push her just that last bit to my side.

“Not to mention, do you really believe Inspector Lestrade has any interest in actually solving this case? They will put it down in no time and who else would be willing to investigate?”

Other private detectives, I am sure, especially considering Mrs. Hugehsbury is willing to pay quite a bit to have this matter solved, yet I believe she’d rather have me do it.

And I feel dirty, accepting the money without really having contributed anything.

“Well, alright then”, Anne finally concedes and I can’t help but smile – though I try not to look to triumphant.

“Every human is too prideful. Especially the ones that claim not to be”, my mother once said and growing up with Sherlock and Mycroft as my brothers, I am inclined to agree.

But my worrying was for nothing, as Anne is too busy nervously glancing at the house’s windows, before pulling me even farther away from it.

“I will tell you everything I know, but only today and you will leave me alone after that, understood?”, she then adds and I can’t nod quickly enough.

“Umble-Cum-Stumble. You won’t see me again – until I have solved the case that is.”

Anne hums approvingly and I take out a sheet of paper, ready to take not of anything

“His full name’s Jimmy Foster...”

“As you already said”, I interrupt her, yet all she does is pause for a second, casting a sharp look at me.

“...and I overheard Inspector Lestrade say he is a well-known member of the family. Has gotten into trouble plenty of time already, for petty crimes and some tavern-brawls. Inspector Lestrade said he found it strange the man supposedly tried to break and enter, though he promised to look into it. And that is all that I know of this matter and I now advice you to leave, lest I should call for the house’s master.”

She chuckles at that and leans against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I heard them argue yesterday – Mr. Hughesbury got mad. Said Ada was undergoing a worrying change and called you a bad influence. Is it true your hiding from your brother?”

Her question surprises me, yet it does not catch me off-guard.

I expected the staff to know by now – gossip travels faster than apologies, my mother once said -and whilst this outcome is less than preferable, I will manage.

Mrs. Hughesbury does not know where I live. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft will find much use of her – though, taking this newest development into account, I suppose I shall have to stay away from Edith’s tea rooms for some time, lest Sherlock does set up outside of them to catch me.

I do believe Sherlock is a man too busy for such silly antics, but god knows what Mycroft may be up to.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did Inspector Lestrade find anything? Something in the room, in the house? Were any rooms left unchecked?”

At that, Anne shrugs.

“He said he’ll come back in time – he has yet to inspect the majority of the house, though I believe his search will be fruitless. And tracks or other leads will have been cleaned away by now.”

I nod in agreement. Sadly, Anne is right. The house will be free of any and all tracks.

“Very well. I will be gone soon – just one last question, if I may?”

“Go ahead. Perhaps I will dignify that question with an answer.”

I suppose that is the best I can get.

“That man – Jimmy Foster – what does he look like?”

Anne’s eyes widen in surprise at that, which, in turn, I find quite surprising, as that question is the logical conclusion to this interrogation.

A name will be quite useless if I were to spot my one lead within London’s crowds.

“You’re really not dropping the case, are you?”, Anne asks, clearly amused:”Even though you just got paid?”

I frown of that. Of course I have – quite handsomely, too, at that, especially if one regards the results – preliminary results – of my investigation.

So far. They’re just preliminary results, after all.

“No. I’d rather see this case all the way through – I doubt Inspector Lestrade will even come close to solving it.”

Perhaps I am being unfair to Inspector Lestrade, but he works for Mycroft and anyone working directly for Mycroft is a man I greatly dislike.

“Now, may I ask for a description of this fellow, Jimmy Foster? You seem to be somewhat acquainted with him.”

Expectantly I watch Anne who blinks a few times, before shaking her head.

“Of course. Sure. He has black hair, he-I think he had a scar in his left eyebrow, a small, pointed nose – he was quite good-looking, actually, though he usually had a black eye, or two – as I said, he apparently finds himself caught up in tavern brawls as a pastime – and...What are you doing?”

“Drawing him. Does this match the description?”

Anne steps closer. Eyes the picture.

“You draw?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, no. His-His noise looks more like – yes, more like that and his hair is quite short...Oh, and he has a door-knocker...”

It takes around ten minutes for me to get the picture right – yet I leave with a better idea of who to look for – and I am convinced finding Jimmy Foster will only help me solve this case.

12^th of August 1884

“Knowledge is power, my dear, which is why you should never stop learning”, my mother told me whenever I was sitting at out kitchen table, unwilling to solve today’s tasks.

“You never know which skills will come in handy at which point in time, which is why you should learn as much as possible, to be prepared for anything that may come your way. Do you understand?”

Of course I had understood – my mother’s words had always had their own way of making sense – yet it had not made me any more willing to finish my assignments and nor did I manage to learn everything there is to know – not a surprise, considering I am only 16 years old and have yet to life out most of my life.

Yet, I do wish I had mastered all aspects of life already, as right now, I seem to be desperately missing the skill of acting inconspicuous.

“HEY!”, a man exclaims as I roughly push him aside and I shout “Mind the grease!“ as I then narrowly dodge a couple walking my way. I evade to the left and duck underneath the outstretched arm of a newsman.

Jimmy Foster is doing quite the same a few yards in front of me and the distance, much to my dismay, is only increasing.

I cannot afford to lose him, so I will my legs to move faster and scurry around another corner – only to almost slam into yet another person.

London truly holds too many people.

I narrowly dodge that group of people, whom are less than pleased by our near-collision and call some very nasty things after me, yet I do not have any ears for their words.

I cannot let Jimmy get away. I. Cannot.

I am stopped for a few precious seconds as a carriage rounds a corner and I stretch my neck, keeping Foster within my field of vision and the moment the carriage has passed I am running again, dodging and throwing excuses over my shoulder.

I wish people would stop and help for a second, keeping him from getting away, but I suppose that would only pose more questions, as I am but a simple girl and he is a man, who has not stolen from me, nor has he done me any other wrong.

If it weren’t for Mycroft’s threat hanging over me, life could be so much easier – if the police were to show up they’d support my side, instead of dragging me away to my brother. But I will manage. I have managed just fine so far and I will continue to do so.

However, I do not manage to catch up to Jimmy Foster – and if my geography knowledge does not fool me, we should reach smaller alleys soon. Which would be a perfect time for Foster to slip away for good and I cannot allow that – yet we do not make it to the alleys at all.

The air is burning in my lungs. My legs are protesting with every step I take and I know I am slowing down – as I doubt Forster is speeding up and our distance is ever increasing.

And then he turns another corner and although I try my very hardest to get to it as fast as I can, hoping to find yet another glimpse of him – he is gone.

He rounded another one already – the first one, it must have been – and I know I will not catch up to him anymore.

I stop in the middle of the street, starring at the place where he just had been, my arms clutching my side as I breathe in heavily.

I-I lost him.

I actually lost him.

“HEY! LADY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”, someone shouts and I flinch, before turning around and finding myself facing a cab.

“My excuses”, I say, though it is barely a whisper, before I do get off the street and let traffic pass. Slumping against a wall, I allow myself to take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I have lost him. I have lost him to the swarming crowds of London’s streets. This man was the only promising lead I had – and it just slipped through my fingers, never to be seen again.

I should be disappointed. Yet I recall Anne’s earlier words and this whole affair is turned into a minor setback.

“His full name’s Jimmy Foster...” “As you already sa...” “...and I overheard Inspector Lestrade say he is a well-known member of the family. Has gotten into trouble plenty of time already, for petty crimes and some tavern-brawls. Inspector Lestrade said he found it strange the man supposedly tried to break and enter, though he promised to look into it. And that is all that I know of this matter and I now advice you to leave, lest I should call for the house’s master.”

Jimmy Foster was a known man to Scotland Yard.

So perhaps, he has yet to fully slip away after all.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letter

Chapter Six

-

13^th - 17 ^th of August 1884

Case I: The unrobbed woman
File VI: Laws are fickle

If one thinks about it – and I must say that I have thought about it, quite thoroughly at that – the law – the way it is used in modern society – is a fickle and senseless thing. It is entirely dependent on the circumstances it finds itself in – and one might quite prefer a set of rules that was more dependent on laws given to us by nature and such and not a thing made up by humans, who are – as is generally agreed upon – prone to mistakes and – as I have learned myself – prone to being quite unreasonable as well.

To elucidate my point: a few years back slavery was legal, a practice which we now call barbaric – and with every right at that. And I am most certain a few years into the future and plenty of rules we abide by today – both, of societal norm and lawful practices – we shall ridicule, yes, view as signs of an uncivilised society that, no doubt, must have been quite a terrible time to live in.

Additionally, I am quite certain, too, that a few years into the future of said future, people will be saying quite the same things about my own future and so will their grandchildren and so on, all the way down the line, following into eternity.

(I am also most certain these grandchildren grandparents will, no doubt, make a huge deal out of their descendants foolishness and loose morals.)

But time is not the only variable one has to take into account when judging a law: Indeed, the society we live in plays quite the role as well – we may enjoy a steak or two here in England, but most certainly such acts would be frowned upon in faraway India and the way we take in our tea is a far cry from the – from what I have heard – gorgeous and intricate ceremony surrounding tea in the far east.

And, at last, one must take into consideration the circumstances under which a crime has been committed, into account, too. We may all agree upon stealing being a sin, yet woiuld anyone of us dare chastise a man trying to feed his family turning to crime?

Those thoughts, of course, I have not discovered on my own. I am convinced with time and knowledge I would have uncovered these truths myself, yet I must admit it was none other than my brother Mycroft who first enlightened me.

Well. Not exactly me. My mother and he had had a heated argument and I was being quite the naughty girl for listening in, but I was bored and I had finished my reading already and anyway, when I asked my mother about it, later of course, as I dared not to barge into the study, she was quite alright with it.

In fact, she praised me for my skills in sneaking around.

I am getting off-track.

After asking my mother she told me that, for once, Mycroft was right and whilst I must say I will most likely never cherish a single thing my eldest brother accomplishes, I must cherish this lesson he has, unknowingly – and most certainly unwillingly, as every woman aware of these facts would immediately recognize arguments such as “it is what society expects you to do” are no arguments at all and would therefore refuse to participate in such oppressive games – gifted me with.

Perhaps, if I had simply waited, my mother would have told me anyway and I would not be burdened with this knowledge that Mycroft can be useful. But alas, time has passed and things have happened and there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it.

Now, you may be wondering why I am standing here, philosophing about law and order, as you may remember that I have still quite a lot to do, however, all I am trying to say is that breaking into Scotland Yard to extract a file on a certain fellow named “Jimmy Foster” is, while most likely breaking a law or two, in fact not a bad deed.

As I have mentioned earlier, every law operates under three variables: the time it is placed in, the place and the circumstances. Now, if it were any other time - a more modern time, a fairer time, I am most certain I would not have to fear my brother shipping me off to some finishing school to mold me into a mannequin of his design, nor would I be unable to work as a private investigator. As a matter of fact, I would most likely be able to find out this information without having to sneak in, therefore this law should not apply at this very moment.

As for place, while I myself am currently not a ware of any place in the world where such things should be legal, I am sure, if one were more well-versed in such things as geography as I currently am, that this too, would be a fully ridiculous law to follow.

And lastly, if one were to take circumstances into consideration: I find myself in circumstances in which I do not have much of a choice and anyway, if it weren’t for Mycroft and Sherlock none of this would be a problem at all!

Therefore: I am not a bad person. I am not a criminal.

And breaking into Scotland Yard is the right thing to do.

.o.O.o.

14^th of August 1884

As it turns out, sneaking into Scotland Yard is much more difficult than it is sneaking into a, fairly unsupervised, private household, I mentally remark as I take yet another corner.

I should have expected as much, yet I did not and I curse my own oversight – I should have planed ahead more – and perhaps I would not be chased by a bobby down the streets of London for suspicious behaviour.

I turn around another corner, almost run straight into a woman holding onto her groceries and narrowly dodge the child accompanying her – and by that knock a man’s donkey’s breakfast from his head.

But – although the man is now furiously screaming at me – I dodged the group of people. And the bobby does not.

After rounding another corner, I suppose I am in need for a disguise.

.o.

15^th of August 1884

As I have learned yesterday already: Scotland Yard is a busy place. There is rustling and bustling and quite a long line of people patiently awaiting their turn. It is loud and hectic and not at all a pleasant place – yet I have conceived the perfect plan, which requires me to be here. And to wait in line, for my turn.

During my first attempt yesterday – which was quite silly, really, as I simply tried to walk in, pretending I had business there, hoping no one would question me – I did notice one peculiarity: If one were to take too long describing the crime they have been subjected to, they are occasionally asked to move into the back – especially if there is a description of the prig, or whatever criminal it is that committed a capper, to be given.

Now, obviously neither has someone ever successfully stolen anything from me, nor do I plan on ever letting that happen – but faking my own little crime shan’t be too difficult, don’t you think? There are plenty of petty crimes – buzzing and such – one can report, yet that are certain to never be solved. And whilst Scotland Yard most likely will dutifully archive such a crime, they are certain not to pay any heed to it.

“Now, Miss Morgan – you are most certain you have gotten quite a good look at that fellow? You are sure it must have been him?”

“I am most certain. Luckily, there was light in that alley, or that scoundrel would have gotten away!”

The officer regards me for a few seconds.

I bat my eyelashes.

He looks down at his report once more.

“So you’ve been attacked while walking home in-in an unnamed alley close to Vaughan Way?”

“That is quite right. It was late evening, too, but not too late – the sun had yet to set.”

“And your bag was taken?”

“Yes.”

The officer scribbles down more notes, before looking up again, wearing a winning smile that promises bad news.

Which I did not expect, as all I really want is to lead me into the back, where I will describe some non-existent boy and after which I will be free to wander Scotland Yard – and if I were to get caught, I might just pretend to be lost. I am dressed as a lady after all. In a voluminous gown – a bid dated, but that was to be expected considering it was bought second-hand – and adorned with some jewellery that was much cheaper than it looks.

“Miss Morgan – I am most disappointed to tell you, however it will be near impossible for us to retrieve a simple bag, of which there will be da dozen, no doubt, and...”

I try not to let my disappoint show as my thoughts are going a mile a minute – this is not at all what I had wanted and I had not planned for this, yet I must find a way to...

“I carried an expensive watch!”

My mouth caught on to the situation faster than my thoughts do and I regret my sudden action. I doubt my sudden interuption has made a very good impression – yet I cannot let myself be sent away.

Not yet. Not until I have gained more information on this Jimmy Foster.

Perhaps I should be thankful for my mouth’s sudden takeover.

“I carried an expensive watch with me. It was my mother’s. My late mother’s. A-A family heirloom and I’d quite like it back.”

Someone coughs behind me and the officer eyes me suspiciously, before shrugging.

“Very well, Miss Morgan. It might have been christened already – however, if you were to give us a precise description of watch and dipper, we might be able to find it. If you were to follow me into the back?”

“Of course, officer. My sincerest thanks!”

I suppose I shall count myself lucky I am dressed the way I am – I am most certain most everyone would have been turned away, had they not looked rich enough.

.o.

There is a clock ticking somewhere in this room and it is positively driving me crazy as I wait for the man sitting in front of me, drawing away at a piece of paper, to finish.

I must admit, his drawing is perfectly splendid, yet I do find myself rather bored and anxious – it took me entirely too long to describe that watch that was supposedly stolen and it took me even longer to come up with a description that is neither too detailed nor too vague, fitting that made-up dipper. I’d rather not blame any poor soul for a crime that has never been committed.

The officer in front of me puts away his charcoal for a few moments and eyes me, before returning to his drawing – which is almost finished, too.

I shall rejoice once I am able to leave this stuffy cabinet and proceed with my investigation. Or rather, my gathering of information, as there is not much more to find at Scotland Yard than those files.

“Miss Morgan, If I may be so bold..?”, he asks absent-mindedly and I smile politely.

I have yet to keep up the charade.

“Of course. Anything.”

“What were you doing in that alley, if I may ask? All alone? Surely your family ought to worry? And in Chapel nonetheless that is!”

The officer seems to be genuinely worried and I might be appreciative for his concern, if it were not for the fact that I am most certain I’d be more capable of anything being thrown my way than he is.

Well, I am pretending to be robbed.

Perhaps, just this once, they have a point.

“My father was accompanying me”, I say:”He tried to run after that thief, too, but he’s in old age – it was futile, really.”

I smile once more and my face’s muscles start to hurt. I do wonder how some ladies keep up their expressions – I remember Miss Harrison’s words all too well, telling me to be smiling at any time of the day, as a man has too many trouble already than to be concerned with the minor squabbles a woman has.

It must be exhausting. It truly must.

“Your father?”

“Yes, exactly. He’s home right now, sick and all – you know how they get. Luckily, Scotland Yard isn’t too far from where I live.”

I do not smile yet another time, however I must admit, this is mostly because I have not yet stopped smiling.

“Very well. Now, then, Miss Morgan, that shall be all – if you are to leave an address with me, I will make sure a message is delivered to your home once the investigation has born fruits. But may I request you take one last look at the picture drawn? Does the boy look like you remember?”

He holds up the piece of paper – and it is a fine drawing indeed. I inspect it thoroughly – invoking the illusion of looking for any faults, when, really, I am trying to memorize each line and curve – mayhaps it could help me improve my very own drawing skills as well.

The officer clears his throat. I hear the clock’s ticking once more.

“Everything’s alright. It is quite a beautiful drawing, too!”

Flattery has gotten many a person out of an awkward situation.

“I couldn’t help but admire it!”, I then add.

Flattery has gotten many a person out of an awkward situation and so has being honest. And, indeed, the officer does smile and politely thanks me for the compliment.

“Now, then, my most sincerest thanks for your cooperation, Miss Morgan. Though I’d hate to take up anymore of your time – Shall we?”

Then the officer gets up. And I, now, realize with horror that I may have wasted half an hour of my life for nothing.

“Oh! Oh – you needn’t accompany me! I shall be able to leave all on my own.”

The officer has the audacity to laugh at that and I must admit – I feel quite stupid.

“Nonsense, Miss Morgan! We might not want you to get lost, of course”, he remarks and smiles sillyly and I try to contain the snorting laughter threatening to escape my mouth.

Of course he would. I should have expected this outcome – I really should.

“How very considerate.”

I force myself to smile thankfully (again!) as the officer gets up, gesturing for me to do the same.

“How very, very considerate. I must admit, I might have gotten lost indeed – as the building is built so confusingly!”

.O.

17^th of August 1884

It is a testament to the value of cleverness and resourcefulness that, what gets me into Scotland Yard, is no ruse of any kind. Not a girl simply strolling in and pretending to be needed – which had gotten me chased out in the first case – and neither a time-consuming charade in which I pretend to be some upper-class lady.

No, what gets me into Scotland Yard are silent footsteps, a bit of planning and, well, some agility.

Though, it might not have worked, had I not been here two days ago.

“Good morning, officer!”, I say cheerfully as I enter the still empty room.

Scotland Yard opens at point 7 o’clock. I had arrived half an hour earlier, fearing there might be a line – but there hadn’t.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have visited on a Saturday two days ago.

“Good morning”, said officer replies and eyes me suspiciously. I do not blame him, as I am currently dressed as a young boy in dirty clothes. When I tried to find another way of breaking into Scotland Yard that did not require me to scale any walls in the middle of the night, I realized I had already crafted the perfect plan without noticing.

Which requires me to be dressed like a poor boy. And to squint when it comes to hair colours – yet, I do believe one could easily confuse brown with black in the light of a setting sun.

I sincerely hope it will work this time. Perhaps Inspector Lestrade is indeed putting more effort into this case than I expect him to – and I simply cannot have him solve it first.

“Found this bag”, I say, holding up said bag. The officer seems to be unimpressed.

“There’s a watch in it, too. Looks expensive. Might there be a reward for finding it?”

I blink at him from innocent eyes – and just as I had expected, the word “watch” grabs his attention.

“A watch you say?”

“Yeah.”

“Might I have a look at that watch?”

It is now that I defensively snatch my arm back, pressing the bag protectively against my chest. You see – my rather vague description of that supposed boy that robbed me did come quite close to what I look like – or rather, it is close enough to out me under scrutiny by anyone, which is all I want, really.

And a young boy stealing things to exchange them for a reward does not sound all that far-fetched now, does it?

“Reward first”, I say:”I’ll hand that bag over later.”

I try to put as much suspicion into my posture as possible and it seems to work – as that officer leans back, finally taking a closer look at me.

“Very well”, he ends up saying:”Though I am unsure whether any reward has been placed at all – if you were to wait for a few minutes, I could check and come back later..?”

“With that reward?”

The officer lets out a sigh, seemingly annoyed – but the more annoyed he is, the less attention he will be paying.

Hopefully.

“I’d have to check to see if there is any, but yes. With that reward.”

The officer smiles, though it looks more akin to him baring his teeth, as the smile barely conceals his distaste at my very existence.

I really am lucky I chose to dress as a lady that day.

“Alright then”, I say:”I’ll wait. But don’t take too long!”

I relax my posture just the slightest bit, yet I cross my arms over my chest in a sign of distrust. The officer seems to buy it, too. With a nod he turns and then leaves, no doubt to check up on that drawing that was made.

I wait for a few seconds, just until he has left my field of vision. Just to dash in after him, dropping the bag in the process – it was made from scraps anyway, scraps that I had hastily sown together yesterday.

And just as I am dropping the bag and making a run for the inner workings of Scotland Yard, I hear the ringing of a bell – closely followed by an alarmed “HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

.O.

There are steps and voices and curses – many of which I have never heard before – as I sneak through the building, trying my very hardest to stay hidden.

I could curse my luck for having been found once more – yet it is too late to back down now. I am inside and the most I can do is try to sneak out of a room once I finally found those files – and while not much has been going my way lately, it does not take me terribly long to find the archives I’ve been looking for all along.

Undetected, I slip in and find myself in an unsurprisingly well-cared for room. It may be a bit dusty, but I can already spot a broom in a faraway corner and neither are there any mouldering racks nor does the dust make me want to sneeze.

Quickly, I make my way through the racks, looking for order, a system, all the time amazed by the sheer amount of information Scotland Yard has already managed to amass. The investigation unit has not been established terribly long ago, yet there are files upon files to be found here.

I do wish that, eventually, I might be able to explore without being hastened by the distant shouting – I suppose no one would expect a suspected thief – a child no less! – to hide away in the archives – as they are on the second floor and therefore make for a terrible exit.

I must hurry.

My mother used to tell me that keeping order is a necessary skill for anyone to have, as there is nothing worse than leaving someone else waiting due to a chaotic room.

I must admit, I am glad Scotland Yard seems to be of the same opinion, as their archives are sorted in alphabetical order – it takes me some time to finally realize there are letter scribbled onto each shelve, yet I am glad there are.

The archives are still deserted, too - which makes my tasks of finding the files even easier, as I do not need to hide while searching the place.

Casting one last suspicious look at entrance – and only exit, as I notice nervously – I duck into the aisles marking all names starting with an “F” - I do hope the suspects are listed by their last name, though I suppose going by their first would be weird and rather inconvenient.

Soon enough, I find myself in front of a shelve labelled “Fo” - and it is filled to the brink. I expected nothing else, seeing as Foster is an annoyingly common name, yet I waste no time looking for the right name.

It does not take too long.

The officers downstairs have still to realize I have escaped upwards.

The files I have been looking are in a perfectly splendid condition and without hesitation, I pull it from the shelves and open the folder.

Jimmy Foster

There is a small photograph attached to it, which is helpful, as I quickly realize this is not the only Jimmy Foster and, indeed, it takes me two more files to find the man I am looking for.

But when I do, I do.

The files does not list a place of residence – naturally – however they do list an assortment of petty crimes such as buzzing and some fights he has been involved with. Nothing major – though he was tried for murder once apparently.

I can’t help but shiver at the thought that I am currently willingly going after a murdered, but then again, this hasn’t been the first time either and it is only my second case.

And nothing has been proven.

In dubio pro reo.

Especially one Slap-Bang Job catches my eye – the drinking dog - as it is listed more than any other establishment. Mister Foster seems to have been involved a great many tavern brawls. If I am to be lucky, I might catch him there – and then be able to follow him home. Or, perhaps, I can just discreetly question him while he’s at the tavern – they do same alcohol speaks nothing but the truth, after all.

Content with what I have found, I shove the files back into the shelf – and then freeze.

The voice came closer. I start up as I hear them get closer – and immediately my eyes rush for the door that has yet to be blocked – but once it is, there is no way of escape left for me.

Immediately, I slam the file into the shelve, covering the last bit of distance, ensuring nothing sticks out. If I do manage to escape Scotland Yard, I am most certain none other than my brother will be asked for council – and I’d rather not have the best detective of all of London breathe down my neck.

My mother once told me that, if one were to commit to secrecy, one must cover all their tracks as to not leave a single way to be found out.

She had told me after I had tried to conceal that I had taken an extra piece of cake.

I smile bitterly as I remember she took her own advice to heart, as it seems – yet I shake that bitterness of quickly.

Mother had every reason to be secretive. Sherlock Holmes is her son after all and Mycroft does hold considerable sway within the government. And anyway, now is no time for such trivial thoughts. I must leave. At once – or risk getting captured.

I get up at once, turning to face the door – however, I can’t help but notice on particular, little detail.

The dust.

There isn’t a whole lot of it – the archives are indeed well cared for – yet I fear someone might notice the way some has been wiped.

My head snaps to the door once more. The voice are coming closer. Yet – no. I can’t leave like that.

Having my mind made up, I – hastily – start wiping away more dust.

Scotland Yard might believe I am a simple dipper, yet Sherlock will not be fooled as easily. If he were to have the slightest of suspicions that anyone might have broken into Scotland Yard for any other reason other than a small reward, he is sure to check every room – and to order anyone out as to not disturb the crime scene.

The wiping takes time. More than I’d like to – and then it takes entirely too long.

The officer notices me before I notice him and I am blaming this mishap entirely on my distraction.

“HEY! YOU!”, the man shouts and I startle once more – before backing away.

I am satisfied with all the dust that has been wiped – yet I have been found out, too – and I canot let Inspector Lestrade find me.

I cannot.

“Good morning, officer? Quite the day, isn’t it?”, I ask nervously, as I back away more and more – and the officer keeps getting closer.

And then, worst of all, he calls for backup, fully ignoring my response.

I do not blame him.

As more and more officers fill into the room, I back away more and more, panic surging through my veins, no matter how much I try to suppress it.

“Fear will only always cloud your judgment, Enola – and keeping a clear head at any time is the most important trait anyone could posses. Keep that in mind, will you?”

My mother’s words ring in my ears – and I’d like to agree with her, yet I can’t help but wonder whether she has ever been accosted by all of Scotland Yard.

Without a place to go. Even if I were to make a run for it and managed to evade being captured by any of the officers, I am most certain the entire headquarters have been alarmed already – there is sure to be someone standing at the exit anyway.

I glance sideways. This does leave me with only one option, really. One I hadn’t considered – it is the second floor, after all – however if Tewkesbury managed to escape across London’s rooftops all those months ago, then so can I.

I back away some more and the officers come closer and closer – and then, they part like the red sea.

Revealing none other than Inspector Lestrade.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, he fails to recognize me, however I believe that has become quite the habit of anyone close to me that I would not consider a friend.

It is just a tad bit less insulting than when my own brothers didn’t recognize me though.

“There you are, boy. You have caused quite the commotion already”, he say, holding up the bag – before tossing it in front of me.

“Wanted to get that reward without handing over anything, didn’t you? Thought we’d let a little thief like you just get away with his silly little ploy? Now, where’s the watch?”

I glance at the empty bag. Well, that is the conclusion I had wanted to arrive at – a pocket thief who had hoped for an extra reward after already getting the watch and the scramming oce he feared he had been found out – yet I had not expected for them to actually catch up to me.

This puts me in quite the pickle.

I wonder if I had gotten any farther if I had pretended to be Sherlock’s assistant once more – though that already didn’t work out last time, did it?

“Where’s the watch, boy”; Inspector Lestrade snarls and comes even closer – yet, I do not plan on sticking around any longer. Instead, I turn and jump onto the windowsill. The fall down is higher than expected and there is no way I’ll be able to make it all across the alley – I’d hardly be able to make that jump if I were to take a running jump – however there are enough decoration to use to clim down – or up if someone might notice.

And there is yet another windowsill down below I might fall onto to give me more time to plan y escape route.

I grin. And, just as I am to jump across the narrow alley, I turn around one last time, wink and shout:”Olive oil.”

It does knock my cap from my face, but really, it was worth it, seeing the expression of confusion and shock on Inspector Lestrade’s face.

.o.O.o.

It was a splendid day, Sherlock found, as he made his way down to Scotland Yard. He had solved a case today and whilst it had been quite interesting – and a tad more challenging than most, as the murder had faked his own death several years ago – he Sherlock had despised the client that had brought it to him.

Mister Barrow had been loud and annoyingly obnoxious, with his constant tries to actively participate in the investigation and he could not wait to rid himself of him.

Oh, the joys of being a private investigator. But regardless. He had asked Doctor Watson to calm this newest client while he was busy at Scotland Yard – he had been summoned by Lestrade himself and the way he had looked, the Inspector was quite annoyed they had needed to call on his help at all.

But it was such a ridiculous case!

“Let me summarize: A boy of some sort-” “A girl, Mister Holmes. A girl that posed as a boy for god knows what reason.” “Well, a girl then – a supposed dipper – broke into Scotland Yard, searched the archives - “

“Searched? Mister Sherlock, it seems you are jumping to conclusions, all we know is that someone was here. We have yet to determine why exactly anyone came – unless you have some convoluted answer to that question already?”

Lestrade was chuckling at that and a few other senior officers joined in, though their voices were sounding a tad more nervous than Lestrade’s did.

Sherlock didn’t pay them much attention.

“The dust”, he said, as he walked around the room, eyeing each shelve attentively.

“Some shelves have a thin layer of dust on them – it must have settled over night – but that layer is missing at other places – We shall count ourselves lucky the break-in occurred early this morning, as otherwise the tracks would most likely have been disappeared during the day.”

Lestrade glanced at his colleagues. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Dust?”

“Dust.”

Sherlock stepped closer to one of the shelves and put it under some intense scrutiny, before stepping back again and starting to search the room once more, murmuring something to himself.

“Dust. Mister Holmes, with all due respect, but dust is not an...”

“With all due respect, Inspector Lestrade, dust is the answer. It is the answer quite obviously. Someone broke into this room, pulled out one of your files, noticed the dust’s disturbance – which speaks highly of their skills – worried someone might notice said disturbance and hence, wiped off some other dust as well to cover their tracks and – most importantly – to cover up just which file they had been looking for. Now, does that answer your question, Inspector Lestrade or must I explain it again?”

He knelt down now, inspecting the lower shelves, too.

The angle was different then all the other, meaning the intruder must have leant down – which was to be expected from the description given. Of the many shelves, there were only a few that were not on the third level – five to be exact – and dust on the lower levels had been wiped quite hastily.

The top of the files were still lightly dusty. Most of the wiped shelves were in a somewhat circular pattern, only a few where located at other places – none of the shelves close to the window had been wiped.

Sherlock smirked.

“The intruder must have been in quite the haste, as they forgot one crucial detail...”

He started walking the aisles once more and, begrudgingly intrigued now, Inspector Lestrade followed him.

“Is there a pattern to the “wiping” that we are expected to have noticed?”, he asked, searching the shelves himself – to no avail and just as he was about to remark something again, Sherlock Holmes stopped, without warning, and, without hesitation, reached for one of the folders.

“And this is the right file because..?”

Sherlock tapped the top.

“No dust?”

“No dust. Whoever broke in forgot to wipe the files’ upper half...”

Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper – his conscious already deeply buried within his own thoughts.

He glances at the cap he had been given. Used wool – mist have been second-hand or been in a lot of use – either it had been bought used – meaning this had been a plan and someone had disguised herself to fool the police – a girl that might be recognized by said police – or the girl had brothers – poor family then and perhaps normals clothes? - meaning she must be a liberal – perhaps her mother is part of the suffragette movement? - there was a brown, long hair attached to it – the description giving by that other girl had said black – it could have been a mix up – perhaps she had looked into the sun? - another girl – a plan? - the cap is old fashion – no way that girl was upper class – the bag was self-made, but badly – did she not know how to sow? - quite unusual for a girl – the other girl that had supposedly been robbed had had long brown hair – a set-up? - someone broke into the archives to find this specific file – a set-up then – a plan to get the file.

But why?

“Inspector Lestrade, this man, this “Jimmy Foster” - does it ring any bells? Could you, mayhaps, ask your colleagues?”

“Oh, yes, of course, let me have a look at it...”

Sherlock didn’t give Lestrade much time, instead choosing to simply shove the file into the waiting hands as he roamed closer to the window and inspected it.

The girl hadn’t crouched – meaning she couldn’t be taller than this window – meaning she was most likely a teenager already or older – she had mocked the police force – maybe a grudge? - she had not been afraid to jump – she must have landed on the windowsill below – he'd have to check the windowsill below – she must have used the decoration to climb somewhere else after – he should check that route himself – he should check the alley – maybe allies?

“Mister Sherlock, I must admit, this Jimmy Foster – I quite now him myself.”

Sherlock frowned. What?

“What?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyeing Lestrade – who was still holding the file.

“Yes. I was asked to investigate a private house – the man’s wife claimed someone has broken into her room, though I suppose she is merely imagining these things. And anyway. The man supposedly had been slinking around the house for some time. I have caught sight of him only once, after having had someone draw up a picture – from descriptions of the staff, of course.”

Inspector Lestrade looked quite satisfied with what he had found out, as he shoved the file back where it belonged, yet Sherlock did not pay hi much attention.

Someone had planed a break-in into Scotland Yard – that girl, to be more precise, with brown hair and a knack for disguising herself – not afraid to play the part of a boy either.

“Were there any other suspicious incidents the past few days?”

“Yes. Three days ago. A girl tried to sneak into-...”

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“With brown hair?”

Now, Inspector Lestrade shifted nervously, before chuckling:"Well. Yes. Most people tend to have brown hair. It is quite a common colour.”

Once again, Sherlock decided not to pay too much attention. Instead, with fast paces, he made his way towards the shelf holding those files once more.

A brown-haired girl had broken into Scotland Yard, meticulously planing it, dressed in various clothes, just to retrieve a file – not steal! She had read it and then left the file where it belonged, all the while trying to wipe away any tracks left – on a suspect in a case that heavily involved a woman’s well-being who was most likely to be deemed crazy by any man.

“Enola...”, Sherlock murmured. In a – a rarity, really – quite spontaneous moment of decisiveness – not that him being decisive itself was a rarity, in fact, he’d argue it was quite common to his character, as shown by his countless deductional feats – he was a country-wide known detective after all and he had not gotten there by not having any confidence in his own skills – of which he owned a great many deal, as most people would agree – Sherlock took out the file once more, opening it.

“Sir?”

He was sure it had been this file that his sister had looked for and from the way the pages looked – the ever so slightly space between those two that he had noticed straight away and the dust pattern – Enola may have tried her best to wipe her tracks, but she should have known he’d be called onto to help investigate – though he had to give it to her that she had thought about covering her tracks at all – he was quite surprised she had gotten anywhere near Scotland yard – he wondered if her disguise would lead him to finding her? - it must have been this man she had looked up.

Sherlock frowned.

“But why does Enola want to find Jimmy Foster?”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Seven

-

19^th - 23t^h of August 1884

Case I: The unrobbed woman
File VII: The Drunken Dog

“Life – Life, Enola, requires sacrifice. For each step you take, you must pay a price. It may come as a receipt, it may come as inconvenience, but no matter the circumstances – life will always collect it dues.”

My mother was, is, a wise woman. She is clever and headstrong and experienced and so very, very caring and yet, that lesson was taught me harshly. Those words were spoken without any sympathy – without that glimmer of love – and sometimes mirth – I was so used to. Whenever I think of it, I think of tears and anger and resentment.

I suppose, life does indeed, always collect its taxes owned – and sometimes, in rather unpleasant ways.

But tit is only natural for life to do so, too. All we do, all we have, we owe to life. It is our story’s backdrop, the scenery we are confined to. Without having be born, we would be unable to feel anything at all – and for that we owe.

Now, the reason why I am telling you this, is to put my mother’s wise words into context. You see, I once fell, quite badly, down the stairs. Mother wasn’t home and so, I cried for hours upon hours until she returned and scolded me – to my surprise and – and my embarrassment.

I had made the mistake of complaining life was unfair – because I had fallen and she hadn’t been home and anyway, that day had been nothing but troublesome to me. I had expected my mother to hug me, to soothe my pain – yet that was not quite what happened.

“Life isn’t unfair, Enola”, she had snapped and thinking about it now, I suspect she might have had a terrible day as well.

”Life merely is. You have had luck and now you’ve had cold coffee – you better be thankful for all the privilege and happiness you have been provided with so far – and now do stop your crying. I am sure it hurts terribly, but not once do I want you to blame it on the unfairness of life.”

I recall storming out of the room after my pain had been soothed, hot-headed that I was.

It was only years later that I took note of the wisdom those words held. Wisdom they held most certainly because they had been (must have been) influenced by the Indian concept of “karma” - which my mother taught me about later in life – I must have been twelve or so – which is intriguing all on its own already.

Now that I have explained this, you might want to know why and the rather simplistic answer to that is seen in my ankle, which is now red and swollen. It has been for the past two days – just after I dared the stunt of jumping from a window.

Naturally, you may be wondering whether my exit plan was sane – and I assure you, it was. There was another windowsill I jumped to and while I did almost fall of, I caught myself just in time to climb down.

However, I did not land easily. And the subsequent chase did not help matters at all. I do wish it were winter that I could cool said ankle with ice, yet such dreams are foolish and entirely useless to me, as it is, indeed, not winter at all – quite the opposite, as the sun is burning down upon London’s roofs as heavily as it always does – and anyway, I do not have any time to waste on injured ankles. I must find this Foster fellow and I cannot afford to stall any longer.

I have yet to find out what crime exactly has been committed at all – not an easy feat.

I sincerely hope the lead I have found will be of any use – as I am uncertain as to what to do if, this, too, fails.

Which is yet another reason as to why I must bear this pain and seek out “The drinking dog”.

Time is of the essence.

.o.O.o.

20^th of August

In all honesty, I do not expect my first disguise to work. In fact, I wish for the exact opposite to happen. I have learned my lesson already – I will not find success if I am not properly prepared and I do not wish to chase away Jimmy a second time. Therefore, I dress in inconspicuous clothes – a hastily and ill-matched dress I have produced by re-using a well-made, but cheap clothes. It does not fit me and the fabric scratches terribly, yet I am starting to feel the need to budget myself and this skirt and dress were what I had available still.

Not once in my life would I have guessed for clothes to be my biggest spending point. Books, maybe. Paper perhaps. But not clothes.

I may have to learn how to sow after all.

I go unnoticed by most as I make my way through the streets of Whitechapel – perhaps the most prominent thing is the time at which I am out and about – most people working hard to feed their families.

Indeed, it is not yet deep in the night – it is just past noon, in fact – but I have chosen this time with reason.

I am entirely unprepared to find Jimmy just now. My foot is hurting terribly and I hope it might get better with the passage of time and I hope I will find more ways to gather my clues if I come early today.

And so it comes that I stroll into a – surprisingly already rather crowded – Slap-Bang Job.

My suspect is nowhere to be seen.

Up to now, everything is working just like planned.

With a heavy sigh I sit down at the front and order – regretting my course of action the moment I take a first sip – and grimace.

Never before have I drunken beer. I suppose this might turn into quite the long night.

xxx

“Street layouts? What are you talking about?” “Oh, I am simply interested in...” “Gal, you soundin’ like an ol’ blue bottle – and we don like your kind aroun’ here.”

xxx

“Back entrances?” “Yes. Back entrances.” “What do you care about back entrances! You a new waitress?”

xxx

“Maybe. Maybe I know him. Why do you want to know?” “I’m looking for him, you see, I...” “Wha? You a pig?!” “What? No!” “Well, I ain’t telling you nothin! And now get lost! I know guys!”

xxx

“Back entrances?” “Yes. Do – ugh – do you know any?” “Hohoho, you’ve had quite the drink, havn you? Back there’s one – needed it when a friend of mine came around?” “Friend?” “...Yes. “Friend”. You must be new – May I invite you to sit down with me? Have a drink together?” “Oh, thank you, but I must be off. However, I am rather grateful for your generous offer.”“Very well. But do be careful! There’s bad folk loungin around!”

xxx

“Where most my pa...rons are from?” “That’s what I-ugh-what I-I asked.” “Ha! ...y you wanna kn..?” “Go-Got Bus-Bussss-Busin...” “Bussiness? Aren't you – maybe you should hea… home?”

xxx

“Ji..y Fo…? Of ...ourse! Owes ….. mon…!” “Mo – ugh – ney?” “A ...bunch! Too! ...ow h…?” “No-no qu-qui-quite.”

xxx

“... dear, you look po...ively .... …. you not want …. lay ….? Retr...at ...ome? It’s ...ttin ….!”

“No-No, I-I’m – ugh – I’m fine. I-I need… - - I need to...Do you-Do you know s’meone...Jimme – hi – Jimme, Jimmy! Jimmy Fo...”

“Oh, da..., y...’ve b...n ...ki... a….d for …. all ev..n…. a….”

“I-I have to...”

“..., wh...e... ...app…., it's ... ...th it. ...ell you ..., ... shift is e….g. …. …. you ...om..., ...fe.”

“Can’t-”

“Sw…...art, ….. not w...th it.”

“...live too-too far away.”

“…….. I h….e …. be…. …. of l...te night w….s….”

“But-too-that too daner-dager-dangero-o-ous.”

“Then why don’t you stay here?”

.O.

21^th of August

I awake with a headache, the next morning. It’s a soft pounding in the back of my head. My back hurts and I am reminded of my very first days in London, when I stayed in the rather run down lodging house...

Lodging house.

I rip my eyes open – and groan, once the light hits them.

This is an absolutely terrible feeling.

“Careful, now. You rather crooked the elbow yesterday, dear. And judging from the way you look, this might just have been the first time you’ve ever drank anything.”

I open my eyes once more – slower now – and eye a woman in front of me. I faintly remember her – I think I might have spotted her mingling in the crowd yesterday – yet that does not explain as to why I am not at home.

Nor does it tell me where I am. Well, judging from the smell, it might be the Slap-Bang Job – I very much fear so.

Discreetly, I check for my purse and then any other injuries – though I fail to find any. I do find my purse, though, and it reassures me greatly.

I must have passed out and would have been privy to being robbed.

“Where am I?”

“You don’t remember much, do you?”

I shake my head. The strange woman – well, girl, really, from the looks of it she might not be much older than I am – sets a cup with water down next to me.

“You’re still at “The Drinking Dog” - it’s were you passed out yesterday. You had quite a lot to drink, hadn’t you?”

She is smirking and I am unsure what to make of it. Does she blame me? Does she find it amusing? My mother never minded drinking – quite the opposite, seeing how she did enjoy a glass or two at times. Yet she did mind excess, and I do, vividly, recall her words, warning me of the dangers of overindulgence.

“Keep your mind sharp at all times – sharp enough to respond properly, sharp enough the walk on your own. There is no shame in enjoying an evening a week, yet one should always ensure a minimum of clarity.”

She had offered me a sip from her wine afterwards and I had declined, as I am not very fond of the taste.

Amusement it is, what her expression shows, I decide.

“I-I suppose. I am not used to it...”

I trail of, shaking my head. Then, I hesitantly glance at the cup placed next to me – and the girl picks up on it and gesture for me to take a drink.

It does make me feel a bit better, yet not as good as I wished it would.

A church bell is chiming somewhere far away. I count them and it is- Rats! - 12 o’clock already!

“I-My sincerest thanks for keeping me safe yesterday”, I say. I am not that much in a hurry, but I do not want to dwaddle the day away either.

“But do tell, how much do I owe you?”

I am unsure whether the coins I took from home will cover the expenses – for I do not know a common rate – but perhaps I can return later and…

“You’re welcome. And do not worry, I don’t intent to charge you.”

My confusion most be evident, as the girl takes but one looks at my expression and lets out a chuckle.

“My father owns the place. Nothing will befall me for letting you stay the night."

This does not help to lay my confusion aside at all – in fact, it simply puts a frown on my face.

“Wouldn’t he get mad if he found out you’re handing out free places to patrons?”

Now, she downright smirks in a way that is nothing but likeable and I know, from the way she conspiratorially lowers her voice, that we might become best friends if the circumstances were any different.

“He might. But I simply did not tell him.”

I snort at that. She chuckles again and I decide that, perhaps, I should stay a bit longer after all just to…

“MARIANNE!”

A voice calls from downstairs, grabbing the Marianne’s – and mine – attention. Her smirk vanishes at once and she lets out a sigh. As she gets up, she hands me a key – and I accept it hesitantly.

“I must go. Mother’s calling – that’s the key to back entrances, you’ve been asking about them all night. But now you better hurry home. Your mother must be worried sick”, she says, giving me a push and I stumble forward.

“Thank you for your help, Marianne...”

“Oh, call me Anne. And do great your mother, Enola, will you?”

She vanishes without another word and I follow her, closely after.

It was an odd thing to say. For I do not remember to have ever told Marianne my name, nor does it make sense for her to willingly hand me a key. Yet I did not notice and for now, I will blame it on the alcohol. Which I will never indulge in ever again.

.O.

23th of August

Third time’s the charm, apparently. It must be, seeing how, once again, it is my third disguise that leads me to victory – I had returned already once before, after my...unfortunate visit. But, in contrast to my break in into Scotland Yard, this third time runs much more smoothly.

It doesn’t go off entirely smoothly either, though.

I am ignored, mostly, as I enter the steaming room. A few lonely souls lift their head, some go as far as eyeing me suspiciously. Yet I am but a poverty-ridden boy, of little interest to anyone here. Some might keep their few belongings closer to them, thinking of me as a flimp. They might wonder who I am working for, yet none of those suspicious glances last for much longer than a second and then I fade away into the crowd once more.

The pub is crowded, much more so than the other two times I went there (or I believe so – I don’t know for sure, as I don’t remember a lot from that first evening). It is later, though, as I have gathered by now that Jimmy is more fond of evenings than early afternoons. And while I curse the crowd at first – I learn to embrace it just a few seconds later.

You may now be wondering why – and with every right, too. I am looking for someone after all. However – as much as Jimmy may vanish in the crow, it does provide me with cover as well. And whilst Mister Foster may not expect me – my dearest brother, Sherlock Holmes himself, very much might.

When I first spot him – I did not do so immediately, as he, too, is in disguise – I freeze and then turn to leave – but then I reconsider. I brought the key to the back entrance – even if Sherlock were to notice I am here, I might just escape anyway.

Even with a painfully swollen ankle.

I decide it is worth the risk – I’d love to know what brought him to this place. Sneaking closer, I try to stay within the shadows, whilst also not looking too suspicious while doing so – all for vain, too, as Sherlock is sitting with his back to me.

I creep nearer, just within ear-shot – and catch the end of a conversation.

“...you say?”

“Yeah. Was told to wait here. He’s late.”

It is weird to see him like this. I’m used to immaculate pictures found in the newspapers and faint memories of him when he was younger, dressed like an academic and practising his violin.

But it is something else that manages to hold my attention for much longer.

“Jimmy? Late? That ain’t like him.”

I stop focussing on the conversation for a moment, once I catch the name. Jimmy? Why would – oh. Right. I broke into Scotland Yard.

Of course they’d ask Sherlock for help.

Though that does not explain how he managed to figure out who I had been looking for. I had been so sure that I had managed to cover my tracks…

“...his address?”

“Yeah. Gotta keep to my schedule. Heard he’s infamous around these places.”

The bartender laughs at that and my hope deflates. This does not sound promising. And I do need to get to that place before Sherlock does – I can’t risk him getting all the clues first.

And, just as predicted, the bartender doesn’t know where Jimmy lives. But he does show Sherlock to a group of people sitting at the table close to the back entrances, talking among themselves.

“He usually hangs out with those guys. Aren’t friends, but...acquaintances.”

Sherlock thanks him and turns to me and I freeze, fearing I have been caught. Yet he does not notice me, instead walks right past me, his eyes focused on the group of people before him. I allow myself to breathe once more – and then I follow him. Discreetly.

That group does indeed know more.

“Wanna buy something from Jimmy? Goo’ ol’ Jimmy?”

“Heard he had some watches.”

“Watches? I suppose. I got watches, too.”

“But not the one I am looking for. He’s late, too. Where does he live?”

“Who?”

“Jimmy.”

“Why you wanna know?”

“He’s late. I don’t like waiting – and you shouldn’t keep me waiting either…”

It is a silent threat and it seems to come across, because, after another exchange of words they finally tell Sherlock the address.

Saint Louis Street number 14 apartment C.

I don’t wait around for much longer, once I know. And whilst I risk getting caught by my brother if I go now – I can’t risk him getting all the clues before me either.

.o.O.o.

I arrive at the apartment first – and I am grateful for it. However, my ankle is starting to act up again and I know that I would not be able to outrun anyone. It is too late, too, to try and melt into any crowds and thus, I do not have much of a choice other than to be quick.

And quick I am. The lock can barely be called that and it is picked in no time. I slip into the room as silently as I can – no windows.

Rats. If I had been able to open a window, perhaps I could have heard anyone approaching, giving me enough time to leave again and hide but this way…

The room itself is in chaos. It is small and cramped and I do not blame Jimmy for it not being very clean at all, but at the same time I curse once more.

I will need time to find anything, time I do not have and I’d rather not have a repeat from six days ago.

My eyes scan the room and I desperately look for something that sticks out, anything, but I turn up empty-handed.

Sherlock must be close behind me, I am sure. He had stayed with the group of men a tad longer, to converse and, probably, as to not raise any suspicions – but I doubt he’d dwell for long.

And I am slowed down significantly due to my stupid, annoying ankle. It is too dangerous, I decide. I need to leave. Now.

Without paying any more attention to the room I slip out again and hobble down the hallway. There must be a way for me to find those clues. I do not know whether Sherlock is interested in my case or whether he simply has set out to find me, yet I can’t risk giving up, not when I am this close.

But, perhaps – I turn around. And knock on the wall once. Then once on the door and – then I smile.

Perhaps there is a way after all.

As I reach the staircase, instead of walking downstairs, I go up – not too far, just around the corner so that I am not seen – and then, I sit down once more, exercising patience.

My choice has not been made a second too late, either, as already I can hear footsteps approaching and I tense – but it isn’t Sherlock. It is Mister Foster instead. I peer around the corner and recognize him – or think I do – but once the man turns to enter his apartment, I know for sure.

It was his.

A few minutes later and another pair of feet approach – and this time, it is my brother indeed.

A halt my breathing, tensing up some more. A shiver runs over my back and I glance down at my foot.

I would not be able to outrun him. Perhaps he might fail to recognize me again, but I do not stand a chance at outrunning.

Though, for now, I do not have to, as Sherlock passes and walks towards the very same door Jimmy disappeared into just a few minutes earlier.

He knocks – and I am grateful for Mister Foster's apartment being this close to the staircase, as I can hear him speak, even.

“Mister Foster. May I come in?”

I do not hear Jimmy’s answer, yet he opens the door. And blinks.

“Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. I need to talk to you, Mi...”

Immediately, Jimmy tries to slam the door into my brother’s face – not giving him time to finish his sentence – but Sherlock keeps it open by a hair-width and then slowly pushes against it.

“I am not here to make an arrest, I simply need to talk to you, Mister Foster. It’d be a great relief to me if you could cooperate.”

Jimmy looks around and I flinch back, hoping he has not spied me – he has not. It is quite dark, only little light is allowed in through the windows.

His eyes flutter back to Sherlock. I let out a breath. I can’t allow myself anymore mistakes.

“No arrest?”

“No. Just a few questions. May I come inside?”

I believe Jimmy may have answered by nodding, though I am unable to see it – and then, I hear a door close and immediately get up.

You may be wondering what I am to do now – I couldn’t possibly barge into the room, however those walls and doors are thin – as I deducted when I raped on them.

I may not have to be in that room to eaves-drop on their conversation. And, indeed, as I lean against the wood, I can hear their voices – albeit muffled.

“What is it?”

“You have been followed recently, have you not, Mister Foster?”

I am surprised by Sherlock’s forwardness – he seems to be so sure of himself. Does he not fear Jimmy might refuse to answer?

“Followed?”

“Yes. Have you been followed?”

“F-Followed? How’d you know? How’d you figured that out? With, I don’t know, your womanly intuition?!”

I take personal offence to that – not because of the phrase itself, but rather how contemptuously it was said.

Sherlock seems to be less affected by the statement.

„There is no such thing as „intuition““, he deadpans and I wish I could see what he is doing.

„What?“

„There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist. And now answer the question, please. Did anyone follow you?!”

For some reason, Sherlock's words speak to me, in an odd sense and I was about to call it “Intuition” - when I realize how senseless that would be.

But enough of my musings. After all, Jimmy seems to be quite willing to sing.

“...through the grapevine there was a woman asking for me. Around “The Drunken Dog”. Don’t know who she was or anything, but I heard she got really drunk and then disappeared at some point.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. Yeah! I-Maybe she stayed at the place, maybe she left home – mate, I wasn’t there! Just – what do you want?!”

Jimmy raised his voice and I can detect frustration. I hope none of this will turn violent. But Sherlock is calm, not a single emotion being betrayed by his voice as he speaks again:”What were you doing close to the Hughesbury’s house?”

The question seemingly catches Jimmy off-guard – and once again the silence returns, but then he splutters:”The-what, how does that matter?!”

“What were you doing there?”

“What the hell?! What do you want me to say, I wasn’t there, I don know where that is!”

“You were, I already know that. I want to know why.”

Another silence leaves me feeling tense. But not for long.

„Mate, I – alright, I was casing the place! But I have yet to break in, I swear! I – I was trying to get that one maid to help me and then, one day, this crazy girl attacked me, out of nowhere!”

“A girl you say? Did she have brown hair, perchance?”

“Yes. Yes, she did – but, why does that matter?! Another one of your “not-intuition” things going on?”

Jimmy’s words should not have as much of an effect on me that they should have – but they do. If he had not broken in yet – and he might be lying, but I am positive he is not – I have just lost my very last clue.

And yet I have gained another.

„There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist."

Sherlock’s words ring in my ears.

Perhaps I have indeed found another clue. But, most importantly, I have heard enough. Quietly, I lean away from the wall and then hasten down the stairs, as fast as I can. And not a second too soon, either. I may not have been able to see it, but Sherlock was about to crouch down to pick up a single hair.

A long, brown hair.

But by then, I am long gone already, with fresh determination to solve this case once and for all.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter One

-

24^th of August – 7^th of September 1884

Case: The unrobbed woman
File IIX: Secrets are a pain(ting)

“There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”

Usually, I’d start off these files with my ramblings on something my mother taught me when I was younger. About the wisdom her words held, about how very grateful I am for her teachings. I’d refer to the task at hand and any problems or mysteries I might have encountered, I’d tell you just how my mother’s words have taught me greatness.

And although it was Sherlock who helped me this time, I must do so again.

“There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”

My mother said something similar once. Not quite the same, but similar enough anyway. I think I had asked her about all those little things that had cramped our house and she had answered me, with a strange expression on her face that I have yet to place.

“Your father liked me to accompany him to the market at times – the ones in London, where they sell all those silly little trinkets he liked to collect.”

So had my mother, collecting these trinkets, though she had never said it out loud. But for all that my parents were different, they both enjoyed adorning the house with unnecessary ornaments – both Sherlock and Mycroft had detested them, apparently, and I am still unsure what to make of them myself.

“He always told me he took me because I was so good at sniffing out a good deal and a bad deal, that my womanly intuition found any hidden flaw – but, really, it was simply because I paid attention as he was talking to his friends.”

I must confess, I have never fully grasped my parents relationship. They were married, of course, and I always felt as if my mother held a certain amount of resentment towards him – yet I cannot help but wonder whether there might not have been some friendship been lost between them after all.

Regardless. I am getting of track. My mother had been right, of course, for she had always paid immense attention to any detail and Sherlock’s words remind me of that – I would not be surprised to find that my brother owes he great intellect to my mother after all. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me either if my brother had learnt this very wisdom from none other than our mother.

“There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”

There is no intuition. There are merely facts that I have yet to fully realize – meaning I must get back into Mrs. Hughesbury’s room to check it one last time.

I sincerely hope that painting does not disappoint a second time.

.o.O.o.

24^th of August

Angrily, I stare at that ankle of mine, examining the swelling that has only grown more pronounced those past few days.

I need to rest it, that much is clear to me now. Perhaps I was a bit over-eager chasing down Jimmy Foster already – but I hadn’t had much of a choice. Even now, there is no way of knowing what Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock are up to. My brother has most likely figured out already which case exactly I’ve been working on, and, though he never once appeared to be spiteful, perhaps Sherlock is petty enough to solve this case in my stead.

I sincerely hope he is not. If I am to have any chance of not being discovered, I must lay low for the time being. Perhaps in a week or so my brother might let it go – until then he is sure to keep an eye out on the Hughesbury’s household.

It is a pity. I must admit, I have been quite excited to finally have a case to investigate – and I find myself rather bored as I stare out of my window, relaxing my foot. Neither rain nor snowflakes nor falling leaves give me any reprieve from my boredom and I can merely sit still and watch what little clouds dare to disrupt the sky. I am too unsure to visit Edith for now – perhaps Sherlock might catch me this time and I hardly dare to walk, let alone run.

It is an unexcitable life. After a few hours of simple staring I move closer to the window to watch the people down below.

For once in my life, I am at a loss of what to do. I have read most my books already, and anyway, I’d rather not fall back into my old habit of turning page after page of the booklet my mother had gifted to me before she had left for good. The pages are well-worn already and it is with shame that I must admit, many a page is coated with tears.

My mother had always had a solution, but now that she is not here, all that is left to do is to pick up the pieces to try and find my way in London.

Perhaps that is her last lesson to me.

Perhaps she should have taught me medicine before leaving.

Perhaps I should finally pick up on how to sow.

.O.

26^th of August

I do pick up on how to sew, courtesy of a woman of dizzy age lodging next to my apartment and I find myself entirely terrible at it. The woman teaching me is a strict and spiteful teacher, not unlike Miss Harrison, constantly reminding me of my wayward ways.

Yet, discussion is entertaining and a welcome diversion from the boredom I am offered otherwise. For most I do ignore her though, hardly paying attention to what she says, the way she talks about the “olden times” and the spoiled youth.

I am terrible at sewing though – this must be said and perhaps it is that what vexes her so much. Constantly she speaks ill of my mother’s upbringing – a woman she has already marked down as an irresponsible Bluestocking – especially condemning her for leaving me all alone “without husband and prospect!” as she likes to put it.

But regardless, I carry on. I keep pricking my fingers and soon, it isn’t just my ankle that is hurting – but I am learning nonetheless.

Perhaps, in a year or so I might be able to alter my own dresses already. I really do need to cut down on my spending, at the very least until I have found a way to secure cases more often.

.O.

28^th of August

It isn’t until much later that I remember I had answered Tewkesbury’s letter already – the day after having returned from “The Drunken Dog” for the first time, in fact – and that I ought to pick up his response, which is sure to have arrived already.

I must say, I am quite excited to read it. I have always been appreciative of the steady contact we have established, no doubt, but at the prospect of days turning longer and longer, I’ve caught myself desperately wishing for any kind of distraction. And a letter will do just that, be if just for a few minutes.

And, perhaps, leaving the house will do me some good, too, my ankle seems to e doing better already.

.O.

29^th of August

My ankle is doing better, indeed, but by no big margin. However, I managed to drag myself to the address I had left Tewkesbury to write back to and picked up the letter already, having left in the morning to escape the pressing summer heat.

It has been days ever since the last rain storm and I am feverishly hoping for the cobble stone to darken once more.

But enough of that. I am currently sitting at my desk, smiling delighted, my eyes reading over the words once more.

“Dearest Clove,

I feel honoured for you to have written me back already! It delights me you have found more time in your day-to-day schedule and it delights me even more to know you have decided to use this time to exchange letters with me!

I am equally delighted you seem to have discovered yet another clue and I do wish you the very best. Are there any hints to what might have occurred already? Perhaps you will find something within that painting, though I hope you won’t have to destroy it in the process. I once read an article detailing how Sherlock found evidence within a painting, that had been painted on top of another, destroying the very first in the process, though I am confident you’d find a solution even then.

You are bricky like that after all!

And anyway, there are plenty of other solutions, too, of course. I am especially fond of your theory for something to be hidden within the picture frame!

Perhaps, you might be able to tell me in person about what you will find? I will be in London from the 2th to the 7^th of September. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting? I am unsure whether your work might not prevent you from writing me back on time though, therefore I will be waiting for you at noon each day at that flower shop, the one you found me at while I was hiding from Linthorn.”

I do remember that flower shop and I wonder whether I’d be able to sneak up on Tewkesbury a second time.

“I hope you’ll be able to stop by. I enjoy each and every letter that you send me, though I’d rather speak to you in person. And so does mother! She’s been going on and on what a pity it is you have yet to visit again. Our garden’s flowers are still in full bloom and they are a sight to behold, I am sure you’ll agree with me if you were to see them! They are the most vibrant colours one can imagine and I’ve spent a great deal of my time tending to the – suffice to say I am rather proud of my work so far.

I must add, too, that I have added a small part filled with only the most useful of herbs – I’d love to teach you all there is to know about those that I have collected so far. And perhaps you might advice me on what other plants I could cultivate? It ought to be an excellent discussion!

Other than the gardens, not much has changed in Basilwhether Hall. We’ve had some trouble with the roof, though we hope it will be fixed by the time the autumn rain will come around. But uncle has promised to take care of it – I am most certain the estate would be falling apart were it not for him and mother.

Regardless. Do keep my offer in mind – I’d be rather delighted to talk to you in person again and take care!

Sincerely

Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwhether”

Now, I am not smiling simply because of Tewkesbury’s letter.

Well, mayhaps I am partially smiling because of his letter, yet the primary reason for my sunny expression is quite a different one.

“Murder spree in haunted house”

That headline is the first thing springing into view as I open up the newspaper I bought on my way home.

Murder spree. Haunted house.

My lips twitch. I might not have known Sherlock for much of my life, yet I am most certain this will beat out chasing his pesky sister all across London.

.o.O.o.

First of September

It is a rather warm day and there busy chattering on the streets does nothing towards the cooling of the air, yet I can almost feel a shiver run down my back, as I sit on my chair.

“The most difficult part of doing something is figuring out where to start, Enola. What does one need first? Which people might know more? Let it be known that research is the most important and time-consuming part of every activity one ought to participate in.”

You may be wondering what I am doing right now, and you’d be very right to be confused – but let me explain.

You see, knowing that all the evidence I need is most likely hidden within a painting is an utterly useless thing to know if one does not know how to reach said evidence.

And I fear I might be out of options – except for one. You see, there is one last confidant that I could ask for help in this matter.

Though, I am rather uncertain whether she will be willing to help me out. Which is precisely why I wrote to her – I passed off a letter to one of the other servants – requesting her to meet me at an inconspicuous looking teahouse.

Which she did, yet so far she still has me under the impression she is, indeed, very much unwilling to help me.

“Miss Holmes, pray tell, what do you think would have happened, had my employer read that...note you had passed off to me?”

As expected, Anne was less than pleased with me sending her that note. However, she did meet me today, so perhaps not all hope is lost just yet – regardless of what message her posture might be portraying.

“My apologies, Miss White, I was unaware that he might read your letters.”

Unceremoniously, Anne snorts at that and delicately puts her cup down. She eyes me for a few seconds, disdain barely concealed by polite coldness.

“You did not? Aren't you taught such things at whatever school you’ve been sent to? Surely, the Holmes family would have only employed the best of governess’, would they not?”

If I were any lesser person, I might have taken offence to the open insult, however I take offence from the indication my mother would have ever done such a thing.

I’d love to dramatically jump up and give Anne a piece of my mind, yet I decide to instead take a sip from my own tea, trying to calm my nerves.

She’s my only hope of ever getting into that house another time without having to stage another break-in.

I’d rather not risk getting caught a third time.

“I never attended such an establishment”, I say, hoping the shaking of my voice will be missed by Anne’s attentive ears.

At the very least I spoke the truth. I still do not count that time I spent at Ms. Harrison’s finishing school for girls and I am most certain we wouldn’t have been thought such “trivial” manners anyway.

After all, it wouldn’t be us who would have looked through private letters.

“I must admit, I am not at all surprised you haven’t”, Anne says, picking up her cup once more.

At least she seems to be enjoying her tea and, perhaps, she finds my antics amusing even, if I haven’t mistaken the smile that graced her lips for a split second.

“Well, regardless”, I say, shifting uncomfortably after Anne seems to be content to indulge in silence.

I’d rather get this over with soon.

“I expected such behaviour, which is exactly why I handed you that note, instead of writing an official letter”, I deflect, lowering my gaze.

To be honest, I hadn’t though of Mr. Hughesbury at all, but rather my brother checking the mail – if he were to reside in London, still – but Anne doesn’t need to know that. And anyway, this conversation should not centre around that note at all – and I am insulted she’d think so-

“And what makes you think that servant you’ve passed the note off to, wouldn't have gone running to Mr. Hughesbury?”

What?

“What?”

“Being passed a note is rather suspicious, is it not?”

Anne is most certainly smiling now and I drop my shoulders – completely unintentionally.

I can’t help but feel like Anne things me stupid.

But I most certainly am not. Stupid, that is. I might not have went to one of these fancy schools, yet my mother has poured her all into my education and I am convinced that there has not been a better teacher in the entire country for the past 100 years.

I am proud of the education I have received and I am confident in my own abilities.

I am certain this argument will be solved in no time at all.

“Well, of course. But what reason would any of the others staff members have to tell on you? Would they not support you as one of their own, so to say?”

Loyalty is a cherished virtue, after all.

Anne seems to differ.

For a second, it seems she is choking on her tea, but she catches herself and looks up at me, eyes wide in surprise. Then her lips curl into yet another smile – pitying, this time.

It makes my stomach churn and I wish I could flee this conversation already.

“I must wonder, Miss Holmes – has you family taught you nothing at all?”

Her smile is most certainly pitying. And yet, I can’t feel as if something else were to hide behind it.

.O.

Third of September

I must say, I am surprised to find myself standing in front of Ada’s room once again. For some time, I had not expected Anne to help me at all, but soon enough, our conversation turned more pleasant and she was willing to let me into the house one last time.

“But this one time only! And I never want to see you again after!”, she had warned me time and time again, as we had bid our farewells. I was to head over to the estate two days later, in the evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Hughesbury would be gone for the night.

“Dinner at friends”, Anne had informed me, shortly before departing:”You are in luck.”

And in luck I was indeed, as our plan goes off without a hitch. Anne had asked me to dress in the maid’s clothes again and no one pays me any mind as I follow her upstairs, to where Ada’s room is.

And now I find myself standing right in front of it.

I am more nervous than I should be and Anne doesn't seem to mind the tense atmosphere at all, as already she had opened the door to let me in.

“Thank you”, I say, just before entering. I slip into the room and Anne follows, the door closing with a quiet “click”.

The room is in a pristine condition, sheets washed and windows sparkling. Not a thing is set out of place and nothing has changed since the last time I have been here.

And yet I take my time to inspect the room another time anyway. Perhaps there is something obvious I have missed after all – but I turn up empty-handed.

Until I stop at the desk that is and a frown darkens my expression.

I pause for a second, a small booklet having caught my gaze.

I frown and pull it out and, indeed, it is what I thought it to be – the same booklet handed to me by my mother.

Anne clears her throat. Right. Time is of the essence.

“It’s the painting”, I say, clearing my own throat as well, before making my way over to the bed, shaking of the feeling I previously felt. It must have been a different, albeit similar booklet. The one my mother gifted to me was hand-made for her own daughter.

And Mrs. Hughesbury might not have ever talked to my mother as of now.

“Might you help me take it down?”, I elaborate, as I look back at Anne who seems to be rather surprised by my sudden course of action.

“The painting?”

“I have my suspicions.”

I sincerely hope I am right in those suspicions. I’d be humiliating if I were to be wrong again – but my brother’s words ring in my ears still and I am convinced.

If anything has ever happened in this room and Mrs. Hughesbury has indeed not imagined a thing, it is sure to be connected to this painting.

It is as pretty as I remember and Anne and I carefully take it off the wall, hoping not to damage it. Not only would that unsettle Mrs. Hughesbury again, it would also be a great pity.

“We need to be perfectly careful!”, Anne added to my worries:”Ada has eluded Mr. Hughesbury and she might want to exhibit it soon.”

I hope whatever I hope to find will be found easily. In his letter, Tewkesbury suggested the painting might have been painted over another, yet the layers of colour seem fine. I knock on the heavy frame, yet it seems to be solid.

I lightly shake the painting, yet I turn up empty-handed.

I frown. So does Anne and I can already sense her raising suspicions, when I kneel down one last time, to examine the paint and pictures. Perhaps something is written inside of it, a message, a clue, any…

My frown grows stronger as I notice something...off.

Carefully, I let my finger slide over the paint – and then my breath hitches.

“What-What is it? What have you found?”, Anne hisses and she slides closer, looking at the place I am.

There is a difference here and at first I think it is paint, another layer drawn upon the first, but then I notice – it isn’t.

The realization dawns upon me at once and my eyes widen in surprise.

“There’s something behind the painting.”

My voice is barely a whisper as I touch the painting again – and indeed, I can feel something.

A sheet of paper. I can feel the outline of a sheet of paper.

“Behind the painting? On the wall? I do not...”

“Between the painting itself and the frame’s back.”

How could I have been so blind? So ignorant? I flip the drawing over once, examining the back, narrowing my eyes. I should have checked this place the first time already, it had been so obvious and-

“Can we get it out?”

Now is not the time to scold myself. There will be plenty of time to do so later on.

Anne nods and hastens to help me take the painting from the frame, careful fingers unclasping brackets I had previously not noticed.

I bite my lip. I should have noticed. I am getting too distracted and I can’t let my concentration slip like that.

Soon enough the painting is free and taken from the frame, revealing the very thing I had expected to be there.

Three sheets of paper, neatly stacked upon each other, a yellow-brownish and rumpled appearance giving them their very own air of mystery.

They’re littered with numbers, ranging from One to 100 and at first I am confused by this, but then I realize and I must say, it is laughably easy.

The numbers above 26 are much too rare for them to hold any significance besides being a mindless distraction and soon enough the letters are translated – whoever has written this code did not even take their time to shift anything around.

Anne doesn’t seem to struggle with uncoding the message either, though she does need a little bit longer than I do.

I know this from the way he eyes suddenly widen, once she figures just what it is that this letter says, and the way her skin drains.

„This-This was never sent to Ada! Those aren’t real, she-She’d never, she...“, she stutters and I finish reading the letter a second time, looking for any other hidden messages.

„I know“, I interrupt her mindlessly pushing the first letter aside to check the second – which spots an entirely different date – the 5^th of June, to be more precise – feigning an exchange. Which I know, because I have seen the real coded letter and this is nothing short but making a mockery of the original code – and my mother’s brilliance.

With all that I know, I do wonder what their contents are. I have yet to solve the code. I have to find yet a third message and I wonder whether I am missing something.

„My mother would never use a code this simplistic. – I was five when I first solved these. And I’d argue Mrs. Hughesbury is more sophisticated than I was when I was five”, I add, as I try to make sense of the message and this seems to put Anne’s worry to rest – for a few short seconds until she realizes the situation we both have found ourselves in.

It is simplistic in its coding and in its content. A simple plan, outlining an attack on a factory on the outskirts of London.

Mr. Hughesbury’s factory, to be more precise.

“What are we to do now?”, Anne hisses, looking at me expectantly and I bite my lip, as I read over the letters once more.

Someone broke into this room just to plant those letter - and at first I am baffled as to why anyone would do that? Who might profit from Ada being portrayed as an extreme suffragette, who is willing to participate in acts of violence against the greater public?

A sudden thought takes over my mind – one I have tried my very hardest to swallow those past few months – and I shake my head.

Now is not the time to think about any case other than this one. If these letters were to be presented to anyone else, Ada’s life would be ruined. She be tried before a court, for crimes she never committed –

That’s what you think”, a voice whispers into my ear and once again I swallow the bitter bile that rises inside my throat.

- she will most certainly lose her children, would most likely get divorced and thrown out on the…

My head snaps up at once. No. They wouldn’t, he…

“Anne”, I whisper, cold shivers running down my back:”Anne, when...when did Mr. and Mrs. Hughesbury’s married life take on that...that strange tension everyone’s been talking about?”

Anne’s eyes snap up, too, and for a second she simply stares at me, disbelievingly.

It seems to dawn on her, too, yet I can’t help but think she looks as if she is trying to fight the realization with all the denial she has to offer.

“When-The first time she came back from one of these...”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to, either.

“That banquet, that’s planned – who will be attending?”

“E-Everyone, her family, friends, business associates – it’s a huge thing Mr. Hughesbury planned and-and...”

She trails off once more. My gaze falls back onto the letters and then, determined, I storm towards the desk and sit down, ripping open the drawers until I find pen and paper.

Anne simply follows my movements with her gaze, not saying a single thing.

It is an eerie silence that settles above us and I would not like it, if it weren’t for me diving into writing another letter.

One that outlines just what has happened.

Once I am finished, I ask:”Miss White, would it perhaps be possible for me to be sneaked into the house yet another time?”

The maid swallows. Then she nods.

“It’s Anne. And I-I’ll see what I can do.”

.o.O.o.

7 ^th of September

My first case. My first case is coming to an end, I realize, as I look at myself in the mirror, smoothing out the fabric of the dress I am wearing.

It looks pretty enough, I suppose. Nothing too fancy, though I will not attend this banquet to make any lasting impressions, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.

It is a simple dress, reddish, not unlike the one when I had first visited Edith’s. The shape is a tad out of style, as Anne has told me, yet my impression will already be of the worst anyway. The banquet includes dinner and then dessert and I will be unable to join for dinner, greatly delaying my arrival until the very last moment.

“There aren’t many virtues upheld by society we should hold on to – yet punctuality, Enola, is a value you should always keep in mind.”

I hate to disappoint my mother – even if I merely do so in my mind – and I’d even live through a boring dinner filled with nonsense conversation if I had to – yet I can’t. If it hadn’t been for Mister Hughesbury having seen me on that second day of my investigation – it’s been half a month already, hasn’t it? – I might have joined on time, after sending out word to Mrs. Hughesbury of course.

But Mr. Hughesbury has seen me and if he hadn’t, I could have done a lot of things differently. For now, I am stuck in a dress that doesn’t fit me properly, preparing myself to attend a banquet I have never been invited to.

I wonder whether Sherlock ever finds himself in such ridiculous situations as I do.

I suppose he does. He is known for disguising himself, after all.

I check my appearance one last time. A church bell chimes in the distance once again.

It is time to make a last stand.

.O.

Anne is waiting for me at the estate’s entrance, easily letting me in. She was the one to set my name on the guest list – an unnecessary precaution, seeing how she was the one to greet the guest, after all.

“I warned Ada”, she says, as we pass the door and she takes my jacket:”She wants to tell you she is grateful by your continued interest in her case – even though you did not have to solve it.”

I nod along and try to catch a glance in the mirror, feeling very much excited. This time, no guns will be pointed at me, yet I can’t help but feel as if all air has escaped my lungs.

I am a detective. I will need to get used to this, to the final moment before the case is put to rest.

Hopefully I will find myself in this exact position plenty of more times.

“Have you told her of what might happen?”

“I tried to, but Ada wanted to be surprised.”

I nod, frowning. We had discussed this. I had wanted Mrs. Hughesbury to know – I do not wish to catch her by surprise, no matter how exciting of an experience it might be.

“Must we do it like this?”, Anne whispers. We make our way to the staircase and I see the nervousness in her eyes.

“Must we solve this as publically as this?”

I know what she means, of course. Announcing the solution at this banquet is no more private than if I were to tell the press, however I doubt we have much of a choice in that matter.

“We need to wait for Mr. Hughesbury to make a move”, I reply:”We do not have much evidence. We have the letters, yes, but all that proves is that Mrs. Hughesbury might be involved with a criminal organisation. Neither does it prove that Mrs. Hughesbury has been framed nor does it prove that her husband was the one to arrange for that to happen. We might find more if we investigate the butler, but as you have pointed out, we do not have much time – Mr. Hughesbury’s trap might fall closed any time now.”

The letters had detailed an attack and said attack had had a time limit attached to its name. The 24^th of September, to be more precise.

And, as Anne pointed out, Mr. Hughesbury would most likely want this to be a well-known attack, too.

“Surely, he will want everyone to know. It will make the divorce much easier, without his reputation being in danger.”

It is a stretch, of course, yet Anne made hurry.

I startle when I hear a door close, one leading to the gardens, and I hear steps coming our way, yet I don not pay them any mind, as I hasten up the stairs.

“You will be waiting outside, until they call for the painting – if they call for it at all, yes?”

“Yes.”

We do not have much evidence, but we do have Mr. Hughesbury’s arrogance. He may just fall into his own trap. And if he does not – we have gathered enough clues to cast doubts upon the whole affair.

“I do hope we might have more time, still”, Anne says, as she ushers me closer and closer to the salon:”You said you’d like to investigate the butler, yes?”

“Exactly. Maybe we can find a piece of his writing and compare his style of writing to the one on the letters?”

My brother’s words – Sherlock’s – come to my mind, the ones he told me while I was a prisoner at Ms. Harrison’s still. I wonder whether we’ll be able to make use of this knowledge this time.

“Or perhaps someone might have seen him deal with some shady figures...”

“Have you investigated that Jimmy Foster fellow already?”

“I have, but I haven’t found anything of interest – but perhaps we’ll find more. Perhaps we can compare the letters to those of all servants? I am most suspicious of the butler, but other than his closeness to Mr. Hughesbury, we do not have any other evidence pointing to him...”

I trail off and can’t help my worsening mood. If I were Sherlock, I might have been able to gather a clue from the paper used, or the ink.

I wonder whether, perhaps, I might have to hand this case to him, but discard that thought immediately.

This is my case. And I will be the one to solve it, too.

Resolute, I follow Anne, until we get to a door and she halts me, making sure no one is around.

“There is a room not too far from here. You might want to wait there as to not arise any suspicions and I will call on you once Mr. Hughesbury has sent for the painting – if he does at all.”

That, too, we had discussed, although just at the end and not as thoroughly. I am about to agree, to move away from the door – when it suddenly opens and a woman steps out, casting a quick glance at us, but not paying us any more mind.

But it isn’t the woman that has me startles. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is laughter and then a voice, one that I wish I knew just a little bit less.

Mycroft.

“We have to leave”, I hiss, as I pull Anne back into the hallway, away from the door. She glowers at me, yet I do not pay it any mind as I slowly start to put as many space between me and my brother – I cannot run and I fear he might step out for but a second and stop me.

“Miss Holmes, where are we...”

“I cannot be seen by my brother”, I hiss and Anne at first seems to want to respond – no doubt lashing out at me once again, but then she stops. Lowers her gaze.

“I forgot”, she says:”Ada mentioned something along those lines.”

We fall into silence and I am tempted to bite my nails.

Of course. Of course Mycroft would be here. Had Mr. Hughesbury not told me he was on close terms with that brother of mine? How could I have forgotten so easily?

“But what are we to do now? Can’t you just enter the room regardless? What’s the worst he could do? Scold you in front of the party?”

I fervently wish that were the least Mycroft would do, however it isn’t.

“He does not know where I am and we have to keep it that way”, I respond, wondering whether perhaps Anne could simply take over.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know where you are?!”

After all, does it matter who delivers our findings? It could be anyone, really.

“I have...run away, so to speak, and if he were to see me, he is sure to drag me away to some stuffy old place – which cannot happen!”

Then again, Anne is known to be Mrs. Hughesbury’s maid and, surely, their friendship might put out findings into question.

“What...you ran away?! Are you living on your own? Have you gone insane?!”

Maybe we can lure him away from the party for long enough for me to make my case and then vanish into the night once more. If it weren’t for my stupid foot, I might even dare to simply enter and hope Mycroft’s surprise will keep him from reacting for long enough for me to run away afterwards, but...it is still swollen.

“I take after my mother, who – admittedly – might be titled as such by some people, but I assure you I am doing perfectly splendid on my own – in fact, I’d argue anyone choosing not to...

“Enola?”

I freeze as I hear a familiar voice and first, all the bells in my head go off as I half-expect Mycroft to snatch my wrist and drag me away.

But instead of sharp nails digging into my skin, it is a soft hand that catches my shoulder. My eyes widen and I am about to whirl around, to see who it is – but Anne beats me to it.

“L-Lord Tewkesbury? W-Do you require my-our assistance?”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 9

-

7th of September 1884

Case I: The unrobbed woman
File IX: A scandal during dinner

The last time I saw Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwheter – better known as just “Tewkesbury” - I do wonder what his first name is though, I never asked, did I? - or simply “Nincompoop” - it was at the gates to parliament. And I had just declined an invitation from his mother to stay with them for the time being.

It has been quite some months since then and I must confess – I am uncertain of what to make of his sudden appearance.

In fact, I am uncertain what to say. There isn’t any advice I can extract from this situation, there isn’t any wisdom to gain at all.

There – There simply isn’t much else to say.

About this.

My mother never talked much about friends.

Well, that one time she did tell me to “never let go of a true friend, for there is nothing purer than friendship and no one will stay longer by your side than those who deem you part of their family.”

Now, I have no intentions of severing my friendship with that nincompoop. Yet I do find trouble in seeing him as part of my family.

That would make him my brother and that’d be weird, I suppose?

I am not entirely sure.

Regardless. There isn’t much to say.

I-I am unsure whether I am to feel relieved to have his supportive presence by my side. I have enjoyed exchanging letters with him a great deal.

I suppose he might have felt the same.

My uncertainty at his sudden appearance mostly stems from this situation’s awkwardness. Because we haven’t spoken in some time, you see.

And, perhaps, because he kissed my hand and it made my stomach flutter in an entirely inappropriate way and- It doesn’t matter.

I must focus on this case.

It is probably a rather unfortunate coincidence he has come to this banquet today. How does he know the Hughesbury family, anyway? Surely they can’t be that influential, can they? They aren’t nobility from what I have gathered. They are rich. But not noble. Maybe some distant relative married into the family? Not unlike a dollar princess?

Perhaps. I suppose I’d prefer if I had not to deal with this specific social interaction.

But then again – I did miss him. His ridiculousness is quite amusing, is it not?

Regardless. I shall solve this – situation.

I just wish my mother had imparted some wisdom to me about this subject matter.

.o.O.o.

“Enola?”

“L-Lord Tewkesbury? W-Do you require my-our assistance?”

Tewkesbury? Unwillingly, a smile sneaks upon my features. What was-

Surprised, I turn around – and am greeted by a widely smiling face, bright eyes and hair that has most definitely been grown out again.

“Enola, it really is you! I thought I had recognized voice – what are you doing here?”

Tewkesbury takes a step back, his eyes leaving me just once to glance at Anne who is standing besides me, barely being able to conceal her astonishment.

I do not blame her. Yet, I wish she were not, for she'd be able to help me out if she weren’t. I am entirely at a loss of words – Tewkesbury and I have not seen each other in quite some time and I had not expected for him to be here at all.

Once again, he manages to mess up my carefully laid out plans.

And then Tewkesbury’s smile slowly loses its radiance and I realizes that it isn’t that awkward of a situation at all.

We are friends.

We are friends.

A bright smile sneaks itself onto my features and I step closer, pulling him into a hug.

“Tewkesbury!”

He tenses for a second, before returning the hug and a few moments later I separate already, stepping out of his personal space – which, I suppose, brings us to a more appropriate distance.

Weirdly enough, Anne’s eyes seems to twitching, yet she stays silent.

“I did not expect for you to be here at all!”

“Well, neither did I!”, Tewkesbury responds, stepping back, too:”But regardless. You’re here! I-I was worried you may not have gotten my letter – when you never came to meet me in Covent Garden!”, he says and I freeze – immediately.

If I had held onto something, I would most certainly have dropped it.

Covent Garden.

He had invited me to meet him in Covent Garden.

That had completely slipped my mind. I – between the newspaper article and the case and everything – and I would have had time, too!

“Enola? Are you quite alright?”

I cannot tell him. I cannot tell him I forgot to meet him – that – the thought makes my stomach churn and I do not know why though I-

“I-I was indisposed”, I quickly respond, perhaps too quickly to be believable, but – I was.

I was!

I was.

I was busy and forgot about it, but I had been too occupied by this case! I had been nervous and I would have made terrible company anyway!

I still do have a bad consciousness though. Tewkesbury is looking at me understandingly, and yet there is a sadness to his eyes that I’d rather not be exposed to.

“Do you remember that case I have told you about?”, I ask in attempt to distract from the awkwardness. We may not have seen each other in quite some time, but talking to him has always been easy and – well, I will not let-

I shouldn’t have forgotten about him. Perhaps I should simply tell him about what happened – but already the sadness has disappeared and I decide to let the topic rest for now.

It isn’t all that important, is it?

“The case – of course, did you not mention Mrs. Hughesbury? I should have known!”

It really isn’t all that important, with all that is going on at the moment.

The story is told quickly enough – though I did leave out one detail or another – and Tewkesbury listens attentively, his eyes shocked when I pull out the letters and show him the de-coded version.

I must admit that his sudden appearance might have been fortunate indeed, seeing how it forces me to go over every detail once more – If I were to be wrong, if it hadn’t been Mr. Hughesbury at all – it’d be a disaster!

But I am sure. It all adds up and once I get a specimen of handwriting of both, Mr. Hughesbury and the butler, I am sure I’d have my final piece of evidence.

I’d just be much easier to sample if they are willingly – or have been coerced into – helping me.

And then I mention Mycroft and how that has thrown a wrench into my plans – I really do not plan on letting myself b caught – and suddenly perks up, an idea lighting up behind his eyes.

“I could do it?”

“Do what?”

“I could be the one to tell the truth – the solution! I won’t have any problems getting inside!”

Well. Yes. He could do that, but…

“I’m not sure whether – I do not wish to burd-”

“Nonsense!”, he interjects, his voice almost vibrating with excitement:” And they’re more likely to listen to me!“, Tewkesbury argues, his voice almost vibrating with excitement.

It’s adorable. From a strictly observatory standpoint, of course.

I need to practice my deductive skills and this is just one of many exercises.

“I agree.”

“What?”

Anne steps forward, daring to raise her voice again – not without casting a nervous glance at Tewkesbury though.

“I agree. They’re more likely to listen to you, my Lord, than to me – or you, Enola – and this is a matter of utmost sensitivity! I’d rather use all and any advantages that we might have and having a member of the House of Lord speak on our behalf certainly will be favourable – much more than having a maid or an...unconventional woman do so.”

Anne is right, of course, and yet… This is my case. And I’d like to see it to an end, too. I turn around to Tewkesbury once more, trying to find a reasoning that makes sense, when my thoughts are most rudely interrupted by brightly shining eyes and an almost pleading expression.

“I’d love to help, too!”

His smile is contagious – and so is his excited mood.

Mayhaps it is for the better if Tewkesbury were to one to lay out what we have found. It would keep me safer too, seeing how Mycroft is still and unplanned for thorn in my side.

“Alright – but, perhaps, you could not tell anyone my name? As a precaution?”

Tewkesbury nods eagerly, before remembering his manners and he chimes:”Worry not – I will be as vague as possible – Mycroft won’t find out a thing!”

And then Tewkesbury’s smile gets almost impossibly bright and so does mine and for a moment we simple do that – smile at each other – before it is Anne who clears her throat.

She seems tense and my eyes widen in realization that we are on a case and this is perhaps the most important part of all.

I clear my throat as well.

“Now that the matter is settled – do you have any more questions? Can anyone think of something we might have missed?”

Tewkesbury’s expression, too, becomes more tense and he shakes his head – so does Anne.

I nod. Clear my throat another time. Then I hand him the letters we had taken from behind the painting and nod a second time.

“In that case – May I ask for your assistance with this case, my Lord?”, I tease.

Tewkebury smirks. I frown.

“What?”

“My lord?”

Involuntarily, I can feel my cheeks heat up.

“Ugh! You’re such a nincompoop, just go already!”

.o.O.o.

Anne and I watch Tewkesbury leave as he makes his way down the hall towards the salon.

Then I rip my eyes away from his retreating form.

Right. We have a case to work and there must be a way for me to eavesdrop on the ongoings in that room.

“Anne, is there a servant’s entrance leading to that room? Some way to get closer without being noticed?”

I turn around to face her, trying my very best to appear serious and not at all giddy, and it comes to me quite naturally, too! Though, perhaps Anne’s stone-faced expression may play a part in that, too.

„How have you ever met the Marquess of Basilwheter?!“, Anne hisses, before pulling me into the shadows, her eyes scanning the area for any onlookers.

“And you seemed to know each other so well, too! How would a woman – a woman like you no less – ever meet someone of such importance?”

Well, now Anne’s just being plain insulting. But I suppose she has a point. Would it not have been for a coincidence, Tewkesbury and I would most likely never have met.

My stomach churns just thinking of it. Tewkesbury may be a nincompoop, but he means a great deal to me.

I am about to inform Anne of what sort of occurrence led to mean knowing the Viscount, but already her eyes widen in understanding – everyone knows of the attempt that had been made on his life and I am not at all surprised that Anne managed to connect that case – solved under mysterious circumstances no less – to the likes of me.

“You – the disappearance – were you the one to find him?”

Her voice speaks of disbelieve – and understanding, as confusing as it may sound.

“Yes? He happened to be taking the same train as I did when we – well, when we both tried to escape out families.”

I dislike the way my answer appears to be a question almost, but there is nothing to be done about it now.

And anyway, I’d rather find a way to eavesdrop instead of talking about an old case of mine – and Tewkesbury. I am unsure as to why, but I’d rather keep my mouth shut on that specific topic.

“So, are there any servant entrance’s or the likes?”

My question seems to work the way I hoped it would, as Anne’s expression looses most of her curiosity, substituted by bewilderment.

“What?”

“Is there any way for me to sneak into that room? I’d like to listen to everything happening!”

“Oh. No. No, you will not.”

“What? Why?”

But Anne isn’t listening. Instead she snatches my wrist and drags me even farther away from where I ought to be, until we reach a door leading to a smaller room, lit by just a few candles.

“You – You will stay right here.”

Anne lets go of my wrist and her eyes narrow determinedly.

“You will stay here being as inconspicuous as possible. I will go back there and serve my lady – and once all is done and said, I will report back to you – but don't you dare to leave this room! Whatever will happen tonight, it might greatly ruin my lady’s reputation and you’d only make it worse!”

.o.O.o.

Tewkesbury had not expected to meet Enola in the Hughesbury residence. He may have thought of it, seeing how her case had been centred around Mrs. Hughesbury – but he hadn’t paid much mind to the many dinners that his mother had asked him to attend.

“The Tewkesbury’s reputation has taken quite a blow ever since – well, you know. And now that your uncle is out of the country it falls to you to uphold our family’s good name! I pray you will be on your best behaviour?”

And he had been! He simply...He simply had, perhaps, cared a tad less about which family exactly they were visiting. And anyway, it was mostly his mother who had been social. He had politely listened to some other gentleman discussing politics and the economy, keeping to himself mostly. As was expected of him. He may have a seat in the House of Lords – but he wasn’t necessarily seen as an equal yet.

He didn’t mind it all too much – it gave him more time to worry about Enola. He hadn’t known, of course, whether she had received his letter at all – yet he had been worried she might have gotten herself into trouble.

She’d probably be bricky enough to get herself out of trouble, too, however he worried nonetheless. He had almost gone to investigate the address he had been instructed to send his last letter, too, hoping to obtain some information there – but he had held off until the last possible moment.

Perhaps she had been busy, he had thought. And busy she had been, indeed. With her very own case, one that had led to them crossing paths once again and he had not minded one bit.

He could help her, too! He remembered that time they had run away from Mr. Harrison’s finishing school together quite well and so did he remember the joy it had brought him. The elevation he had felt at hatching the plan and preforming it. He wouldn't have minded Enola choosing to go to London instead of Basilwether Hall one bit – he had quite enjoyed the thought of them solving many more mysteries together.

Though it would have kept him from parliament – would have kept the bill from being passed.

Perhaps it was better that she had made him go to Basilwether Hall.

He enjoyed helping Enola solve this case anyway.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

The sudden voice sounding out next to him made him jump up, almost, and Tewkesbury’s head whirled around – his heartbeat only calming down once he realized it was none other than his mother, having taken a seat next to him, frowning worriedly.

“Did I startle you?”

“No – No, I-I am quite alright.”

“Are you sure? You seem so tense – not unlike Mrs. Hughesbury, I must say, I do wonder what is going on with her tonight.”

Tewkesbury forced himself to smile and glanced towards the hostess. She was at the other side of the room, standing next to her husband and smiling widely as she talked to a friend of hers.

“Mrs. Hughesbury asked to not be informed of what will happen – she wants to be surprised – even though we protested several times – and perhaps it is for the better, as the less she knows, the less likely she is to admit anything.”

“Yes – but, my Lord, please do keep an eye on her? I am frightened to think of what will happen to her tonight...”

The maid had been right – he never had gotten her name, maybe he could ask Enola? - tonight would be a strenuous night for all those involved.

No matter the outcome, a divorce was surely to follow. No matter the outcome, someone’s reputation would be brought to ruin.

He had to make sure Mrs. Hughesbury got out of the affair as unscathed as possible.

“Darling? You’re doing it again, are you really quite alright?”

Tewkesbury jumped yet another time, attracting quite some attention to himself by various gentleman that smirked amused.

“You’ve been tense all evening – ever since we came back in from the gardens! Did anything happen?”

Yes.

“No, mother. I...simply needed to check something.”

“Very well – I do wish you’d tell me what exactly you had been checking for, though. Perhaps once we are at home? Or on the carriage ride there?”

“Perhaps, mother.”

And she got up and left him to his own devices – left him to tensely wait for anything that might happen.

Truth be told, as excited as he was – he couldn’t help but feel as if, mayhaps, this was not the best thought out plan.

He was nervous. Incredibly so and he felt himself reminded of the time Enola and he had taken the auto mobile to Basilwether Hall to find his uncle.

They had found the dowager instead.

Tewkesbury let out a nervous breath.

Enola had said that they weren't sure whether anything would happen tonight at all – it was likely it would.

He hoped it wouldn’t.

He was to be disappointed.

Maybe another half an hour passed and then Mr. Tewkesbury ordered for the painting to be brought in.

Mrs. Hughesbury‘s eyes lit up at that idea when she saw it, seemingly proud of the purchase she had made.

It made Tewkesbury shudder. She truly did not know.

It was frightening.

It didn’t take the maids long to fetch said painting – though it seemed entirely long to Tewkesbury. Once brought in, he scrutinized it to the very last detail.

It was the one Enola had told him about. Working woman in a factory, shown under the pretence of wanting to discuss social issues.

The banquet was held in honour of one of Mr. Hughesbury’s factories after all – it only made sense for him to want and discuss it.

When Tewkesbury seated himself closer to the group, feigning interest, he felt as if he were in a dream-like state. He laughed when Mr. Hughesbury asked all members of parliament to implement their solutions. He nodded along as some other artwork was discussed first.

He pretended to be intrigued when Mr. Hughesbury feigned to have spotted the piece of paper, his only tell being the way he glanced at Mrs. Hughesbury, appearing similarly surprised.

Resolve settled in his stomach.

Just in time as Mr. Hughesbury pulled out two pieces of paper – his frowning expression at the wrong number being the first hint to what was really going on.

And then his eyes widened in insult and the first piece of paper flew from his hand.

It was a picture of him, hand drawn – as a caricature.

Tewekesbury smiled ever so lightly. Of course. Of course Enola would leave her very own signature on the case. Though he rather liked the look of them.

Then Mr. Hughesbury read the second letter – and his facade fully slipped.

“Is-Is this supposed to be a joke?!”, he gasped, his head whirling around to face his wife – who looked at him in surprise.

The picture-him, seemingly trying to make sense of the drawing.

But it was too late to turn back now – murmurs had broken out along the group of people already and someone was already asking to hear the contests of that second letter.

Mrs. Hughesbury’s face turned ashen when the first words were read. The murmurs got even louder, barely being numbers any more at all and Tewkesbury knew now was the time to act.

He pulled out the neatly folded papers from his pocket, took one last deep breath – you better be right with this, Enola – and got up.

“Four Ninety-Two Seventy-Eight Five Thirty-Six Eighteen...”, he started, raising his voice in an attempt to drown out all the speculations.

He heard his mother gasp, worried eyes resting upon him, and soon enough she pulled at his suit, to get him to sit down again.

“What are you doing?”, she whispered, but he paid her no mind.

He’d explain later.

“...Twenty-Seven One Hundred and eighteen Five Forty-three Nineteen Twenty Eighty-Seven Eighty-Nine Thirteen Twenty-Eight Fifty-Five Eighteen Seventy-Three Nineteen...”

Tewkesbury felt a bit ridiculous reading out a bunch of numbers, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to grab everyone’s attention before the situation got out of control – needed to appear calm and collected as if the plan was bang up to the elephant and not merely makeshift, adjusted at the very last second.

And their attention he got.

Everyone was looking at him now – I made him feel rather uncomfortable, and yet it wasn’t all that much different from whenever he spoke in parliament. He had not been allowed to do so terribly often – but if he was able to hold a speech in a room filled with gossip and judgement, he’d be able to survive this assembled party as well.

“Viscount Tewkesbury, may I ask what you are hinting at?”, a gentleman from the crowd asked. Tewkesbury noted it wasn’t Mr. Hughesbury who did – instead, he was frozen in his seat, eyes blown wide open.

He most likely remembered the code.

“Of course. These papers – from which I just read – were found behind that painting. In the very same way the two Mr. Hughesbury is currently holding were – not a week ago. Three letters had been hidden behind it, all three encoded – though I have a de-coded version of what the messages read – if I may?”

Without a second of hesitation, he started reading, the entire room his captive audience.

“Dearest Mrs. Hughesbury. We agree with your assessment of the subject – it is time for us to strike! We must act now, or the chance will slip from our finger – however we must confirm with you, Mrs. Hughesbury, first. On the...”

He didn’t get far – not long and his name was being hissed. He paused for just a second, to take in his mother’s angered expression. With the nod of her chin she pointed at Mrs. Hughesbury – who had gone completely white, a hand hiding her lips and her eyes impossibly wide.

Tewkesbury’s mouth opened in realization and he glanced down at the paper he was holding, still – and cleared his throat, letting his daddles sink to rest at his side.

“Perhaps – Perhaps it is better – for now – if we do not read out the exact content of those letters aloud. I am certain its intent is clear to anyone – though, if anyone wishes to read the whole of it, I’d gladly hand out the translation – and the coded message itself, if anyone wants to review the honesty with with the original message has been decoded.

Murmurs filled the room for a few tense moments – but no one spoke up.

Tewkesbury nodded. Folded the paper into two and let it fall onto the table, before bowing his chin.

“Very well.”

He took a breath, steadying himself. Those were serious allegations he was about to bring up.

He sincerely hoped Enola had been right in her assumptions.

“These letters were the ones originally hidden behind the painting – as ordered by Mr. Hughesbury, to frame his wife.”

Immediately, murmurs flared up, not unlike they had before, but Tewkesbury had no intention of letting himself be distracted.

“Mr. Hughesbury did so in an attempt...”

But once again, he was interrupted. Because, finally, Mr. Hughesbury decided to speak up again.

“That – This is making a stuffed bird laugh! Are you – who set you up to do this?! Is this supposed to be an ill attempt at humour?”

“Not at all, Mr. Hughesbury. I’d go as far as claiming the ill-attempt at humour might have been the caricature – though I would not call it an ill-attempt at all. And my apologies – but I am unable to disclose my source, for the detective that consulted me wishes to stay unidentified.”

One could almost have heard Mycroft’s eyes bulge out – and a sudden shiver ran down Tewkesbury’s back as he could feel the older gentleman’s gaze bore into his side.

He chose to ignore it for now. Though he was fairly certain Mycroft would be to stubborn to let this go.

“So we are to believe this anonymous source that I would – I would fake a conspiracy simply to file for divorce? That I’d – that I’d do such a horrendous thing? To my own family?”

Mr. Hughesbury was openly laughing now – though perhaps a tad too nervously to be believable.

“So we are to believe you took note of a small piece of paper pressed between painting and frame – a detail none of us managed to find – within a minute or two of looking at previously mentioned painting?”

Murmurs broke out. Some people nodded along and he thought he had heard a hiccup.

He wished he could make this any less painful for Mrs. Hughesbury.

“I have a keen eyes”, Mr. Hughesbury responded, smiling amusedly now, going as far as glancing at his friends for support.

But it didn’t matter. By now someone had grabbed the piece of paper that had laid in front of Tewkesbury, eyes hastily going over its contents, before passing it along.

It didn’t matter at all. He may not have Enola’s deductional skills, but he was by now means an idiot.

So here was the Hook.

“Perhaps, if you truly have such a keen eyes – you might be willing to help us compare the writings in that letter to your own? Or - “

And at this, Tewkesbury’s eyes narrowed, carefully measuring Mr. Hughesbury’s reaction to his next words.

Line.

“ - perhaps your butler’s?”

And...

Mr: Hughesbury’s face lost all resemblance of amusement at once and he visibly swallowed, looking anywhere else but him.

“Don’t you believe, Viscount Tewkesbury, that these questions might be more appropriate for an inspector to ask?”

Sinker.

Mr. Hughesbury had admitted defeat. If he were to truly bring Scotland Yard into this, they were sure to find the truth. Perhaps they might even consult Sherlock on the matter.

“Very well”, Tewkesbury said:”But I will be delivering these papers in person – and I want each and everyone of you as witness to what they – and most importantly the writings – look like.”

.o.O.o.

The banquet was cancelled. Not officially, of course, and it might have gone on for much longer than it had – but everyone was leaving and a heavy silence had descended upon the once lively salon.

His mother had stayed behind in the room to comfort Mrs. Hughesbury, who had asked everyone to leave, meekly and quietly and close to bursting into tears, just after her husband had left on his own accord.

Tewkesbury himself had left, too, of course, and was now patiently waiting in the hallway – supposedly on his mother.

In truth he was hoping to catch another glimpse of Enola, but she had yet to show – and he was left in silence – until his mother left the salon, that was, holding a shaking Mrs. Hughesbury close.

“I’ll accompany her to her room – might you wait on me? It could take some time.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

And she left without another word. Tewkesbury was tempted to lean against the wall, now that no one was there any more to admonish him, but it was as if he could feel a foul presence lingering about – and a foul presence was lingering indeed, as not to soon after his mother, none other than Mycroft Holmes left the room.

And Mycroft made no secret out of his want to talk to him.

In fact, he walked right up to him, exchanging a short greeting – and then dropping all pretence.

„That detective you mentioned...“, he asks, his hands folded behind his back. Tewkesbury smiled nervously, his eyes fluttering towards the corridor, only hosting shadows.

Tewkesbury wondered whether she was still here at all. He’d like to talk to her some more, of course – yet, at the same time...Mycroft, for all his ridiculousness, could be rather...intimidating at times.

„Yes, Mr. Holmes? What about him?“

„That detective does not happen to share her last name with the likes of me, does she?“

There was a silent challenge hidden in Mycroft‘s words and Tewkesbury tried his best to sound believable as he went to answer.

„My sincerest apologies, Mr Holmes, however I am afraid it was specifically requested of me to not disclose my source’s name.”

“Is that so.”

Mycroft shifted, the only giveaway to any anxiety he might possibly be feeling. In fact, Mr. Holmes did not seem to be bothered at all, in fact, his eyes stared into Tewkesbury in a most uncomfortable manner.

In a different life, he might have made a splendid interrogator.

„Pray tell, did she plan this?“

But Tewkesbury would not waver.

„Again, I am afraid I am prevented from answering this question.“

„Of course she did not. She’s a woman – I doubt she planned anything at all – regardless – she isn’t my responsibility any more.”

She wasn’t? Tewkesbury frowned. But hadn’t…

“I wish you a good night, Viscount Tewkesbury.”

“So do I, Mr. Holmes. A pleasant night indeed.”

And then Mr. Holmes left and Tewkesbury wondered whether Enola would show at all. Maybe she’d wait for him in Covent Garden tomorrow? Maybe she had simply misread the letter, maybe...

“Is he gone, finally?”, a voice interrupted his inner thoughts, seemingly coming from the shadows:”Why, I was afraid he might never leave!”

.o.O.o.

It had been risky, waiting for Tewkesbury in the hallway, what with Mycroft stalking this house, but I had wanted to speak to him again – I’d rather not leave without having said my good-byes – and anyway – there were enough shadows to hide in.

And then Mycroft did show up and kept me from talking to him.

An unwanted thorn indeed.

I try to eavesdrop on his conversation with Tewkesbury, yet I can’t hear anything. They whisper to quietly and I have to stay too far away to be able to overhear anything. It is a pity, but if Mycroft had said anything of importance, I am sure Tewkesbury will tell me later – and not long after I have finished that thought Mycroft bids his goodbye and finally leaves.

I am tempted to rejoice – but I don’t. Instead I creep closer, until I hear the door downstairs open and close – and then I allow myself to step out of the shadows.

“Is he gone, finally? Why, I was afraid he might never leave!”

I feel my cheeks heat up at the smile Tewkesbury sends my way – one could almost think he has a gigglemug – and I am thankful for the shadows surrounding me once more.

“Enola!”, he cries out once again and then steps closer, pulling me into a hug and letting go soon after.

“You’re still here! I was afraid you might have left already?”

I frown. Left already?

“Without having said my good-byes? Do you rally think of me that badly?”

I smirk and he reciprocates the gesture – it almost stuns me and only his words keep me from falling into a stupor.

“Why, of course not! I merely believe you to be careful.”

“Well, being careful has never gotten me anywhere, has it?”, I tease and he laughs and then we fall into silence.

But against all odds, it doesn’t last long.

“How did it go?”, I ask excitedly and Tewkesbury laughs against.

It is quite the pleasant sound – I am tempted to say like church bells or a songbird I spring – and, of course, I only take note due to my necessary, observation exercises.

“It went well, I suppose – I do feel sorry for Mrs. Hughesbury though – I do wish we’d have been able to do more for her...But! Mr. Hughesbury will get Scotland Yard involved and I am most certain it was his butler who wrote these despicable letter...”

I smile. I wish I had been there, of course, wish it had been me to lay out all the evidence – but having Tewkesbury help might have been less taxing on Mrs. Hughesbury.

And the results are undeniable – though, again, I wish it were me who could compare the writings and drive the final nail into the coffin.

“Regardless.”

I perk up when Tewkesbury suddenly begins to speak once more. He grabs hold of my hands, then realizes what he is doing and lets go of them immediately after, blushing furiously.

Or I believe he is. I can’t see much, other than that his head is suspiciously tilted away from me.

“I wanted to ask whether you'd join me for a walk tomorrow?”

I frown – had I misread his letter?

“Didn’t you say you’d depart on the 7^th?”

“I won’t – I was planning to leave early tomorrow – but my train’s leaving at 12 o’clock, we can meet before! I’d love to hear more about this case – I am sure you’ve omitted quite a bit earlier – and Charing Cross is but a five minute walk from there – perhaps you might want to join me for a walk?”

Of course. I still have that bad consciousness from earlier for not having shown earlier and I look forward to talk to him under more favourable circumstances – especially seeing how Anne never came around to tell me about what happened in that room – though I suppose she might have been needed else where.

Yet, I do not come around to answer, as another voice speaks up, behind me, one that I do not know, but Tewkesbury most certainly does, seeing how his eyes light up in recognition.

“Miss Holmes?”

I twirl around, expecting to be greeted by Anne, or perhaps even Mrs. Hughesbury, strange as it would be, but I instead find myself face to face with none other than Lady Tewkesbury.

Of course. If Tewkesbury is here it shouldn’t be surprising his mother has accompanied him.

For a moment, she glances at her son in understanding, but then her eyes already rest upon me once more and she smiles – gratefully.

“I must say, I wasn’t surprised to hear that you were the genius detective to have uncovered this ploy – going off of nothing but a hunch”, she smiles and I preen at the compliment.

“I am grateful for it – I know Mrs. Hughesbury from when we were younger and as distant as our relationship may have grown over the past few years, she is a dear friend of mine still.”

She trails off and I glance at Tewkesbury who seems to be just as surprised by this piece of information as I am.

“I was also asked to express Mrs. Hughesbury’s gratefulness to you and to extent her excuses for not speaking to you personally. She has laid down to rest for now – this evening has not been easy on her.”, Lady Tewkesbury added, a soft smile playing around her lips:”She is thankful for your determination to solve the case – against all odds. And she’d like to invite you over for tea sometimes again – whenever it is that you may find time.”

“Oh – of course. I’ll join her tomorrow then, I might just tell Anne...”

“Tomorrow?”, Tewkesbury asks and I grin.

“After our walk, of course.”

“Walk?”

I look aside, hearing Lady Tewkesbury chime in all of sudden – truth be told, I had forgotten her presence for a short second.

“Before the train leaves. Would it, perhaps, be possible to leave from a different station?”

He smiles sheepishly and Lady Tewkesbury purses her lips, but then nods.

“That might be arranged – but we must leave now. It is getting late and if we are to leave differently, we must arrange our matters – in a hurry, too. Would you be a dear an accompany me home?”

Really, the tone she uses is one that doesn't allow any objection

“Of course, mother. Enola – we’ll see each other tomorrow? At the flower shop? Eight o’clock?”

I nod. He smiles. I smile.

Lady Tewkesbury clears her throat.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

Case I: The unrobbed woman
Newspaper Clippings

.o.O.o.

Pall Mall Gazette, 10^th of September – third page

“Husband frames wife to file for divorce

Last Saturday, the 7^th of September, during a banquet hosted by the Hughesbury family at the family’s estate, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, member of the House of Lords, accused Mr. Hughesbury, a well-off factory owner native to London, of conspiracy against his wife. The Viscount supported these claims by findings put forward by an undisclosed source. Scotland Yard has, according to Inspector Lestrade, started up their own investigation on the matter.

During the banquet, Mr. Hughesbury suggested to discuss several pieces of contemporary artwork, one of them being a painting bought by Mrs. Hughesbury, showcasing a scene set in a factory. While discussing the painting, Mr. Hughesbury insisted on having spotted an irregularity which caused him to take the painting from its frame, revealing a set of papers in return.

The papers showed a caricature of Mr. Hughesbury and a letter detailing the alleged plot by Mr. Hughesbury. The later was confirmed by Viscount Tewkesbury, who produced a set of three, coded letters that were, allegedly, originally found behind the painting. According to those letters, which have been handed over to Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hughesbury was involved in the planning of an attack on one of Mr. Hughesbury’s factories, on the 23^th of September. According to Viscount Tewkesbury Mrs. Hughesbury was framed by her husband in an attempt to divorce her. Reasons for the wanted divorce have yet to be brought forward.

The evidence so far is not decisive and the investigation is still ongoing.

The Viscount has yet to reveal the identity of the source cited, however we succeeded to contact a witness within the house itself – who wishes to remain unidentified:”Word is some detective made the rounds some weeks before – questioning the people and so on. Didn’t see him myself, but I heard the name “Holmes” been thrown around a few days after.”

So far, Baker Street has denied any connection to the case and we are left to wonder about the identity of this detective.

-

Pall Mall Gazette, 10^th of September – fourth page

“A comment on self-justice

When is one allowed to exact justice on one’s wrongdoers, without letting the states guiding hand take lead? Such is an age-old question posed to society, as revenge and justice are closely related, interchangeable almost – and yet there is a fine line to walk. Undoubtedly, one cannot blame a man if they were to take action when society does not – but what were to happen if a crime committed might be punished too lightly – in the eyes of the wounded, that is?

Last Sunday London society has been confronted by a rather peculiar crime – the one described on page four. A husband tried to frame his wife of conspiracy, to constrain a divorce. The ploy was uncovered, the woman cleared from all suspicion, but the scandal has yet to wane. And it is unsure what sentence the husband may receive.

It may not be a surprise at all then, that the aggrieved’s family took it upon themselves to carry out justice – and so, yesterday, on the 9^th of September, John Margold, Mrs. Hughesbury’s brother punched Mr. Hughesbury.

It is unknown whether any lasting damage was caused. Mr. Hughsbury claims it was a deliberate attack on him while Mr. Margold claims he had previously been provoked by Mr. Hughesbury during a “civil and gentlemanly discussion of the scandal”.

It is unsure whether Mr. Hughesbury will press charges or not.

It is a difficult situation, indeed. If the accusation against Mr. Hughesbury are confirmed to be true he has greatly wronged his wife and by extension her family. He has tried to ruin their reputation and has undoubtedly brought great shock upon the family.

However, even if the allegations are confirmed, it is to point out that Mr. Hughesbury will be punished by a competent tribunal and it s of this writer’s opinion that all power of judgement lay within the state. If Mr. Hughesbury were to be innocent – be it that his wife indeed plotted against him or simply by not having taken any part in the alleged framing – no doubt has he injured even worse by this attack than he has by the scandal brought upon his name alone.

Therefore, as satisfactory as I, too, perceive this action taken by Mr. Margold, I must frown upon it nonetheless. Self-justice is a danger to all of society, lest it fall back into the habit of witch-burning.

-

Magazine of Modern Womanhood, 9^th of September – front page

“One saved, another four forgotten

Last Sunday yet again an attack was made upon womanhood – a husband tried to frame his wife of conspiracy against him and the plot was discovered and made known on the evening it was supposed to be carried out.

The man in question for planning such a heinous crime was none other than Mr. Hughesbury, husband to the admirable Mrs. Hughesbury, who has stood out these past few months due to her support of local craftsmanship and woman’s rights. According to several witnesses, last Sunday during a banquet hosted by the Hughesbury family, a plot by Mr. Hughesbury was unmasked in which he tried to frame his wife for conspiring against him.

Luckily, the ploy was uncovered just on time, by liberal leaning Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, supported by evidence provided by a detective going by the name “Holmes” - and who, according to sources from the family’s estate, was a woman herself.

As per Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard has started their own investigation, to verify the accusations brought forward by Viscount Tewkesbury.

This is good news, indeed. Had the plot not been discovered, Mrs. Hughesbury would have been sentenced for a crime she has never committed and her reputation would have been damaged irreparably – but still, we should not celebrate just yet! For Mrs. Hughesbury is not the only woman being wrong in today’s day and age!

Take one Ms. Smith: A year ago she was accused of being a smasher. Her name was cleared after an investigation of the accusation, made by malcontent customers, yet the damage to her reputation – and to her shop’s – was done. The possessions that were broken during her home’s search have yet to be replaced, too.

And lets not forget the unnamed girl that visited us late at night three months ago, telling us of an abusive employer, who has no sense of propriety or the virtue of the maids in his service. She spotted countless bruises, most notable around her wrists and a lash on her cheek, but she refused to speak out, out of fear of being blacklisted.

Another story of mistreatment comes with Mrs. Walsh: She worked at the Royal Gun Factory and was greatly wounded, leaving her an invalid. Like so many other factory workers, she hasn’t received any compensation and was left begging for scraps.

And do not forget Helen Bright Clark! Just last year she was harassed for days after giving a speech at the Liberal Convention at Leeds! And not a single one of the harassers were punished.

We are undoubtedly delighted this nefarious plot has been discovered on time – however, one must not forget about the wrongs that still need to be rightened!

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

Musings
8^th of September 1884

“Historical perspective is the only way to begin a day”, my mother used to tell me. It was the very reason why she insisted for my first subject to always be history. We’d go to the library and she’d pull out one book or another and then we’d go over it and she’d explain to me anything I had not understood on my own – casting society into a different light each time we did so, comparing the different ways of life and the many changes we England has lived through.

It was quite interesting. To this day I will never forget how often she told me “times are changing and clinging to tradition for the sake of it is the root of all evil”.

I couldn't agree more.

Similarly, my mother used to tell me:”Every lady of refinement should be able to condense her innermost thoughts into a few, short lines. Be precise, but do not overcomplicate. Do not leave out a single detail, but do not write too lengthy either – one should be able to give a well-thought-out report on one’s thoughts at any given time – be it to report to oneself or to a friend.”

Now, for most of my life I have headed my mother’s advice, but I must confess, this once – I may have failed.

I have never thought much of my daily life and while I have always liked making plans, I have rarely written down anything. It seemed such an unnecessary waste of time – until I had to compile these files that was and now that I have, I must agree with my mother once more.

Sorting once thoughts is of great value.

And so, I will, albeit be it short.

I have learned a great deal during this case, even a lesson taught by none other than the great Sherlock Holmes himself – though perhaps he might have given it unwillingly – and now, after a month or so – I might have to look into my writings some more – I am finally able to close the file on this second, major case.

Long gone are the days on which I was sent to look for missing lunch or other squabbles.

I have finished my first case (well, second, if one considers “the Missing Marquess”, but Tewkesbury really is adamant about not letting that one count):

I do wonder whether mother would be proud, though.

.o.O.o.

I arrive perfectly on time at the flower shop we had agreed to meet at, yet Tewkesbury is already waiting for me.

“Enola!”, he exclaims once he spots me and his smile brightens considerably. He pays the flower boy – too much, as it seems from where I am standing – taking a hold of the Evergreens he seems to just have bought and then hurries to meet me.

“You’re here!”, he says once he’s in close distance to me, extending his hand to and holding out the flowers for me to take:”They’re yours – a gift. I spotted them and they quite reminded me of you.”

His eyes shine with expectancy and I take the delicate flowers from his fingers, regarding them.

“Of course I’m here”, I say as I do so:”Why wouldn’t I?”

The flowers are beautiful, though I fail to see how their simple elegance and pale lavender colour could ever possibly resemble me.

“I was worried you might not show”; Tewkesbury responds and I raise my head, wanting to retort – but then I stop, blushing lightly.

Tewkesbury might have a point.

“Well, yes”, I stutter, looking aside and willing my blush to disappear.

It does not.

“But I did show, did I not?”

I decide to pretend my blush does not exist at all and to face him, willing my head to turn around once more, defiantly raising my chin – but Tewkesbury does not seem to be intent on teasing me. Quite the opposite, as I notice him smiling even more brightly, before he notices his own staring and quickly averts his eyes, stepping back.

“Well. Yes. You did. Obviously. Uh – shall we take our walk then?”

And Twekesbury extends his arm to me. I take it wordlessly and it prompts him to smile mischievously. I narrow my eyes at that. I am unsure what to make of his expression, but then I decide to let it rest for now.

Perhaps I shouldn’t, as we fall into companionable silence for a few moments which give Tewkesbury enough time to notice my slight limb.

“Are you quite alright, Enola? Are you exhausted? We can sit down if need be!”

I am mildly insulted he might think I need to sit down, but he seems to be genuinely worried – perhaps it is not meant as insult.

“I am quite alright”, I say, trying to brush it off, but Tewkeybury isn't shaken that easily.

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“May I take a look at your ankle then? To be sure?”

Tewkesbury is smiling all smugly at that, probably thinking he outmanoeuvred me – but I simply raise an eyebrow at his words.

“Here? You want to inspect my ankle here?”, I ask:”In the middle of the street?”

And just as I anticipated, Tewkesbury starts blushing furiously.

“Perhaps not!”, he hurries to say, his voice sounding suspiciously high:”But you should see a doctor. Or at least tell me what happened so I can recommend some herbs to use.”

Well. My ankle does still hurt and perhaps I should start worrying about it.

More than I do, at the very least.

As I start recounting the tale from the very start – sparing no detail – we stop at a shop and Tewkesbury purchases a bundle of herbs – comfrey roots, he tells me.

As I continue my tale, he keeps nodding – until he doesn’t anymore.

In fact, he seems rather scandalized by it.

“Enola, you broke into Scotland Yard?”, he exclaims loudly, earning quite a lot of sideglances from other passer-by.

I shrug.

“Well, yes, I did.”

“Enola, you can’t just break into Scotland Yard!”

My admission seems to only infuriate him more and he stops both of us, looking rather perplexed.

“It’s – they could have sent you to prison if they had caught you! And – And there’s a reason why! You’re not allowed to break into Scotland Yard!”

“I know that! But – if I weren’t a woman – and searched for by my very own brothers – I would have been able to receive those files. Don’t you think, if you were to walk into Scotland Yard today and ask for information on someone, you’d receive it without any trouble at all?”

“I suppose I would. But, perhaps, instead of you having that same right as I have, I shouldn’t be allowed to ask for such information in the first place.”

I must admit, I – well I did not anticipate this turn of events. Tewkesbury very much may have a point, but-

I needed those files. Scotland Yard would have never properly investigated Mrs. Hughesbury’s case and I would not have been able to solve it without those files.

It was the right things to do, however I doubt Tewkesbury will be of the same opinion.

“Regardless”, I say after we’ve spent some time in silence:”That is hardly important.”

“Oh, I disagree”, he responds, but I choose to ignore that, too, for the time being.

“I have found letters, you see.”

“Letters?”

“Coded letters, most likely written by my mother.”

This, at the very least, seems to make Tewkesbury perk up a little bit again.

“You did? That's great news! What do they say?”, he asks, turning to look at me once more and I am rather pleased to have chased away the gloomy atmosphere – that is most likely the reason why I find myself giving away information so freely.

“Why, that is the problem. You see, I have managed to find two different coded messages and...”

“No wait!”, Tewkesbury interrupts and I startle, my eyes resting on him.

“Do you live far from here?”, he asks and I tilt my head in confusion.

“I suppose. Perhaps half an hour from here?”

“Splendid! Then, perhaps, we might take our time and visit your place? I’ d love to see this code myself – and we can take care of that swollen ankle of yours.”

He seems rather pleased by his suggestion, preening almost and my eyes fall upon the small bundle of herbs.

I frown.

“You shouldn’t have...”

“But I wanted to – do not worry, I have wanted to try this for quite some time – now, lead the way, please, I’d quite like to take a look at those codes you’ve talked about!”

He is still preening. I start smile teasingly.

“You believe you’d be able to decode that letter at all?”

Tewkesbury positively glows at the challenge I posed.

“I am most certain that I can!”

.O.

I do not wish to insult Tewkesbury – not at all – but for all his strengths – of which there are many, undoubtedly – solving codes isn’t one of them.

He has been brooding over them for quite some time now as I heat the water, the way he has instructed me to.

“Comfrey roots are quite a versatile herb – but we must cook them first”, he told me once we got settled – and then he complimented me on finding a better lodging.

I knew by the way he grinned that he was taking a jab at my – rather poor – first choice of room.

“You were willing to stay there”, I grumbled, but all Tewkesbury did was grin wider.

“I am rather relieved there was no need for that – it was quite a scruffy place, don't you agree?”

And then he dived nose-deep into the note I copied as I searched around for a kettle.

It has been a good five minutes since then and I am convinced he has found the very first code already – though he seems to struggle with the second one.

It takes Tewkesbury another five minutes to admit defeat.

“I have found the first message”, he starts of and I chuckle, earning me an eye roll and displeased grunt.

“Well, why don’t you tell me all about your theory while I prepare the herbs?”I am sure his suggestion is merely a ploy to distract me from any potential teasing, but I don’t mind. I think it fairly sweet of him to worry so much about a simple injury and, in all fairness, I would not know how to treat the injury at all.

So I tell him, laying out the two different ways the letters can be read, their messages and what leads me to believe there might be a third code that I am missing, all the while Tewkesbury is listening closely.

And then he asks where I got the letter anyway and my answer seems to displease him once again.

“You – You broke her trust!”, he exclaims once I recount how I found the secret drawer and all that and, quite possibly, he looks even more scandalized than when I told him about Scotland Yard.

“But it was necessary!”, I retort, irritated as well. Those are my mother’s letters – I very much have a right to find her!

“Enola, you can’t just bend the rules however you want!”

“You helped me escape from Mrs. Harrison’s finishing school – did you not bend the rules back then?”, I respond, but all it does is make Tewkesbury frown.

“You can hardly compare both situations. I helped you to flee a place encroaching on your personal freedoms – while you very much encroached on Mrs. Hughesbury’s freedom to keep things private, if she wishes to do so. Perhaps you should have simply asked her for more information on your mother, I am sure she would have handed over the letters voluntarily.”

Tewkesbury is frowning still and I avert my eyes – he does have a point, does he not? Mother, too, believed privacy was the highest virtue and then one most frequently violated.

I may have just violated it again – but it was for a good cause!

I think.

I am sure.

I am trying to find my mother, after all.

“Why do you wish to find your mother at all?”, Tewkesbury eventually asks and I am thankful that he broke the silence that blanketed us – well, like silence tends to do.

“Did you not mention she had visited you? After you’ve settled in London for good?”, he asks once I am done explaining, carefully turning my ankle one way and then another.

“She did. We talked a fair bit but – I haven’t seen her since and it has been months and...”

I am reminded of the explosives I found once again and try to shake the memory from my thoughts.

“I simply wish for her not to leave me all on my own”, I conclude my statement, staring at my hands.

”But I suppose I should have known from the day I was born”, I add wistfully.

I may sound more bitter than I should, but, as I stare at the note, I cannot bring myself to care.

She should be here. I remember all the times she was the one wrapping my injuries, kissing them better.

I remember her worried eyes so well and her warm voice, promising me to never leave.

I softly shake my head to get rid of that thought, too. She must have had her reasons for leaving – well, she has, she told me that herself – and – I am sure I’ll-

Perhaps I do not know myself why I am looking for her at all.

But I will find her.

“What do you mean by that? How would you have known your mother would leave as a newborn?”

Tewkesbury kneels down in front of me know, carefully taking hold of my ankle and turning it one way and another.

“My first name – it means – she insisted that I’d be called that way. It spells “Alone” - backwards, that is.”

Tewkesbury looks up at me, his lips pressed together in contemplation.

“So it does”, he admits, after a few seconds:”I never noticed. What a thoughtful name.”

I smile sadly, my shoulder sacking and I put the note away, earning an annoyed “Hey!” from Tewkesbury, as I move my feet to do so.

“I suppose. Though, sometimes, I wish it’d spell a happier message. Though “Tnednepedni” rolls off of the tongue much more difficult, don't you agree?”

I smile and so does Tewkesbury, leaning backwards, seemingly satisfied with the draping.

“Is that what she meant by calling you “Enola”? Oh, and could you move your foot around a bit? I’d like to see whether it will stick...”

I do as I am told.

“I suppose.”

“It is a nice thing to do. You may think the name “unflattering” but it is quite a lot more thoughtful than my own.”

Tewkesbury’s words make me frown. Not because I disagree, but rather because...

“You never told me.”

“Huh?”

He looks up, away from my ankle.

“You never told me you first name, now that I think of it.”

Now, perhaps it is simply the way the light filters through the window, but if I am not entirely mistaken, it almost seems as Tewkesbury is blushing. Which seems to be a confusing reaction to my question, is it not? Mayhaps it is some aspect of society that I have yet to grasp – although I doubt I will ever feel the need to understand it in the first place – though it eludes me what it could possibly be.

“Uh – William! My first name's William!”

He is stuttering and turns even more red. I squint inquisitively, but a church bell’s chiming keeps me from asking any further questions.

“It is getting late already, is it not?”, Tewkesbury hurries to say:”Perhaps it is for the better if we leave for Caring Cross already? As to not irritate your injury any more than we must? Perhaps you should stay at home altogether and-”

“I have managed just fine those past few days, with the swelling”, I interrupt him, feeling slightly irritated – but all Tewkesbury – or William, I guess – this will take some time to get used to – does is laugh.

“I have no doubts, Enola – none at all. Yet, it’d probably be healthier if you were to slow down a bit sometimes.”

.O.

Twekesbury – William – this really is difficult – ends up winning or small argument and we leave early, though not as early as he wanted to at first.

Anyway, we are early and, mayhaps, this is for the better, as this way we will easily be able to spot his mother within the crowd.

We talk a bit and eventually, he does spot his mother, his features lightning up as he gets up and he runs to meet her.

“Mother!”, he exclaims and she turns her head – her expression mirroring his.

“Ah, there you are, darling – I was afraid you might be late and – Miss Holmes, you’re here, too! It is great to see you again, under more favourable circumstances that is.”

She smiles at me and I clumsily try to courtesy.

It may have been my imagination, but I am fairly certain I hear Tewkesbury snicker.

Then again, it most likely wasn’t my imagination at all.

“But, oh, well, I must confess I asked one of the conductors to wait for you at the other side of the station, in case you might bet lost – Ebenezer, could you be a dear and go fetch him?”

I can feel William freeze next to me and I slowly turn my head around, mouth slightly open in disbelieve.

“Perhaps Miss Holmes may accompany you, to make the search easier?”

He starts talking before I have time to question him about this rather unexpected revelation.

“Of course, mother. It will be my pleasure.”

Tewkesbury’s voice sounds mechanical as he answers and he glances at me – I am still looking at him in disbelieve.

Did he actually..?

Tewkesbury doesn't give me much time to think as he turns and leaves already and I am left to run after him – which I do, and, to be fair, I have hardly any trouble keeping up with him.

“Ebenezer?”, I whisper-hiss as I follow him towards where his mother has pointed him.

“Ebenezer?! You told me your name is William! Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess Basilwether, did you lie to me?”

He is blushing now, very much so, and it brings me more joy than it probably should.

“My name is William! It’s my middle name! I didn’t lie!”, he responds, though his voice is too high for me to take his answer all too serious.

“You said it was your first name!”

“Well-”, he starts to retort, before dodging one of the many other passengers, who shoots both of us a rather dirty look.

“Well, yes I did – but – well, “Ebenezer” is not necessarily my favourite name.”

He dodges another passenger, this time pulling me aside, too, and then, finally, we are out in the open.

Tewkesbury lets out a sigh and I pull my sleeve from his hand.

“I suppose “Ebenezer” is quite the ridiculous name”, I chuckle, surveying the area for any searching train conductors.

“It sounds as if you were to steal a poor child’s candy.”

I spot the conductor and pull Tewkesbury – William? - Ebenezer? - Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of “I-don’t-know-wether-I-should-lie-or-not”? - I quite like the last one – along with me.

“Steal a...Enola! I would never!”, he splutters, until he catches up with me and rips his sleeve from my hand.

“It does fit you, though, don’t you think? Viscount Ebenezer Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether – it fits neatly together, does it not?”

“Are you calling my family’s name ridiculous?”

I suppose I do not need to dignify his question with an answer, do I?

“I’ll have you know that my family has held our estate to the highest honour for centuries!”

We reach the train conductor and the matter is resolved easily – and already, we are on our way back to the train, all the while Tewkesbury is talking.

“My name is not ridiculous! At all! It is dignified and – and – it is not ridiculous! And anyway, you're called “Enola”! How’s my name any more ridiculous than that?”

“I recall you saying, just earlier, what a thoughtful name it was!”, I respond good-naturedly and Tewkesbury harrumphs.

“Thoughtful, perhaps, but strange nonetheless. And regardless, you shouldn't call me by my first name anyway, seeing how it I rather inappropriate.”

I am about to remind him that, maybe two hours ago at most, he was wrapping bandages around my very much naked ankle, but then I turn around to look at him and notice that he is smiling good-naturedly.

I roll my eyes, snatching his wrist once more, in spite on all the societal rules I might be breaking at the moment.

“Perhaps. But we should hurry – we don’t want to keep your mother waiting, do we?”

We did not keep Lady Tewkesbury waiting at all. In fact, upon our return she is animatedly chatting with another woman and she doesn’t notice both of us for quite some time. But then she does and waves goodbye to the other woman, heading over to us.

“There you are, darling, Miss Holmes – I assume you have found the conductor?”

“Yes, mother”, Ebenezer says – I snicker, Tewkesbury lets out a sigh.

“Splendid! Then shall we board? The train will be leaving any second.”

“Yes, mother”, Ebenezer – I quite like this, I must admit – says once more and his response seems to be satisfying as his mother turns and walks towards the train.

Tewkesbury follows her and so do I and before I know we’re already at the track.

“I suppose this is a good-bye for now?”, Tewkesbury says, as he holds on to the handrails and leans forward slightly. He is smiling somewhat melancholicly and I am reminded of our last goodbye, at the gates of parliament and immediately will the memory to die down again, as a blush threatens to overtake my cheeks.

“I suppose so”, I respond, not daring to meet his eyes, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

Seeing how I refuse to look at him, I have no way of finding out.

“Will I see you again?”

It may have sounded overly dramatic to any other person, but I know from the grin he’s wearing that he is teasing and I feel the corners of my lips rise in kin.

“Considering you know where I live now, I doubt there’s much stopping you, is there?”

A pipe goes off, shrill and loud. A conductor calls for all passengers to enter and Tewkesbury’s head turn fully red.

I blink perplexed. May I have said something unseemly again? If so, Tewkesbury makes no move to correct me, leaving me to ponder my words? Was it perhaps the invitation to visit me? Yet I do recall us having discussed to stay in the same room together, back, when Inspector Lestrade had caught up to us, so it must have been something else.

Tewkesbury is still staring at me and we have gathered quite some attention by now – which is rather unfortunate, do you not agree?

“Please don’t tell my brothers?”, I ask in an attempt to shake him from his stupor and it seems to be working rather splendidly, as his eyes widen before turning a normal size again and he leans back, smiling widely.

“Not even the famed Sherlock Holmes will be able to pry that secret from my hands – I’ll promise you that much.”

.o.O.o.

12^th of September

I do not know what brought me to Edith's doorsteps this evening. The dice do not require me to stop by any sooner than Saturday and I do not expect any letters either – and yet. Almost, as if possessed I walk over, my ankle draped in the comfrey-soaked fomentations.

It does help. Perhaps I should get myself a book on flowers after all.

The bell atop the door jingles as I enter the tea rooms, barely audible over the chattering of the various patrons.

I do not pay them any mind, as I head straight to the back, where I know Edith will be. Usually she'd spend her day upstairs, training others, but I can’t hear anyone above us.

Well, it is getting rather late. I shan’t be surprised if today’s classes are concluded already.

I enter the backrooms and Edith turns around, a “Guest are not permitted back here” on her lips, undoubtedly – but then she notices it’s me.

“Enola!”, she says, cheerfully and puts away the pot she had just been cleaning.

“What a surprise! What brings you here?”, she asks, before motioning for me to sit down.

“Would you like something to drink?”

I nod and Edith hands me a cup I gratefully accept

“I have read about that case of yours – you really are changing the world. First you found that marquess and now you’ve saved a woman’s life from ruin – I am sure Mrs. Hughesbury is immensely thankful for all you have done for her.”

She was. I talked to her four days ago – although briefly. She looked terrible and was packing her things, moving back to her parents.

She had barely been able to sleep at all and I didn’t dare to ask her any questions about my mother. Though she did say if she’d ever be able to repay me, she’d gladly do so, so perhaps I might be able to ask at a later date – I truly do hope so.

“Though I read in the papers that you...employed help of that boy you’ve been sending letters to?”, Edith continues and I snap out of my reminiscing as I catch the worried undertones in her voice.

I really wished she'd trust Tewkesbury more than she does. Perhaps I can convince him to meet her at some point?

“It was quite the spontaneous development, but yes, he was quite helpful.”

“Not that useless anymore?”, she quips in response and I chuckles. I did call him that, did I not?

But Edith doesn't chuckle. Instead, her expression turns grief and she slightly shakes her head.

“I wish for the best, of course I do, Enola – but do be careful around the likes of him. Men are deceitful creatures.”

She looks at me meaningfully and I know she means to warn me – but I do not respond. In fact, I am convinced my brother, Mycroft, might be inclined to say quite something similar.

Edith must have realized that I am unwilling to talk much more about Tewkesbury, as she sits down across from me, smiling warmly.

“Now tell me – surely you’ve come to tell me more than simply having solved a case, didn't you?”

Once again I am caught off-guard by Edith’s perceptiveness, but I really shouldn’t. She has not once given me a reason to doubt her ability, after all.

I blush slightly as I remember why I am here.

It is simple, really.

“It’s – the case – it’s all over the papers!”, I exclaim, setting down my cup too quickly, making it clincker and clanck.

Edith chuckles and lightly shakes her head, regarding me fondly.

“It is, is it not? Really, you should be proud of yourself – just look how far you’ve come from that first time you ever walked in here. But I am sure that's not why you are here, are you?"

She looks at me teasingly and I take a deep breath, feeling anticipaton rising inside of me.

“Yes I – I was wondering, now that the case has made the newspapers whether – did my mother send any word?”

I have skimmed the newspaper the past two days, but I turned up empty-handed. And I am convinced my mother will sent word to me.

She must.

She is my mother after all.

But Edith’s fond smile falls, replaced by annoyance almost and she lets out a sigh.

“Enola”, she says:”I told you one shouldn’t come to Lo-”

“To London for another, yes, I remember”, I interrupt her, irritation flaring up in me:”But she is my mother. And she – she left without saying as much as a word!”

I am looking at Edith know, pleadingly almost – to no avail. All she does is smile that fond smile and I wonder whether, perhaps, she may have talked to my mother just recently.

“I’m sure she’s proud of you, Enola”, she says, but her words most certainly do not stop the bitterness I feel rising.

“Well, perhaps she should have told me herself, should she not?”, I respond, my words sounding bitter and while I may resent myself for it, I cannot bring myself to declare it a mistake.

And how could I?

“Always mind the words you choose, Enola – for a single word out of place, a single intonation too high or too deep might ruin an entire conversation”, my mother taught me after all.

“Thank you for the tea”, I say, after some time has passed in silence and Edith failed to either notice the silent challenge held in my expression or is unwilling to meet it.

“I shall see myself out, then.”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Twelve

-

12^h -22^th of September, 1884

Case: The trinket thief
File I: Of books and stolen goods

12^th of September, 1884

“Dearest Clove Burdock,

I hope this letter reaches you in better health than when I – regretfully -left you. Is your ankle better already? Did you have any trouble making the fomentations? I’d never doubt your abilities, but if, by any chance, you’ve found yourself having trouble making them, I have included a detailed instruction in this letter – I do hope you don’t see any offence in it!

But I’d rather not dwell on such unfortunate news. How are you, besides your ankle? Have you talked to Mrs. Hughesbury already? My mother wants to extend her gratitude to you once again – she personally asked me to write you and I am ashamed to admit I may have not been as inconspicuous sending these letters as I’d like to believe. She seems to have figured me all out already – but I promise, my mother can be as imposing as any general! If either of your brothers ever come up to Basilwether, they won’t find a single answer!

We are trustworthy like that!

And I am grateful for the trust you put in me, too. It has been a great joy to help you solve the case – you called it “the unrobbed woman”, did you not? – and whilst I’ll have to admit I was trembling all the way through my little speech, I am glad we kept an innocent woman from going to prison – why, I think I’d quite like to undertake such a thing again. Help you, that is – mayhaps, if you’re on a case, you might write me? Mail travels fast and so can I. And, perchance, I might just be in London whilst your solving a case, too! Mother has talked about spending more time in the city, now that my uncle is gone and we might take up residence in our London house more frequently!

If we do move to London more permanently, and if you may allow me, I could stop by your flat more frequently? Only if you wish to, of course, and only if I can be sure I can leave undetectedly! I wouldn’t want to lead your brothers to you, after all!

I do hope you consider it, though. Or we could take another walk through Convent Garden? Or anywhere else! Mayhaps while investigating a case?

I quite enjoyed helping my people directly – no bills to be passed or votes to be cast – a simple speech and an innocent woman is saved. A few herbs prepared and I have saved London’s very best detective from lasting injuries to her ankle!

I’d really like that.

 

Sincerely

Viscount William Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether

 

.o.O.o.

19^th of September, 1884

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, YOUNG LADY!”

Now, that was entirely his fault, not mine.

“TAKE YOUR MACHINE FROM HELL BACK TO THE COUNTRY SIDE WHERE IT CAME FROM!”, calls out another voice.

Alright. Mayhaps this time it was my fault. But London streets are terribly narrow, are they not? And entirely unfit to hold all the traffic traversing them! Quite the difference from the roads that I grew up on – wide with open fields all around and not a single soul in sight!

I do miss those fields a bit. And the old house, my mother’s and mine very own corner, undisturbed by the demands of this world.

Well. Alright. I lied. I miss those fields terribly much, but! I do not regret moving to London at all – I quite enjoy the bustling energy a city as great as this offers – a stark contrast to the mundane excitement one feels when growing up in the countryside. Long passed are the days that I woke up with a spring in my steps simply because we had freshly baked apple pie for breakfast – now I wake up to commotions and mysteries and countless of cases that I could possibly solve!

Fine. That is an overstatement. But as much as I wish mother hadn't left – that we had kept that hidden corner all to ourselves – I will never regret moving forward!

“Life is about moving”, she used to say:”Moving on, moving forward, reaching new goals and finding new things to work for – there is not a single feeling worse than stagnation, you will find – excitement and adventure and new things is what all humans crave and life for.”

My mother has always been a wise woman.

Life is, indeed, all about movement – be it by running or walking or cycling or a train! There is no greater joy than moving forward – and, as I push my bicycle through the bustling streets of London, I find myself moving forward in the most literal of ways.

It has been but a week since I have uncovered the ugly truth that the mystery of the unrobbed woman held and as much as the answers I have found have cast a dark shadow over our every life – I can't help but feel elated as summer give us one last “Hurrah!”.

Humming, I cross the street before I lock my bicycle and then looks towards the sign announcing this establishment to be a tea room.

The dice have been thrown again and it has been some time since I last visited Edith – well, it has been a week, but now that I have no case to solve, life’s mundanity really has caught up with me – and I am looking forward to talking to her again.

Well, I am still mad she hasn’t given me any news on my mother, but she is my friend and for all.

Looking around the place, I enter the shop, the bell jingling when the door opens. The tea house is well-frequented, most tables are filled with people, happily chatting away at one thing and another. Regular “thumps” from upstairs are the only thing disturbing the seemingly normal appearance – and the nonchalance the noise is met with.

“Enola!”, Edith calls out when she spots me, speaking to the group of customers inf ront of her before heading my way. It is a surprise to find her downstairs while she has people training upstairs – but perhaps someone else is supervising them.

It is quite the group after all.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you today! Please, just a few moments and I’ll be with you!”

Without another word, Edith points me to a place at the wall and I nod, thanking her, before making my way over.

It isn’t long and Edith comes over, too, a pot of tea in her hand and two cups balancing on a tray that she carefully sets down on the table in front of me.

“Take some!”, she says, gesturing for me and, gratefully, I grab one of the steaming cups.

I never fully understood why Edith was this welcoming – perhaps she feels a certain responsibility for me, because she knows my mother. Perhaps she has a bad consciousness because she doesn’t tell me where she is.

Perhaps my mother asked her to keep an eye on me.

I quickly take a sip from my earl grey – my favourite – trying to rid myself of those bitter thoughts.

Instead of dwelling on them, I instead choose to ask Edith how the self-defence courses are going – and without hesitation, Edith responds in great detail.

It is a pleasant enough afternoon – no. My excuses – it is a pleasant afternoon and I am glad I stopped by. I have yet to find another client to help and though the London Library has a great – and vast – collection of books, I do grow bored of reading eventually.

Too soon our little meeting comes to an end – much to my dismay.

“I’m afraid I must head upstairs again – Eleanor must head home soon and the evening classes are about to start”, she says, after I’ve given a detailed report on the book “Aurora Leigh” that I have been reading, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

The London Library holds a vast collection indeed.

“Of course – thank you for hosting me”, I say and get up as well, neatly setting my cup back onto the tray.

“Can I help you bring it back?”

“That’d be great, actually, if you could just grab the tea pot – thank you very much!”

And then Edith takes off and I follow her, helping her put the cups away and accompanying her to the stairs, where it is time for us to bid good-bye already - and I turn to leave, just to be held back one last time.

“Oh, and Enola?”, Edith asks and I turn around to face her:”Might you come in tomorrow, too? A customer of mine has asked to see you.”

Edith smiles brightly – and I feel excitement course through my veins.

What joy it is to find a new case!

.o.O.o.

20^th of September, 1884

I am surprised, to say the least, when the customer Edith talked about is a familiar face – Anne, to be more precisely – not the maid from the Hughesbury house, but rather the girl from the Drunken Dog. I squint when I first see her, immediately noting her familiarity – though it takes me quite some time to place her.

Embarrassingly long, in fact, and I hate to admit I was staring quite clumsily at her for the time it took me.

Mother once told me the single worst thing to do is not to remember someone and now I understand why.

Perhaps I should have understood sooner. I remember all too well what it felt to not have my own brothers recognize me, back at the train station when they first arrived. It felt equally terrible when Sherlock didn’t recognize me after I left that old toy at the Royal Academy – and I hadn’t wanted to be recognized at that moment in the first place!

But regardless. The girl doesn’t seem to mind though, judging by the way she smirks amusedly and Edith shakes her head, leaving us be for the time being to deal with customers further away.

But then I make the connection.

“Marianne!”, I happily exclaim once I have found the name to go with the face:”What a pleasant surprise to meet you here! Edith said you’ve been looking for me?”

Marianne chuckles at that, but nods in agreement, her smile never quite leaving her face.

You may not remember her, but Marianne was one of the girls working at the Drunken Dog as a waitress – if I remember correctly, her father owns the place – and, well, ensured my safety when I – unfortunately – maybe, got a bit tipsy.

I owe her, one could say.

“I did! I – I did. But call me Anne!”

Marianne’s smile falters ever so slightly and I wonder whether, perhaps, my hesitation might have caused her insult – but then she’s smiling again already.

“And I – I did ask you here. Because I have a favour to ask – well, it’s less a favour and more a task? Errand? It’s a small case, really. Barely will take a week for a detective of your prowess – however, things have gone missing, small things, trinkets, really – and they have yet to turn up again. I-I think they might have been stolen.”

Anne seems almost embarrassed by her request – and I, too, frown. This seems to simple almost.

“Are you certain they have been stolen? Mayhaps they were merely misplaced?”

Now, mother taught me insinuating someone might have not done something properly is a rude thing to do, but hear me out! I have solved a case like that already once before! Within a day no less! It happens all the time! A pair of earrings had gone missing and I found them, rolled underneath the wardrobe. The owner had apologized profoundly, but I hadn't minded all that much. I had received a cant – and it had been the most exciting thing to happen all week, but yet.

Not thievery, but instead a hasty movement and a bit of neglience.

Anne seems to disagree, though.

“I thought so too, at first!”, she exclaims, her face blushing in excitement.

Perhaps I am not the only one of the opinion this might be the most exciting thing to happen all week.

“But I haven’t found the trinkets yet! They’ve gone missing three days ago and I have left no stone unturned to find them! And I’m not the only one, too! I’ve heard other’s trinkets have gone missing, too! It must have been a thief – if just a bird, but I’d rather have the affirmation of a bird nicking our trinkets than – than by some gonop!”

Anne seems to be rather passionate about this subject – and it does seem to be a bit more intriguing than I first anticipated – the neighbours trinkets have gone missing, too? How peculiar – but then I frown.

It’s a silly thought, really. One doesn't deserve any mention, but I can’t help but think of it as my mind wanders to all the different ways to unmask the possible thief.

How did she...

“Back, at the drunken dog”, I ask:”Was it that obvious that I was a detective?”

It’d be quite bad news, if my occupation had been that apparent – stealth and disguises are of utmost importance!

Although, as time has shown, I might struggle sometimes. I remember the awkward encounter I’ve first had at Basilwether Hall.

But Anne simply laughs my concern off.

“Oh, no, not at all! I must admit, at first I imagined you to be some wronged lover of his...”

My face goes entirely pale at that and once Anne notices, so does hers.

“My apologies! Just for a few moments, really – I heard you say your name at one point and put together who you were – I’ve had my suspicions then – with all that I’ve heard – but then, you see...”

Anne blushes ever so slightly, before shaking her head and squaring her shoulders:”I have read the papers and – and I am trying to become part of the group...”

Group? That, once again, catches my attention. What...sort of group?

“...and I was most certain to have recognized Mrs. Hughesbury from some of the meetings I have attended myself – and from what I heard, you were the one to solve the case! Is it true you saved the Viscount Tewkesbury?”

Excitedly, Anne steps closer – and realization sets in.

“Uh, yes, but...”

I trail of and glance over my shoulder, where I see Edith talking to some of her customers – her back is turned to us.

Splendid.

Swiftly, I grab hold of Anne’s shoulder and pull her along with me, further away in our corner, better hidden from view, before I lean closer.

“Have you ever talked to my mother, then?”, I ask excitedly. If she has, she might know a better way to reach her or perhaps where she is!

Anne doesn’t answer immediately, seemingly caught off-guard by my sudden movement – but once she shrugs my hand from her shoulder, she shakes her head.

“Your mother? Eudoria Holmes? No – though I have heard of her. She is a wise woman, tell me, what was it like to grow up in her care?”

Independent. Freeing.

“A great privilege – one I am ashamed to admit I wasn’t even aware of before she left. I couldn’t imagine growing up with anyone else as my mother, though – society is crushing if one has known true freedom once.”

Anne is smiling now – and I notice it is a sad smile.

I enjoyed a privilege indeed – and already my mind wanders back to the house I called home once.

I clear my throat. I shouldn’t get distracted that easily.

“You haven’t talked to her? Have you ever seen her? Perhaps exchanged a brief correspondence? Perhaps listened to her giving a speech?”

I am entirely unsure whether my mother has ever given a speech, to anyone but myself, but I’d be surprised if she hadn’t. I remember her, once telling me

Really, there wasn’t anything my mother couldn't do, if she had set her mind to it.

“N-No, I-I am not a full-fledged member of the group just – I have yet to receive the booklet that is-”

It may be fate, but Edith chooses that moment to enter and Anne and I scatter under her scrutinising glare.

Cold Coffee, I silently curse. I was this close!

“Marianne?”, Edith asks and Anne shifts uncomfortably in her seat and glances at me.

Does Edith know her? She must, if Anne is trying to become part of their group – but I wonder why it is that I am allowed to know only so little then – what are they planning? What makes me different from Anne? She’s the same age as I!

“Yes?”

“Did you not say your father wants you home by twelve?”

Edith’s gaze is cold and steely and I can feel Anne shrink next to me.

“He-he did. Yes, I-”

She glances at me.

“I should probably leave, lest I bet late and receive a scolding.”

Her last words are murmured and she glances back at Edith, whose expression has yet to shift to a warmer one.

“I-I’ll be going then.”

And off she is, her crabshells clattering against the door – before coming to an abrupt halt. Hastily, Anne turns to me another time, smiling shyly, her gaze scurrying away from Edith whenever she meets hers.

“If, by any chance, you might find the time to have a look at my case – come whenever! My father knows you’ll be there – our doors are open to you at any time!”

And then she turns and leaves, leaving me alone with Edith, who once against has her arms crossed in front of her chest, frowning disapprovingly.

“We’ve gone over this before, Enola, why must you insist on finding her? When Eudoria wishes for you to explicitly not do that?”

“Why must you insist on keeping her from me?”, I counter:”Why must my mother insist on staying hidden?”

We’ve gone over this plenty of times – we both know where we stand. It is the one delicate topic Edith and I never seem to be able to agree upon.

“Enola, I have told you not to-”

“-not to come to London in search of someone else, I know – but why did she not write?”

I take a step closer, hoping Edith will give in just this once.

“I-I left her a message, too! All I want is to know that she is alright, what-”

I pause at that, for a few seconds to calm my breath, all the while refusing to meet Edith’s gaze.

Does she know? Of the – the dynamite, explosives they had stored at the Embankment?

“-whatever she may be doing. You must know something, Edith!”

I am pleading and I remember my mother telling me one should never plead, for it is an entirely disgraceful behaviour, but I can’t help it.

I can’t reason with Edith. And, anyway – my pleading seems to take effect, for Edith refuses to meet my gaze now, before erecting herself tall and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“She’s not in London at the moment, Enola. She hasn’t been in quite some time.”

Her voice sounds regretful and her eyes show remorse and I can feel my resentment leaving me already.

Stepping closer, I ask, fresh hope bestowing my voice just that little bit of excited edge:

“Then – where is she? Just a city, so I might message her? To thank her for letting me know about Mrs. Hughesbury?”

But the remorse never leaves Edith’s expression.

“She’s – She’s not in England either. She left for France three weeks ago – we don't know when she will return.”

I am tempted to ask who “we” is, but I doubt Edith would give me any names to work with – and anyway, she isn’t finished speaking just yet.

“I know you miss your mother dearly”, she says – and I am tempted to interrupt her. Of course I miss my mother – yet that does not stop Edith from keeping her from me.

“But you must understand – your mother didn’t want you to get involved with this...business for a reason. It’s – You’d be better off heading her advice, Enola. She cares for you. We care for you.”

She steps closer to me now, her eyes pleading as she grabs my hands, holding them firmly.

“Take that case, Enola – but don’t take it to chase after a clue that might lead to your mother – it’s for the best.”

And she steps away again.

I force myself to smile.

“Of course”, I respond – holding Edith’s gaze stubbornly, until she takes a deep breath and shakes her head and turns to leave.

“Take care, Enola – and good luck.”

.o.O.o.

22^th of September, 1884

“Dearest Clove Burdock,

I am glad to hear your ankle is so much better already! Didn't I tell you how important resting that ankle of yours is?

Regardless, I am excited to hear about this new case of yours! It may seem small, but I share your opinion – if you want to find your mother, it seems best if you were to ask Anne more about what she knows!

Though, I do not fully understand why you are so insistent on finding your mother at all. Perhaps it is because I’ve never felt the pain of not knowing where she is. I imagine it must be quite worrying to not know where one’s immediate family is and how they’re doing.

My apologies. I probably shouldn’t ask such a thing.

Mother is doing well, thank you for asking! She’s been busy organizing for a ball we’ll be holding – if you find the time to attend, you are most welcome to come – and to stay, if you find yourself in need of lodging afterwards!

I imagine travelling back home after such an ordeal, all the way to London, might be quite exhausting.

 

Sincerely

Viscount “Please do not call me “Ebenezer”” Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether"

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Thirteen

-

23^th of September, 1884

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File II: A clue? A track?

We never really left the house, mother and I. We ventured out into the gardens sometimes and sometimes – once a week, perhaps – I ran off, exploring the country side, but for the most part, we stayed inside. We studying and practised and exercised – that was what life was like.

I don’t think I have ever accompanied her – or Mrs. Lane, for that matter – to the market place in the village, ever – and I had to search for a map to find the stations I might depart from to London, before leaving my brothers behind.

I grew up sheltered. I grew up with scars and injuries, but I never much learned about anyone outside my small little bubble.

Life had been quite boring, that way. Monotonous. Not a great many things ever happened and perhaps it was my mother’s intent, for it made me all the more studious.

I didn’t necessarily enjoy myself everyday due to the limitations I was exposed to. And yet, as I walk the streets of Whitechapel, I realize once again how very uneducated I am.

This is, by far, not the first time I have ever been to Whitechapel. I’ve been there plenty of times – twice to be more precise – but I have never paid much attention to my surroundings.

I imagined it as an unhappy and dark and busy place, I painted it as this terrible place, the kind my mother used to warn me about.

“And always keep your things close to you, Enola – and never talk to anyone you don’t know. This world is a dangerous place.”

I should have paid more attention. Whitechapel is far from being an unhappy place. There is cheerful laughter wherever you go – laughter and smiles and people going their way.

It isn’t all poor either – yet the streets aren’t as clean as the others. The houses seem mushed together almost and everything seems – well – darker somehow.

I must admit, I was somewhat surprised by the menial case almost, that Anne had brought to my attention. Stolen trinkets?

It wasn’t much, was it? But mother also used to say:”And yet – mother used to say:”There is beauty in everything, if you are willing to look for it”. And Whitechapel, while not anywhere near the grand splendour of Mrs. Hughesbury’s neighbourhood, I quite like it.

And perhaps there is more to this case, too, than first meets the eye.

.o.O.o.

I am not running through the streets of Whitechapel as I make my way towards my goal – of course I’m not. Neither am I all acting that suspicious, in my opinion. I’m wearing fairly normal clothes – much less fancy than the clothes I wore when I ventured into Limehouse Lane – which is not quite Whitechapel, but a neighbouring district instead – and I hardly glance around, as if feared to be followed.

And yet, as I get closer to my destination, that is exactly what I fear – that someone is following me. It doesn’t make sense for anyone to do that – other than a map I am carrying nothing with me at all and I’d like to think I’d made a rather bad target for any dippers, yet I can’t help but glance around warily from time to time.

And eventually, I spot someone. A girl, eyeing me warily, her hands clutching a ball made of yarn, her messy black hair keeping her features from me. I frown, wonder whether I, perhaps, have seen her before – but after another blink of an eye, she is gone already.

I blink.

Weird. I wonder, what that could have been about – but then I shrug, picking up the pace again. I must hurry – it is late afternoon already and whilst I’ve been to the Drunken Dog before already, I’d rather take my time navigating, lest I get lost.

But that strange girl isn’t the only person who stops me in my tracks. In fact, when I stop at a corner, looking at the crudely drawn map that is supposed to lead me to my goal, I suddenly notices a boy watching me.

Which, again, is strange. I am fairly certain I have never seen that boy before – but before I get to think too much about it, said boy has already noticed me noticing him – and decides to come over.

Mother said to never trust strangers – however, she, too, told me to never assume, so I stay rooted to my spot – I must admit, shamefully undecided.

“Are you Enola Holmes?”, the boy asks the moment I am in earshot and I step back, immediately, fearing he might be sent by my brothers.

It is doubtful, of course – seeing how Sherlock would most certainly refuse to work with anyone but Doctor Watson and Mycroft would never “stoop so low” to ask someone who isn’t part of Scotland Yard to look for me – but entirely possible.

Perhaps an agent in disguise.

It never hurts to be careful.

The boy is smiling suspiciously much, too, which really doesn’t help his case.

“You must! You seem to be lookin’ for something and Anne...”

Oh. Well that explains that.

“...said you’d come in today – but you are? Enola Holmes? You don't seem to be from around here – and, well...”

He blushes and scratches his head, before chuckling embarrassedly.

“...that’d be the fourth girl I’ve approached today – Anne wouldn't be too happy with that.”

So he must have been here for some time – did Anne send him to look for me? Is he her brother?

“Oh, but my manners!”

The boy’s words rip me from my thoughts and he bows once, smiling teasingly, and I frown in confusion.

He looks ridiculous. Like a nincompoop – why, he somewhat reminds me of Tewkesbury.

“The name’s George – I live around the area and Anne asked me to be on the lookout – lead you to the inn and all that.”

Huh. How curious.

“She did?”

“Yeah – might you follow me? We’re almost there already, just around a few corners – I’m glad I could find you! You perfectly match the picture I’ve seen of you!”

And he turns and starts to walk, seemingly expecting me to follow him.

“You knew what I looked like?”, I ask, having trouble to keep pace. This boy, George, seems to be rather excited to meet me, much to my surprise.

I hadn’t expected anyone to be quite so...enthusiastic about my appearance. Other than Anne, perhaps, but she did ask me to come investigate, so I suppose she does not count.

“Of course! Anne didn’t shut up about you for days! You should have seen her – why, I think she kept an article all about you in her belongings, as well!”

I raise an eyebrow at that.

“She did?”

“Yes! It’s exciting, isn’t it? – she has told me all about it. I’m glad you could help that poor buor – must have been terrible, for her...”

George trails off, lowering his gaze to the floor, before shaking his head.

“I’m glad Anne told me though – would have never heard of it if she hadn’t. Don’t read the news all that much.”

At that, I frown once more.

“You don’t read the news?”

“No. Why would I?”

Shouldn’t that be obvious?

“To know what is happening in your country? Don’t you need to know to – to cast a vote? To know which decisions might be made?”

But he simply shrugs.

“I’m not allowed to vote.”

Oh. Well. Yes. He must be my age – perhaps a little bit older, but not by much.

“But surely you will be! Once you’ve turned 21.”

“Nah. My dad can’t vote either. There's not enough money to go around – a poor cove’s voice doesn’t matter.”

He trails off for a few moments – but then, already, he is shaking his head.

“Keeping up with the news – it’s pointless, ain’t it? There's not much for me to know. But I suppose what you did was great! Anne said so and Anne’s the cleverest person I know!”

George is beaming at me now, before coming to a halt again – right in front of the Slap-Bang Job that I already know so well.

I never noticed, but the “Drunken Dog” has seen better days already. It does look a little bit – shabby, with paint peeling off and dimming. Only the sign announcing the inn’s name still holds up – in shining colours and with bold letters.

I nod once before making my way to the entrance – simply to be held back by George, who doesn’t wait to pull me away from it.

“Not that way”, he says, leading me into an alley, now. He stops again in front of a fence, undoubtedly leading to a yard of some sort – I don’t remember much about any back entrances, but I suppose this would do.

But then George starts climbing said fence.

“We’ve gotta go this way”, he says, when he notices my hesitation. It isn’t the climbing itself holding me back, of course – I have climbed plenty of times already, as you are sure to know – my mother personally oversaw me at the beginning, claiming that every woman needs to know how to climb away from any potential danger, if necessary – yet I can’t help but wonder why we can’t just use the front entrance.

“Anne said her father knows I’ll be here-”, I say, stepping closer, eyeing the fence warily.

It doesn’t look the most stable.

George is almost on the other side already – and shrugs.

“He knows alright. He’s fine with it, too – but having Jacks around ain’t good for business, you know?”

George winks at me, before he starts to climb the fence, leading into the small lot.

.o.O.o.

“You’re here!”, Marianne exclaims the moment she lays eyes upon me:”I’m so glad you made it – I’ve searched the entire room again, but the stolen goods have yet to re-appear!”

She pulls me into a quick hug before grabbing me by my wrist and pulling me upstairs, her eyes, shining with excitement, never leaving my form.

“I hope George’s been treating you well”, she says, her gaze flickering to his for a second, before shaking her head.

“But, as if – he’s a big softie-” “I am not! I’m strong!” “-and he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Thanks for helping me out, by the way!”

She smiles at him now and he smiles back and we’ve reached the end of the stairs.

“And my excuses – father needed me downstairs – he’s already allotting me some time off to show you around. My brother is taking over for me right now – he really didn’t care much for you coming over!”

“Your brother?”

I glance at George – and Anne laughs in response.

“Yes. I have a brother and a sister – none of them are George-” “I sure hope so!” “-and another one, but she’s too young to help – or talk.”

Anne chuckles now, before nudging George, who followed us without prompting.

“Remember when you were around while she was born?”

Immediately, he pales and Anne laughs once again – I, too, smile, though unsure, wondering what she might be talking about. And then George splutters:”It wasn’t funny!”

“You almost fainted!”

“Of course I did! Who wouldn’t?”

Quite frankly, I still do not know what either of them are talking about – I suppose my lack of having younger siblings is to blame for that. And, perhaps, how far removed from the village we were.

“It wasn’t funny!”, George exclaims another time, and this time, another voice chimes in.

“It wasn’t funny indeed. We had to sweep the entire room and mother’s screams kept a great deal of patrons away that day. You shouldn’t make fun of things like that, Marianne.”

The voice in question belongs to an older boy – well, man really, he might be around twenty, or perhaps older – who comes up the stairs, looking anything but pleased.

“Will you come down already?”, he then asks – and I deduce he must be Anne’s brother. He’s clearly older than her, but they share enough similarities for them to be anything but.

And, judging by the way Anne glares at him, he couldn’t possibly be a patron.

“But she’s just arrived!”

“Well, make it quick – I’m no waitress”, he responds, throwing a dirty look at me before leaving again, a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Anne rolls her eyes.

“Ignore him – he’s just a downer – but anyway, he’s right, we should hurry up...Any questions so far?”

And she turns at me, her eyes hopeful and excited – and I am quite surprised at her request.

Well. Not really. Questions.

Of course, I am expected to ask questions. I suppose it is the best way to start things of.

“Is there a list of things that were stolen? You mentioned yours weren’t the only trinkets to be taken – who else was stolen from?”

Perhaps I could get permission to look at the other crime scenes as well. There might be some evidence left at another place that we won’t be able to find here.

“Only small things were taken – Mei’s – a neighbour of ours, black hair, kind of shy – her ball is gone and I’ve heard Francis couldn’t find a book of his anymore – small things, really. There’s this one chess piece I keep around for good luck that has disappeared – I usually leave it next to my bed or carry it around with me, I really don’t think I’ve just lost it!”

And then her expression falls and turns grave – and so does George’s.

“It was a gift by my late grandmother – it is quite dear to me and I’d really like it back.”

When she mentions her grandmother, I wince at first – I never knew my grandparents – either side – and the only one I have ever met is Tewkesbury’s.

Who I dislike for the very obvious reason she tried to kill both of us.

But enough of that.

“A chess piece? Was it part of a full set?”

“I think so – brother has the other pieces, you might have to ask him. Though, I doubt it’d be of any help. Or he.”

She rolls her eyes again and George chuckles.

“He’s not that bad!”

“Yes, he is! He’s terrible – can’t hold a job down for the life of him! And anyway, I don’t want to talk about my brother right now!”

Now, that is a sentiment I can get behind. Mother used to say holding grudges is pointless – and perhaps she may be right – yet I cannot help but grimace whenever I think of Mycroft.

But anyway.

“Any leads?”, I continued asking:”Open windows, anyone suspicious spotted around the house”, I ask as we enter the room – and Anne positively glows up at my question.

She smiles slyly.

“There was a skilamalink hanging around the place a few days ago – but that's nothing new, really – but anyway...”

And she steps aside, showing me a small space, right at the window.

“We found a footprint!”

And a footprint they found indeed. It is right there, in the middle – undoubtedly, someone moved the wardrobe aside to grant more access.

I spot another one just outside the window, on the windowsill, but not any others.

How peculiar.

“We found it this morning – another thing was taken – the needle of the dress I was working on.”

Disappointed, Anne throws a look at a heap of fabric laying on one of the beds, before she shakes her head:”It’s a pity – but I can use another for now.”

“I’m sure we’ll find the needle again”, George assures her, entering the room as well and immediately his eyes zero in on the footprint on the windowsill.

“That’s great! We can just follow the tracks!”, he exclaims, hurrying over towards the window – I, however, don’t. Instead, I frown and kneel down, examining the footprint.

“What-What are you doing? I mean – no offence! You're a detective! – but isn’t there a -can’t we just follow the tracks?”

Marianne nods:”Yes, wouldn’t that be the best option, wouldn’t it? Before any of the

It seems to be the best answer, she’s right – but it just feels off. It seems so obvious. And there must be more we can learn from this footprint.

It is a rather large footprint – not extraordinarily so, but perhaps it was made by a boy’s shoe? G – and its a mix between brown, mostly, and a few reddish-brown spots.

The colour seems so uncanny. I wonder where I have seen it before…

“Is there anything wrong with the footprint? Did you notice anything?”

My frown intensifies – and then my eyes widen all of sudden and I stumble

“E-Enola?”

“Blood. This is blood.”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Fourteen

-

23^th of September

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File III: A fisherman’s tale

“To be successful, Enola, you need to pay attention to the smallest of details.”

I remember the day my mother spoke these words well. We were out in the gardens, kneeling on the grass – getting our dresses all dirty and behaving very much unladylike – carefully examining the many plants that one can find in the English countryside. Herbs, specifically. My mother had wished for me to know all there is to know about plants – to be able to tell them apart, to be able to use each of them to the best of their abilities.

“Resourcefulness can only ever come in handy, dear. You could never possibly be too well prepared.”

But I failed to grasp the ins and outs of botany – that day, I had mixed up the plants once again and I almost cried.

Of course, my mother wouldn't have that.

“Now, don’t be sad – every person has their talents and every person has their weaknesses. Don’t be disappointed for not being perfect – one should merely strife towards perfection, one should never reach it – for how boring would life be, if we were perfect at everything?”

Her words had hardly done anything to pacify my disappointment – I had been but ten years old and as stubborn as they come! But I had taken solace in them once I had turned older and had failed to properly perform the “corkscrew” time and time again.

I never did learn botany, by the way. I don’t know what it is about plants, but their mysteries will evade me for all time to come, it seems.

Yet, it is not perfection I am taking interest in – but rather my mother’s first lesson.

“To be successful, Enola, you need to pay attention to the smallest of details.”

And it is for that very reason – my mother’s foresight – that I did not panic – at first I might, but not for long! – when I examined that footprint.

Mud. Blood.

And a strange smell of fish. Which might be a weird detail to pick up on – but helpful nonetheless, for it most certainly meant we were, in fact, not dealing with a murdere as well – I might have to fear for Anne’s life if we had.

But fish it is. And Billingsgate fish market is but a twenty minutes walk from “The Drunken Dog”.

.o.O.o.

“So you haven’t seen anything?”, I ask Joanne, as she stands in front of me, excitedly teetering on the balls of her feet, her eyes skipping from face to face, never quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

“No, nope, nothing. No sounds, no face, no shadow, honour bright – was that it?”

Joanne is...energetic, to best describe her. Whenever I see her, she seems to at the very least be fiddling with something, if not downright swinging her arms around in a never-ending dance – I might have thought she might be nervous – which would have been quite suspicious, to say the least – if it hadn’t been for the sheer disinterest everyone else seemed to show at her behaviour.

And anyway – she has answered all my question with patience and it is time for me to accept she truly doesn't know anything.

“No – that’s it. Thank you a lot for your help.”

Clumsily, Joanne courtesies – whilst giggling to herself, her face to be quite a gigglemug – before off she goes, running to the back of the establishment.

I let out a sigh in resignation.

I have yet to find a promising lead.

It has been some time now, since Anne lead me downstairs again, loudly chatting away.

“I’d like to stay longer, of course – but brother can be a real menace when he's grumpy! And it is high time that I help out again!”

I nodded in understanding as I followed her downstairs. We do not meet anyone on our way down, and I dare to ask:”Do you know anyone who has been to the market recently?”

Anne frowns at that, glancing at me in bewilderment – to no surprise. And it might be a weird thing to ask, indeed – and rather random at that – but I have a theory, that I am yet unwilling to share.

If my theory is proven right, the less people know, the better. And whilst I don’t think of Anne as a church bell, you never know who might overhear.

“It’s Billingsgate. Everyone goes to Billingsgate – I’ve been, yesterday, with my mother. Brother goes there regularly in search for work. I might be able to ask around – but everyone goes there! It’s not anything out of the ordinary.”

I should have anticipated this – of course many people would go there.

It’s a fish market – 20 minutes from here no less.

It doesn’t necessarily disprove my theory either, though.

We have reached the end of the staircase and – after a swift look around the inn – Anne turns to me, an apologetic frown painted across her eyes.

“I – I must go now – my parents will need me...”

Her frown deepens – but then it lights up and she goes as far as to snip her fingers together in excitement.

“But if you’d like to go to the market – George can bring you there?”, she says, making it sound like a question as she looks at George who nods eagerly.

“Of course!”

Then he glances away, blushing ever so slightly as he scratches his neck in embarrassment.

“But we’ll have to leave soon. I’d quite like to make a pretty penny or two today...”

He trails off, but Anne nods – before turning around, to face me once again.

“I’ll leave you to it, then – Please, do call whenever you need help!”

And off she was, too, leaving me to ponder what to do next. I decided to question her family first, of course – yet not a single helpful thing was said. Anne’s parents hadn’t heard anything, neither had Joanne and the patrons refused to talk to me.

Which really, left me with one option only.

.o.O.o.

Now, you may be wondering why I am going to Billingsgate at all – I have never been, but even without ever having visited I know it must be of quite a size. Finding anything would be like looking for a needle in a hay stack – quite impossible, in fact.

Yet, there isn’t much else I can do. The footprint is simply too obvious. The day before a detective is set to arrive another thing is stolen and a visible footprint is left? How would a thief – as sneaky as this one must be, considering no one seems to know anything about this phantom – ever miss such an obvious tell?

It must be a trap. A diversion.

So Billingsgate it is. Though my company seems to be of different opinion.

“Are you sure you want to go there?”, George asks as we leave “The Drunken Dog”:”Are you sure you wouldn’t much rather follow that trail? The footprint?”

Determined, I shake my head.

“It’s a trap. It must be – I’d quite like to know as much about this quest as possible before foolishly walking into one.”

I have done so before – it almost cost me my life. And – regretfully so – it almost costed Ebenezer’s as well.

Truly, a beautiful name.

I do not understand why Tewkesbury dislikes it so much.

“Why are you laughing?”

George side-eyes me confused and I blush from embarrassment, though it does nothing to dampen my smile.

“I just remembered a friend...”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend.”

George continues side-eyeing me, grinning devilishly now, making me blush once more, much to my annoyance.

I clear my throat.

“Enough of that.”

My blush fails to die down.

“Are there any people I should know of? That are close to Anne?”

Finally, my blush disappears and so does George’s grin – as he frowns in contemplation.

„She’s got a sister. And a brother – you’ve talked to them, have you not?”

I haven’t. Marianne’s brother must have left quickly after she had taken over, for I couldn’t find him anywhere.

“She doesn’t have any other siblings – her family’s pretty small, but her mother seems to be barren?”

“W-What?”

I whirl around, shocked George would know such – such an intimate thing – I am blushing again, am I not? – but George simply quirks an eyebrow at my bewilderment, seemingly taking great amusement from my fifteen puzzles.

“We’re a tight-knit bunch. Grew up together – and her mother suffered two miscarriages and has not carried another child since then.”

“That’s – that’s terrible.”

“It happens, She loves her children dearly – she’s lucky to have them. Floyd’s not the greatest, but Joanne’s nice and Anne is – well, Anne’s amazing.”

He smiles a toothy grin at that.

“Other than her family...There’s Mei, too! – My cousin. Grew up as siblings, really – my father’s a sailor, not home all too often and so is hers, so our mothers banded together. There’s also Francis, Elizabeth, – they get up to a great deal of shenanigans. Never let us boys tag along, too!”

He laughs at that and I try to grin as well, as I curse myself for not bringing a notebook. It might be useful to keep track of all those names.

“Do you have a list of all things stolen?”

George tilts his head:”A list? Well – a ball of yarn, a chess piece, a needle, a book – I can’t find a coin I found once anymore – wasn’t worth much – a handkerchief...”

That piques my interest.

“A handkerchief?”

“Yes. What about it?”

I frown. I have spent quite some time in London know – as you may be aware of – and while I have yet to solve a great deal of cases, I was not lazy by any means! In fact, I have most of my time reading up on all the various forms of crime that can be found in London – if one knows of a criminal’s way, one is more likely to catch them, after all.

And one, very curious form of stealing is named “Smatter Hauling” or even “Cly faking”. In which someone steals a handkerchief – usually a flimp – to then sell it.

According to my sources, there is a ready market for it. Perhaps it is the fabric that is so enticing? However…

“Was it made of silk, by any chance?”

“Silk? I-I don’t know. Could be. Doubt it, though – silk’s expensive.”

A lesson I learned when I first arrived in London. Silk is very expensive indeed. Though – why steal a simple linen – or cotton – handkerchief?

What other reasons could there be other than stealing expensive fabric?

“Maybe I’ve missed something – Might have to ask Anne. But I’m sure she can make a list for you!”, George says, ripping me from my thoughts, as I stumble along next to him.

George is fast and I have trouble keeping up – and I usually pride myself in my stamina. Perhaps, staying in London might have had an impact on my physical abilities. I might need to leave London for a while for the country side for some exercise.

I have never been to the coast.

“Do you, perhaps, know of the dates when everything was stolen?”, I inquire and for the first time ever since we’ve departed from “The Drunken Dog” George stops.

Foolishly I believe him to be in deep thought – but he is not and perhaps, if the smell of fresh fish hadn’t drifted through every street in a mile-wide radius, I might have noticed. But as it is, it takes George’s “We’re here” and him pointing at the many stalls littering the street for me to take note.

There is no sign erected here, announcing the market’s presence – there are only stalls and people and fish. Fitting, though I had imagined differently.

“I don’t know when the things were taken – but Anne does. Anne always does!”

George smiles again. I smile, too – and then he leads me into Billingsgate fish market.

And we go on.

And on.

And on.

Until eventually George remarks he finds some fishermen he can help out and he apologizes for leaving.

“Once you’re done, please come back here! Anne would have my head if I’d leave you all alone here!”

And then he’s gone and I am left do my own devices.

Not that I am doing much – for the most part I am simply strolling through the streets, trying to look as detective-ly and conspicuously as possible – I haven’t taken my wallet and I hope to attract attention.

I am certain, someone might have followed me. It is the best bet I have other than following that obvious trap, which I might just do.

But not for now.

I have my suspicions.

Not much happens as I walk around – until I get the strange feeling of being watched, that is. I kneel down at the riverside, pretending to examine something – earning a great deal of frowns, but none of them seem to be the person I am looking for.

I straighten myself. It must have been a false alarm.

It take another two of these occasions for me to finally find what I am looking for.

A person seems to be watching me – a girl, it seems, however they keep to the shadows and other than a dress I can’t make out anything. They seem to be tall and slender – but there’s not much else for me to memorize.

I try to stay calm as I keep walking – I can’t let them know I’ve spotted them.

As I continue walking, I try my hardest to keep an eye on that mysterious shadow. And indeed, they are following me – until I stumble over a small barrel – and my cover is gone.

Immediately, the shadow turns around and, immediately, I follow suit.

I got them.

This is my chance.

It is amusing how the roles are reversed now – except that I am terrible at shadowing people and our game of tag gets faster and faster – almost I am willing to throw all caution into the wind and to break into a sprint – but the shadow is just a tad faster.

I try my best to keep up – but to no avail. Billingsgate market is big and there are many people and before I now, I am out of breath – and I have lost them.

Angrily, I huff. Dammit. That might have been a lead that just ran away right now – and it is the second time now, that a possible suspect has managed to escape me.

But there’s not much to do about it.

It doesn’t stop me from being mad about it – and I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings.

“What has got you so abuzz?”, George asks once I’ve found him again. He’s standing in almost the same place that I have left him – claiming to have helped with loading and unloading.

He got a bit of money and a fish out of it.

I let out a huff – at least one of us seems to have gotten lucky.

“Did you find anything?”, he asks, as I take my time to catch my breath – perhaps staying in London so long has not been the best for my physical education – maybe once I’ve solved this case, I might leave for a week or so to rebuild my stamina?

“I was followed”, I eventually reply, sounding sour and mad and grumpy.

But George doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, as he simply continues to roll up the long rope in his hands, undoubtedly used to tie a boat to the shore.

“There’s not much to it – You look like a knickerbocker. Don’t mind it too much. And anyway, you might have misjudged? Not-Not to be disrespectful, of course!”

“But someone was there”, I say, mighty irritated:”I know for a fact! I’ve seen them!”

But all George does is shrug.

“It’s a busy place, isn’t it? Billingsgate’s just like that – you’ll find someone suspicious everywhere. Keep your wallet close and attention up – nothing out of the ordinary.”

Well. I quite disagree. Not a single detail must go unnoticed – not in a strange case like this.

Needles and Chess pieces and ball of yarns aren’t much of a prize, now are they? Unless, of course, if none of these thefts are done for any monetary gain. All the things stolen were described as personal items, items that, when gone missing, might hurt the owner in an entirely different way and – quite frankly – a personal motive is the only possible motive I can imagine.

But, perhaps, if those thefts were targeted – perhaps, I may have met the thief already. And the thief might have met me, too.

.o.O.o.

“Dear William Tewkesbury, Ebenezer of Basilwhether,

I am delighted to hear you are doing so well – I’d quite like to express my sympathy to your mother for having to organize such a thing like a ball, but, alas, I am afraid I do not know much of these matters. I am most certain mother must have attended one at some point, however she never once mentioned it while still residing at home.

Come to think of – is the place I grew up in part of your family’s belongings? I can’t help but wonder, seeing how both of us left from the same station – I suppose so.

I’d be quite relieved to know I am represented by a liberal Lord – speaking of, how’s parliament? It is out of session, is it not? It must have been for quite some time now – are you bored?

I hope not. If you do ever find yourself bored, perhaps we might agree upon a meeting once again? I do remember your offer to show me around Basilwether Hall, after all, and I’d quite like to take you up on it – I promise – no case will prevent me from attending this time!

Speaking of which, this new case of mine seems to be more than I first anticipated. The trinkets do seem to have been stolen, but I cannot imagine a thief to have done so.

Who would ever steal a single chess piece? Why not the whole board? Or any of the valuables?

I do hope to find out soon.

 

Sincerely

Clove Burdock"

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 15

-

23^th of September 1884

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File IV: A trail to be followed

.o.O.o.

“Society is complicated, Enola – it’s why I stay away from it. There are rules to be headed, there is a reputation to be kept – it is all so very complicated.”

As you must know by now, dear reader, my mother had kept away from society indeed. There hadn’t been any parties that she had attended, nor hosted, there hadn’t be any meet-ups over coffee nor had there ever been any strangers staying at our house for a prolonged time, friends of old that were visiting the country side and had asked for shelter.

No. It had been the just two of us – and perhaps Mrs. Lane, whose company I will forever cherish – though, perhaps, not as much as my mother’s.

The only people that had ever stayed over were my mother’s feminist acquaintances, that one can hardly describe as being part of society themselves..

No, my mother kept away from society – but it isn't that what I have been thinking about as George leads me back to “The Drunken Dog”. No, my mind got caught up to the second part of her teaching.

“But life – life is easy. Surprisingly easy – do not let yourself be fooled by the laws of society and do not – under any circumstances – let them influence you when judging the laws of nature.”

I do not remember why she told me – and I usually do, always. I remember quite a lot of my time with her and I remember it fondly.

But no matter how much I try to recall the exact moment these words left her mouth, I come up empty-handed – though I like to imagine it was after I read about one of Sherlock’s cases. Perhaps I would tell my mother how obvious the answer had been, how it had come as no surprise that it had been the heir who had poisoned some tea or wine or water.

Perhaps, it had been after I had found a previously, declared “stolen”, book – one I had misplaced, but had been to stubborn to admit too.

There are endless possibilities, really – but no matter what the circumstances, her advice still stands up. People and society may be complicated – but – sometimes, admittedly – life isn’t complicated. Sometimes it is the heir that was previously highly indebted, sometimes it is the threatening shadow that follows you around each corner.

Sometimes, it might just be a footstep in the middle of the room – just the trail, no dirt is needed to be examined and no cloaked figures need to be followed.

Perhaps, I should have simply listened to mother – seeing how my little excursion has done me no good

.o.O.o.

I am following George again – as I do most of the time, lately – I still struggle to keep up and George still does not notice – as we make back our way to “The Drunken Dog”. I ask to stop by a post office to post my letter to Tewkesbury and we do – before we resume our walk.

It is eerie, how familiar this situation seems to me. He’s running almost, I try to mask the heavy breaths I take, we are hardly noticed and I -I encounter a ghost once more. For a split second, just! – but for a split second I believe to see her again – that girl with the black hair.

She seems to be holding a ball in her hands.

It might have been just a trick of the light, of course – or perhaps I am seeing things where there are none – and anyway, George keeps to that ridiculous pace of his and I need to jog to catch up to him.

I try to shake the encounter. George might have been right – when I was followed, down at the market, it might have just been a dipper and not much else and now again – she wasn’t eyeing me, I must have been mistaken.

Soon, we reach the doors to the Slap-Bang Job and we enter. Anne is helping out behind the counter when we come in and upon recognizing us, she beckons us over.

“How did it go?”, she asks excitedly, drying a mug:”Did you find anything?”

I feel almost ashamed to having to admit that I did not find anything – that must be why my cheeks are heating up and why I lower my gaze to the floor.

What a disappointment. It is a first that one of my leads has lead to nothing – nothing! – at all and it is a bitter pill to swallow.

But it is a pill that needs to be swallowed nonetheless.

“I’ve found nothing”, I admit, grimacing at the way her smile contorts to a disappointed frown – I don’t like it at all.

I tell myself it is because I fear for Anne’s happiness. I tell myself, it is for that reason, that I hurriedly add:”I had a theory!”

Now, before I continue this story, I’d like to insert my mother’s wisdom once more

My mother once said that the root of all evil is not money – but rather pride.

“Money and possessions are simply yet another way to find pride where there is none – pride is the single most foul thing in the world – do not be surprised the old Greeks viewed hubris as a man’s worst quality.”

I quite agree with her – shamefully so, as these last words were nothing but a vain attempt to mask my own failing – and worse, for now I have captured both Anne’s and George’s attention with one premature slip of the tongue.

I shouldn’t disclose my theory just yet, as you may agree with. Keeping the one theory I have secret is of utmost importance. No one can know – it might drive the culprit of.

But it is too late to back away now.

“A theory?”, Anne asks curiously, leaning towards me – and my glance flitters to the mug and then the dishes and then to George and then – finally – they settle back on Anne once more.

I allow myself to gulp – I fear she might have seen – before I slowly start to shake my head.

“I’m afraid – I’m afraid I can’t quite disclose it just yet...”

I stumble through the words more than I am truly saying them – and my nervousness causes confusion and – perhaps – even bewilderment within audience.

I cannot blame them.

“But be rest-assured, I will have this case solved in no time!”

I am smiling – too widely to be convincing – I am floundering, am I not?

I am floundering.

Though, the silence I’ve called for – this tense, strange silence that seems to engulf the room, though there is plenty of chatter left to listen to – does not last long – and it is George who seems insistent to move along this conversation of ours.

“She was followed, too”, he says, sounding almost nonchalant about it – yet it is anything but.

“What?”

“What?”

Both our heads spin around faster than I had ever imagined I could move my neck – to stare at George who is trailing behind us. He seems to be taken aback by my reaction.

“You – you said you were followed? I – I’m sorry, did I get that wrong? Wasn’t I meant to say anything? I didn’t mean anythin bad by it, I swear!”

I raise my eyebrows at that.

“I thought you didn’t believe me?”

My words cause him to sheepishly shy away from my gaze – though he does glance at Anne from the side.

“I – I don’t believe it has got anything to do with that case of yours – but if you said you were followed, you were followed – and if you think it’s about the case – you’re the detective. You might be right.”

George shrugs. I smile thankfully at him – though he is not the only critical mind present.

“Well – it might have been just a flimp...”, Anne murmurs, brows still creased.

I do not blame her – and yet...

“I have a theory – it might play into that.”

Perhaps I am not floundering that much after all.

“But regardless – I’d quite like to see the footprint now?”

“Of course – let me just fetch Floyd, he can take over for the time being.”

And off she is. George and I wait in silence – until we hear a commotion further down the counter. I frown upon seeing Anne discuss with her brother – but George simply rolls his eyes.

“What is he up to this time?”, he grunts, before making his way over – and I trail him, for a lack of anything better to do.

We catch the tail end of the conversation – one that leaves Floyd looking as if he had swallowed an especially bitter herb and that leaves Anne to be fuming.

“And mother said you must – perhaps, if you had looked into the matter yourself, you’d be free to do whatever it is that you do these days – Enola, George, lets go!”

Without another word, Anne jumps the counter, throwing the still wet dish towel at her brother, before heading off. George and I exchange glances, before he shrugs his shoulders and runs after Anne – and so do I, all the while feeling Floyd’s eyes bore into my back.

I frown.

“What has got him so twisted?”, I ask, once I have caught up with them.

“It’s my brother – he’s being a prick. You know how it is...”

Anne trails off and shakes her head, but then she leads me back into her room.

“Well yes – but may I ask why? I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you don’t get along.”

“Ugh – he tried to leave house already – my sister and I got his old room – he came back and had to sleep in a room without light. He’s been grumpy ever since.”

“Left the house?”

“Ran away – there’s been quite some arguments about it – but anyway, I’d rather not talk about it. Here’s the footstep. Joanne and I left it as it was, like you asked us to!”

Accepting her answer, I nod and kneel down next to the footstep.

There’s nothing remarkable about it at all.

But it is the only lead I currently have.

“Well then”, I say, getting to my feet again.

The footsteps clearly leads outside – which makes it all the more suspicious.

Why is there only one? Did the thief accidentally leave one, noticed it and then jumped around on only one leg? Or perhaps they took their shoe off?

But then why is the footsteps so clearly pointing outside?

It must have been left on purpose and it must lead to a trap – yet there’s not much else I can do other than to investigate further.

Clamouring towards the window I lean outside – my eyes searching every nook and corner until I find another footprint, just on the periphery of my eyes.

It must have been planed.

It simply must have.

.o.O.o.

It is – by far – not the first time I have climbed out of a window. I am a very proficient climber indeed – yet, now that I have to follow these footsteps – that are clearly pointing towards someone having left through the window – my legs almost give in and I struggle not to fall down.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”, Anne asks, eyebrows raised – but I shake my head.

“I’ll be alright – I’ll be back before you know it!”

Jokingly, I salute – then I jump – and wince once I land, almost toppling over, too.

If Tewkesbury were to see me like this, he’d get a fit – my ankle has still to fully recover.

But there’s not much to be done.

“Are you alright?”

“Perfectly splendid! Don’t worry about me!”

And off I go, towards where I’ve spotted that second footstep. There’s another one not far from there – and the chase is on.

I follow this trail for some time, climbing across roofs and tiles, alongside windows and chimneys, eyes on the lookout for anything suspicious – until I finally find the footprint clearly leading onto the street down below.

Within a few jumps I have reached the wonky makeshift construct. I narrow my eyes – should this one be able to withstand my weight?

Well, there’s no harm in trying.

…

I’ll have to tell you about my mother’s wisdom once more – though it might just be the last time in this file!

“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand and I am afraid you might just be a tad too reckless sometimes. There is no honour or glory to be found in poising alongside an abyss.”

My mother is right, of course. With both. Neither is their glory to be found in a reckless deed – nor am I particularly known to mull over any possible consequences for my own recklessness.

Mayhaps, then, it should come as no surprise that the wobbly construction does, in fact, not withstand my weight. With aloud crash and an equally loud shriek I break through one of the planks and slide down quite a bit, before coming to an abrupt halt a few moments later.

I don’t move for a few seconds, as I hold on to a piece of wood above me, too scared to let go lest I should fall again.

It takes me some time to catch my breath but then – finger by finger – I let go of the wood, missing it’s calming texture almost immediately.

My breath is shaky still when I finally allow my weight to be held by my legs alone – several times, my hands grasp for the strip of wood – until, finally, I have got my bearings once again, I slowly proceed to climb down the last feet still separating me from earth.

Once my feet touch upon the hard cobblestone, I look down at my leg, carefully pulling my skirt away from it – and I wince, once I see blood running from a small cut.

Cold Coffee. That will leave a mark.

Bloody windows – I keep injuring myself whenever climbing out of them.

Dropping the bunched up fabric again, I shake my head – enough of that. I need to follow these footsteps as fast as possible, lest they should be removed.

But at the very least, I know now that the thief had most likely been lighter than I had been.

I stretch my legs – before eyeing my surroundings – and soon enough, the trail picks up once more. Suspiciously mustering whoever comes my way, I follow it, wary of what may lay ahead – but nothing happens.

Other than having been dealt a grave reminder of the less than stellar athletic shape I am in, not much of note happens during this tracking at all. Eventually, the footsteps lead into an alley, further and further into it until – well, until they stop. I inspect my surroundings two more times until concluding this is where these steps were supposed to lead me – which is strange.

There is not a single entrance to a house in this street and the walls seems unlikely to have been scaled.

Had someone decided to take their shoe off in the middle of the alley?

It may be a possibility – though, you must agree, an unlikely one.

Regardless – there isn’t anything to be done about that. I will have to look through this alley if I want to live up to my reputation – so I do.

The alley is filled with trash cans of questionable content – It smells badly, I must admit, but I carry on anyway.

Something must be here – I am convinced there must be and then – badly hidden behind a barrel, I do find something. Without hesitating, I grab the box I’ve located – it must have been placed here. It is of too high quality to have been thrown out – there are rudimentary patterns carved into the wood.

Though it is nowhere close to the intricate wood-carvings on my mother’s boxes.

Narrowing my eyes, I lift up the lid, standing upright to get more light and a better view of what’s inside the box.

I wouldn’t have needed the light – there’s no cloth hiding the contents away, nor are there any secret compartments that need to be found. No, it’s a needle, a book, a chess piece – all neatly kept next to each other.

I close the lid again and stare at the top of the box.

All neatly kept next to each other – but why? Why not sell it? Why – Why steal it all?

Now, dear reader – you may be as stumped as I am – however, I am sure we both have reached the very same conclusion: This box – and by extension those footsteps – were planted.

I – or someone else – was supposed to find these things. You can’t sell them and they do not adorn any other person’s house.

They weren’t meant to be stolen at all.

.o.O.o.

When I return, to give a report, I notice another person has joined our little group – a small girl with black hair and tired eyes. She musters me suspiciously, before turning to nudge Anne who is deep in conversation with George.

Immediately, Anne beckons me over.

“Enola! You’re back already!”, she exclaims and I nod, smiling awkwardly – before glancing at the girl next to me. Black hair and a small frame? I tilt my head and glance at George.

“I’m Mei”, she introduces herself:”I’m this buffoon’s cousin – though I assume h has already told you?”

I nod – and then try to recall everything that had been said about her.

“You – you were the one whose – toy ball? – was stolen?”

“Yeah – a ball of yarn. It was my cat’s favourite toy before he passed away.”

“You had a cat?”

How curious.

“Hm – it was more of a stray, really – I fed him fish sometimes and that bastard stuck around – I bet I wasn’t the only one he begged food from, like the wh-”

“Mei!”, interrupts Anne her, scandalized:”Watch your mouth?”

Mei rolls her eyes.

“You’ve heard worse.”

“This is not about-”

“I’ve heard worse, too”, I chime in, in attempt to calm her:”My mother didn’t care a great deal for propriety.”

The other three stare at me in surprise – before Mei laughs, George embarrassedly scratches his neck – and Anne shakes her head.

“Of course she would”, she murmurs fondly – and the moment my head snaps around to meet her gaze one can visibly see her freeze.

Mother once said that the best way to find information you’re not supposed to know about is by never asking directly for it – it is best if your interlocutor does not have the faintest inkling what you’re out for – for people are careless more often than they are not and true secrecy is a virtue rarely found.

Everyone slips up in a way – like Anne just did – but, perhaps, my wish to find my mother is too well-know to acquaintances of Edith’s.

“Not – not that I’ve ever met her, of course!”, Anne shrieks, stepping back and throwing her hands out in front of her.

There is no need to, really – I won’t pry. I know better than to waste my time.

“I’ve just – I’ve heard a lot about her! N-No one should be surprised she doesn’t care for propriety – she has quite the reputation after all...”

Anne smiles awkwardly and I let out a sigh.

I had anticipated this outcome already.

Anne clears her throat.

“Anyway”, she says, hardly looking at me:”Have you found anything?”

Now, dear reader, I want to precede my next words by emphasising that I neither enjoy lying, nor do I condone it – but sometimes, it is necessary.

Very much necessary.

“I haven’t found much”, I say, trying to conceal the way my stomach churns:”But I have a new lead.”

“Really?”

Anne perks up at that and so does George.

“Yes – I am not quite ready to share it yet – but I have my suspicions.”

I need to find a way to investigate the family again – perhaps shadow them even. The thief has to slip up eventually!

But for now, I have reached a dead end. I get up and am about to excuse myself – perhaps, I can get do some more daylight-reading, still – when I am stay a little bit longer still – and I do. In fact, Marianne offers me to stay over night as well.

“I – take it as a cant. Payment might not be what you’re used to, after all and – I’d feel terrible to sent you out in the middle of the night.”

I frown.

“I haven’t found anything yet. And you’ve already helped me once – you could have just left me alone the first time we met – to be robbed and swindled by someone else.”

Anne smiles awkwardly – then she shudders, before shaking your head.

“Why, yes, but you’re mother would have never forgiven me, would she?”

My mother? Amused, I raise an eyebrow at that.

Anne keeps slipping up. I really shouldn’t have told her that I am looking for my mother.

“Not – not that I’ve ever met her or anything! Because I haven’t – anyway – do please stay? It’d mean a lot to me!”

And that is how I end up staying – the inn only gets busier at times passes and Anne has to leave Mei, George and me from time to time, to help her parents.

Eventually, Mei bids her farewell - “Don’t stay out too late, I will blow to your mother!” - and it is just the three of us left.

We end up playing an entertaining game of broads – and after losing a few rounds I start to get a hang of it.

I am about to win my first round, when we are interrupted – I might have upset, it it hadn’t been for the immense importance of that interruption.

It is Joanne. Out of breath and with watery eyes she hurries towards our table and the moment my gaze finds her – I know something must have happened.

“My – something was stolen! Something else was stolen!”

She seems close to tears almost – and then she does start sobbing.

“My bear – my bear was stolen!”, she presses out – and Anne hurries to comfort her.

“Your bear?”, George asks, putting his cards on the table – and so do I.

“It’s – it’s the toy. From grandmother, my-my favourite toy and it’s – it’s gone and...”

Joanne seems to be on the verge of tears – and I bite my lip. I very much know where that trinket is. In a box in an alley not far from here.

I need to tell Anne about what I’ve found – no one else, I can’t give my hand away just yet. But I’d like to give her some comfort at the very least.

“A bear?”

“Yes, it – it was a small stuffed bear, Joanne loved it to pieces and-”

“She – She did?”, George asks, having gone pale and Anne nods.

She looks quite frazzled.

“She didn’t like talking about it, but – we have to find it, we simply have to.”

I swallow. I already did – but finding the thief seems so much more important at the moment.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 16

-

23^th- 24^th of September 1884

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File V: A trail gone cold

.o.O.o.

Sentimentality is...strange. It makes so pathetically little sense to connect our deepest feelings to an object, seemingly chosen at random. An object derived of any apparent worth. It may mean nothing to the world and yet, to us – it means everything.

And it never changes – this feeling only ever grows with time.

“Sentimentality is evil, Enola – it makes you cling to an obsolete system, to obsolete values, to an obsolete way of life all in the name of memories. If something has outlived its use, there is no reason to keep to it. Put it away, find something new – don't dwell in the past. It’s gone for a reason. Feelings only ever get in the way of reason.”

Sherlock once said something quite similar – the day he had returned, investigating my mother’s disappearance. I had just gone off at him, telling him how I didn’t want a mystery – me! Not wanting a mystery! – how I wanted my mother back instead, how I wanted to life to be just like it had been, just four days ago!

I was being sentimental. Of course I was!

I don’t think Sherlock understood.

“You’re being emotional. It’s understandable, but unnecessary”, he had said, bemused almost at my antics.

He had urged me to look forward, at what could be instead of what had been, just like mother had time and time again. And yet.

And yet.

There’s that toy. Dash, the pine cone wrapped in wool that I used to carry around with me all the time – the one Sherlock remembered clear as day.

Even the greatest detective of all times, it seems, has little, trivial things he cherishes. A memory of a life long gone, a life he himself never returned to once he had left.

Even I have cherish such petty memories, come to think of. Be it the booklet my mother gave me before her departure. Be it my insistence to find her for – for reasons I’d rather not unpack here and now.

Be it the Acacia leaves Tewkesbury included in one of his letters or be it that toy itself – I may have given it up willingly, but I do fondly remember the story attached to it.

Now that I know it, of course.

I wonder who kept it. Mycroft at Sherlock? If they had kept it at all, of course.

I wonder, whether it meant something to mother.

It does not matter. The toy is gone and so is that bear – that bear that, perhaps, is the first thing of any value at all that has gone missing.

I must find who has taken those things, more urgently than ever before. Though, I am quite certain I am close to solving the mystery already.

.o.O.o.

23^th of September

Anne has left some minutes ago – to console her sister, she told us – leaving George and I to stand in awkward silence. Neither knows what to say – the theft was so sudden.

So sudden and strange. Why a bear all of sudden? Why something that meant something?

Not a word is exchanged between us – I’m lost in my thoughts and George bites his lips, eyes downcast.

It is only when Anne returns that live is breathed back into us.

“She’s...She has calmed down.”

Her voice is toneless. It’s usual life and glee are missing, leaving a hollow husk to sit in its place, entirely unequipped to battle the heavy silence cast down upon us.

We stand in silence – I can’t blame them. Joanne seemed to have loved the bear and I have – according to their knowledge – not found a single trail so far.

It’s George who seems to find his voice again first. Nervous eyes flitter from one face to another, but he seems to swallow whatever hesitation he might have felt.

“Have you any other leads you want to follow? Did you see anything that helped? Perhaps I can help out again! I wouldn’t mind at all!”

I am thankful for the distraction – it lets my thoughts latch onto something other than my bad consciousness I have and I eagerly turn to him – hesitating for a mere second as to what I can disclose and what might best be kept a secret for now.

There isn’t much I can disclose. Not with George here.

“Yes, I was hoping to-”

“We should sleep”, Anne says, cutting me off, surprising both, George and me.

She seems disappointed, I realize with a startle. Disappointed because…

I clear my throat.

“Yes. Of course. Thank you for letting me stay.”

“My pleasure.”

She turns without paying me any more attention and I silently follow.

I regret not telling her. About what I found in that alley – perhaps I should.

I most certainly should. But for now there are too many people with us still to inform her of my real findings. I’d like to get rid of George, at the very least. He is bound to listen while the other patrons might keep their mind glued to whatever matters they are discussing.

George leaves, eventually, telling us he needs to head home and it’s just the two of us.

Worried, I bite my lip. We’re alone – I can tell her-

“Anne?”

Bollocks.

Floyd may have the worst timing yet – judging by the way Anne’s eyes narrow before she turns around to face her brother, she seems to be off similar opinion.

“What?”

Her voice is positively soaked with poison.

“So that bear is gone?”

“What do you want, Floyd?”

“I’ve told you, it’s not safe”, he says, shaking his head as he sneers.

Anne seems to be less than pleased by his words. But he just keeps going.

“Told you plenty of times – but you weren’t one to listen, were you?”

He is grinning, gleefully almost – but Anne is having none of it.

If I had been older and if Mycroft would have still been around, would we have fought similarly? I may have had siblings, but I never had siblings and for now, I am glad I didn’t.

“As if you’re one to talk! It's just because you sleep in that mouldy room of yours!”

His grin only deepens and it absolutely infuriates Anne.

“You should feel ashamed of yourself!”

And this is the first time anything Anne says seems to catch Floyd off-guard.

“Joanne loves that bear! You should feel bad for her instead of sneering at us like that! Do you have no love for your family at all?”

It’s also the first time I’ve ever seen Anne’s words having a profound effect on Floyd.

“Whatever”, he hisses after the tension seems to become to much to bear. His eyes fall to us again and he shakes his head one last time, before turning away.

“You should be mindful of your surroundings. You’re my sister – I’m only looking out for you. And I don’t quite like the was that George boy is looking at you.”

.O.

“You can stay here.”

Anne leads me into a room, dark and so very much different from my apartment, it makes me wish I had gone home earlier.

She is about to leave – I must tell her now, be it to put to rest my own churning consciousness.

“Anne!”, I call out to her – she doesn’t as much turn around.

“Yes?”

I swallow – I should have told her so much earlier.

“I found something.”

“More footsteps?”, she asks, finally turning to face me. Her brows are raised and I cringe at the sudden sneer in her voice. I do not blame her – all I have done so far is look incompetent.

But that won’t hold up.

“No – No, you don’t understand...No, I – I lied. I found something – all the stolen things, neatly kept in a box.”

Anne’s eyes wide at that and, after checking her surrounding once, she pulls me away, in an abandoned corner, pushing us out of sight.

“What?! Why didn’t you-”

Immediately, I lunge forward to shush her – god knows who might be overhearing us right now.

“I didn’t want to raise any suspicions – this case is personal.”

“What?!”

“None of the things were sold, none of the things were even used – they were not taken for monetary gain – something else is amiss and I am convinced the thief must be someone we know.”

“But – but the bear was expensive!”

“But none of the other things were – until now, nothing of importance was ever taken. It is, as if the stakes are being raised. Perhaps the thief has heard of my investigation and wants to draw our attention – but, clearly, neither you nor your sister were meant to be hurt!”

I am convinced of this – fully convinced. No one steals a needle just to simply keep it in a box. It doesn't make sense – it’s as if someone is – as if someone is trying to intimidate her, and her sister, perhaps...

“But – the yarn!”, Anne suddenly exclaims, ripping me from my thoughts:”Mei’s yarn was stolen – it meant a lot to her and it has yet to be returned.”

Irritated, I frown.

Cold Coffee.

Anne is right, of course.

Mei’s yarn must have been important. So very important. It was a reminder of her beloved cat, after all – but…

Mei wasn’t there, when the bear was stolen. Mei most certainly is smaller and lighter than me and she most likely knows her way around the rooftops.

And…

A girl, staring at me, face hidden behind a curtain of black – and absent-mindedly playing with a ball.

I might have seen that ball of yarn already.

Without thinking, I ask:”Can you sneak me into her room?”

Warily checking our surroundings once again, I entirely miss Anne’s horrified expression. But this must not be overheard.

“The less people know, the less people can find out”, mother used to say.

Telling Anne poses a risk already – she may be trustworthy, but you can hardly ever trust anyone but yourself.

Another lesson my mother taught me. Perhaps in more than one way.

But no one is listening. It’s just Marianne and me – and silence, as is finally notice that Anne is staring at me incredulously.

“You want me to help you break into her family’s room?”

I nod, eagerly.

“I need to verify something.”

“Something?”

Anne doesn’t seem to be convinced.

“Well yes, of course – why wouldn’t I?”

To my surprise, Anne seems to be quite displeased at my response.

“May I remind you that you didn’t tell me just now?”

My frown only intensifies.

“That wasn't important.”

Again, my response merely seems to agitate her.

“I think it was fairly important for me to know that you found the items I instructed you with finding!”, she exclaims and panicked, I shush her, pulling her back into our niche alongside the wall.

“I told you!”

“After hours! Would you have told me had that bloody bear not been taken?”

I don’t respond to that – Anne isn’t wrong, though I do not want to admit that. If that bear hadn’t been taken, I wouldn’t have told her

Glancing away, I try to convey my apologies – I had meant no offence! – and I try to escape the pressing silence the is chastising me with.

Eventually, Anne huffs. Crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Alright.”

Anne seems to still be fighting her decision. Perhaps I should have been more trusting of her – she did not need to ask for my assistance and I doubt she is trying to frame anyone – yet I wasn’t.

But I had my reasons and I stand with them.

“I will let you into her room – but don’t you dare to keep from me whatever you find!”

.o.O.o.

24^th of September

As promised, Anne shows me to Mei’s place. It’s not far from her father’s tavern and we’re there within a minute’s walk.

“This is the key – I will go back. No one should be home for now. Please do not lose the key.”

Anne’s still mad. I can’t blame her, however I can’t afford to focus on her feelings either. The building is neither big nor imposing, but it feels like both.

I need to find something – hopefully a ball of yarn- Perhaps, if I’m lucky, some form of written evidence.

But I need something. It’s that or watching the alley with the box to find the culprit and it is highly unlikely I’d be able to monitor the alley undetected.

It's this or back to the drawing board.

Taking a deep breath, I step inside, scurrying up the stairs and through stuffy corridors.

I dread this entire building.

After a few minutes of shuffling around I finally find the flat I’ve been looking for. I listen for any sounds coming from the inside – but there is nothing.

They key fits perfectly.

With a turn of my hand, I am inside – and luckily, no one’s there indeed.

It reminds me of when I sneaked through Jimmy Foster’s home, on the hunt for any clue that might tell me more.

Of course, I hope this time I will be more successful. Whilst I admit, that day left me with a lead I hadn’t had before, it was the conversation I overheard rather than any clue I found.

I move around silently, praying people will stay away as long as I need to search the room. It’s small and there aren’t a great many places once can hide things, but enough for me to take some time.

And I need to put everything away the way it was, too. It may be pointless, perhaps no one would pay attention, but I can’t raise any suspicions.

I can’t.

Carefully, I open the few drawers I can find, look under the wardrobe and inside the pots, push aside covers and pillows and-

Then, finally, I feel something.

My heart rate speeds up. This must be it, this must be the things I am looking for and-

And there it is. A single ball of yarn, hidden inside a pillowcase.

Grinning, I put the pillow back.

I might have just found the thief – though I have yet to find the motive.

.o.O.o.

It’s evening, almost – I dread walking back home – but I return, head held high.

Anne is waiting for me already – she doesn’t say a thing before escorting me into the back, where she turns around expectantly, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“You promised me the truth.”

I did – though I doubt she wants this specific truth to be true.

“I found the yarn.”

Anne freezes – her determined, stern expression faltering at once.

“You found the...but...”

There is no space for doubts. I have to make sure of that.

“I have seen it – it was red. It was red yarn, neatly folded up into a ball. It was hidden inside her pillow, though I didn’t bring it lest Mei might find out.”

Slowly, Anne unfolds her arms, her posture much more welcoming than it had been before. Casting her eyes away, she nods.

“Mei’s yarn was red – the one that was supposedly stolen.”

“I don’t think it could have been lost. It was inside a pillow – she must have felt every time she went to lay down -

“So it might have been Mei?”, she asks, chewing her lip. I do not blame her. Mei may have been closer to George than she had been to Anne, but it was sure to hurt nonetheless.

I wish it were differently.

“Perhaps. The evidence is not conclusive yet – though she has to be our main suspect for the time being.”

Anne nods again.

“Great!”

She smiles – but I know better – it seems to wide to be real.

Wince. I wish it were differently. I really, really do.

Anne glances outside, noting the darkness encroaching on us already.

“You can stay another night”, she says:”You can eat with us, too – it’s the least I can do.”

.O.

I take Anne up on her offer, be it as to not insult her hospitality, and stay the night. The food is warm and hearty and once it’s eaten, I find myself in the tavern again.

Playing cards. It’s quite reminiscent of yesterday – though the game this evening is tense. An atmosphere of dread hangs over our heads, one that only I seem to notice. Joanne, Marianne and Mei see to be doing just fine, though Anne does cast suspicious looks at her friend ever so often.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

Eventually, Joanne excuses herself for a few minutes. We nod along and she’s gone within a breath’s moment, the solemn atmosphere settling above our heads with even more vigour. I hadn’t meant to poison Anne’s and Mei’s friendship, yet I fear I may have.

We continue playing flats with not much of a word spoken between us – and then – Anne comes back.

She calls for us the moment she’s down the stairs, her eyes sparkling, a jump in her steps that had not been there before – and that shouldn’t be there.

Joanne had been sad all day because of that bear. At first I am confused by this – but then I freeze once I notice she is holding something.

Small. Woolly.

Nervously I glance at Mei who has looked up as well and watches Joanne get closer.

“The bear!”, she exclaims, once she's reasonably close to us:”The bear! It’s back! It sat right in front of our room!”

She skips towards us, setting the bear down in the middle of the table, smiling brightly.

I try to smile as well. Everyone else does – but I fail.

For there is but one tiny, hauntingly big problem.

Mei is there as Joanne delights over the bear. And she had had no opportunity to place it there herself whatsoever.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 17

-

25^th - 26^th  of September 1884

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File VI: A box fallen closed

.o.O.o.

“Sometimes the simplest of tasks are the hardest”, mother used to say. What contradictory statement, you may think – yet it holds more truth than I’d like to admit.

I’d like to think of myself as a decent detective – I have two major cases to my names – one of the involving an assassination attempt! – and a great deal of smaller ones. Cases in which the culprit was a cat that had sneaked into the room and eaten the pie or a wardrobe had been, hiding away two pearl earrings, no gonoph to be found. There are a great deal of menial cases out there, waiting to be solved within a day’s time and, I must admit, when Marianne first approached me, I was quite convinced this might just be another of those.

Simple. Easy – finished in a day’s time, a culprit easily spotted in the crowd and a motive presented on a silver platter.

This case is nothing like that. I have a hunch who might have stolen the trinkets, but no evidence to back me up. I have inkling and a notion but no motive or suspects – nothing substantial, no lead other than a box already found and a thief that keeps on stealing.

Nothing but a hunch indeed. Mei’s ball of yarn was never lost, it was hidden instead, yet it doesn’t make a great deal of sense still. Why would she choose to terrorize two girls – her friends no less? Why would anyone want to terrorize two teenager girls?

There’s George, too, and Anne’s brother – but why?

Why any of this?

“Sometimes the simplest of tasks are the hardest.”

My mother has hardly ever been mistaken – and I am in desperate need of a new plan – a different plan altogether.

.o.O.o.

Mother once said that any mistake can be rectified and forgiven, if one is willing to learn. I made the mistake of not telling Anne what I had found – she had gotten mad – and she had every right to do so! – I apologized and told her and now, all that is left to do is to not repeat that very mistake.

Yet, we are drenched in silence – we shouldn’t. It’s simple, really! Tell Anne all I know, all I plan – yet it isn’t simple at all either. How much can I tell her without disappointing her? Without betraying my plan to anyone?

It’s those thoughts that lead me to ponder my next move – as I stand next to Anne, helping out behind the counter.

You see, for all my missteps when it comes to this case, one can never accuse me of being out of my depth and a plan – a plan was found differently.

If I find the thief, I find the motive and to find the thief I must catch them red-handed. I’ll have to trap them and I’d like to trap them tonight.

Well – I’ve already made my decision. I’ll tell her about the trap – I’ll have to – yet – how much should be revealed, how much should be said?

“Anne, we...”

Luck, it seems, does not favour the brave today, as it is in that exact moment that the doors are pushed open and Mei and George walk in, successfully interrupting anything I might have wanted to say.

“They’ve argued”, Anne says, scrutinizing me as I try to properly clean those glasses as well.

It is an art in itself and now I am distracted by her words. Narrowing my eyes I watch both of them stroll over to us – tensely, it seems, with a great deal of distance between them.

“They have?”

“They must – though I can’t imagine why...See? They’re facing away from each other ever so slightly.”

I do, in fact, not see at all, but Anne does know them better. And it does...fit. Mei’s my main suspect and George – he’s good friends with her, isn’t he? Perhaps they’ve argued about that bear?

“Any plans?”, Mei asks – scoffs, really, as she leans on the counter. Anne glances at me, no doubt as suspicious as I am, though I can’t let it show.

I have a plan to sell them on – I wish I had more time to think it through. Though, if my suspicions are correct, it is very much foolproof.

“I want to trap them”, I say. My eyes flitter from person to person, ensuring that they’re all paying attention.

“I mean to trap them – lure them in by putting up an easy target and then surprising them...”

I wish I could be any more honest, share my truth, yet I’m afraid my plan will have to sound as ridiculous as it does for the time being.

“We’ll need some trinket, anything, really, to do so – ideas?”, I continue, trying to put as much enthuzimuzzy into my voice as I possibly could.

“Perhaps a – another needle?”, George suggests, his eyebrows raised. It may have been a good suggestion any other time, but it won’t do for what I have in mind.

This should be easier.

“No – that won’t do.”

I shake my head.

“It must be...enticing. As enticing as it can get – perhaps some passed down jewellery?”

Mei raises her eyebrows at that.

“Jewellery? How could we ever possibly afford jewellery?”

Her voice is filled with poison and there is not a single doubt in my mind she’s got something to do with all this – or perhaps, I have slighted her.

I...She may have taken offence to my previous inquiry. But now is not the time to mull over this. I can apologize at a later time.

“There must be something of value? Something we can lay out? Nothing at all?”

My words seem to anger them even further – I try not to let my shame show. I’d offer something myself, of course – but I’m afraid my trap may not work if I did.

“It must be enticing – not much, but enough for there to be yet another reason to steal it...”

I narrow my eyes in thought – then they snap up, as everyone else regards me in silence.

“Fabric!”, I exclaim:”Have you not been working on a dress?”

I turn to Anne in excitement, brushing her annoyed expression aside – she must have. I remember having seen it when examining the room.

“But – has the thief not already stolen the needle? Why steal the fabric now, if they could have stolen it earlier?”

I hardly suppress my wince – George isn’t wrong, but it doesn’t matter.

“They have taken more and bigger things since that needle. That bear, for example – perhaps, they are raising the stakes?”

They most certainly are and I am sure, if I were to wait a week, a month, maybe two, the thief would feel too comfortable and slip up, but there’s no time for that.

Pity that I’ve got to convince three people of my plan – three people that are – perhaps justly so – somewhat disgruntled with my results so far.

“But what about...a piece of cloth doesn’t seem to...match the trinkets stolen so far.”

It’s once again George who poses this question and perhaps I should have suggested another item. Perhaps I should have confessed to my plan earlier to have Anne on my side at the very least, but the past can hardly be changed. Therefore, instead of dwelling on my past foolishness, I’d rather pretend to be thinking hard – and to discreetly nudge Anne, praying no one else catches on but her. Truly, I wish we’d have had more time to discuss this beforehand, but alas, it will have to make do for now.

And anyway – Anne does catch on to my gesture and while she seem unsure still, she eventually tilts her head in the smallest of nods – her eyes silently telling me I better explain everything once we’re alone again.

“I think it is a good idea”, she says:”Enola’s the detective – she knows best. I’ll put out a passed down blanket, the one I’m mending. That should suffice, don’t you think?”

I can’t suppress a wince at the way her eyes narrow. I have yet to live up to her expectations but tomorrow – tomorrow I’ll have found the culprit.

The other two are on the fence still – especially George – arguing and objecting to my every word. However, it is Anne who has the final say and George seems unwilling to clash with her and Mei – Mei shakes her head in annoyance and then nods along as well. They leave soon after, doubtful and not convinced at all – but they have left and my eyes catch onto Anne’s gaze the moment the door falls shut.

I nod ever so slightly.

“Anne?”

.o.O.o.

“I’m excited”, Anne says. The blanket and needlework is carefully positioned on a chest – it’s easily visible, but not necessarily suspicious either. I’ve put a chair next to it and a candle, very much leading one to believe Anne had hurried to get up and had forgotten about her handiwork for the rest of the night.

“Excited?”

I beat the blankets hidden behind a wardrobe and sneeze at the dust. Tonight will be uncomfortable – though it is a fair price to pay.

“Yes. I wish I could stay.”

Anne’s expression is a wishful one as she regards the scene carefully constructed before us. She seems – she seems lost in her own world in that very moment – a smile playing around her lips as she clasps her hands behind her back.

“Why?”

My words don’t rip her from whatever fantasy she’s imagining – quite the opposite. Her cheeks warm gently and her gaze doesn’t waver in its fondness.

“I think detectives – it’s exciting, isn’t it?”, she sighs:”Finding a thief by your wits alone – I’ve adored the craft ever since I’ve heard about your brother’s first case.”

It is. An exciting craft, that is. Solving Mrs. Hughesbury’s case was great fun and helping Tewkesbury – for all the terrifying times – had been...freeing, almost.

I was independent – I was alone.

Alone.

My smile falls.

“I wish I weren’t.”
It’s not a lie – not fully. I’ve admired Sherlock all my life – not unlike Anne does – and I’ve always dreamed of what the world might hold in store once my mother allows me to leave, yet-

It’s not a choice I made – it’s a path I don’t mind, but it isn’t a choice I made either.

“I wish I were at home still – with my mother.”

A sharp intake of breath is her response – a head whipped around, a mouth fallen open, forming a silent “oh”.

Anne looks guilty – I wonder whether she'd ever let slip just a little bit

“They told you not to say anything, didn’t they?”

I don’t like the thought – don’t like it all – but it is the only logical conclusion one can reach. Perhaps, I should not torment my own mind with such repeating conversations.

“Enola, I’m – I’m sorry.”

“Who was it that told you? Edith?”

I take a shaky breath, trying to blink the tears away and Anne believes this to be the moment to perturb my thoughts, but I do not let her. The moment I hear her intake of breath, notice the slight shift in her position, I find my own composure once more.

“Was it my mother?”

She does not dare to break the silence again. Her mouth falls closed and in the way she casts her gaze away, she does not want to speak.

All the better for me.

“At Edith’s, you were talking about a booklet and-”

Once again, my luck runs out just as I make an attempt to move forward.

“I can’t tell you, Enola. I’m sorry.”

I’ve never quite known how much words can hurt until I’ve left for London. My mother could be harsh at times and my brothers were inconsiderate of me – or simply didn’t care at all – but those were my brothers.

I didn't care much for them once I learned of their character. Not much anyway.

Perhaps more than I’d like.

But they weren’t my mother, they weren’t my world that decided to up and leave me and sabotaged any chance I had at finding her

“She’s – she’s safe, you know? As safe as one can be. As a woman. Like her.”

Anne’s words break through our silence like a ship through ice – effectively, but disrupting and violently as well. Her smile shines bright as the sun – distracting and blinding. I am certain Anne’s smile means well, is meant to comfort me, her words meant to give consolation and solace, yet my heart laughs bitterly at them.

“My mother should be telling me that herself”, I scoff – admittedly, surprised at my own sharpness. I do not mean to blame Anne for my mother’s eccentricity, but it is hard to keep any of this to myself.

“You should go to bed – I don’t want to keep you up any longer.”

.o.O.o.

26th of September

“The blanket is gone.”

We’re all assembled around a table in the inn – well, Anne, Joanna and George, anyway. My eyes are glued to the floor and I have a hard time not biting my lip.

My words seem to catch them off-guard.

“What?!”

“The blanket. It’s gone. I-I’ve fallen asleep.”

I wince – I am doing that terribly often lately, do I not? – but finally dare to look up. George seems confused, Joanne is in disbelieve and Anne...

Her blank expression betrays not a single emotion, yet I perceive the faintest twitch in the corners of her lip, fighting to not break out into a grin.

“You – you mean the blanket? The one Anne’s been working on? For days?”

I nod – another wince.

“But – and you’ve fallen asleep? How – how could you! We offered help, did we not! How – how...”

He’s fuming and I cannot blame him.

“What kind of detective are you?”, he exclaims finally, jumping to his feet. George is quite a tall boy and I might have been intimidated – but as it is, I keep my expression blank.
George steps even closer, his hands balled to fists – and now I finally dare to flinch. Evade his gaze and try my hardest to appear remorseful.

The silence stretches on for too many tense moments – I dare not interrupt. I have messed up and I must repent.

It’s really hard not to grin.

“I...”

“Spare me your fimble-famble!”, he interrupts, greatly agitated still – until he isn’t. Until his eyes are cast away and he scoffs and steps back and…

“I can’t believe you”, he eventually whispers – it pains me to hear the hurt in his voice.

“This – this is no joke! This meant something to them and you-”

He trails off – throws me one last, foul look before he turns and leaves the tavern in silence.

And so does Anne.

Huh – her acting skills are a great deal better than I anticipated.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 18

-

25^th – 26^th of September 1884

Case II: The Trinket Thief
File VII: A fairy tale ending

.o.O.o.

Cunning. Being cunning is frowned upon by society. It’s viewed as bad, corrupt and twisted, the root of all evil! One isn’t supposed to be cunning – lying is wrong and so is deception and what is cunning if not lies and deception mixed with some resourcefulness?

You aren’t supposed to fight with underhanded tactics, one is supposed to fight with light and truth, to stand in the bright shine of knowledge and righteousness, instead of slinking through the shadows to sneak yourself a victory away from underneath everyone’s noses. No reason is given, society is seemingly simply built like that, yet, you, dear reader, should know better than anyone else than to ever judge me by whatever ridiculous standards society has set for one.

Though am I cunning? Surely, I am quite resourceful. I have managed to evade my brothers’ grasp all by myself not soon after my mother’s disappearance. I fled an assassin, I kept another person safe all the while and I kept successfully evading my brothers these past few months.

Surely, it is not amiss to describe me as such.

Yet, cunning? I may be resourceful, I may even be bricky, but cunning? I have tried a great many times to fool my surroundings and so far, I’ve been met with little success. I am unsure whether Tewkesbury ever believed me to be a boy. My disguise as a lady had been entirely pointless – even Linthorn had been able to recognize me, after seeing me for but a few minutes! – and posing as a widow and assistant to Sherlock or my disguise as a gardener during my short stay the Tewkesbury’s estate had both been met with little success.

The farthest I have gotten was dressing up as a petty thief at Scotland Yard, yet I had to jump from a window to escape that unlucky time as well!

I may be resourceful, but cunning I am not. My contemporaries may laud my character for the absence of this particular trait, yet I hardly care for anything my contemporaries do and mourn this lack of cleverness instead.

Mother would have agreed, too.

“Don’t ever let any man tell you that being cunning is a bad thing, Enola – they’re simply scared of the power you’d hold if you unleashed your full potential.”

Mother is a wise woman. A very wise woman indeed – and I quite like the idea of being cunning. It’d be a fitting description for me, wouldn’t it be? London’s cunning lady-detective! What a slogan!

“Practice makes perfect”, is common knowledge, given to me by my mother after my first failed attempts during chemistry.

Practice makes perfect indeed – and I have a long day to become cunning laid out in front of me.

.o.O.o.

25^th of September – Flashback

Silence fills the room once George and Mei have left us behind the counter, to scrub away at glasses and plates – a tense silence that accentuates Anne’s stern staring.

I cannot blame her. Perhaps I should have gotten to the point earlier, but now is as good a time as any other.

“You have a plan, I assume? A better one than to simply put up an obvious trap?”

Anne puts her glass away and picks up another – how does she do it this quickly? – all the while her eyes resting on me. I gulp down the nervousness starting to build within me and nod.

“Of course. I – There is no trap at all. Not at night, anyway.”

It’s a simple scheme and I can only hope the thief lacks the astuteness to look right through it. Perhaps, my rather clumsy attempts at finding the thief so far might have lowered my reputation enough for no one to believe there might be foul play at hand.

Perhaps I’ve accidentally been cunning enough.

“Nothing will be stolen”, I continue:”We simply have to make it look like something was stolen. I’ll pretend I have fallen asleep during the night and that the thief took the blanket. And tomorrow morning all we have to do is to spread the rumour. Then wait in the alley for the thief to check up on the box. Perhaps we should tell...”

Should I tell her about George and Mei? They are my two main suspects, after all. But they're Anne’s friends, too, and I can’t risk Anne getting defensive of them.

“...George. He seems to be the most involved in all of this. Surely, he’ll tell everyone in no time.”

Anne nods in understanding, though she takes a few moment to contemplate my plans laid out before her.

I hope no one is listening in, but the seating area is as good as deserted and no one has the mind to pay attention to two girls chatting behind a counter.

“And then we wait in the alley?”

“We wait in the alley – whoever’s the thief, they might make an appearance.”

It must have been two people, I assume – or I hope so. The bear having been returned does hint at a quarrel behind the curtain that I hope I’ll be able to exploit.

“And that’s it? Nothing else? No more secrets?”

“No more secrets. But I can show you the way to that alley?”

.o.O.o.

26^th of September

I spring into action the moment that door falls closed behind Anne, not waiting a second to explain anything to Joanne at all.

“If you happen to see Mei, do not tell her about this”, I throw over my shoulder as I stumble out of the room. I can hear Joanne calling my name as I leave, no doubt having a great deal of questions at my unusual behaviour, but there is no time.

I need to get to that alley as fast as possible.

Luckily, I remember the place I am headed towards well and went as far as mapping out the path I need to take to get there. I’ve looked at every single possible shortcut and am convinced that, at the very least, I will not take a longer route than anyone else. I fly out of the backdoor and stumble over my feet, several times, grabbing a great deal of attention – most certainly most everyone is awaiting me to cry out “Beef!” – yet no one stops to question me, which I am eternally grateful for. George might be running as well and I’d stand no chance at catching up to him if he gave it his all. He’s a great deal taller than me and a great deal better trained than I am, despite my mother’s intensive training.

“A lady should always be in shape if she wishes to properly defend herself and a lady will always be in need of proper defending in a society like ours”, she’d say sometimes and perhaps, I should have listened more closely to her words, for I really have neglected any form of sport that I could have taken on to prepare me for a situation like this.

But there is no time for regret. I scramble around corners, I jump a surprising amount of barrels and I lose my footing a total of three times, but nothing – not the burning in my lungs nor the pain in my legs keeps me from getting closer and closer to my destination.

I slow down only as I approach the alley. The last thing I need is for my plan to go up in flames simply due to having startled the thief. Sneaking around a few more corners I cross my fingers, praying my suspicions are right – or that my plan has worked, should George, or Mei, not be the ones involved.

Rounding, finally, the last corner, I peak into the alley – and let out a first of many relieved sighs when I find someone standing in there, shrouded completely into the walls’ shadows, cursing loudly as nimble fingers shuffle clobber around.

You see, when retracing my steps to that alley to memorize the way, I had had the ingenious idea to hide the box elsewhere – within the alley still, but far enough away to make any thief looking for it look for quite some time.

As it turns out, my plan was needed, for the shadow has found the box already, leaning over it – I sneak closer.

I need to get a closer look at their face, I need to make sure that- the thief looks up. We lock eyes and his widen – as I let out yet another sigh of relief.

It is George.

It is George indeed.

Caught, his eyes drop to the box he's holding in his hands – his thoughts seem to be racing, though I do not know how he plans to explain this.

The evidence is quite damming.

“George”, I start, hoping he does not defy my words. I should have come here with a witness, the sudden thought comes to my mind. Someone to confirm my accusations – too late I realize my own word hardly counts as hard evidence.

Then again, this case most certainly won’t go to any court and Anne, hopefully, trusts me enough to believe me when I tell her about what I have found.

“I – Enola, what – why are you here?”

I shrug.

“What are you doing here?””, I retort, crossing my arms in front of my chest. George flounders for words, until annoyance takes over his expression and his eyes narrow.

“I’ve asked first – and you should not be here. You should be begging Anne for forgiveness after losing her that blanket! You fell asleep, bloody god!”

I can hardly hold back my smile – if anyone will have to apologize, it is him.

“A mighty fine trap it was, wasn’t it?”

I can’t help but to tease just a little bit – this is quite the situation to be in. Not once had I thought this case would lead me all the way here.

“A might fine trap?”, George now thunders:”It was a terri...”

I do not let him finish.

“This is the trap. This, right here”, I interrupt, letting out a relieving breath. Excitement begins to bubble up in my chest and I tense up in anticipation:”The blanket was a decoy. It’s currently safely tucked away in Anne’s personal belongings.”

He blinks. Looks at the box still in his hand and realization seems to dawn on him. Yet – he seems unwilling to give up yet, as he squares his shoulders and raises his chin.

“I didn’t know that – I’ve come here to look for that blanket myself. Followed the footsteps, you see.”

He seems to have a bad consciousness at his words. His chin falls again and he shoves his shoulders in front of him.

For all that it seems, George is not a...gleeful thief.

And most certainly not one to not face a challenge head one, yet I know for a fact that he couldn’t have followed the footsteps.

“No, you did...

“No, you did not.”

My head snaps up once I am interrupted and whirls around – a moment later I find myself locking eyes with Anne, who steps out of the shadows, her lips pressed into a thin line. I had wondered where she had gone once she had left that room – it makes all the more sense she’d like to be present as I unravel the mystery.

“I scrubbed away a great many of the footsteps – and most of them have faded already. You did not follow them. Unless you’ve done so before and refrained from telling us – me.”

Her words are damming. Damming enough for George to close his mouth, damming enough for his eyes to shy away.

Not damming enough to tell us why, though.

.o.O.o.

It is quiet as we trudge back to the Slap-Bang-Job. Quiet and tense and it will be for quite some more time.

George doesn’t resist as we lead the way, his head hanging in shame, not a single word of protest leaving his lips. He is unusually docile for a thief that had just been caught red-handed. And by his friend no less.

We pass Mei on our way to the inn, pacing restlessly in front of the inn, stopping in her tracks when she spots us. She wants to call out but her hand freezes mid-wave when she sees George’s downcast look and the fury spilling out of Anne’s eyes. Her own widen as she watches us and I duck a tad when we walk by her.

I might have to question her, too, if George is unwilling to explain himself.

Anne leads both of us upstairs, away from prying eyes – a sensible decision. I’d rather hear what George has to say for himself away from any potential eavesdroppers. There's no need to make a fuss out of something that surely, has to have a logical explanation to it. George didn’t strike me as a criminal – he offered to help me out, even!

There must be a reason for what he did.

Patiently, I wait for anyone to pick up the questioning – I feel misplaced. I may be the detective leading this investigation, but then again: This was personal. I found the thief and I doubt Anne would want me to pry into her private matters.

Their private matters. George is very much involved in this.

I shift after a minute or two has gone by. Glance at Anne standing impassively in one of the room’s corners. My eyes dart back to George’s crouched form, leaning against the wall.

I shift another time.

Time ticks by and no one says a thing and – perhaps I am the person expected to make the first move.

Trying my hardest to appear stern and not at all intimidated by Anne who feels closer to me than she really is, I clear my throat.

“Am I correct in assuming that you were the thief stealing all those the trinkets?”

“...Yes.”

George sounds tentative and when he finally looks up, he does not look at me, his eyes glued to Anne instead, pleadingly. How very peculiar.

“Did anyone help you plan or execute your theft?”

I cringe when I say “theft”. It was a needle! A needle and a handkerchief – this is ridiculous, what am I doing? We are hardly dealing with a bludger!

“...No.”

Additionally, George is lying. He was there when the bear was stolen – it couldn’t possibly have been him. Though it stands to reason we’ve already found his accomplice.

Chewing on my lip, I narrow my eyes. I have yet to find a motive – would George lie about his motive as well? I hope he refrains from doing so – knowing why he did might be the most enticing thing about the whole ordeal yet.

“Are you sure?”

I expect George to huff at that, to see annoyance flare up in his eyes, any reaction other than the belated soft shaking of his head. His entire posture has been reduced to a small, shivering heap and I fear it is not because of me. In fact, I am convinced it isn’t me, seeing how he keeps glancing at Anne, his eyes fillip with tears from time to time – tears, regret and...fondness.

Fondness.

It is then when a memory comes to my mind. A memory of one of the rare occasions I had left the house and accompanied my mother down to the market place. I had been twelve years old and lost my mother in the crowd that had gathered to snatch up their weekly supplies in a heartbeat.

I had been twelve and all alone and one the verge of crying, but luckily enough I was found by a group of children my age. They had had a leader for all intents and purposes – a young lad, perhaps a year my senior. Scrappy he’d been, scrappy and helpful and, well, perhaps a tad charming.

As charming as one can be with twelve.

Thanks to them I found my mother soon enough and we left the market not all that much later, my mother admonishing me all the way back home.

I hadn’t been allowed to accompany her to the market place again the week after – but, bravely, I had stepped forwards and inquired about the boy.

It had startled her. A great deal. And then she had sat me down and lectured me about ‘love’.

“Promise me, Enola – you will try your hardest to never fall in love. Love only makes us do stupid things and albeit all the stories will tell you differently, it has never once helped a girl like you out either. It leads you into a trap called ‘marriage’ and leaves you there to rot.”

I don’t think I have neither ever seen that boy again, nor do I particularly care, for we only ever spend up to an hour together – but my mother’s words stuck with me.

Love makes us do stupid things. And that’s – that’s when I finally realize what's going on here.

“You like her.”

Of course he did. The way he talked about her, looked at her – Anne’s own brother spelled it out for me!

“You like her and you – you tried to impress her and what better way than to impress a mystery craving girl than to make up some fanciful story with thieves and detectives?”

It makes so much sense. It’s why he returned that bear – Anne and her sister were never meant to be harmed and somewhere along the line, he and Mei must have miscommunicated.

Or perhaps Mei was simply growing tired of the charade.

Whatever the reason, my realisation seems to loosen his tongue somewhat, as he finally dares to straighten his back just a bit and to remove his hands from in front of his chest.

He looks still miserable, though.

“I...yes.”

He glances at Anne who may burn down this house if her glare gets any angrier.

He gulps. Turns back to me and lets out a defeated sigh.

“It – it’s stupid, but that’s what happened. First I wanted to find the thief, but then you came along and I...I hoped I could tag along, be...some sort of assistant! But that didn't work out either and I wasn't sure what to do next, so I decided to just...let you solve the mystery. Let you find the box and all the stuff, but then you hadn’t! And I hoped – well, I kinda hoped you’d fail. And anyway, Mei had stolen the bear by then...”

“Which you didn’t want, hence you went out of your way to get it back”, I conclude.

George lets out another sigh.

“Yes. That’s why I returned the bear. It's why I was afraid for the blanket – what if it really had been stolen?”

It does make a great deal of sense, all of this. Perhaps a simple motivation, but it is a rather simple case, too. And with this, it is closed as well!

Though Anne...Anne seems to be of different opinion.

All the while as the mystery unfolded in front of her eyes, she kept fuming, her eyes narrowing and narrowing, until they’ve fallen closed completely almost, her stance getting harsher and less welcoming with every second, until all that accumulated tension erupts in a single, terribly cold sentence.

“You lied to me.”

Her words drip with venom and even I wince as I hear them, instinctively bending away from her.

Her hands are clenched into fists, her nails digging deep into her palm. She’s biting her lip and I am surprised to find tears have sprung into her eyes.

Her stance hardly reflects her voice that, now that I reflect upon it, sounds strained, the ice hardly drowning out the shaking in her words.

“You lied to me!”, she repeats and now the ice has fully melted and her tears start to overflow.

“I trusted you! And you – argh, I can’t believe this! We’re friends and you having a ridiculous crush is just – you could have said something! Anything! And instead you concocted this – this stupid prank! Have you got any idea how worried I was? I can’t – I can’t believe this!”

She sounds hurt, she sounds so desperately hurt and I do not blame her at all.

“And you!”

And now, she whirls around to face me, anger written all over her expression – she steps closer even, poking her finger into my chest with surprising fury.

“You knew this! You knew this morning – bloody hell, you knew yesterday when you’ve told me your plan! You wanted me to tell George because you were sure it was him! Why would you keep that from me?! Did I not tell you to be honest?! He’s my friend, it were my things – I deserved to know!”

I step away, taken aback by her words and her insistent poking, but Anne, not done yet, simply follows behind.

“You did not tell me about the box and you did not tell me about the suspect! And you almost didn't tell me about Mei either – you have no right to ever complain about your mother’s secretiveness, for you are no better! No better at all!”

Her words are a punch to the gut. A well-placed punch that steals my breath as I stare at her wide eyed – but I do not get to respond, for Anne takes off, without saying another world.

We are left to stew in silence – George refusing to look up and I...well, I am entirely unsure what to do. Perhaps I should have anticipated an outcome much like this, but I have not and am now, in conclusion, stuck in an entirely uncomfortable situation.

Like my mother, how – she – she left me alone! All I did was keep some secrets for the best of the investigation! And perhaps Anne would be less mad now had I told her, but...but…

She would be less mad. Possibly – she would have had time to prepare for this. I took that from her for the selfish reason because I believed her to mistrust me. Because I assumed she wouldn’t follow my lead, although not once has she not done that before.

This could be a great deal...less uncomfortable had I simply been truthful.

“I – I’m sorry”, I eventually mutter, finding my voice again.

But I am not like my mother! My mother left me to fend for myself! Didn’t stay for my 16^th birthday, didn’t tell me what to do – she threw me into the cold water and refuses to help me out.

I understand why, yet this once, I think my mother is wrong.

And perhaps so am I.

“It’s not your fault”, George responds, his voice blank and toneless:”I shouldn’t have done this at all – I should have known Anne would ask for help and I should have known you’d figure me out – though you did have me fooled for some time!”

He tries to smile but fails miserably.

“How did you figure it out, though? I – Anne says you knew before you’ve found me in that alley.”

I did. Yet it was his cousin’s fault that gave me the clue I needed.

“I suspected Mei some time ago.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I searched her room and found that ball of yarn that had supposedly been stolen – and then she just so happened to be there when the bear was returned.”

He nods – then frowns.

“You only talked to me that morning.”

“Mei couldn’t have returned the bear but she was close with you – if anyone was her accomplice, you seemed the most likely and...it felt weird for me that the accomplice would return something. It’s why I started to suspect you!”

I try to smile as well and perhaps fail a tad less miserably, though the hurt is never chased a way fully. We are left to silence once again and the only reason I interrupt it is to get away from my own thoughts.

“If your plan would have come to fruition”, I ask, leaning back on the balls of my feet:”What would you have done next?”

George laughs at that, dryly, his response following close behind.

“I don’t know, I was...I was going to return the things. Cop myself a mouse, say I’ve gotten into a fight and then...”

He lets out a heavy sigh, staring at his hands.

“I would have done something. What precisely, I don’t know, but I would have done...something! Maybe...maybe let it rest for some time and then ask her – ask to court her, if she permits and...It was stupid. Mei said so and I should have listened to what she said.”

He visibly deflates and I wish I could comfort him – but his plan had been quite ridiculous.

“But I hoped, you know? Because...I’ve liked her for so long and it...it hurt, knowing nothing would ever...it just hurt knowing nothing would ever come from it.”

Nothing would ever come from it? Now, I want to point out that in no way do I view myself as an expert on such matters – quite the opposite, in fact – yet I fail to recognize what seems to be the problem. They are around the same age, friends and George seems to be an alright lad.

If he isn’t trying to impress a girl by faking a crime that is.

“Her family’s rich!”, he exclaims the moment he realizes my unvoiced question, yet his words earn him a great deal of confusion more. Rich?

Though George’s eyes are threateningly staring me down hence I do not voice that question either.

“Her father would never allow it”, he explains further.

That gets me to almost call out in opposition! No woman should be subjected to have her life governed over by any man, be it husband or brother or father. And I may not know Anne for long, but I am convinced her conviction will be quite like mine.

“She…

“Not that Anne would care! Or should but – that meant I had to convince her. Impress her and Anne – Anne’s hard to impress.”

A fond smile crosses his expression – fond and enamoured and it makes me feel uncomfortable. This seems like a private moment that no one should be privy too.

Yet here I am and eventually, George snaps out of it.

“But it doesn’t matter. I – I should leave. Apologize. Grovel at her feet. Maybe she’ll forgive me...”

He trails off, before pushing himself away from the wall and bowing to me.

“I – this may be strange, but thank you! For helping? And I’m sorry, but I have to go. I – I feel like she’ll only get madder if I don’t apologize now.”

And he gets up and leaves, leaving me behind, somewhat stunned.

“I’ll talk to Anne!”, I call out, just as the door falls closed, no indication given whether George has heard me or not.

.o.O.o.

“Dear Will ‘I am called Ebenezer’ Tewkesbury, Viscount of Basilwether,

I bring joyful news! I have solved yet another case – I quite like the name ‘The Trinket Thief’ for this one, what you you say?

As I have found out, it was a romance of sort – a boy tried to impress my client and therefore – but what am I saying.
I’d much rather tell you in person – and I’d like to get away from London for a while.

As you have said in your previous letter, i t has been some time since I’ve last been at your home indeed – and I’ve told you about that short brush with Sherlock I’ve had, did I not?

Well, perhaps my brother isn’t looking for me as insistently as I had imagined. Mycroft has yet to make his appearance too – seeing how Mrs. Hughesbury’s case caused quite some waves – and he’s been there during the whole dinner ordeal, too! – one would have assumed he’d be out there.

Perhaps he is. I haven’t talked to Mrs. Hughesbury for some time, though I do hope she hasn’t been harassed on my behalf.

Regardless. I’d quite like to visit you one of these days – you have given me such colourful description of the gardens that I cannot help but feel the need to see them in person. Perhaps, without any impeding doom to accompany the tour this time?
Which reminds me, I’ve still got one of your servant’s uniforms stashed away somewhere Would you like me to bring it along? Though, be aware, it did cost me five whole pounds!

Please do write back quickly – now that the case is solved I find myself with exorbitant amounts of free time again.

Sincerely

Clove Burdock”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

Case II: The Trinket Thief
Newspaper clippings

.o.O.o.

The Echo, 7^th of October 1884 – second to last page

A poor man’s courting

It may have come to your attention, dear reader, that a great deal of impropriety has swept through the lower classes, perhaps more so that one might be used to. The working class has decided – though not all of them it must be said – to deviate from the patterns and traditions our own forefathers entrusted to us and to develop quite their own way of courting, one they have taken to calling ‘dating’ – for the dates in their calendars that are filled with outings.

This new form of courting might very well be the height of impropriety – as it leaves behind our comforting rules and quite refuses to follow the path laid out in front of it. Instead of letting their parents find a suitable match, this new generation of workers goes out and about and tries to find a match themselves, much to the detriment of our most proper readers, for a child like them can hardly make anything but a foolish decision when it comes to such things as love.

Which is perhaps the reason for the many ‘dates’ – in place of one suitor, carefully spied out by her parents, a girl may now take any lad she favours by the hand and see where it goes, instead of doing right by her honour and to contemplate marriage from an early age and to choose wisely as to who she spends her time with – listening to her parents’ advice in the matter, as well as experience, as they are certain to have some in those regards, be it their own, happy and secure marriage or by finding a match for her sibling.

And yet, they do not. The youth has loose morals and are entirely unrepentant when it comes to this transgression. In fact, I have found a pair of working class children – young adults, both at the age of 16 – who were found doing the bear in the open!

Curiously, the pair claimed to have come together through the most unusual of circumstances, which I dare not withhold from you, dear reader: It betake itself that young Miss Marianne had trinkets stolen – so did her sister and various friends, for which they took to consulting a lady detective! And this lady detective – whose name was not disclosed to us – found the thief in Miss Anne’s very own friend, now turned ‘boyfriend’. It turns out, quite like an impudent boy tucking a girl’s hair to get her attention, he had constructed an entire criminal case – himself put in the middle as the knight in shining armour – to gain her admiration and failing terribly so. Not only did this detective steal his own designated role out from under his nose, she found out about the plot as well. Though it is comforting to know that, after all the trouble he’s gone through, Miss Marianne seems to have forgiven him. Though, her parents seem to have yet to learn of this development.

Now, I do wish for Miss Marianne’s happiness, however I hope she will stay within the limits of propriety and ask her parents’ permission – our changing times can hardly resist a shift in respectability!

It is most worrisome this development and it is our duty, as members of this very polite society, to ensure that this is quelled at its roots, for we cannot ever allow any sort of sin to take hold, even in the lowest of classes, for a tree with poisoned roots will never bear the sweet fruits of modern civilisation.

A smile flitted across lips as pride took hold in an eye. A hand carefully stroke the clipped newspaper glued to the page. Equally carefully, the heavy book, barely filled as it stood now, was closed, pages rustling as they pressed down on each other.

There weren’t a great deal of entries yet – there had been the one about that missing marquess and there had been the one with Mrs. Hughesbury and quite frankly – it was questionable least to consider this smallest of stories, found in pages usually left unread, somehow connected to none other than Enola Homes – yet, a lady detective?

Another smile graced lips as the book was put aside, next to the pot filled with fresh flowers, their petals shining vividly in the late setting sun.

A lady detective. Surely, there could only be one?

Research notes you might want to skip!

Sadly, I couldn’t find anything specific on street interviews, however the earliest (in Europe and the US, at least) normal interview apparently took place in 1756 and was a somewhat usual practice by the 1850s. The phrase ‘vox populi’ (which is apparently a fancy way to call a street interview) is a pretty old phrase, so it's not completely absurd to imagine they might have had something akin to those in 1884.

The Echo was a daily evening paper (with the exception of Saturdays) that usually featured politics on the first page and than delved into pretty much everything other than gossip on the following pages, including commentary on various things and a general neutral stance. Also, they were one of the few papers employing a woman as a writer, which is pretty neat too (the suffragette movement, from my research, didn’t really pick up until a tad later that depicted in the film, though I might be wrong about that).

Dating itself was only common/known (not sure how common it was) within the working class at that time, though the phrase was only first coined in 1896 (I still wanted to use it so, so please excuse the inaccuracy!) and didn’t gain much traction until the 1920s (meaning that’s the first time the term ‘boyfriend’ appeared, apparently). The working class was less strict when it came to parental control (partly because most children started working at the age of 14 already) – though you’d still have to ask for your parents’ opinion. You were basically more free to meet each other. That being said, this above is an inaccurate depiction of courting at that time that I adjusted to fit the story – I hope you guys don’t mind!

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

Musings
26^th of September – 8^th of October 1884

.o.O.o.

You may remember still – from when I told you earlier – but my mother has never been fond of romance. She has warned me about it time and time again – not necessarily viewing love itself as the most despicable thing, but rather the effects it has on one’s life.

“Romance may make things seem all the prettier – the sky shines in a golden hue and every flower blooms in the deepest winter still, but do not be fooled! For all that glimmer and shine it hides the horror of real life. For the sky’s golden hue is a burning fire and the winter’s blooming flower nothing but a tool to lure you out and watch you freeze.”

And on and on she went.

Romance takes away most rational thought, she used to say. It keeps your from seeing the things for what they truly are and such deception cannot be afforded by anyone in society, if society is meant to stay civilized instead of plunging into barbarism.

Perhaps it is my father’s fault. I do not remember him, though I do remember what I was told of him, Mrs. Lane always called him a good man and mother never spoke ill of him either. Well, yes, she did – but she never once called him cruel or bad or an entirely despicable man.

He seemed to have been quite loving, in fact. Indulging me in my childhood dreams of a pine cone being a dog, chasing me all around the house – and Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to have liked him well enough.

He must have been a good man then. Mother fell in love with him, after all and mother would never fall for someone of a cruel disposition. They very much had a marriage of convenience, yet it was one of love as well. They had known each other as children – had been, perhaps, tentative friends even – before they had both been ushered away, to be raised in ‘accordance with their gender’.

My mother hated that phrase.

They hadn’t talked for years – neatly separated by society’s arbitrary standards – and once they had been off age, their courtship had soon be encouraged.

A fairytale love one could say and mother had certainly thought so. A marriage came, a child – and then a second – and then a third that died in infancy – soon after and perhaps, they could have been happy.

He never rose his voice, or worse, his hand. He never mistreated my mother nor did he cheat on her, I was told he was a patient man! He may have been more liberal when it came to my education even than most fathers would be with their daughters, if given the chance!

Yet he never understood my mother.

I think she was disappointed by that. I am convinced it greatly soured her outlook on romance – being so bitterly disappointed by the man she claimed to love.

I myself have never had much to say about such matters anyway – there wasn’t much space for romance in my life. Other than my fleeting crush on that market boy, I’ve never felt anything of the likes and anyway, I was too busy studying and learning and training to ever indulge in such ridiculous dreams.

I do agree with mother, however – she is the wise between the two of us after all. Romance may make everything seem more different than it is and, worst of all, it bounds you to someone. It lures you in with false promises – and once the tie is knot it is too late to escape.

Mother loved father. And Mrs. Hughesbury loved her husband, I am sure of it – as sure of it as I am sure that Mr. Hughesbury must have been dashing and charming and kind at the beginning of their courtship.

They all are, probably. Kind and understanding but once the trap has fallen shut they refuse to listen and smother whatever character you may have cultivated on your own.

Or so it seems. Yet, when I look at Anne now – the way she and George talk with such light in their eyes...It makes one ponder, does it not? It makes on yearn, almost.

.o.O.o.

26^th of September

“Dear Clove Burdock,

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! You can come to Basilwether Hall whenever you see fit – our doors will never be barred to you! Mother has been looking forward to being properly introduced to you already and I am sure that uniform you’ve bought will be well-received by our head maid!

I’ve already told everyone of your imminent arrival and a guest room shall be prepared for you – just let me know when you’ll be there, for my mother would like to have some words with you – for what I don’t know, though I am convinced she can only mean well and wishes to thank you for the service you’ve performed to Mrs. Hughesbury.

She has informed she’d like to have tea. And that I am decisively not allowed to join, so I must ask you to stay longer! It’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve last seen you and I miss you terribly much.

 

Sincerely
Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether”

 

I smile as I put the letter away – it has taken quite some time to reach me and I was afraid I might have insulted him with the break I had taken when writing him back - I am glad to know he does not feel that way. Glad and greatly relieved.

.o.O.o.

29^th of September

Now that this newest case is solved, I find myself once again with too much time on my hands – until I’ve found a time to pay that visit that I’ve promised Tewkesbury, that is.

But for the time being, I suppose it is only polite to talk to Marianne. We haven’t parted on the best of terms and I’d like to make up, if possible.

And I simply must catch up with Edith as well. It hasn’t been a week yet – truly, it feels like so much more time has passed, but I suppose a case will do things like that – but I am sure she’d like to hear about these exploits and perhaps there is news from her as well.

Huh – it seems I might not have to be all that bored after all. Deciding to visit Edith’s tea house first, I make my way there. I must admit, I have gotten less cautious. So far, Mycroft has yet to make any noteworthy appearances and Sherlock hasn’t made any real attempt at finding me either. Edith has never noticed anything strange and, quite frankly, I had been ready to pack up and move after the Hughesbury case made it into the papers. After I encountered him while shadowing that Jimmy fellow, really. But not a peep has been heard by either of my brothers so far, therefore I decide it is safe for me to perhaps visit more often.

The bell chimes when I open the door and hold it open for the gentleman leaving. Today, the tea place seems to be quiet and less visited than it would usually be. There are no ‘thumps’ coming from upstairs either and I worry something might have happened – and indeed, when I see Edith, her arm is stuck in a sling.

I do not wait to greet her properly before storming towards her, exclaiming:”What happened?!”

But Edith waves my question off.

“Enola! What a surprise – oh, and don’t worry, it’s not broken. But perhaps you’d like to sit down? If you’re here that means you must have solved that case and I couldn’t find anything about it in the papers this time!”

Her words do not quench my worries – nor my curiosity – but I have learned that Edith will tell me in due time and I might use this opportunity as an exercise in patience. Soon enough I find myself carrying a tray with two cups and a tea pot to our usual cushy chairs, Edith following close behind.

I do not need to inquire a second time as to why Edit is sporting the bandages – she sits down and lets out a sigh, shaking her head with disgust in her eyes.

“It was an accident”, she says:”O rather a fight. I escorted a student of mine back home and a man decided to try to assault us.”

Oh.

“He regretted that choice”, Edith continues, her voice sounding quiet satisfied and I let out a breath of relief. Of course there was no need to worry – Edith is more capable than I could ever dream to be.

“Though I did end up with a sprained elbow. The doctor’s said not to worry, but I’ll have to let it rest for a few weeks. Classes are cancelled so far – talking of which, would you be so kind and perhaps come in from time to time? Teach them in my stead? The beginners at least?”

“Of course!”

It’s the least I can do for Edith’s continued hospitality.

“When should I come in? I can come whenever you want!”, I say eagerly eliciting a chuckle.

But then my eagerness diminishes as I remember the letter I’ve received.

“Though I’d – well, I would like to visit Tewkesbury,”

Edith raises her eyebrows at that, but does not comment on it either.

“And I’ll have to talk to Anne, too – we did not part on the most...amiable of terms. I’d like to-I’d like to apologize.”

“Anne? You mean Marianne? She usually comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays – perhaps you may want to make up over a cup of tea and more...amiable atmosphere than her father’s...inn?”

That does sound quite tempting, does it not?

“I’ll hand you a copy of the classes’ schedule later – for now, I believe you owe me a story?”

.O.

30^th of September

Anne does indeed come in that Tuesday, all bright eyed and with a surprising spring in her steps that does not falter when she sees me sitting at one of the tables. Hesitantly I raise my hand to greet her and she breaks out in a wide smile as she makes her way over to me.

“I wanted to apologize to you”, I say the moment she has sat down and it gets her to-to giggle.

Anne giggles. Huh – speak of things unexpected.

“And a good day to you to, Enola – I suppose you have waited for me?”

I nod.

“Yes – to apologize.”

“To apologize? For what?”

I narrow my eyes – Anne’s eyes are shining good humouredly and I suppose she will make me say it out loud.

“For not telling you all there was to the case, although I promised to do so.”

The words are harder to say than I could have imagined. It is a simple apology! It is but a few words!
But they are out now and I do not wish to take them back and anyway – Anne seems to be satisfied with the apology.

“Don't worry”, she replies:”I may have overreacted – though your apology is very much appreciated. And anyway, I am sure you’ve had your reasons.”

I had. I had had my reason. Though they were, admittedly, rather insulting of her character. I was afraid she might not believe me, after all, and that she’d put her friends above my accusations and for that I haven’t said anything.

Which was an unfair assumption to make.

Trying to change the subject I fling myself full force at the next topic that comes to mind – which is our case and by extent, George.

“Have you and George made up already?”, I ask curiously and try to take an inconspicuous sip from my cup, knowing full well that my attempt at changing the topic is as evident as it is cheap. Luckily, Anne doesn’t seem to mind.

“We have. In fact we are dating now. He did apologize quite thoroughly and I suppose it was an ill-tempted attempt at wooing me.”

Dating?

“Did your parents not mind? George said he was afraid your father might be against the courtship.”

“We aren't courting as much as we are dating-”

What strange term.

“- to see where it goes. And father was quite against it, but there isn't much he can do. He’d rather have me here than to find I have eloped one day.”

That does get me to raise my eyebrows (and to almost make me drop my cup in surprise). It is easy to accept Marianne may have forgiven George already, yet an elopement?

They can’t have made up any earlier than two days ago!

“You’d elope with him already?”, I blurt out – regretful of my question a moment later. Perhaps it was a bit too...bold. Are Anne and I friends at all? She was a client of mine and an acquaintance of Edith’s, but does that make us friends by association?

I wish mother had taught me more about this. I do not regret the childhood I had, but it was lonely and at times, it shows.

“Of course not! Not ever!”, Anne responds, once again giggling, though she is blushing and I am quite convinced her dreamy eyes speak volumes of her true intentions.

“Well – perhaps some day. If he puts as much work into our love as he did into his….odd way of asking for permission to court me, he might just convince me! But I’m good at sneaking around and father knows that.”

Anne smirks mischievously and there is not a single doubt in my mind left that Anne would be a great spy would she ever be given a chance.

“But enough of my boy – is there any chance London’s best detective has set her eyes on someone?”, she goads, leaning forward on her arms, yet I still blush at the compliment. London’s best detective? What a dream it would be to have that printed in the papers some time.

Though, perhaps that isn’t what I should focus on right now.

“Huh? No – no, I am not one for romance.”

I smile awkwardly as Anne musters me intensely, until she starts slyly smirking and leans back in her chair, her own cup held to her lips.

“Oh really? Well – do tell should that ever change. For that Tewkesbury boy did speak of you rather fondly, in all the papers I have read.”

.o.O.o.

5^th of October

“Dear Tewkesbury,

my most sincere apologies for the long wait in-between letters – I meant no offence by that, yet unforeseen circumstances kept me from replying any earlier.

I do hope this letter finds you in good health, as improbable it is for you to have caught any disease during the past week.

That being said, I’d like to arrive this week, if possible? Please let me know whether you’ll be at your estate or whether you’ll have any prior engagement, preventing me from paying you a visit.

 

Sincerely
Clove Burdock.”

Tewkesbury stares at the letter in front of him, the envelope brutally ripped open. He is grinning like a mad man and his hands are shaking as he holds onto his fountain pen for dear life, ink dripping carelessly onto the paper, already laid out for his reply. But he does not care and neither will Enola.

He misses her, he truly does and perhaps his desperation is fuelled by the boredom he experiences at his estate. There aren’t many people his age around – if any at all – and most of them are not anywhere as exciting as a detective who saved his life on two separate occasions.

She may have almost left him alone the first time and was the one to lead him into the life-threatening situation the second time, but it has to count for something. And come to think of it, that time she let him get away and offered herself up to be sent to that finishing school was quite heroic as well.

She is pretty amazing.

“Dear En”

Tewkesbury starts off, just to cross it out and to rip another sheet of paper from the stack. He does not wish to cross her by making such a careless mistake, after all.

“Dear Clove.

Yes! I will be at the estate for a whole month to come, you can visit the moment this letter reaches you.”

Which should be two days from now, meaning she might ready be here on the eight already!

“You can stay as long as you wish for – I have missed the excitement that comes with a friend.

Sincerely
William”

And done it is. Quickly, the letter is shoved into an envelope, even faster it’s closed and Tewkesbury rips the post stamps from their drawer before jumping up to catch up to whoever had delivered Enola’s letter in the first place.

If he hurries, the letter might leave today already! And if he can claim prior engagement, it will hopefully stop his uncle’s talk from taking him to Afghanistan with him until parliament’s back in session.

Enola simply needs to arrive on time

“Wait!”, he calls when he sees the delivery boy that had insisted to bring the letter personally, which may be peculiar if it were any other person but Enola who had sent the letter. He stumbles while running once and scrambles to his feet in an entirely undignified manner. If his mother – or worse, his uncle! – would see him like this, he was sure to get a scolding, but at that moment Tewkesbury didn’t find it in him to care.

She’d visit!

That was great!

“Wait”, he calls out again and finally the post boy turns around and – and Tewkesbury startles and stares – before spluttering something inaudible as he recognizes me at last.

“E-Enola?”, he hisses, stepping closer as if doubtful it truly is me:”What in...What would you have done had I not been here?”

I am glad I am not the only one who tends to start off conversations without a greeting – I’ve always found that to be a particular flaw of mine. That being said, I have to admit – his expression has been worth the money I’ve had to spend on yet another costume.

“Took you long enough.”

Deciding to ignore his question – for I have entirely failed to consider what I might do if he is, in fact, not at Basilwether Hall at all – I instead choose to tease him.

He musters me for a few silent seconds, before a delighted smile spreads across his face.

“Enola Holmes, you are incorrigible – but I am glad to see you nonetheless – but quick now, before my uncle finds out. He’s come to visit and he’d be quite upset if he found us conversing all alone.”

Oh. I forgot. I suppose it makes sense one would want us to be chaperoned, but I’d rather not have to awkwardly shuffle around as we are tensely watched by whatever unlucky soul will surely have to admonish me on propriety countless of times.

I’d like to spare me the embarrassment and Tewkesbury as well.

“Well, we can’t have your uncle found us then, can we?”, I respond, stepping closer:”Any place he won’t be found looking for you?”

I have yet to truly make his acquaintance and something tells me we won’t get along well. And Tewkesbury seems to share my sentiment, as his eyes twinkle and without hesitation he grabs my hand and begins pulling me through the hallways, startling a great deal of servants.

Undoubtedly, this will be the talk of the estate by evening, but...I can’t find it in myself to care. His hand feels...nice enough in mine, I suppose.

Well. I like the feeling.

And that is all I will be saying on that topic.

“Would you like to take a walk?”, Tewkesbury offer, looking sideways at me, still grinning consiprationally:”I have promised to show you around and it’s still in bloom – and we’ve got Queen’s weather, after all!”

.o.O.o.

We do end up in the gardens, sneaking out of an open window to avoid running into anyone who might sing and he ends up falling quite a bit – luckily it’s grass and earth he lands on and I worry little about him actually getting hurt.

“Careful, you might lose another button”, I jest and Tewkesbury glares at me in good humour in return.

“It was a nice jacket!”

“You were running from an assassin!”

“You pushed me from a train! And it was a nice jacket!”

I laugh a second time and so does he and off we are.

The gardens are as splendid as I remembered them, though I finally get to enjoy them without the hassle of trying to solve a murder case.

It is no wonder then, that Tewkesbury starts talking of the various flowers and eventually explains the different meaning of acacia’s.

“But doesn’t it mean elegance?”, I inquire – he has stated so previously, unless I am mixing things up.

“Of course it does! But it can spell ‘when shall we meet again’ as well. It depends on the colour of the petals and of the book you’re referencing.”

“The book you’re referencing?”

“Of course! There is no one flower code – there a great deal many. And most of them assign different meanings to the same flowers even!”

Tewkesbury grins eagerly before excitedly twirling – then he stops and bows down, plucking a flower from its neatly cared for bed.

“Here!”, he says, presenting the flower to me:”Iris sibirica – an Iris. It translates to ‘message’ more often than not – it’s name is derived from Greek and the Grecian goddess. Surely you’ve heard of her, have you not?”

There is a strange tone of excitement to his voice that makes him seem all the more eager to tell me – and while, of course, I know who Iris is – my mother made sure I was well-educated on Greco-Roman literature – it does entice me to hide this fact from him, to only indulge him a little bit longer.

“No”, I say, receiving the Iris from his hand, careful not to crease the delicate petals. It is quite a pretty flower – I am not at all surprised they’d be cultivated in this garden of his.

“Are you sure?”, he asks, his mouth having fallen open in surprise:”Or are you merely humouring me?”

Huh. He seems to know me better than I had expected to him.

“Perhaps. What does it matter?”

I expect him to smile and respond in kind, but I find he defies expectations once more, his expression grim and determined.

“You should never feel the need to put yourself down merely to humour me – I mean everybody, of course.”

He sounds so-so sincere as he says that, his expression having lost all its eagerness and I am, quite frankly, touched.

It almost makes me want to grab hold of his hand again, but I suppress the urge and let my eyes shy away from him.

Unbidden, my mother’s words come to mind:”Do not shy away from anything, Enola! Some situations might need shadows and careful handling and a less direct approach – but don’t ever shy away from a problem, for running has rarely ever done anyone any good,”

Undoubtedly, mother would expect me to look right back into Tewkesbury’s eyes, but I fear what I might find in them – and what might be mirrored in my own (and to be frank, my mother would be disappointed by what she’d see as well). And for once, her advice seems to be entirely fitting of the situation anyway.

Tewkesbury isn’t a situation in need of solving or a problem in need of fixing – he’s my friend and my eyes shying away from him and the blush sprouting on my cheeks feels perfectly fitting.

“Well – in this case I don’t mind.”

My voice sounds so much shier than it usually does and that is enough to move my gaze back to him. He seems happier now – not any less sincere, but the humour is back in his eyes, so very befitting of them.

“You seemed to be excited to tell me – but to indulge you, Iris is the goddess of rainbows – hence her name translating to ‘rainbow’ – and a messenger of the Olympic gods.”

He nods contently.

“It’s fascinating to find all the reasons for why each flower spells what it spells – I am glad father taught me all about flowers, for I would have gone by with a great deal less joy in life if he had not.”

And that in turn would have left to an empty stomach and a great deal less joy for me as well.

“The codes can have the most ridiculous things sometimes – and it has the most ridiculous ‘flowers’ as well!”, he speaks, walking in front of me now, backwards so that his face is able to watch my expression.

It must be soft, my expression. Soft and...friendly.

I school my expression to resemble something more...presentable and Ebenezer has the audacity to grin smugly, though he does save my dignity by not saying a thing.

“Lolium Perene – Grass, for one”, he continues as if nothing had happened pointing at the very grass we are standing on – save for that stupid grin of his and the ever-growing blush I am sporting.

“It can have a great deal of meanings – though the one I am most acquainted with is that of ‘answer me please’. Quite a handy plant, isn’t it?”

It is and I say as much as the conversation contently fizzles out. We walk on in silence for a while, enjoying the late afternoon sun that reminds me I’ll have to leave soon if I want to catch the train back to London. Though I do not want to leave just yet. Eventually, our conversation picks up again. Tewkesbury tells me about a dinner party he’ll have to attend soon – “There will be other lords attending and mother says it’s important to make connection – I can’t say she’s wrong.” – and I talk about how I’ve spoken to Marianne already and what ridiculousness she has gotten up to.

“Why is that? Why would she not want to elope?”, he asks teasingly and I laugh and shake my head in return:”It is called marriage face for a reason, is it not?”

I smirk. He takes great affront to it, seemingly, but I don’t give him the time to protest:”And anyway, George’s quite the Hobbledehoy – he does remind me of you in that aspect.”

I try my very hardest not to let show how immensely proud of that comment I am, though my worries were entirely unfounded, seeing how Tewkesbury is sputtering too much to pay any attention to my expression.

I view it as my own personal revenge for earlier now, for that msug grin that he didn’t wipe off his face for a good minute or two.

“I beg your pardon? I am quite a refined man!”

“Are you sure about that!”

He takes no real offence to it and I laugh as he puffs out his chest, trying his best to appear taller. He looks quite ridiculous like that and he must know, for he gives up the pretense after a mere few seconds.

It does get me to laugh – giggle even – and he beams at me.

I am glad I have come to Basilwether Hall. Talking To Tewkesbury is always a great deal of fun and I have missed him as much as he had missed me, if his letters are to be believed.

“Well, perhaps, I am not fully grown yet...”

I snort. Tewkesbury elbows me.

“...but I do have a great deal of qualities and I – I….”

Tewkesbury trails off now and if I am not mistaken he might just be blushing. Or it is simply a trick of light, an illusion created by the golden rays from up above.

I decide not to delve further into that question.

“I was wondering – now that I am free of parliament until Christmas – and, once it’s in session I’ll be staying in London anyway! – if, perhaps you might...consider! Consider only!”

I do wonder what has him so nervous.

“Well – surely, you know of Doctor Watson.”

Doctor...oh. My eyes leave his once more, but it does not feel the same like all the other times they did and I can feel him deflating, although we are standing a respectable distance apart from each other.

“I was wondering...whether I could assist you as well? I’m sure I could be of help!”

So am I. Tewkesbury is clever and bricky – well, perhaps not that bricky – and he’d be of great assistance. It is true parliament won’t be in session until Christmas and once the season starts he’d probably be able to help me still, seeing how I do live in London.

Yet – for some reason – the thought makes my stomach churn. I do not understand why – I should be delighted by his offer. But I am not and it is quite the opposite.

“I – I will think about it”, I respond, without facing him. Tewkesbury accepts my answer without protest – but it does put a damper on the mood and it feels so much more awkward between us now.

Perhaps it is time for me to take my leave – not that I want to depart on such a bad note, but it is getting terribly late and I really do not wish to miss my train.

“I’ll have to leave soon”, I tentatively broach the subjects – I had hoped for something to cheer up the mood but alas, I was left to my own advices.

“It’s quite a way to the station and I can’t afford to be late.”

“Leave?”, he seems to be extraordinarily surprised by that:”What do you mean? You can stay with us the night – I’ve had a guest room prepared already!”

He looks so hopeful – it genuinely hurts I’ll have to reject him yet another time.

“My apologies – I’ve already purchased the ticket.”

It is a cheap excuse – those tickets aren’t that expensive.

“Maybe another time?”, I hurry to offer the moment his expression falls – and though he seems to be disappointed still, there’s also just that slightest shimmer of hope in his eyes as well.

“If that means you’ll come visit again. You do still need to have that cup of tea with mother”, he says:”In a month? I’ve got the exact date...you see, my uncle...”

.o.O.o.

8^th of October

Two days after I have gone to Basilwether, a letter reaches me – my apartment no less and any other time I might have scolded Tewkesbury for his carelessness, but I feel too elated still at my visit to feel any resentment towards his action.

It is a short letter, beautifully written like all of them, and carefully sealed with wax. There is not much of extraordinaire about it at all. Tewkesbury recounts a tale from his youth – for his “mother would tell anyway, and it would be all the more embarrassing then” – and speaks of the fowl that will most likely soon be born into their stable, asking for names.

Yet the letter also includes a set of two flowers – an Iris with it’s violet petals bound with blades of grass.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter One

-

27^th of October - 11^th of November 1884

Case III: The elusive inheritance
File I: Lady Andrew’s plight

.o.O.o.

I admire my mother. I do, I really, really do. I admire her wisdom, I admire her lessons, too, yet I must admit that even I – even I! – struggle with all that she says sometimes. Not because she is wrong of course, for my mother is seldom ever wrong, but rather because a great deal of life is so outrageously heinous it is hard to believe such claims, all of this darkness better of hidden in the shadows. Or maybe it should be out in the open after all. Mother was stubborn, rarely backing down from her pursuits, and it is safe to say she’d charge these silent words, these treacherous thoughts with the cowardice that inhabits them. I wonder whether she’d condemn me for thinking them at times, for they most certainly have. I wonder whether they may just have passed her own mind once in a while.

They must have. I cannot believe that she has learned all of these things without wishing to forget these same lessons life has imparted on her – and in turn, she on me.

The one I’d like to share with you today is a frighteningly simplistic one, so frighteningly simplistic I should have known all along: People are liars. Mother used to say all the time. They are nothing but liars and cheaters, wearing masks and but seldom is one allowed a glimpse beneath it.

Now I must admit, I am paraphrasing quite a bit. And yet! And yet… People – people lie. Not a day goes by without them not lying, not cheating someone, without them not concealing the truth in any way possible. They may not do so with malicious intent, nor any intent at all, yet the truth is undeniable. We conceal, omit, lie to another’s face all the while smiling most innocently. People are liars and it is entirely impossible to ever truly know someone. For all that you have read so far, dearest reader, you could not possibly know whether any of this is the truth – whether the conversations recorded, the thoughts that were thought have ever truly existed, or whether I have made them all up, lest you’d go out of your way to confirm this and even then – there are so many ways I could conceal my true face to all of you. After all, I lie. I lie a great deal, though perhaps such is the nature of this profession that I chose.

All this is merely to establish that people lie a great deal – I do, you do, most everyone does and yet, mankind is so very reluctant to accept this fact. We do not think ill of any new face we see and we might be a tad bit too trusting at times. It is a weakness of mankind and it is a weakness I intend to exploit.

And whilst concealing one’s true identity might be considered devoid or morality – I am a detective first and foremost. I may have posed as someone else before already – but never have I been in need to do so for as long as I had to with this case.

.o.O.o.

27^th of October 1884

It’s a great, truly monumental hall that I am currently walking through – a great hall with towering walls on each side, glistening glass embedded into them, nestled between the paintings of the great masters of generations before us. Yet I am not afforded the luxury to stay and dwell on their magnificence, as hasty steps echo through the halls as a booming voice introduces me to each and every person whose portrait is displayed here.

“As you may have realized already, these are the estates ancestral halls. The Andrew family is most proud of their heritage and these rooms must be handled with utmost care. Should this duty ever fall upon you, you must ask one of the more experienced maids to show you how it is done. Some of these paintings are hundreds of years old and you cannot afford to repair, let alone to replace them. Understood?”

I nod, wandering along to keep up with Ms. Burgh’s quick steps. Though I am used to a must faster pace now, thanks to George.

As you may have gathered already, once again, I am in costume. Once again, I am pretending to be someone I am not, fully aware of the deceit I am engaging in. Worst of all, the woman showing me around is, frankly put, exceedingly nice. I have been told most frightening stories by a great many people on the living conditions of servants and the strictness with which they may be treated. Ms. Burgh has yet to show any of the places I will spend a month of my life living in, however she, at the very least, seems nice enough.

We move on to the next room and after a good five minutes more I am finally introduced to the various servant’s aisles hollowing out the manor’s walls. It is a great thing, this manor – it may not rival Basilwether Hall in size, yet I feel this comparison doesn’t d it justice. It is a great hall with extensive gardens, well-kept and very much in the French style.

“These are the sleeping chamber”, Ms Brughs says eventually as she shows me through the narrow and somewhat damp rooms. I shudder at the thought of having to spent my nights here. If it were summer I could have brought my own blanket and simply camped outside, but seeing how we are nearing November and December, with all its snowfall that is just around the corner, it may just be a tad bit too cold for that now.

Perhaps I should have disguised myself as someone else, but then my cover would be much weaker than it is now. Hardly anyone pays attention to a scattering maid and that is the reason for my disguise after all. To infiltrate this household and go by unnoticed. And whilst I do see the reason within all of that, I did wish it wouldn’t require me to sleep in these rooms.

It will be hard for me to conceal my extensive reading and if I am ever in need of hiding any papers, I will need to find another place to do so.

Ideally a place that is dry.

Yet another thing to put on my increasingly longer getting list of thing I am in desperate need to do. I shall need floor plans and an overview of all those that regularly leave and enter the manor. I do not know whether I will ever need this information – but it can do no harm to know either.

“I must inform you that the butler, Mr. Vandell, was a good friend of the late lord and you shall treat him with all the respect that is becoming of him if you wish to stay at this estate. He will be the one to turn to with questions that even I cannot answer. Have I been understood?”

I nod honestly and this seems to satisfy her, as we make our way up a flight of stairs and finally reach the end of our round.

“And at last”, Ms. Burgh says as she comes to a halt in front of a door:”This is the study of his late lordship. You are banned from entering it – ever. Should you be tasked with cleaning it – and make no mistake, you most certainly will not until you have been found to be entirely trustworthy by Mr. Vandell.”

She side-eyes me at that as if silently telling me I will most certainly not earn anybody’s trust anytime soon and I can’t help but feel as if I have made a grave mistake already.

She pushes the door open and we enter. The study is neat and tidy, not a single piece of paper out of place. There’s a large desk right in front of an equally large window and to the side there is an almost unreasonably large collection of books. In front of that collection stands a tall, lanky man, emerged into one of said books and I must guess that this is the aforementioned Mr. Vandell, for Ms. Burgh seems entirely unbothered by his presence.

“This is the study. As you may see, it is tidy and organized and we shall keep it like this at all times. Especially now that the lord, may god take mercy on his soul, has unfortunately passed away, we must ensure his heirs will fins everything in best order.”

The book slams closed and both of us look up to see Mr. Vandell, staring at us, a sigh of relief leaving his lips.

“Bloody...Ms. Burgh, do please announce your presence the next time you wish to enter this room!”

Mr. Vandell’s hands fall to his side as he frowns at us, stepping closer.

“I have knocked”, Ms. Burgh responds nonchalantly:”Twice.”

She hasn’t – not once, but I am wise enough to keep that information to myself.

Mr. Vandell harrumphs at that before turning his attention to me, his eyebrows raised.

“And I suppose this is the new maid that we have hired?”

“Indeed. Ms. Burdock. She will join our household for the time being – we have discussed this, if I am not mistaken?”

Mr. Vandell does not dignify this with an answer, choosing to thoroughly muster me instead. I shift uncomfortably as his eyes narrow suspiciously – for no reason at all. According to my client, the late lord has only written of this...stipulation in his will – which needs to be read out still. Even if Mr. Vandell were to suspect me of ill-intent already, he wouldn’t know as to why he needs to be suspicious.

But then, luckily, he breaks out into a smile.

“Welcome to the manor, Ms. Burdock. I do hope your questions have been answered by Ms. Burghs tour – do not hesitate to ask for help, yet be aware that we expect excellency from each and everyone of you.”

He nods at Ms. Burgh before turning his attention to the book he is holding. I try to spy some of its contents, but a single glance from Ms. Burgh is enough to halt my attempts.

“We will take our departure then”, she says and I shrink at the sharpness in her tone:”And we must hurry, too – Lady Andrew will arrive soon and her room must be prepared. The late lord would be ashamed if she’d be offered anything but perfect comfort.”

.o.O.o.

22^nd of October 1884

I must find a way to thank Edith somehow – perhaps support her classes some more or help out in her tea rooms – I might just make a great waitress – for it is once again she who passes on all that I need to know about this newest case.

Now, you may be wondering what has made me move all the way out of London to the Andrew family’s estate, which is uncomfortably close to my own former residence, however I assure you, it is a most enticing case.

It started, like a great deal of things, on a Wednesday.

“Enola? May I introduce you to a friend of mine?”, Edith calls out to me the moment the doorbell rings above me. There is a lady of sorts standing right next to her, erect and with a grim expression, though her fidgeting hands betray her nervousness.

I step closer, greeting Edith with a wide smile before turning my attention to whatever friend of Edith’s this is. A friend of her most certainly is a friend of mine.

“Good day”, I say to her as well and she waves at me, her smile too wide to be sincere as she shifts on her feet, at times glancing at Edith as if hoping for help. But Edith simply shakes her head at the two of us and then points us at one of the free tables.

“Very well. Enola – this is Lady Andrew. Lady Andrew, London’s very own Lady Detective, Enola Holmes. Perhaps you may want to retreat as to discuss these matters, which you searched Enola out for?”

I am thankful for Edith’s help, for I am certain I might have stood her for entirely too long, unsure of what to do had it not been for her. Gladly, I take her up on her offer and we move to the assigned table, taking our time to sit down. Already there are two cups placed before us and I get the feeling Lady Andrew has waited on me for quite some time already.

We stay silent for entirely too long before I finally make mention of it.

“Have you waited on me for a long time?”, I ask, watching the steam rise from my cup.

“Today? Hardly at all. Though I must admit, you are difficult to find!”

I am – but I can hardly change that with my brothers and whatnot.

“My apologies. I gather you have been here more than once already?”

Lady Andrew nods eagerly and sits down her cup again much too quickly.

“I have! I have perhaps five days or so? Yes, five days it must have been.”

Finally, I dare to take a sip from my own tea. It taste impeccable, like all of Edith’s teas doe, however there is a richness to this one that I have seldom tasted before.

“Oh, I wish it were easier, but for reasons of my own I cannot disclose my lodging – however, may I ask how you knew I’d arrive today of all days?”

Have I, perhaps, missed a pattern? A trail of bread crumbs that might lead my brothers to find me? Perhaps after all this time this fear of mine is unreasonable, but no one has ever been hurt by being too careful.

But already, Lady Andrew is responding.

“Oh no, I did not know at all!”, she says which makes me frown:”I simply ordered tea for you everyday.”

At that, I finally feel something during this conversation – surprise. Genuine surprise.

“You have ordered tea for me although I never once showed? You mustn’t have!”

“It was no bother!”

“Oh, but you mustn’t have! It is the expensive tea no less!”

“It was my pleasure, I assure you – nothing but the best for my valued, uh, valued guest?”

We fall silent once more and I must admit – Lady Andrew seems even more awkward than I am. As if not used to this kind of conversation and it immediately makes her all the more likeable to me.

The silence is unpleasant regardless.

“Lady Andrew, may I ask why you have looked for me.”

Bluntness may be viewed as rude by some, yet I hope that my reputation will excuse most of my “unbecoming” manners, as I am certain Mycroft would put it. Most certainly, Lady Andrew is not expecting me to be lady-like and I shall use this to my fullest advantage.

Indeed – she smiles at it even, raising her cup as a laugh glimmers in her eyes.

“Of course you may – perhaps we should simply skip these niceties, I have grown bored of them already. As to why I have made it my mission to meet you, well, perhaps it is time I disclose the...unfortunate situation I have found myself in. The first thing you must know is that my beloved uncle – a second father of sorts – has recently passed away.”

Passed away? Has he been murdered? Perhaps she wants me to find out who did it? Certainly, this is quite a...different case from all those that I have solved before and I can’t help but feel excitement bubble up in my stomach at the thought.

“Fortunately, he passed away peacefully – in his sleep and fear not, my family and I have no reason to suspect any foul play in the matter.”

Huh. No foul play? Then why-

“It is the inheritance. I need your help securing it and I need to secure it because I cannot get married and therefore, my livelihood is at stake.”

She cannot get married? How very strange – not that I would ever judge her for such a thing, yet I am surprised at the other conviction in her words. Lady Andrew has a certain attribute to her that makes me feel as if nothing would ever change this. But before I get to ask as to why that is, she has already seized the word once more.

“As for the reason why I can’t get married: I simply do not wish to.”

Miss Burgh looks at me in anticipation and I shift uncomfortably – seemingly the wrong reaction.

“You see, the mere thought...well, it makes me shudder. Now, I am aware that this is most unusual.”

I suppose it is, but am I really one that could accuse her of such a thing as being ‘odd’ or ‘strange’? Certainly, I’d be nothing but a hypocrite if I did.

“But I assure you, there is nothing wrong with me. I do no wish to enter a union like that and whilst I would hate to make anyone think I have only cared for my uncle to inherit his fortune, I am in dire need of a stable income such an inheritance would provide me with. You see, my father has fallen gravely ill and my brother is...less supportive of my wishes for freedom than he ever was. I fear he might marry me of or let me sink into poverty. According to him, he refuses to let me live off of our family’s fortune any longer.”

I frown. Now, that just sounds rude. Not unlike Mycroft, I must admit – though I wonder whether he’d really abandon me like that should I ever be in need of his help. Luckily, I do not plan to ever be in need of his help, therefore I hope that I will never find out.

“Though I would like to think he is being highly unfair.”

He most certainly is.

“After all, it is not by any fault of my own that I have been put into this situation. My family outright banned me to attend university or find any way to earn my own livelihood, lest I become a governess. But I digress.”

Another sip of her tea. A heavy sigh.

“I am in need of this inheritance. Now, my uncle is the eldest brother of my father’s and any other time his family were to inherit it all, however there has been a mysterious falling out between the lot years back and as it stands, they will inherit nothing.”

I nod. Perhaps not the most riveting case so far, however it is certainly more interesting than many a different case that I have worked on already.

“Seeing how I am not on the best terms with my own family, I have taken up residence within him and kept him company throughout his last years on this earth. I did not do this expecting to be his sole heir, however I was promised a sizeable portion of the inheritance. Yet...things have transpired that have complicated the matter and I am afraid it is entirely of fault of my own.”

“Your own fault? How so?”

“I – we were close and I have told him a great deal. Lord Andrew knows that I fancy riddles – I may not be proficient at solving them, but I like them nonetheless – and we know each other well enough to be upfront with each other. He said to me, and mind you, not a single word have I changed to serve my own needs:’Are you here for my fortune only?’. Of course, this is not true at all, but I do understand his worries.”

She looks at me expectantly, as if she anticipates me to judge her. I do not. She seems honest enough and I anyway, I do not wish to drive away any future client of mine by making hasty judgements.

Clearly embarrassed, Ms. Andrew clears her throat, takes another sip from her tea before leaning back and scanning the area. Most likely to catch any eavesdroppers, however all she does is manage to grab most everyone’s attention. Luckily, this is Edith’s tea rooms and Edith tea rooms are devoid of gossip. One mustn’t fear to be listened in on in these walls, not unless one has been followed and Lady Andrew has assured me already that she has not.

“It is the following: I asked him to make it a treasure hunt of sorts – one that is only solvable if one knows him and knows his household. And, I fear, I may have overexerted myself. I do enjoy puzzles – I do, a great deal! – yet...”

She leans closer, consiprationally and perhaps now some curious ears might strain to hear her whispering voice, but if they do, they are well enough at masking their attempts.

“...I find myself...intimidated already. I am not the best at solving them and additionally, my brother and father both seem to conspire against me, for I am expected to pay a great many social calls to the mother’s of eligible gentleman. Therefore, I am in need of a proficient assistant that can disguise themselves as a servant. And this is what I would like to task you with doing – solve all those riddles – or help at the very least – and perhaps without being noticed by anyone else.”

She takes another sip, her cheeks coloured a rosy red as if she were embarrassed to continue.

“There – it is a contest. I doubt anyone knows about it but I – and to participate, one must be in the estate’s library at a given time, however his will has been read by his lawyer and I am afraid my brother has found out about it as well. I am convinced that is why I am required to make all these social calls. That being said, I expect this assignment to last no more than four weeks – you will arrive two weeks before the competition starts as to raise less suspicion amongst the servants. I cannot have anyone sing to the other participants.”

She looks at me expectantly and I nod. Of course.

“I have gone in disguises before already.”

Perhaps not to the greatest success, however Lady Andrew does not need to know that.

“Very well. I will pay you eight shilling a week for your work. You will be able to live at the mansion during this case and you will be provided with sufficient food – two meals a day and a very light lunch. If I happen to win this...this treasure hunt- whether by your doing or not – I will reward you with another ten pound. Is this to your liking?”

And Lady Andrew stretches out her hand, staring me down as if I were an opponent to overcome. It is a strange expression, but I shake her hand nonetheless.

It is time for a new case.

.o.O.o.

11^th of November 1884

It has been two whole weeks now since I have been called to work at the mansion and nothing at all has happened. I have worked – perhaps less than I would be expected to usually, due to Lady Andrew’s interference – and I have studied. I was given plenty of books on the manor and the lands surrounding it and have read up on its history as I pretended to be a chamber maid to Lady Andrew.

Perhaps I will include my notes in these files.

That being said: It has been two weeks.

The other contestants have arrived. And only three people have responded on time to participate in the ordeal. I have asked Lady Andrew already whether it would go against the rules so carefully laid out by her uncle to have me help her, however she denied this.

“He has made no mention of outside help.”

That being said, I am glad I have free reign to do whatever pleases me, as long as I stay inconspicuous, for the dusting of shelves I am currently undertaking is of no coincidence at all. In the far off distance I can hear a clock chime one and every single hair on my body rises in response to the sound.

It is time. Murmur and footsteps come closer, people making their way into the library and Mr. Vandell finally rises, a book in hand, seemingly awaiting the party of treasure hunters. It is him who seems to be the referee. I wonder whether he will sent me away.

He does not. The doors are pushed open.

Four people line up.

As expected, there is Lady Andrew and of course he brother, both of them positively glaring at each other as if trying to silently poison the other one with thought alone. Those account for two. There is another gentleman that I do not know, however he nods at Mr. Vandell and they seem to know each other.

The last person is Ms. Burgh – and Ms. Burgh has spotted me, her eyes narrowing and her eyes challenging, until she glances at Lady Andrew, still engaged in that silent battle of hers.

Than she nods.

Splendid. Only two weeks in and my cover has already been blown by someone that really shouldn’t have found out about me.

But I do not have time to ponder what consequences this can entail – for my attention has already been grabbed by a smooth and deep voice.

“Well then, ladies, gentlemen.”

Mr. Vandell nods to the group and I must strain my ears to catch what he is saying at all.

“I will read out the rules one last time, though I have no doubt each and everyone of you knows them already. But do keep in mind – I am the only one in possession of the key to Lord Andrew’s inheritance and I will disqualify anyone who dares break them.”

I simply wished I could get even closer, but that would draw unwanted attention to my person, attention I hardly need. But I am sure that Lady Andrew will tell me all there is to know later on.

Chapter Text

The Andrew family:

   source: biography (to be found in the library, west side, third bookshelf from the left, fourth row from the bottom, titled “A biography of the Andrew family), handed to my by Lady Andrew

They can trace their origins back to the times of William the Conqueror. They came to England with his army and received land and titles for their service to him. Supposedly, their ancestor saved William’s life during the battle of Hastings.

They backed the Yorks during the civil wars which lead to the family’s decline. They sold several plots of lands in the south and eventually, had to give up their family’s castle even, retreating to London. They were saved by an advantageous marriage to the daughter of a rich, Dutch merchant in the 1630s.

Their crest is a rose as well, a blue one.

They have kept their standing as of yet and are known to be great friend’s of the arts. They are greatly known for the gallery.

Biography of Lord Arthur Andrew:

   source: Lady Andrew

Born to Lady Henrietta Andrew and Lord Victor Andrew

second-oldest son, his elder brother died from tuberculosis when Lord Arthur Andrew was twelve.

He was sent to study at Harrow once he turned ten.

He returned aged 16 and spent the next three years at the estate, until he was married to Lady Victoria Andrew (former Mossbury) in 1854, aged 19.

He eventually went to study in Cambridge, biology, until he took his place in the house of Lords where he made appearances throughout his life. He seems to have been fairly liberal and Lady Andrew continuously praised him as welcoming to all.

Lady Andrew spoke in great detail of his fondness of collecting insects. They are displayed in the Billiard room, a favourite place of Lord Andrew. His collection features over a hundred butterflies and he has categorized several species.

He greatly disliked chess, horse racing and, according to some most odorous flowers.

He spent most of his time in his study, where he preferred reading. He was a very private man, keeping his study locked for most of the time.

He never had any children, though he was known to really like them. Lady Andrew spend parts of her childhood in his care.

Biography of Lady Victoria Andrew:

   source: “Memoirs of my beloved wife” by Lord Arthur Andrew (to be found in the study, currently locked away)

Will be named “Victoria Andrew” as to not confuse her with Lady Andrew

They must have been close. Lord Andrews consistently calls her one of his dearest confidants, albeit he himself admits their marriage did not start off on the right foot.

I am not sure, but it almost seems as if he had a mistress at some point.

Strangely enough, she never once fell pregnant. It seems that either of them is barren, or perhaps his affair never ended. However, there I no mention of any illegitimate children anywhere, other than rumours that Lady Andrew condemned as nonsense.

She died ten years ago, aged 37, from an unknown disease.

Lady Victoria, born Victoria Mossbury, was married to Lord Arthur in 1854, at the age of 17.

In her will she stated she’d like to ask her husband to distribute her wealth to various charities in her name. She did not specify which, but she expressed her trust he would make the right choice.

She spent most of her time in the house, substantially expanding the library. Additionally, she was always quoted to have enjoyed her time in London (during the season) more than her time at the estate. It is curious, as to why then she went to such great measure to banish all roses from the garden.

It is rumoured she did it to spite Lord Andrew, who held no great fondness for them either.

Lady Victoria was known to take great interest in the orphanage and often fostered children from her close family for an extended period of time. She even

The house:

   source: biography (to be found in the library, west side, third bookshelf from the left, fourth row from the bottom, titled “A biography of the Andrew family), handed to my by Lady Andrew; the floor       plan (a copy is attached)

It was build in the mid 17^th century and has served the family ever since.

Was built upon the wealth of Dutch Traders who married their daughter into the gentile Andrew family, saving them from bankruptcy. The Dutch room is to remember this.

Notable, too, is the chapel build in honour of the virgin Mary. Supposedly, the estate was built upon holy lands that were once the site of a miracle in the 15^th century. An orphan fell gravely ill and was outcast from his village. Trying to soothe his aches, he lay down in the stream north of the house and prayed to the virgin. When he woke up the next morning, he was cured, according to legend.

A shrine marking the occasion can still be found.

The estate is known for its gallery as well. Portraits reaching all the way back to the 14th century can be found there. The Andrew family was able to preserve most during their time in London and extended their collection by buying artwork of several grand masters. The Witteburg family brought a great many paintings as part of the dowry as well. Most recently, the portrait of Lord Andrew and his wife has been added, showcasing them and their closest friends.

The gardens:

   source: Lady Andrew; my own exploration of the site;

Lord Andrews invested a lot of time in these. As coincidence wants, he makes quite a mention of Tewkesbury’s late father. Perhaps I should write him?
The gardens are found in front and next to the estate, around the river running on the north side. I could not find a detailed map:

The front side of the house (the east side) is stylized in the French way and has been that way much since its first conception. Perhaps most well-known are the two mazes framing the main fountain or perhaps the flower field with rare tulip variants the family takes it pride from.

The gardens are regarded as its own prize and are greatly admired. They extend to the north side, to a small stream and incorporate it into their design. These, too, used to be in the French style, yet after much debate, the gardens were changed by Lord Arthur Andrew and his father to a more landscaping design.

The garden includes:

• a small forest
• a pavilion overlooking the nearest village (and commissioned by Lady Victoria)
• a canopy of bushes
• an artificial pond including an equally artificial grottoe (according to Lady Andrew it was Lord Andrew’s favourite place)
• a monopteros (close to the lake)
• a great many shrubberies, most of them to replenish Lord Andrew’s and Lady Victoria’s personal collection of medicinal herbs (a shared interest)

The landscaping garden winds across the stream several times and is quite condensed. The garden opens with the shrine to the Virgin Mary and from there one can explore a great deal of shrubberies. The lake is to the east and so is the small forest.

Things Lord Andrew changed:

Any and all roses were removed.

The garden’s north side was completely changed and the sandstone walks were removed with grass.

The forest was expanded on

the stream’s straightening was reversed (to an extend)

Other contestants:

Miss Brughs:

She seems nice and I currently don't know how she found out about the contest. She was close to Mr. Vandell though who in turn was close to Lord Andrew. Maybe he told her? Maybe she overheard something. I’m not sure, but she knows that I am, in fact, not Lady Andrew and I need to talk to her to ensure she does not blow my cover.

Lord Andrew (Lady Andrew’s brother):

Perhaps he was told? Though I doubt it. According to Lady Andrew, he disliked her uncle for reasons unknown to her, going as far as to call her uncle “repulsive” at one point. I am unsure whether he might be dangerous or not – he knows the family history, but perhaps not any personal details? It all depends on what these riddles aim at.

Mister Whittler

He is the lawyer and it is clear how he found out. I wonder whether Lord Andrew trusted him not to participate or whether Lord Andrew was sure Mister Whittler would be unable to solve the riddles.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 23

-

9^th - 12^th of November 1884

Case III: The Elusive Inheritance
File II: Not quite as it seems

-

Nothing will stay hidden forever. Everything will come to light eventually – this is the very principle on which my profession is build. A detective must dismantle any lie – any obtrusion of the truth if they want to be successful at their profession.

And I’d quite like to be.

So, it is the very nature of mankind – to lie and to conceal – that gives me this life that I have lived to the fullest these past months.

Though I must never forget – people lie. And perhaps, I must elaborate as to just why this seems as such an epiphany, one that came to me during this case no less. It does seem rather simple after all, does it not? A woman in need of a steady income to escape the fate live has destined her for, simply for having the audacity of being born a woman.

Frankly, if it were me in Lady Andrew’s situation, I’d hardly act any different.

No, there is no mystery shrouding Lady Andrew in darkness – she is desperate and in need of help and I’d be amiss if I were not to lend her a hand or two. But the case I have been commissioned with hardly keeps itself mysterious either. An inheritance that was promised but then kept from someone and a trail of riddle to lead any daring challenger to it. The most curious thing of all may perhaps be the other contestants – but none of them seem particularly interesting either.

Once again, it is the “why” that I am looking for. Would Lady Andrew’s truly erect a scheme this grand just to...test his niece?

.o.O.o.

9 ^th of November 1884

“Dear Clove Burdock,

I am grateful to hear of your well-being – it is always a joy to read your letters. Though, I do realize I never fail to tell you so each time I write back.

It still is true.

We both have our things to say – and once again, I am glad to hear you have found another case. You seemed gloomy that you went without one all this time and I hope this case will help you out of it – maybe I can help you with the case? You have been unusually tight-lipped and while I have no intention to invade your privacy, I am always keen to hear your tales.

A t Basilwether, everything is still as it used to be. Uncle has pointed out that the roof will need some repairs soon and that we should get it done before winter breaks. It is getting colder now and mother is all excited – things have just been finished to be secured for the winter months to come. Word is that it will be a cold one this year and mother is worried we may not have enough firewood. She’s ordered more already, but it is hard to get by. Have you take any precautions so far? Your apartment seems to withstand even the coldest of winter, but should you ever be in need of a warmer place, our guest room will always be in want of your presence.

And so am I.

Perhaps, if circumstances allow, you may stay longer than just an afternoon? Mother still wishes to have a proper talk with you, claiming you have saved two of her ‘most dearest people’ already. You do like tea, don’t you?

You must, with all that visiting at Edith’s that you do. Perhaps we can go there together some time? Though, life has been busier. A cousin of mine has returned from overseas and we’ve visited to hear his tales of the Americas. He seems to have enjoyed it a great deal and has described in detail the cities he has encountered. Especially the United States with their skyscrapers and busy streets.

I’d quite like to see them for myself one day, too. Mother has proposed we may leave once I have settled into my role as peer, though uncle seems to be hesitant to go. His grandfather – and my great-grandfather – fought in the war of independence, apparently.

I would like to travel there nonetheless. And, of course, I want to see the rain forests that my cousin was less fond of. Filled to the brim with bugs, he said, but with a great deal of flowers as well. I have read of them and even seen a few, but I doubt anything will ever be quite a grand and breathtaking as these forests themselves.

I hope to see you again soon

Sincerely
Tewkesbury”

.o.O.o.

11^th of November 1884

“Well then, ladies, gentlemen.”

Mr. Vandell nods to each member of the group once before opening the carefully sealed letter in his hands. Perhaps it may just be my very own perception of sealed letters – for my mother received them from time to time and I was banned from ever as much as glancing at them – increasing their mystery tenfold to my young eyes, of course – but it does seem rather...dramatic. The way Mr. Vandell inhales his breath, holding it there as he seems to make eye contact with each and everyone of them. It is hard to see, from where I am standing.

And then, finally.

“I will read out the rules one last time, though I have no doubt each and everyone of you knows them already. But do keep in mind – I am the only one in possession of the key to Lord Andrew’s inheritance and I will disqualify anyone who dares break them.”

Perhaps it is once again merely my own perception, but it does seem as if he intensely stared at Lord Andrew at those words – Lady Andrew’s brother who has silently arrived a week ago and hasn't spoken a word to anyone since other than his sister. They had had a rather loud argument and I am sure, had Miss Brughs not herded each and everyone of the servants away from the room the argument took place in, why, we might have gained knowledge of another curse word or two.

According to Lady Andrew at least. At least she didn’t hold back when she relayed what had happened.

“It is the same old thing. He came here for the inheritance and told me to stop my “foolishness” at once. It is ridiculous. I have told them time and time again and yet, they still insist to come between and my own notion of a happy life!”

It reminded me of Mycroft. As a matter of fact, a great deal of Lord Andrew reminds me of my brother.

“To solve a riddle and to gain access to the next, you will be required to point Lady Hilster – who has generously agreed to help oversee this...hunt – towards the object that the riddle is referring to. You may guess three times for each riddle, any more guesses and you will be disqualified.”

Three guesses only? That...raises the stakes by a great deal.

All the more reason for me to ensure I find the right answer.

“You are not to interfere with any of the other contestants of this competition. You are not to disperse any of the books or clues that may hint at the riddle’s solution. You are to stay in your room after hours to allow me to check up on the clues needed. Shall any damage be found, the treasure hunt will be suspended until the perpetrator has been found.”

How curious – I had never been told of the rule regarding the curfew. Is it new? Does it apply to me? Surely, it must.

“Furthermore, you may tell other people of the game, however, do keep in mind that only the four of you are eligible to the inheritance promised. Additionally, any outside help must be kept small – I will not tolerate these halls to be filled to the brink with guest of all sorts. This is in accordance with the late Lords very own wishes. Are there any complaints?”

I can hear murmuring, but no one dares to directly voice any.

“Splendid. I will hand over a copy of the first riddle to each of you. There will be no additional copies – it is up to you to guard them adequately. Furthermore, you will not be handed another one should you lose it. You may make copies of it yourself however. Are there any questions?”

“May we show the riddles to any other people?”

It’s Ms. Brughs who asks and I can feel her eyes bore into mine, even though I am currently hidden behind a few book cases.

“You may. Any other questions?”

“When exactly will curfew start?”

“At 9pm, albeit exceptions may be made if necessary.”

The lawyer nods and writes it down – it makes me wonder whether I should have brought a note book of sorts – some paper and chalk.

“This curfew – does it extent to any people we may ask for assistance?”

Again, I can feel Ms. Brughs eyes on me – again, it sends shivers all over my body.

“Of course. The curfew will be imposed on anyone – excepts for the most trusted of servants. Should anyone be found conspiring with them, be aware that it will eliminate you from participation as well as ensure the servant will be let go off. I suppose that was the last question?”

I can see everyone nod and then Mr. Vandell handing out small envelopes that no doubt contain the first riddle.

“The game shall be afoot, then. The rules are found written in this letter as well. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to search me out. I will be staying inside the study, overseeing some paper work most of the time. Oh, and before we leave – Ms. Brughs? A word?”

I can’t neither see nor hear Ms. Brughs’ answer, but I suppose she must have agreed, for her and the butler are the first to leave, leaving behind the other three contestants and quiet murmurs erupt. Too quiet for me to understand. But eventually, all but Lady Andrew leave – the moment the library doors fall closed again, I shoot up from my somewhat hidden spot. I was trying to stay behind the book shelves to draw less attention to me after Miss Brughs had spotted me. Hopefully, she doesn’t think much of it – or, at the very least, will not betray Lady Andrew’s secret to anyone else.

Silently, I make my way over to Lady Andrew, who has made herself comfortable in a cushy chair, drinking away at a cup of steaming tea. The paper Mr. Vandell read from is still laying in front of her, no doubt he relinquished it to her without any further questions. Lady Andrew is the estate’s lady in everything but name after all.

I close the remaining distance between us, not daring to interrupt the silence as Lady Andrew pensively stares into her cup. She seems deep in though – and so should I be. I am commissioned to help her with this treasure hunt.

I would hate to see her life in ruins because of my own inability to solve a few, puny riddles. And said riddle – the first of god knows how many – is laying right in front of me, the simple line of text immediately catching my eye.

“Every flower has its thorns

and ruin soon will follow

from human greed our downfall’s born

our nature us will swallow.”

Well, it isn’t just a simple line of text – instead it is written as a poem and instead of it be just that – a rhyming scheme – it has a small picture attached to it. It’s simple, barely covering my hand and shows a grand garden – a small pathway, arboured and littered with flowers of which every single one of them is a tulip. We were reassured by Mister Vandell that the scene depicts the gardens outside – the gardens which the family takes great pride in – though I cannot say for sure whether all this colourful splendour is indeed found on the estate’s grounds. It is autumn – late autumn – and most trees have shed their leaves already. But the pathway reminds me of the one just outside alongside the hedges that lead to the fountain just before the entrance. I have extensively searched the grounds the two weeks I have stayed here already.

That being said, Lady Andrew seems to agree with me.

“I suppose having the first riddle hint at the entrance hall – or perhaps the gardens, it seems – makes a great deal of sense”, she comments as I try to memorize the picture. I nod along, hardly listening.

The most logical conclusion would be the gardens but it seems so...simple? But the estate was built on top of another one – one that had fallen into disrepair due to the family’s misfortune. Perhaps this is what the poem is talking about?

I must look into the family’s history again. By far, their greatest downfall was during the civil war between the York’s and Lancaster's.

“I will search the garden’s firs thing tomorrow-” 9pm is approaching and I will not be able to search the gardens anymore today “-and look into it. Perhaps I can find a clues in the layout of that particular flower bed? I will study the floor plans tonight, in my chamber, if I will find the peace to do so.”

I share my room with another girl – she’s not unpleasant – sweet and warm – but a very light sleeper and I’m afraid I might wake her up if I were to ignite a candle.

Ms. Brughs has found me out already. I’d rather not have to add another person to that list.

“See to it that you do this”, Lady Andrew responds and I nod, feeling somewhat...talked down to. Perhaps it is my own perception, but

“What will you do?”, I ask. I try to pretend it is out of curiosity but I can’t help but let my spite shine through as well. I was under the impression we would work together – not to mention that Lady Andrew should know a great deal more about the riddles than I ever could. She partially grew up within these walls, after all.

Seemingly, I have asked just the right question, for her entire demeanour...diminishes. Her hands curve aggressively around her tea cup and her lips are pressed into a thin line. At first, I’m afraid almost my question have seriously offended her – yet, after a mere few moments, she opens up again.

“I want to”, she says, her words a heavy sigh:”I do. However...my brother has me pay visits to...family friends”, she murmurs, her voice shaking with anger. She looks utterly miserable, folded together in that chair of hers and whilst I feel sorry for her, I can’t help but wonder either.

“And you are...going? Why? Why don’t you just...not do what he asks of you?”

I, for one, now that ignoring your brother’s pleading is quite simple. It may require you to jump from a train, but that is neither here nor there.

Lady Andrew seems to have her reasons though. Carefully she picks up the cup of tea placed in front of her and stares into it, tears springing into her eyes.

“I’ve done that for years, but if I were to spurn our friends it would damage my reputation even more than it already has been. If – for whatever reason and mind you, I have no doubt in your abilities to solve any of these riddles – I were to lose this inheritance, I...I will need to find myself a husband, regardless of what I might want.”

She swallows thickly – and so do I. Casting my gaze away from her, I cross my arms in front of my chest. Once again, I am reminded of what is at stake. It may sound like nanty-narking, some fun riddles to solve – but to Lady Andrew, it is the last hurdle to jump to be free to live her life the way she wants.

“I’m sorry, Enola. I truly am.”

For the first time all evening, Lady Andrew looks at me – she seems upset – genuinely upset – and I can feel some of the tension leave me.

“I wish I could stay and help, but...I suppose duty calls.”

Setting her cup away she smiles at me sadly. I try not to smile back too awkwardly. I’m not sure why, but not a second later and Lady Andrew breaks out into a fit of giggles.

“My apologies. I don’t mean to be rude I simply...never mind.”

Composing herself, she rises to her feat, pulling out a small piece of paper from her robe.

“This is the address I will be staying at – if you need help – any help – do not hesitate to write me. It is a day’s trip away by carriage and I will write back the moment your letter reaches me. Should I remember anything of importance, I will write you as well.”

She hands me the note and I take it hesitantly, unfolding it – indeed, it is a simply an address, written in fine cursive and with utmost care.

“Do not hesitate to use me as an excuse whenever you need time to follow up on a clue. I may not be here in person, but my name carries weight. And if you need to call upon anyone else’s help – any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

Lady Andrew steps forward again, standing next to me – for a second, it seems she wants to leave me just like that, but then, quite unexpectedly, she puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I trust you Enola – I do not doubt your abilities. We will solve this, I am sure of it – and if we don’t...”

She trails of – another heavy sigh leaves her lips.

“Even if we were to fail. My life would not be in shambles. Now, good night – and thank you.”

.o.O.o.

“Dear Ebenezer,

My apologies for not writing you earlier – I was held up. Equally, I am sorry that I must keep my letter brief. The sun has set already while I am writing this and I must head to my room soon.

I am excited to hear about your cousin’s travels! They sound exciting and I agree – most things need to be seen – no description will ever do them justice.

I’d love to visit again once I have finished my latest case. And whilst I doubt I will ever stay during the winter – for my apartment is cosy and I quite like it – I appreciate the offer. Perhaps, you will be in London someday? At the very least you will be, once parliament is in session again.

Concerning my case, my apologies for not telling you more – I did not know whether I was allowed to tell anyone and while I do trust you – more than most anyone else, with exception of my mother, of course – I did not want to betray my employer’s trust either. However, I have learned that this is no issues, so this is a shortened version:

My employer is participating in a treasure hunt to find a will, handing them the entire inheritance. And I’ve simply been asked to help solve the riddles – which is why I am currently posing as a maid.

I’m getting the hang of it, at the very least.

The first riddle was handed to us today and it reminded me of you. The poem (Every flower has its thorns/and ruin soon will follow/from human greed our downfall’s born/our nature us will swallow) does speak of flowers.

I cannot tell you how long the case will take to be solved, but I will write you once it is. Free time is hard to come by and solving the case is a race not against time, but other people.

Sincerely

Clove Burdock”

.o.O.o.

12 ^th of November 1884

The next day has broken and I’ve had a miserable night’s sleep. The poem’s words kept resounding in my mind, never fully leaving my consciousness as I desperately try to find any more leads – anything, to help me figure out the riddle faster.

It is clear the poem talks about flowers, though I am unsure which. The estate is best known for its collections of tulips, but it has a great many more to offer and if it were spring, I am confident I’d discover so many more than I have read about.

Perhaps I can ask Lady Andrew to include a list of all those she remembers and where they can be found? Though, searching all the gardens would take too long and the poem is hinting towards the garden at the front.

Which is exactly where I am headed, now that I now that both, Lord Andrew and Mr. Whittler will not be there. They’ve just entered the saloon to do whatever it is that people do there and I believe myself to have half an hour or so before either of them will come outside.

If they do at all. It is the most obvious spot and therefore, most likely, a read herring, but I feel the need to examine it anyway.

Soon enough, I find myself standing in front of the flower bed.

Ms Brughs is there, too.

Neither of us is particularly surprised to see the other.

At first, we hardly acknowledge each other. I greet her and she nods at me but then we both choose to investigate the area instead of confronting the embarrassing truth we are faced with.

Well, that I am faced with. I was the one who blew her cover – Ms. Brughs hasn’t lost anything at all.

Swallowing my bruised pride, I lean over to look more intently at the scrawny bushes. Not much is left of the former vibrancy and quite frankly, I feel a bit silly. But I have yet to find my way into library to read up on the family’s history and it will be easier to find an excuse to be in the library than there is for me to explain as to why I am snooping around in this oddly specific flower bed.

I still regret my decision, though. I find nothing that helps me with anything. Not even a note ridiculing my obliviousness, though I suppose the gaping ‘nothing’ I am presented with already excels at that.

After some time, I can feel the fingers of my tips slowly go numb. Huh – perhaps Tewkesbury was right about what he wrote in his letter.

Deep in thought, I hardly notice Ms. Brughs coming up and standing next to me – I’m to busy trying to make sense of the picture I’ve successfully memorized.

“Clove, wasn’t it?”

Her voice catches me entirely off guard and I startle, almost losing balance. Catching myself just in time, I turn to Ms. Brughs, who is smiling widely.

“Yes. How can I help you, Miss?”

I try to sound as innocent as possible – playing the maid that I am posing as, but I’ve hardly got her fooled. In fact, all it does is make her smile wider, much to my chagrin.

“Lady Andrew asked you to help her, did she not?”

She seems to have little mind to ease me into the confession and her forwardness stuns me for quite a bit – then I internally debate what to do, as I, no doubt, look incredibly silly, just standing there.

“Yes”, I eventually admit. There is little reason on hiding my true affiliation. It would serve hardly any purpose at all and if the library had not betrayed me already, my previous actions most certainly would.

“I was commissioned by Lady Andrew. But what about you? Why are you participating? How did you even find out about the treasure hunt?”

I turn to Ms. Brughs, just in time to see a smirk grace her lips and once again, I feel talked down to.

“Word travels fast with us servants, Clove”, she says, clearly amused at my antics.

“And Mr. Vandell is hardly the only servant close to the late Lord. As a matter of fact, I am most certain I already know the true reason for this charade. Lady Andrew is amiss to think her uncle would be this distrusting of her.”

I frown – go as far as to drop the leave I was inspecting – not that it was of any help – and turn to face Ms. Brughs. She’s standing next to me still and digging around in the ground with her feet.

“A...nother reason? What do you mean?”

The late Lord Andrew may have had another reason to start this treasure hunt, other than to merely test Lady Andrew?

But why?

I don’t get to pay that though much mind – I’m ripped from it – quite brutally – by Ms Brughs’ laughter, piercing the silence.

“Dear! That is for me to know and for you to – well, I suppose for you to find out.”

She shakes her head, clearly amused at my question.

“If you win that is. Albeit, be warned: I intent to find this will for myself. Life as a servant is lonely and I have it on good authority that Mr. Banks down in the village is interested in courting me.”

I frown. That...is a strange reason?

“What do you mean?”

“Dear! Courting a servant is neigh impossible – no, I will take a sufficient pension for myself to happily retire as joint and mother. Not every lady has to be as intent on not getting married as Lady Andrew is – and I suppose you, as well.”

She sends me a sharp expression and I...I am unsure how to respond.

Of course, I am aware of the social pressure put on me – a girl of marriageable age, as Mycroft would probably put it – yet I have never really thought on it all too much. Life was confined to mother and our household – there was no room for much romance or thoughts of finding me a suitable husband.

Do I need one? Do I want one?

This is weird.

I suppose, now is not the time for such pondering anyway.

“...You...aren’t sure whether you want to get married?”

Ms. Brughs words are the exact opposite of what I need right now, but there is not much to be done about them either.

“No. I’ve never given it much though. Should I?”

I try to think of what mother would say – but for the life of me, I do not know what. Usually, she always has a piece of advice ready for me – whether she be here in person or not – but this time, I can’t for the life of me think about anything she might have to say.

Would she tell me to continue not to pay any thought to the question? Would she tell me to get married? She was married, too, after all! Would she tell me not to get married? To avoid what happened to her?

I don’t know.

For the first time, I don’t know what she might think and this uncertainty leave me feeling empty – a feeling amplified by the stunned silence surrounding Ms. Brughs and me.

Until it stops surrounding us – stolen away by Ms. Brughs laughter.

“You are a strange one, Clove – if that is your name. A strange one indeed and I find it very unsurprising that Lady Andrew turned to you for help.”

Ms. Brughs smiles at me and I grimace. Strange, huh? I’ve never been called that before – well, I have. But Tewkesbury is a nincompoop and strange himself, so his opinion hardly matters.

“I am grateful that you are willing to help her, though. That woman deserves better and I do not trust her brother at all – I’m not surprised she’s been sent away before the treasure hunt has truly started. And don’t be afraid – even if I were to win, I would never dare to leave Lady Andrew destitute. She is the rightful heir, after all – and who knows, if it weren’t for Mr. Banks, I may not participate at all!”

Ms. Brughs laughs again and I force a smile. It’s nice to know Lady Andrew will not be on her own. However, I would appreciate it, if people could stop treating me like an unknowing child.

Sulking, I walk around the flower bed to look at it from a different perspective. Ms. Brughs stops laughing.

A few minutes pass and not much happens – until I am done with my investigation and so is Ms. Brughs, for she raises herself again and clasps her hands in front of her.

“And that’s that. Now, back inside you go. I have been informed that Lady Hilster – a good friend of the late Lord’s – will stay at the estate, to observe the hunt – and regardless of your true purpose, in my book, you have been hired as a maid and I therefore, you will not kill the canary.”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 24

-

13^th - 16^th of November

Case III: The elusive Inheritance
File III: An unexpected arrival

.o.O.o.

“Life will never cease to surprise you, Enola, though most of them are very much predictable if only you pay enough attention. Other however...may not be as easy to spot.”, mother once told me. We had been working kitchen, her stern expression frozen into place.

“Sometimes it’s well-meaning and sometimes it is not. Sometimes you won’t know – so be wary to embrace them either too quickly or not at all. Evaluate each new situation – as surprising as it may seem at first, and try to find the good, the bad and the unpredictable.”

I’ve liked surprises most of my life. They brought excitement to an otherwise uneventful day, week or month – be it a sudden change in plan to switch up our daily schedule. It is all the more regretful then, to realize I have come to greatly dislike them. But, perhaps I must elaborate first:

I will confess that I never quite understood what mother meant by this. Was she trying to warn me? To prepare me? To remind remind me to cherish life for all that it gives?

I never quite understood, though it might have been her very own way of telling me of what was to come – she left not a week after she told me this, on the evening she came home bringing me some dates.

My favourite food.

I should have noticed.

Regardless. Surprises will come and no amount of planning will ever be able to fully eliminate them from whatever equation it is you are writing. Ms. Brughs finding out about the true reason why I am at the estate was such a thing and quite an unpleasant one at that.

But it is for these reasons – for they have been anything but kind to me – that I have stopped enjoying them quite as much. In the past, while I may have believed myself independent, I was not. Mother was who had to deal with whatever surprising unpleasantness life threw our way. I may have found it exciting to see a nest of wasps up in the attic – banning me from going there – but mother was who had to ensure it got removed before it grew out of control. I may have enjoyed the notion of an ever-changing stock of employee’s – until no one but Mrs. Lane was left – but mother was the one who saw the bills stack up.

Now that I truly am independent, I have come to appreciate her all the more. I have also come to not appreciate those pesky little surprises anymore.

Yet mother was right.

“Be wary to embrace them neither too quickly or not at all.”

They do hold some value after all.

.o.O.o.

Having gone into disguise as Lady Andrew’s chamber maid came with many advantages. Unlike my peers, I was not forced to participate in much that the other maids had to – I was exempt from a great deal of work. My duties laid with ensuring Lady Andrew was attended, after all, and all Lady Andrew had me do were reading up on history and trying to memorize most anything that could be helpful to solve the mysteries to come. We had a great many discussion as well – and most evenings were spend trying to guess what topics the riddles may cover.

Flowers came up plenty of times, yet I still have to find just which one the poem is referencing.

Being Lady Andrew’s personal maid came with additional sets of benefits as well – I was hardly ever tired and hardly ever busy and so it was that I was able to keep my head above any and all scuttlebutt that might have spawned within the servants’ chambers. I was hoping to keep it that way – knowing what the other contestants are doing would be most helpful with this case.

But Lady Andrew is gone and didn’t take me with her and Miss Brughs is intent on keeping me busy.

“As a precaution”, she said:”Lady Andrew’s brother will hardly lift a finger and the lawyer is not much of a practical man – you, however, seem to have been hired for this purpose only. I can’t risk my pension like that!”

I’ve tried to point out she is sabotaging me which should disqualify her, but I’m not an official player. Therefore, I do not have much of a choice other than to do as she says if I want to keep my cover – and I can’t have Lady Andrew’s brother to find out – whose name is Lloyd as I have found out when I was told to serve the dining table – lest he’d kick me out.

I’m unsure whether he is allowed to do so, but I’d rather not risk to try it out.

Being a maid is hard work. Incredibly so and should I ever think lesser of them for their supposedly menial tasks, I need you to promise me to scold me for it. I’d be tried already from the work alone – early mornings and late nights and not much time to yourself in-between. Having to sneak in my own reading and exploration of the grounds steals the last bit of time I still have and I have yet to hear back from Lady Andrew, to whom I have sent a letter reporting on the situation.

I might have to send another letter soon – perhaps my first got intercepted.

Word is, no one else has quite figured out the riddle yet either – so far, I’m not running too far behind. But I might if I do not find a way to get out of this situation soon – it is this very thought that has kept me occupied most of the time. Finding a thousand little ways to cheat myself some extra time and to delve into another book – to find a way to keep myself awake at night to go over any theories.

It leaves me utterly exhausted.

Therefore, I am not to blame for not paying attention to the rumours that are going around the estate at all. And it isn’t my fault I haven’t heard anything about this...particular one, until Victoria approaches me and I have no choice but to listen to my colleagues.

I – and two other maids – have been sent to prepare yet another guest room – for whom, I don’t know, but it is then that Victoria arrives. Victoria – with her sparkling blue eyes – is nice to a fault almost. The first time we’ve met we were in the library and ever since then she seems to have adopted me as a friend of hers – much like she has done to most of the other employees. Which is strange to a certain extent – as one might think she would be above out station.

Victoria officially is known as Lady Hilster’s chamber maid, but seeing how Lady Hilster has a second chamber maid and how Victoria is free to roam the grounds however she pleases, it is safe to assume she is much more a daughter to her than anything else.

Her being a chamber maid must be a front – not unlike how my position as a chamber maid is a front as well. Though Lady Hilster’s and Victoria’s relationship seems to be much closer than Lady Andrew’s and mine is. Nonetheless, she helps from time to time. Most older servants claim she used to live here for some time, but I myself have not found any traces of her existence.

Which is strange – there is no reason for them to lie. But the strange circumstances surrounding her, Victoria is nice and helpful and while her cheery disposition may not necessarily be most welcome if you are running on approximately three hours of sleep,

I can’t fault her for such a thing though.

“We are ordered to prepare another bedroom – Lord Andrew asked it to be northern most room in the family’s quarter – the one usually occupied by the eldest son?”, she chimes as she joins our group, before showing us the way as she explains some of the things that need to be done.

I must admit, my thoughts are adrift already. I know which room she is talking about – for all of Ms. Brughs unpleasantness, she did give me an extensive tour of the building – and no one pays me much attention anyway, aside from the occasionally worried glance from Victoria.

Eventually we arrive and soon enough, the room is filled with the sounds of hurried hands fluttering across any surface that can be found. Shelves are dusted, debs made – or rather only one bed, for there would hardly be the need for another one – and the floor is swept. I know the others are gossiping about whoever this mysterious guest is as Victoria oversees us and I know I should be paying attention – this mysterious guest is sure to be important – just as Lady Hilster is, whose arrival was just as sudden as this seems to have been – perhaps they might be connected to the game somehow – yet I can’t quite gather the energy to listen carefully.

Not until Mary decides to open up the windows wide and a gust of cold November air hits me, effectively waking me up.

Unfortunately, I have missed entirely too much of the conversation to still fully understand who they are talking about.

“Yes! I have heard he hardly announced his arrival at all! How terribly rude!”

“It must have been a sudden decision then...which brings me back to what I’ve said previously...”

“Lady Andrew isn’t here! And if he were truly trying to court her, he made a terrible first impression!”

“Passion knows no boundaries! He’s eligible!”

“And rude!”

“He has just recently joined parliament! He’s in the public’s eye all the time now! It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife*.”

I glance at Victoria who is smiling amusedly – and I might have, too, if it weren’t for this one very important clue just handed to me.

Recently joined parliament? He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t. It’s been a year almost – three quarters, any way – surely, someone newer must have been appointed recently. Closing my eyes for a moment to at least try and escape the headache I am currently experiencing, I try to remember any and all news I have heard of parliament recently.

There have been! There have been others! I distinctly remember reading of one Lord Herbert joining upon his father’s death.

“I suppose Lady Andrew would do well with a husband as liberal as him...”

Not a second has passed before Victoria’s smile slips and she rolls her eyes irritatedly – a gesture I might have reciprocated, had I not been this tired.

Or this distracted by the suspicions that slowly takes shape.

“Who exactly are we talking about?”, I ask, trying to keep any emotion from my voice. I don’t want to betray that this answer very much matter for me.

That nincompoop better not have come here without warning me first – what reason would he give anyone else anyway?

Luckily, no one seems to be paying much attention at my state – no matter how much you have slept the previous night, exhaustion catches up to everyone sometimes.

“You haven’t heard yet?”, Mary questions, furrowing her eyes – but then she shrugs.

I wouldn’t have been able to give her much of an answer anyway.

“Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether. The lord that was involved in that assassination ploy last spring? He’s being entertained by Lord Andrew in the billiard room as we speak.”

.o.O.o.

Half a day passes until I finally manage to sneak away. It isn’t easy to evade Ms. Brughs – or any of the other maids that are sure to lecture me should they catch me slack off – but there’s a lull in the afternoon that allows me to slip away.

I don’t wait for Tewkesbury to let me in – or te even as much as to greet me – as I barge into his room, prepared to give him a piece of my mind.

“What on earth are you doing here?!”, I hiss before he comes into view even and perhaps, he may not have heard me – but for as much of a nincompoop he is, I believe him clever enough to know just what I said.

He seems to be happy to seem me regardless.

“Enola Holmes!”, he exclaims, a skip in his steps as he comes closer, though he slows down as he takes me in.

“You’re disguised as a maid? Again?”

There he is. Wearing his trademark smile again – that slightly cocky grin that perfectly showcases

I am thoroughly unimpressed.

“What on bloody earth are you doing here?”, I hiss once more, crossing my arms as I glare at him. He hasn’t notified me, hasn’t written and as far as I am concerned, Basilwether hall is hardly a stone’s throw away. At least my mannerism seems to have taken him aback a bit, though not by much. For a second his smile falters before it is back up again, not a dent in his mood to be seen.

“You remind me of my uncle again – you still have the exact same stare!”

“And you are still as irritating as the first time we met, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether. Now tell me – what are you doing here?!”

The tone in my voice seems to get to him – finally – for his smile falters and he watches me uncertainly. Perhaps I sound too harsh, but my pride forbids me to back down now.

“Why – I’m here to help, of course!”

I do not respond. Instead, I lean back a bit and finally, he seems to realize that I actually am mad, his smile entirely vanishing as he takes a step back.

I am not all that mad, of course. And perhaps I shouldn’t be at all.

“And I missed you?”

He’s looking quite like a kicked puppy and it makes it all the harder to stay mad at him. But he did phrase that last sentence like a question which makes it all the harder to believe. Yet something must have given me away, for Tewkesbury stands up straighter again and while his expression is serious still, I know that he – well – knows.

“I’m sorry, Enola – I didn’t mean any offence. I came to help – though I am sure that you wouldn’t need mine at all – and while I can’t just immediately leave again – if you want me to stay out of it, I will.”

I uncross my arms, though I have yet to speak again. I am not sure why, but Tewkesbury seems to take that as a sign to keep talking.

“You look tired, Enola – are you alright? I really didn’t mean any harm by coming!”

His stupid eyes get me.

“I suppose you weren’t”, I admit, after a tense five seconds, breathing out and letting go of my irritation.

Tewkesbury will most likely be able to help me, too, if only because two minds read faster than one. Yet…

“But you could have written me at least! I hadn’t heard of your arrival until late morning!”

I would have known earlier, probably, if I hadn’t been so tired – yet another reason why Tewkesbury being here is most certainly an advantage – but that doesn’t need to concern him.

And he could have written regardless.

Nervously scratching his head, Tewkesbury seems to agree with me.

“I know – I know I should have written. But there were...certain reasons why I had to leave immediately. And! Besides! I did not expect Lord Andrew to invite me to the estate this...eagerly. I hardly had any choice than to leave immediately!”

He seems earnest and I believe him. For now. Though I wonder what reason he gave to visit at all. Are the Andrews and Tewkesburys old friends? And what on earth are these “certain reasons” he cited that forced him to leave quickly?

“Regardless – is there any way I can help?

Deciding to let this distraction slide for the moment, I nod eagerly. I am trying to help Lady Andrew and mother has always laid emphasis to the importance of privacy. Tewkesbury is allowed to withhold whatever parts of his life he wishes to withhold from me.

Even if I am entirely curious to know why he’s here.

“I suppose you can.”

I glance at the clock and squint – Cold Coffee. If I stay much longer, people will start to come looking for me. Tewkesbury seems to pick up on this as well judging by the way he frowns disappointedly.

“I can’t stay any longer – I need to go.”

“Of course.”

He nods – then his smile takes on a more sincere nature and he pulls me – quite surprisingly – pulls me into a hug. One I don’t hesitate to reciprocate.

“It’s good to see you again, Enola.”

“It’s good to see you again, too”, I murmur. And it is – as much as I might want to deny it, I can use his help.

Stepping back again, I glance at the clock once more.

“I will try to sneak away again – most likely in the evening. During dinner, perhaps – be there?”

I do hope he can be there and won’t be too occupied playing a good guest to Lord Andrew. Perhaps I can merely bring the books and write him a note? Perhaps we will have to find a way to inconspicuously exchange notes if we want to communicate.

But Tewkesbury seems to have different plans.

“You needn’t”, he quickly tells me:”I have requested to eat dinner by myself tonight – and I’ve claimed Lady Andrew recommended you as maid.”

“You did?”

That’s – pretty clever. Perhaps it may have fully blown my cover, but there really were only fragments of it left anyway.

“Yes. Though Lord Andrew suggested I rethink that decision – he called you clumsy.”

At that, my eyes widen at the indirect insult and at the very direct insult of his amused chuckle at my reaction.

“I am not…!”

I only realize how loud my voice has become when Tewkesbury is smirking his smile again and it almost makes me blush.

“I am not clumsy!”, I insist regardless.

“Of course not.”

His smirks widens – I step back, my arms crossed once more.

“Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess...”

I glance at the clock again and stop in my track. There is no time for this.

“We will talk about this.”

“Of course we will.”

“I will not hesitate to leave you completely in the dark.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

Ugh. I wish there was a way to swipe that grin of his face.

“Just you wait until dinner”, I hiss good-humouredly – and then I am off.

Hopefully no one has noticed that I was gone.

.O.

It turns out I do not need to sneak out in the evening at all. I am handed a trail with food and some additional instructions. Apparently, Tewkesbury was given a butler – unsurprisingly – though I suppose such menial task as bringing up food would be below him. I hardly have the time to snatch up the satchel filled with books that I have prepared before I am sent away to Tewkesbury’s room already.

“The Marquess is tired still and has requested to eat dinner in his room – I expect you to ensure it is to his desire.”

I nod and pick up the trail – not without noticing the way Ms. Brughs eyes me. It seems Tewkesbury and I are doing a terrible job at convincing everyone of our charade.

With nothing that I can do about that without raising even more suspicions, I make my way up to the first floor. A knock later and a rather annoyed “Come in!” lets me into the room.

“That’s a rather strange way to greet me”, I comment as I enter, closing the door behind me. I am to watch over his dinner to ensure everything is to his liking – which is good for us, because it will give us plenty of time to discuss the mystery at hand. The serving cart rattles on as I push it forward and is loud enough to get him to turn around and not a moment later, his eyes light up in recognition.

“Oh, good, it’s you.”

Tewkesbury lets out a breathe of relief.

“I thought it was Lord Andrew again – he came back here twice to talk about his sister. It was immensely exhausting, to say the least.”

I smirk and set the one trail I was carrying myself down on his desk – when I turn around again to take in his expression, I erupt into a fit of snickers.

“Is that why you’re here? To find yourself a wife?”

I am snickering still and I can’t bring myself to regret it, no matter how exasperated Tewkesbury glares at me.

“I am here to help you”, he points out, taking a seat and motioning for me to do the same. I let out another snicker before my expression turns all the more serious and I pull out the few books I had in the satchel hidden under the serving cart.

“And for that, I am most grateful – though you are not of the hook for not warning me! We could have gotten you a better cover story than supposedly wanting to court a woman that is a good four years older than you and isn't even here at the moment.”

Tewkesbury merely hums at that, elegantly dodging my implied question. I should have asked once more – more clearly – I should have scolded him for his recklessness even, but then again, I am too tired. The day’s work is catching up with me and I will have plenty of time to scold him tomorrow.

If I am angry still.

Which I probably won’t be.

“You’ve brought books, I see.”

Tewkesbury snatches up one of them, browsing the pages.

“I have indeed.”

I sit down next to him, bot of us ignoring the steaming pot with potatoes for the time being.

“You’ll have to read most of them – or rather half. But I suppose I should elucidate this new case first...”

And the next five minutes are spent just like that – I explain the rules and the circumstances and most of my findings – as well as promising to bring my own notes that I have taken so far with me, with me, for him to read. Tewkesbury asks questions from time to time and otherwise simply listens attentively to me outlining everything he ought to know.

Once that is done, there’s not much left to do other than to show him the riddle as well.

“Every flower has its thorns

and ruin soon will follow

from human greed our downfall’s born

our nature us will swallow.”

I did think of bringing the copy of the picture that accompanies the poem. Tewkesbury seems to be enthralled by it – he delicately takes it from my hand and inspects it thoroughly, cross examining the poem from time to time and I open one of the books and start reading.

It’s been entirely too long that I have found myself in someone’s company that allowed me to enjoy silence as much as I do now. Mother was one of the very few who could sit next to me, not speaking a word, but still make me feel as if I never were to be alone.

We’d read together, after dinner each night. As I grew up mother would stop reading to me and we delved into different books – but we never failed to sit together in the living room – on that couch we almost accidentally burned down that one time – simply enjoying each other’s company.

The silence was quite like this one, disturbed only by the rustling of pages – until Tewkesbury seems to be satisfied with looking at the poem and whispers:

“Should I just pick up a book?”

I nod, silently – equally cursing myself for not having thought of bringing my notes.

It would have spared us so much time.

“I’ve forgotten about my own research – it is in my room still, perhaps I can bring it some other time?”

“Do you remember some of it?”

I nod – and once again, I start explaining. Midway through my voice starts to become louder – until Tewkesbury gets up to light some candles and a spell is cast onto the room once more.

At the end of it all, I breathe out and look at the picture once more.

“I can’t help but think that it must be the tulips. They are what the estate is famous for, after all. But they distinctly don’t have thorns.”

I examinethe picture in front of me for the thousandths time – with once again, little success. Tulips don't have thorns, though it is most likely the flower the poem is referring to only has metaphorical thorns and…

PENG.

I shoot up as the sudden noise – my eyes widening as I stare at Tewkesbury, who must have accidentally dropped his book and it is only after a moment or two that I realize I must have fallen asleep.

No much time could have passed – the candles are still about the same length – yet I embarrassedly look away anyway.

“My apologies. I did not mean to drift away.”

Yawning, I stretch myself – feeling Tewkesbury’s eyes on me all the time in a distinctively worried way – and stare at the picture in front of me again, before deciding I’ve seen enough of it and I pick up a book instead.

There’s so much to read still – a task I might look forward to any other day, but I simply can’t find the energy for today. The soft candle light and rustling of the leaves outside make it all the harder not to fall asleep right here and now. Tewkesbury’s expression doesn’t make it any easier – the entire room feels warm and welcoming and is a great deal nicer than the servant’s chambers.

Silence envelops us once again and the both of us turn our attention back to our books. The night is still long and now that I can share the work load, I’m sure I’ll be able to get more…

I startle awake once more at a particular violent howling of the wind. I am disorientated for a second but then a glance at the candles reveal what must have happened.

This time, I must have slept for ten minutes at least.

Feeling myself starting to blush, I try to sort my hair again and pretend to read the book – I’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for five minutes at least, but I simply cannot discern its meaning.

A glance at Tewkesbury reveals he isn’t reading his book anymore at all – instead he is grinning.

I narrow my eyes at him.

All that does is elicit a chuckle from him.

“You should sleep”, he suggests, amusement dripping from his voice, and I agree. I should sleep. I definitely should – but work isn’t done yet for the day and I need to use as much of the little time I have to myself to solve this case.

A woman’s livelihood depends on it.

“I can’t. Ms. Brughs will want my help in the kitchens once I’m free again. I might as well stay here and read up on some history.”

It’s a good hour until bed time still – at least I enjoy this work. I’d much rather read than have to wash the dishes.

But then I yawn again – and it’s the last nail in my coffin. I can already see how Tewkesbury’s eyebrows furrow and decide to give in already.

“Fine”, I huff, closing the book in front of me. I didn’t gather much of it – most letters swimming in front of my eyes from how tired I am. I can hardly make sense of the single words, no to even speak of the sentences.

“But you must promise to wake me after an hour. I can’t be gone for too long – and I can’t be caught outside my room after the curfew, lest Lady Andrew will get disqualified!”

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 25

-

18^th of November 1884

Case III: The elusive Inheritance
File IV: A rose by any other name

.o.O.o.

If one were to ask me what I liked studying most under my mother’s wing, I would hardly be able to give an answer. Mother taught me well and I abided by a strict schedule that for all of mother’s spontaneous bursts of energy hardly ever changed. We covered as much of anything as we could. Physics, the classics, chemistry, art, physical education, mother even taught me how to sow – though she rather focussed on injuries rather than clothes. Yet, without fail, we’d always start the day with the exact same subject.

History.

Historical Perspective is the only way to begin a day”, mother used to tell me and I am inclined to agree. More often than not, what we did in history gave an outlook on the rest of the day and each time, without fail, I learned about the great woman of the past that are so often left by the wayside. The maiden of Orleans, Cleopatra or Empress Theodora – or even prominent women from farther away like Queen Aminatu or Alakhai Bekhi.

I am grateful for it – perhaps, I would be all the less confident if it weren’t for the stories of the past to teach me that woman are by far not the weaker sex. However – it did come at a price. My education hardly featured anything that could be classified as “miscellaneous” facts – to full was my schedule already.

It shouldn’t be an issue – it really shouldn’t be and it has never been one. I understand history, I can compare modern politics to those of the past. I like to think I have learned from it as well.

Though, perhaps – sometimes a fact - has unimportant and ridiculous as it may seem – can be of great use at least once in life.

.o.O.o.

It isn’t until late afternoon until Tewkesbury and I get to talk to each other again. Apparently, he’s been kept busy by Lord Andrew all morning – and according to him, it felt as if the man was trying to sell him a deal.

“He kept going on about their family’s rich history and possessions – it was terrible, Enola. I am so glad mother has vetoed any of my uncle’s attempts to drag me to any of these meeting so far.”

But he has freed up his entire afternoon – Lord Andrew got called away for business, apparently – something about Mr. Vandell needing to discuss current affairs – and it was him who proposed to talk to Lady Hilster.

“She’ll know that you are helping Lady Andrew sooner or later anyway – perhaps, if we talk to her she might give away some information?”

Tewkesbury is right, of course – and I am getting sick of reading the same passages about this family over and over again. Which is exactly how we end up on our way to Lady Hilster’s room – the green room – bickering all the way there.

“I told you to wake me after an hour!”

“You were sleeping peacefully! And you clearly needed the rest!”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble I’d be in if I were caught sneaking around in the middle of the night? Should I have stayed to prevent that?!”

“You could have stayed! I wouldn’t have forced you out!”, he protests and we simultaneously come to a halt.

It is Tewkesbury who curses first – he usually is the one all the better at keeping up appearance – but I am the one to speak up first.

“Have you gone insane?! What in the bloody hell do you think would have happened if I had stayed the night?”, I whisper shout as I begin to speed-walk the rest of the way and Tewkesbury hurries to keep up with me, already spewing replies.

“You didn’t seem to mind! You were the one who invited me to stay at the same apartment back in London! You hardly seemed to mind then!”

“I don’t! Those are silly rules! But I wasn’t trying to go undercover back then, now was...”

I don’t get to finish my sentence – I am quite rudely interrupted by a door that is opened too hastily to be considered usual and an amused voice that is mildly scolding us.

“If you wish to stay hidden, perhaps you might consider not talking about your charade quite as loudly?”

Both, Tewkesbury and I, freeze at those words. And then I relax again as I realize that out of all of the people that could have opened that door, it was Lady Hilster.

She reminds me of mother in some ways as she stands her, her lips pulled into an amused smile. Mother used to do that from time to time, surprise me whenever I did something – perhaps when I tired to solve a problem or when I tried to sneak out – and she’d scold me a bit before teaching me better.

She’d wear a smile like that whenever she did – that smile and she’d hold her arms just like that as well. I can almost hear Lady Hilster whisper “Enola” in mother’s loving voice.

Mother always had infinite patience for all my antics – and there were a lot of antics during my youth.

Tewkesbury isn’t so lucky as to be relieved just yet though – perhaps he hasn’t met Lady Hilster yet. I only notice when he starts stammering an excuse that is hardly believable at all.

“It's fine. She already knows”, I whisper. Tewkesbury’s expression lights up with understanding and Lady Hilster shakes her head.

“I know indeed. Now – do you wish to come inside? I am assuming that you wished to speak to me.”

I nod. Tewkesbury nods as well – and we are lead inside.

“Miss Burdock, could you please take three cups from the cupboard? I have them here in case people wish to discuss things.”

She gestures me towards said cupboard, smiling again, though entirely unlike my mother and for a second I simply stand there and...blink.

“Miss Burdock?”

I spring into action – although I feel a tad bit uncomfortable. I exchange a look with Tewkesbury who seems equally as confused as I am as Lady Hilster herds him to the couch.

A minute later, the cups are neatly laid out and Lady Hilster has filled them with tea already. Then we sit down – simultaneously – take our cups – simultaneously – and take our first sip.

No one dares to speaks. Lady Hilster is silently mustering us, her gaze successfully stealing any though I might have and Tewkesbury seems to be equally at a loss for words. Her eyes are daring us to speak first and for once, I am entirely unsure whether I’d be able to meet the challenge.

A good five minutes pass, before Tewkesbury speaks up, trying to break the awkward silence. His gaze sweeps the room we’re staying in and his observations must have brought him to a certain conclusion.

“Lady Hilster – may I ask whether you are staying here on your own?”

It does break the silence.

The atmosphere doesn’t get any less awkward though.

“Yes.”

That’s nice.

I take another sip from my tea – Tewkesbury opens his mouth to ask something, but Lady Hilster is just a tad bit faster.

“There is no husband – should you have wondered about him at all.”

Nervously closing his mouth again, he nods and goes back to drinking his tea. So does Lady Hilster and I try to find anything – anything – that might help us get out of...whatever this is. And then – an opportunity seemingly springs into my mind.

“You’re just like Lady Andrew then!”, I exclaim, too excited perhaps, though I hardly pay any attention to that at all. Perhaps she was a role model to Lady Andrew? I am most certain she must have been.

Having someone of similar mind among you must be of importance. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what would have become of me, had I not lived with my mother and my mother only. Would I have been formerly introduced to society by now? Would I have had any ambitions of my own?

But I seem to be wrong as Lady Hilston smiles somewhat patronizingly at me, the corners of her mouth in a way that give away enough for me to know there is a secret to be found, but too little for me to guess at what it could be.

“Not quite. Though I suppose we are in some ways. Speaking of which, I do want to thank you for helping my friend. Her uncle could be stubborn at times – he insisted on creating these puzzle. There was nothing I could do to dissuade him from it.”

Lady Hilster smiles wistfully – then she clears her throat and straightens her back.

“Have you found anything so far? I wish I could help you – but I am afraid I am not allowed to show any favouritism...”

She looks at me hopefully and I wish I didn’t have to disappoint her. But I haven’t found anything. Other than the search in the gardens I have been entirely at a loss for a lead.

“Not yet”, I respond, casting my eyes downwards. I...am slightly ashamed of my uselessness so far. I had expected for the riddles to be challenging, of course – an immense inheritance is hidden at the end of the chase, after all, one were amiss to believe the treasure hunt would be child’s play – yet I had hoped for me to be a...little bit more successful.

So far, the books in the library have done very little to help solve it.

“But we were hoping to learn more about the family’s history – you seem to know them – may we ask some questions?”

“Of course.”

Lady Hilster sets down her cup.

“Though I may only reveal any information that can be readily found without my help as well. For more specific questions, may I refer you to Lady Andrew? Perhaps write her a letter? You are working for her, are you not?”

Lady Hilster raises an eyebrow and I cannot help but feel as if she is judging me for having come to her in the first place.

“Yes. I have sent her a letter already, though I was hoping for a few things to be cleared up by you...”
I smile, likewise setting down the cup. For some reason, I don’t quite like it anymore, even though it looks most pretty.

The tea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Now that I have assumed the same position as Lady Hilster, we find ourselves with locked gazes, neither of us willing to speak first and once again it’s Tewkesbury how dares to break the silence.

“May I ask how you and the late Lord Andrew knew each other?”, he asks, seemingly casually, yet there is a certain gleam to his eyes that I do not understand.

“I suppose it is due to our families’ similarity. And our own, of course...”

“It is?”

“Oh, yes. The Andrew family was saved from ruin by a rich merchant and so was mine – albeit their misery goes back much farther. I suppose even my grandchildren will still be subjected to taunts by their peers for their merchant ancestors.”

I don’t pay much attention to the woman’s words – yet Tewkesbury perks up at them for some reason.

“They were Dutch – weren’t they?”, he asks excitedly and I know for a fact he has found something that I must have overlooked.

“Yes. Van de Bitteburg. They grew rich during the Dutch Golden Age and desperately wanted a title to their name. Why?”

“And they arrived in the early 16 hundreds?”

My frown deepens and I turn to Tewkesbury. He knows that already – I am sure of it, but why does he care so much?

“Yes? Why does it...”

I do not get to finish my sentences. There are steps outside – steps that I almost completely missed – and then, someone knocks.

This time, I perk up, catching the sound just in time. The head mistress may have found out already, but I am intent on keeping my cover as a simple maid and being seen conversing with Lady Hilster and Tewkesbury is sure to blow it.

Lady Hilster quirks an eyebrow at me, before calling:

“Come in!”

Panicking, I look around and make the snap decision to divebehind the third sofa – not a second too late, for a mere moments after I have ducked behind it – much to Lady Hilster’s amusement and Tewkesbury’s initial confusion – the doors to the study are pushed open.

“Lady Hilster?”

It’s Lord Andrew. Of course it is Lord Andrew.

He comes to a halt after a mere few steps and I can imagine visibly the way he must muster Lady Hilster and Tewkesbury right now – with wonder in his eyes, no doubt of it, and a great deal of suspicion.

“Ah, Viscount Tewkesbury. I see you have made...acquaintance with Lady Hilster already? My apologies for not introducing you yesterday – I’m afraid she was on a trip out for most of the day.”

I wonder what he is doing now – I wish I could see, but I can’t risk being discovered and already I regret not finding a hiding spot somewhere else, where I might spy on the conversation.

“Do not worry – for Lady Hilster gave a great introduction herself..”

I bet Tewkesbury wishes he could roll his eyes right now – I would want to and he does sound annoyed to say the least.

Sadly, I can’t see a thing.

“Well – I do hope I am not disturbing, however I must talk to Lady Hilster.”

And then, Lord Andrew steps closer.

To the sofa.

Which I am hiding behind.

I freeze up immediately and panickingly glance at Tewkesbury.

This is bad – very bad. Maybe Tewkesbury can cause a distraction and I can try to crawl to a different hiding spot, if there’s…

“You see, there are...important matters to discuss and I am afraid I cannot share them with you. May I ask for a few minutes?”

Tewkesbury glances at me as well and I pray he doesn’t raise any suspicions – not any more than may have already been raised. His sudden arrival and his conversation with Lady Hilster must at least indicate to Lord Andrew he might be helping his sister. Surely, he is already investigating this – I need to write a letter informing Lady Andrew of the situation, before she might betray our cover accidentally.

“Are you...certain? I’d be...terribly rude for me to simply leave like that?”

Tewkesbury sounds too uncertain, but I’d hardly fare any better, so I do not blame him. And he is trying.

“Why yes. Leaving so abruptly and with hardly any notice given must be extremely rude.”

Touché. I don’t like to admit it, but Lord Andrew has a point. I prepare myself for the inevitability to be found as the steps come even closer and I wonder how much longer it will take before Lord Andrew discovers me.

But Lady Hilster seemingly wishes to spare me. Just as Tewkesbury gets up – perhaps to give an excuse – she decides to speak up.

“Why, yes – though, I have been hoping to catch the last of the year’s sun. May I, perhaps, ask you to take me for a walk in the gardens?”

“I’d be honoured to do so, Lady Hilster – perhaps, we may discuss my sister, too? You yourself may know best as to why it is of such importance for a lady to get married.”

I can hardly contain my scoff. If it weren’t for that nin...well, no. He’s no nincompoop. Tewkesbury is and I am certain that Tewkesbury would never ignore his sister’s – albeit he has none – wishes in order for her to fulfil some ridiculous, societal standard. No. Lord Andrew is much more like Mycroft.

“We may not. I enjoy not being married – I am by no means a bad example for you to show your sister. And you’d do good to leave her alone – now, shall we?”

Lady Hilster’s tone is positively frosty and this time, I cannot contain my giggling – something that almost blows my cover, if it were not for Tewkesbury to come to my rescue again, by covering it up by laughing himself – though he hides it behind coughing.

He is proving to be most useful during this case. And while I a most thankful for his intervention, Lord Andrew seems to be much less pleased.

“Why yes.”

He speaks up again, his voice quite mirroring Lady Hilster’s, cold venom dripping from it.

“How immensely funny.”

Tewkesbury tries to inconspicuously glare at me. This time, I manage to stifle my giggling, though it costs me an immense amount of concentration to do so. And the awkward silence that follows after Lord Andrew’s words make it all the easier.

Surprisingly, it isn’t him who breaks it.

“Why yes, indeed”, Lady Hilster chimes in, seemingly content to leave the situation as it is. I wonder whether she will takes sides in this game. I hope not, for she holds an immense power over each and everyone of us and I’d rather not risk her choosing another.

So far, she seems impartial – then again, she is helping me right now.

“Now – you agreed to accompany to the gardens?”

This seems to breathe life into the previously silent room again and both, Tewkesbury and Lord Andrew, shift. Tewkesbury to better glare at me – once again I have trouble not laughing – and Lord Andrew to step closer to Lady Hilster.

“Yes – I did. Of course. May we?”

I can’t see what they are doing, but I imagine he is holding out his arm. Fabric rustles and Tewkesbury turns once more – eventually, steps echo through the room and a last “Have a pleasant evening, Viscount Tewkesbury” fades away as the door falls closed.

Tewkesbury and I don’t need to communicate to both wait another minute or two before moving again. It isn’t until we can be entirely sure Lord Andrew has left that I move from my hiding spot and Tewkesbury relaxes his rigid pose – a moment later and it is tense again as he whirls around to face me. I expect him to berate my for laughing or to complain or any of the sort – but it is quite the opposite. Tewkesbury seems to be brimming with energy and his eyes are filled with excitement I have rarely seen before.

“You’ve said the family’s from the Netherlands?”, he asks again and I nod, reluctantly.

What is he playing at?

“Have you ever heard of Tulip Mania?”

I frown. Tulip Mania? That is a...strange name that hardly tells me about anything I might want to know about it.

“No? I don’t believe I’ve ever read about it.”

But all my response does is fuel Tewkesbury’s eyes with even more excitement. Conspiratorially, he steps closer, excitedly grabbing my hands before deciding better and dropping them again.

Which is the proper thing to do, of course, yet I can’t help but feel offended anyway. I have perfectly grabable hands, there was no reason to drop them as hastily as he did!

“Alright, so, there was this period called “Tulip Mania” that took place in the early 17^th century. The prices of tulip bulbs grew and grew exponentially until they eventually collapsed again, ruining a great many families in the process – at its height, specific bulbs could be worth as much as a house in Amsterdam!”

A tulip? Worth an entire house? That...does make a stuffed bird laugh. But I would never accuse Tewkesbury of trying to tell me a flam.

“Is there any place in this house that might...reference the Netherlands?”

His expression turns from quiet excitement to hopeful anticipation – and I consider his question for a second before realization hits me.

“There is”, I murmur:”The Dutch room – it was meant to remind them of their heritage and...but tulip mania? Are you sure?”

“Most certainly – the poem must refer to that!”

I still am not convinced, as much as I want to believe him.

“Tulips don’t have thorns.”

Not my most eloquent rebuttal, but am I wrong?

“They don’t – which is why I believe them to be what we are looking for. The first verse seems to imply the thorns are metaphorical – I doubt is actually referred to roses.”

It doesn’t – I am just as sure of it as Tewkesbury is. And I do trust him! Tewkesbury has had a great many genius ideas!

But we need to be sure.

“It fits so well! It has to be somewhere in there – just think about it! Human greed, invisible thorns that are unexpected – what else could it possibly be?”, he adds and I am almost entirely sold on his idea.

Not that I had many concern anyway.

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

His voice is firm and his expression as serious as it gets. And well – if Tewkesbury is this confident – then there’s no reason for me to doubt him.

.o.O.o.

I’ve been to the Dutch room before – officially, I work as a maid and as such, I was asked to help clean it plenty of times and I will most likely come to see it once more in my stay.

Yet this is the first time I have visited that I fully took the time to examine it. It was too close to Lord Andrew’s bedchamber to got snooping around, lest I should be discovered by him.

He may have me thrown out.

I’d much rather if that didn’t happen.

It’s a pretty room, adorned with colourful wallpaper and cabinets filled with the finest of porcelain and crystal. Yet the grandest sight of all the beautifully worked wooden table in the middle, with the grand vase sitting on top of it. I’ve never seen anyone eat breakfast here, but I can vividly imagine the joy it must be to do so.

“We must hurry – we don’t know when Lord Andrew will return and we better not get caught”; I whisper. Tewkesbury nods and off we are, searching ever corner.

Carpets are lifted and cupboard opened and I look for anything, anything that may catch my eye – and eventually, something does.

It is a painting, hanging on the west wall – and perhaps I may look for things that aren’t there, for there are a great many other paintings hanging from the walls. But something about this one catches my eyes.It shows a family sitting around the table in this very room – breakfast is laid out and a magnificent vase is decorating the table.

“Do you think it may be some of the China? I’ve heard the Netherlands have their own thriving china manufacturers...”

Tewkesbury is busy searching every corner of the room and while at first I joined him, I am now rooted to my spot as he suggests more and more objects that could possibly hold the answer.

I’m hardly listening, entirely transfixed by one of the few paintings hung here to breathe life into the room. Something about it...reminds me of something.

It’s an old painting, that’s for sure. It looks a bit battered and the clothes worn remind Tewkesbury of what his great-grandmother might have worn when she was still a “fashionable young lady”.

“Enola? Is everything alright?”

But that isn’t what draws my attention, I realize.

“I’ve seen a painting like that before already.”

“...I’m not sure I follow? Was the composition the same, the theme, the...”

“The room. It was a family portrait and it hangs in the gallery. It shows this exact same scene – except the people in it are different.”

Tewkesbury comes to stand beside me now, examining it as well. His eyes furrow and at first I believe he may laugh at my observation – for it certainly sounds strange and miniscule at first – but he doesn’t.

It is quite the opposite.

“I...I am inclined to agree.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing even further and he almost comes to touch it.

“There’s one just like that in my room as well. So it is this painting?”

For once, I’m not sure. It should be the painting, but the painting itself seems...wrong. It doesn’t fit the poem at all, after it speaks of tulips and while there are tulips to be seen filling a vase in that picture, most paintings show them.

And perhaps, it is my natural suspicion that sets in once again.

Mother used to tell me that life was simple – it is society that makes things all the harder. One should not be fooled by petty rules and such.

Mother’s wisdom has hardly ever disappointed.

Yet – as I examine this painting – I can’t help but be worried it might fail me this time, for this entire hunt is steeped in humanity. It isn’t nature that we need to ponder, but the thoughts of a dying man whose final wish it was to test his heir. Nothing about this case could possibly follow nature’s simplicity.

I narrow my eyes as I try to remember what the other painting looks like – the one in the gallery downstairs and sure enough, a sudden thought ignites the excitement in me once more.

“The vase – is there a vase in the painting in your room as well.”

Sure enough, Tewkesbury starts grinning like a madman. I must be on the right track.

“There is.”

“Does it hold tulips as well?”

Once again, Tewkesbury affirms and I let out a sigh of relief. Finally – it must be.

“You think it’s the vase?”

“It’s the best guess we have – don’t you agree?”

.O.

“The Dutch room war created to bring Lady Andrew, formerly know as van de Bitteburg, comfort after she left the Netherlands, her home. It used to be a private study until it was repurposed as a common room for the family to meet and to take in breakfast. It has been refurbished for this and a lot of its previous furniture has been lost or sold of, leaving behind only few reminders of its Dutch origins. Though it is custom to bring in fresh tulips from the gardens each spring – the very first having been planted by bulbs bought in the Netherlands following Tulip Mania. Lord Andrew, recently passed, spend a great many spring mornings out in the gardens with his butler, choosing which specimen would be to accompany today’s breakfast.”

It was the best guess we had – and it seemingly was the right guess as well, seeing how Lady Hilster smilingly handed Tewkesbury this note, saying he will need to exchange this for the next riddle.

“Mr. Vandell is the only one in possession of them – to ensure they cannot be stolen, of course.”

It’s getting close to curfew – too late for us to exchange the note and anyway, Tewkesbury pointed out we may take the evening off so that I might get a full night’s rest for once. Surprisingly, I agree, though out of no concern for my own well-being. We need to study that note before handing it in, in case it holds any valuable information and for that we, need at least some time. Tewkesbury already copied it and added his own thoughts and I, too, am currently re-reading.

There’s not much to find it seems and I lean back again, letting my thoughts wander as the note softly rests in my lap. Tewkesbury is sitting next to me, humming silently as he reads a book on insects of all things, a few candles being the only light illuminate the work space we share.

It’s peaceful. Even I have to admit that studying like this is quite enjoyable – it reminds me of evenings spent with my mother.

“Stillness is what every heart truly desires after a long and eventful day – you may deem this life boring at times, Enola, but you will come to miss it once fate’s turbulences take hold of you.”

I smile bitterly.

I miss her a great deal. I haven’t seen her in so long, it is hard to remember all there is to her and it hurts – painfully.

“Are you alright?”, Tewkesbury whispers, ripping me from my thoughts and I turn to look to him.

He is mustering me intently, his expression full of worry. My homesickness must have shown, but I don’t mind. Quite the opposite. My stomach flutters at the quiet concern in his voice and the intense...sincerity in his eyes.

I’m sure it is the candles’ flames that heat my face.

“Just thinking”, I respond, hiding my expression by pretending to read the note again. My thoughts shouldn’t drift like this – there is a case to solve!

A strange case.

A case that seems so much more mysterious than I first anticipated – the riddle, I realize now that I have solved it, is rather strange.

“I just...can’t help but wonder why.”

It is incredibly strange.

“Why what?”

“Why would the late Lord Andrew choose this? As grounds for a riddle?”

Now it is Tewkesbury, who frowns.

“What do you mean? It took us some time – and both of us! – we do make a great team, don’t you think? – to solve it.”

“Yes. But Lady Andrew told me the riddles were meant to test her knowledge of the family – this puzzle can easily be solved by reading up on the family’s history. It...there has to be more to this than just a simple treasure hunt…”

I narrow my eyes. There has to be more to it – but perhaps we will need to solve the other riddles first before being able to solve the mystery.

I stretch and let my rest head on the desk, allowing my eyes to fall closed for a moment.

It’s nice here.

I might just be foolishly lured to sleep once more.

“Thank you for helping”, I eventually murmur and pick my head back up.

“I wouldn’t have been able to solve the case without you.”

I smile at him and Tewkesbury smiles back and it makes me blush one more.

I shouldn’t be blushing. In an attempt to diffuse this...situation, I force my smile to turn mischievous, but Tewkesbury’s smile doesn’t get any less sincere and it chases goosebumps down my skin.

“It’s really convenient you stay in this room, too.”

I turn away – try to give my force a light-heartedness that has been absent from it.

“Why did they give you this room anyway? According to the floor plans, it was meant to be occupied by one of the Lord and Lady’s children.”

Tewkesbury doesn’t respond immediately – it isn’t until I look up that I see the way his face has gone completely red.

And that bloody smile is finally gone.

“Huh. It is? Well...Lord Andrew insisted I stay here. I suppose...he is trying to insinuate...uh, certain relations.”

Certain...relations? What could he possibly....

“Oh.”

I understand. Well – I suppose, it makes sense with Tewkesbury being here and all. Then again…

“Not that I want to! I just realized how inappropriate this is – I should probably request a different room!”

“No!”

My voice comes out much louder than I wanted to and Tewkesbury flinches, taken aback by surprise.

“No?”

I wince.

“My apologies.”

Hastily, the apology leaves my lips, though Tewkesbury seems to be more amused than offended, if anything at all.

“I did not mean to shout”, I explain, to keep him from getting any ideas.

“But no. You being in this room helped us save one riddle already – who knows what else you might find or notice. You should stay. You should definitely stay. And anyway. Why would it matter?”

Tewkesbury stares at me for a moment. Then he nods – somewhat awkwardly – and leans back, clearing his throat.

“Of course.”

He seems disappointed and for reasons that I will not disclose, I feel quite the same.

“I’ll stay, we need to solve the-”

“And it’s not like you have any intention of courting her anyway!”, I interrupt him – it takes a mere second for Tewkesbury to process my words and for me to regret my decision to have said them.

“Of course not. I would – never. Absolutely not.”

“I mean – she’s not that bad. Lady Andrew is quite nice!”

I should shut up. Shut up and leave, but I am currently rooted to my spot and so is Tewkesbury and we both just watch as this conversation goes up in flames.

“I mean, she would never let you court her, of course-”

“Wait, why….”

“...and why would she? You of all people!”

That is when I realize I should have – perhaps – just stopped talking at any point.

“I’d be a great match!”

He...probably is. Not that I would pay any attention to that! At all. But, objectively speaking, he isn't wrong.

“Of course!”

I am trying to agree, but, perhaps, my voice doesn’t make that entirely clear and indignantly, Tewkesbury is already responding before I have any chance to clarify.

“I am nice!”

Well, I can’t let that stand on its own, now can I?

“More like infuriating.”

I smirk – and that is what gets everything else going.

“Good-looking.”

“I’d try vain. Remember when we jumped from that train and you complained about that lost button?”

“If I recall correctly, you pushed me off a moving train! You just don’t want to admit that...”

It’s the clock that saves us. Any other time I might have ignored it, but curfew is about to be enforced and I need to get back to the servants’ quarters. But even though I really wish for this conversation to be over, I can’t bring myself to get up just yet.

“I could tell her that I asked for you to stay longer to help...”

I trail off in horror as I realize just what I just suggested.

“And I just realized how bad of an idea that is.”

My voice has climbed at least an octave and I am blushing once. Tewkesbury snorts, smiling his stupid smile and once again I am left wondering why this nincompoop has to be so infuriating at times.

“It is a bad idea”, I affirm, though it does little to quell his smile or my blush.

“A very bad one”, Tewkesbury agrees.

“I will leave now.”
This is the second time I am hastily leaving to save me from further embarrassment and one day, I will get payback.

Butt not today.

“Good night!”

I can feel my blush still, even though I’m not even looking at him anymore.

“Good night, Enola – I’m looking forward to solving the next riddle!”

He’s sounding so smug. So smug.

Perhaps I will spent the night trying to come up with a plan for revenge.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 26

-

19^th of November 1884

Case III: The elusive inheritance
File IV: Trapped in a cold place

.o.O.o.

Reminiscing about one’s childhood is...a fun thing to do. More often than not, I think. I certainly enjoy doing so every once in a while, dreaming myself back to a place where mother was still with me and the world was whole and peaceful and calm – though I certainly wouldn’t want to miss the excitement that London has to offer either.

Letting go off one’s childhood is a strange feeling – certainly, it seemed impossible at first. An overpowering feeling of dread set in sometimes – when at first, I hardly got any case at all or when I laid in bed, on the verge of tears with no mother there to tell me good-night.

I still do some times – I refuse to feel ashamed for doing so, too. Yet I can’t bring myself to feel sorrow for having had to move to London either, for as many tears I have spilled over the loss of my childhood, I have felt just as much exhilarating joy. I’ve craved excitement all my life and now I have found it – which is exactly why, perhaps, thinking back feels strange at times. It’s a crushing melancholy that takes hold of me when I do sometimes, a craving for the past, yet I indulge my mind every time. However, for as much time as I have entertained myself with my own memories of days long gone, I have never spent any time thinking about anyone else’s childhood. Mayhaps I should. What does Sherlock remember when he thinks of home? What does Mycroft? I like to think that theirs are different from my memories – that the home I knew only belonged to mother and I and maybe to Ms. Lane as well. Just the two of us, no ridiculous stories of pinewood dogs or other childish things that are long gone past.

Though – Dash did look adorable.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have left him with Sherlock.

Regardless – those are precious memories – mother afforded me a childhood I enjoyed, one that I cherish. Every story I tell you of my childhood is a memory filled with love and care and the warm feeling of home. It gives you a piece of my very being – hence why I hope that they none of these memories are shared with my brothers.

I would never want just anyone to know about it – there is a certain power to these memories that should not be underestimated. I remember my unwilling blush when Sherlock told me of Dash and I remember the laughter I’ve had over an anecdote told in one of Tewkesbury’s letters. Sharing your childhood is valuable and – if I am the one asked – it should only ever be done in pieces. When the time is right, when life lets you – don’t just give away a piece of your soul for no reason at all.

.o.O.o.

Anxiously I await until breakfast is over to finally slip away to pick up the next riddle. Tewkesbury’s excuse of being too exhausted to eat with others has run its course and it’s possible for me to sneak away using that as an excuse no longer.

But he did ask for me to collect a letter supposedly addressed to Lady Andrew – he announced it at breakfast and claimed “I was the only one he trusted with delivering it to the post” – which was enough for some of the maids to blush furiously and a great many rumours to start sparking within the very seconds those faithful words had been uttered – until Victoria put a check to it.

Which I am most grateful for!

I did not like these rumours.

I do not know why.

But now that breakfast is done with and the dishes have been washed, I finally get called to the first floor again and I make my way up in record time – having brought my hastily compiled list of questions along with me. You see, the letter isn't entirely a lie. We will compose a letter to Lady Andrew and I will be the one delivering it, though we won’t do so immediately – we need to talk to Mr. Vandell first, to get the second riddle of course. Any questions that we might stumble upon after having read it, we might ask Lady Andrew about if necessary – it’d be pointless to write the letter any time before that. Yet for now, we are busy sneaking around the manor, muting our steps as much as we can, hoping to get to the study unnoticed.

It turns out, it is a lot less...suspenseful as I had first imagined.

“What do you think the second riddle will be about?”, Tewkesbury whispers.

“If I knew, I would have selected a stack of books for research already”, I whisper back.

Of course we are whispering – as dull as sneaking up here is – Twekesbury doesn’t get supervised by anyone courtesy of him being of the highest social rank apparently and so far, our excuse is working very well – it reminds me of different times.

Times I’d like to forget very much.

Anyway.

“Do you think the answer will require more specific information this time?”

We did decide not to speak until we’re in the study, but Tewkesbury doesn’t really seem to care.

“I don’t know. How would I know? I am as clueless as you are!”

I’m feeling myself get irritated a tad bit.

“But you could, at the very least, guess!”
Perhaps a bit more than just a “tad bit”.

“We’re almost at the study anyway! You only need to be patient for barely another minute or so!”

To be fair, I cant blame Tewkesbury for refusing to keep quiet – no one is here and we’re almost there anyway.

“This isn’t about patience, it’s about entertainment! Making polite conversation as we go – you know what? You remind me of the first time we met again – you were just as stingy with conversation then as you are right now.”

Oh, is that how he remembers this? I glare at him – mildly – and he glares back, though there is no heat in his gaze. I know our conversation is pointless and detrimental to keeping our cover, it is just as much fun too and anyway – there’s no one around.

And we’re only a few steps from the study.

“I wasn’t being stingy, I was keeping my guard around an unusually nosy and rude boy that kept following me around!”

He quirks an eyebrow at that.

“Rude?”

I halfturn, ready to respond, but for once, he’s faster than me.

“May I remind you that more often than not, I am the one who has to remind you of propriety?”

I narrow my eyes, trying to find a time where – Huh. I don’t…remember anything – which vexes me. Only a little – found something!

Triumphantly, I pull the door open.

“Remember the ankle, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Knowsitbetter?”

I grin – extremely proud of my pun, though his name makes it too easy sometimes to poke fun at and then I already open the door, effectively cutting him off. He scowls at me in return but not for long – otherwise, I might just be the one to remind him of his manners this time.

“Ah, come in, come in! I’ve been waiting for you all morning!”

I don’t hesitate to follow Mr. Vandell’s command and neither does Tewkesbury, seemingly content for now our argument almost entirely forgotten, if one can call it that at all.

“Our most sincere apologies for keeping you waiting, Mr. Vandell.”

The door falls closed behind Tewkesbury and he shoots me a triumphant glance – perhaps the discussion isn’t entirely forgotten yet after all.

It will have to wait.

“Oh, do not worry – I’ve waited enough in my life, I may just wait another hour or two. But now come, come! You better get back to where you ought to be soon!”

Cautiously, as to not bump against any of the various surfaces that litter the floor, I follow his command. It seems I have found the reason as to why only the most experienced of maids are allowed to clean in here. If I were ever to try, I’d surely plunge the room into an even greater state of chaos than it already is in.

Mr. Vandell himself seems to be quite content with the state the room is in though, perhaps fitting, for he is...quite mad as hops. He’s grinning and his hands keep gesturing for us to come closer. It is a tad bit strange, but he is known to be a kind man and anyway – Tewkesbury’s behind me, if anything were to happen for whatever reason that could be.

Just as we come to a stop right in front of the desk he stops and I take the time to pull out the slip of paper given to us by Lady Hilster – almost instantly greedy eyes latch onto it and he seems to almost be devouring it.

“So you’ve figured out it was the vase, huh?”, he says as he takes it from my hand. It’s folded and he doesn’t open it – I suppose it only makes sense if he’s talked to Lady Hilster already.

“We did. Though it did take...”

Almost immediately, I trail off. Should I say “us”? “Me”? Technically speaking, it took Tewkesbury hardly any time at all to figure it out, however I had laid out quite some groundwork already prior to his arrival.

I glance at Tewkesbury, though he doesn’t notice, being quite busy seemingly trying to memorize every last corner of the study we are in.

Great. It’s up to me then.

“Though it took us some time to figure it out.”

“Ah yes – not many people know about Tulip Mania. The “Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds” used to be a more popular publication, but it seems to have fallen out of the public’s eye already.”

Again, I glance at Tewkesbury – this time, with considerably more success.

“Our tulips legendarily are from that crash. Gathering them used to be quite fun and when placed in that magnificent vase, they made quite the picture. It broke a few years back, actually”, Mr. Vandell elaborates as he sorts through his papers:”I got it replaced, of course – it meant a great deal to Lord Andrew. He has ever been so fond of the Netherlands, specifically the tulips that are grown there.”

“He was?”

“Yes. Tulips were his favourite flowers, especially the red ones. A love he shared with his dear wife.”

“I suppose that makes sense...”, Tewkesbury murmurs absent-mindedly. It immediately catches my attention – it’s the first thing he’s said during the entire conversation.

“Why would it make sense?”, I ask, turning my head towards him and only now he seems to realize he spoke out loud.

“Oh – it’s just they mean love, Red tulips.”

He seems...almost embarrassed to say it, judging by the way he turns his head. I wonder why – Mr. Vandell doesn’t seem to care either.

“Do they?”, he asks, a sly smirk playing around his lips:”I didn’t know. Though I suppose I like roses a great deal better still – their fragrance is so much more decadent than anything else that I have ever smelled.”

And gone the embarrassment is.

“If you tell my which colour, I can tell you what those mean as well!”

There’s a difference regarding the colour?

“And of course – the meaning might be different from what others tell you – the language of flowers is greatly diverse after all.”

Yet another curious fact I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for Tewkesbury. Perhaps it might come in handy one day – though I doubt it ever will.

Mr. Vandell seems to agree with that sentiment, as he mindlessly waves his hand. His eyes are glued to his desk and he’s going through each drawer, most likely in search of our riddle.

“No need, I already know. Though I’ve never paid much attention to these languages – I never quite liked what my favourite flower meant...”

He keeps rummaging through the bureau, fondly shaking his head.

“The late lord has always had a penchant for keeping things disorganized – he claimed he could find whatever he desired at any time – but now that habit of his seems to have extended to me – Ah, here it is!”

Finally, he pulls out an envelope, sealed tight with yellow wax.

“My apologies that it took this long – I had to copy everything by hand to prevent theft. I hope this short delay did not upset you too much – I’d hate for two such esteemed guest such as yourself to feel anything but delight during your stay here.”

He smiles at us – both of us and I wonder just how many people have seen right through me.

Perhaps disguises are not my forte – as much of a pity that is.

“I am most certain it will entertain you – and I do hope you will solve it. As much as I am sworn to the late Lord’s wishes, I do wish for Lady Andrew to win the estate. She most certainly deserves it with all the work she’s done around the household.”

He hands us the letter and I take it reluctantly, seeing how Tewkesbury is making no move to take it himself. I feel a tad bit nervous, for reasons I do not fully understand myself. Mr. Vandell seems like a nice man – once again he is smiling softly and it makes me feel...warm. Comfortable.

He quite reminds me of my mother as well. Not unlike Lady Hilster, though at the same time in an entirely different way.

I turn to leave, but am I held back one last time.

“Oh, and one last thing. Miss Burdock?”

I look up again.

“Yes?”

“I’ve had my suspicions before, but now that I know that you are helping Lady Andrew, I must ask to check up on you each night to make sure you follow the rules – I will see to it that you are moved to a single room.”

I nod gratefully. That would be of great use.

“Though I will need to lock the door until I am done with preparing the riddle for the following day. I am sorry to say that that is not negotiable – and the same is done with the rooms th other contestants sleep in.”

I nod once more.

“Of course – I understand.”

“I am most grateful for that – oh, and Lord Tewkesbury? The same applies to your room as well, of course.”

Tewkesbury doesn’t make a fuss about it either and with that, we are dismissed, finding ourselves standing in the hallway in front of the study a mere few moments later. I am about to turn to Tewkesbury to discuss our next step, but we are out of luck – down the hall fast footsteps are approaching. I glance at Tewkesbury and he at me and before I can even consider the both of us hide in the study, we’ve already been spotted.

“Claire!”, Victoria calls out as she speeds up even more. It is now that I realize I am still holding the envelope.

“Take it”, I hiss, hoping it has not yet been spotted by her:”We’ll talk about the riddle during dinner!”, I whisper

“What – no!”, he hisses back:”You’re the one who was supposed to deliver it!”

“But what if someone steals it? Take the letter – I’ll make up an excuse!”

And I press the letter into Tewkesbury’s hand before whirling around, hoping for the motion to have been as inconspicuous as possible.

I seemingly have failed in that quest, as Victoria stares at me, confused – before she shakes her head and courtesies to Tewkesbury.

“My apologies for interrupting you, my lord, yet – Claire is needed in the kitchens? Ms. Brughs asked to see her.”

She courtesies another time. Unsure, Tewkesbury glances at me and I shrug. There’ not much we can do about this – he could order me to stay, but that would raise suspicions more than anything else and I do want to keep the true reason for me being here under wraps, if still possible at all.

“Of course.”

Tewkesbury clears his throat.

“Lord Andrew is expecting me anyway – I shall be on my way then.”

And off he is, leaving me to smile at Victoria innocently. She raises her eyebrows at that – and I wonder whether battering my eyes would have made things better or worse.

“What were you doing here?”, she hisses after a moment of baffled silence – and already she is turning, leading me on to follow her back downstairs.

Feigning ignorance, I respond:

”What do you mean?”

All that does is earn me an annoyed glare. And another shaken head and then, finally, as we stand at the door leading to the servants’ quarters an “It doesn’t matter – you are to clean Lady Hilster’s room – the supplies will be handed to you by Gloria.”

.o.O.o.

We meet up again in the library past lunch time. Tewkesbury claimed to have discovered a fascinating book in the library and I am sent along with him.

“You've solved the first riddle, haven’t you”, Ms. Brughs asked as she set the tray I am to offer him and consiprationally winks at me. I chose not to respond to her question, but she doesn’t seem to mind – nor does she seem to be discouraged by my silence.

“Truth be told, I’d rather you win – or rather Lady Andrew – than any of the other two. But I can’t make it too easy either, can I?”

She laughed and I smiled and then I was sent off.

Not five minutes later and I finally stumble into the library, Tewkesbury’s already waiting for me with the riddle in his hand and a stack of books next to him – the riddle pristine as if he hadn’t even thought of opening the envelope. Amused, I raise my eyebrows at that, but Tewkesbury’s response lacks any...humour whatsoever.

“I wanted to wait for you – to open it together.”

His words catch me off-guard and so does his expression. His action – for as, clearly, ridiculous and silly it was, for now we do not know which books we are looking for and – surely! – it will cost us a great deal of time that we clearly do not have – is...strangely considerate. Well – perhaps not strangely. If Mycroft or even Sherlock would have waited for me to arrive it might have been strange – it would most definitely have been strange – yet, I am not surprised that my very own nincompoop waited. In fact, I feel all warm and fuzzy at his gesture – a feeling I am entirely unequipped to handle – just like his still tender expression that makes my movements sluggish and speed my breathing up for now reason at all.

Clearing my throat, I set the tray down, too harsh and the delicate china clatters and clinkers and that finally breaks the spell. Too quickly, his eyes shy away and I have a hard time facing him.

“Well – I am here now!”, I say – with too much emphasis I think – trying to deflect from the situation at hand – that I do not understand myself, if I am to be truthful to myself and mother cautioned me countless times to never lie – least of all to yourself.

I truly do not understand. He is merely standing her , with that ridiculous soft smile of his. Well, to be fair, objectively speaking he isn’t to bad looking and perhaps some might perceive his precursory gesture as charming, but I, of course, pay no attention to that.

At all.

Ever.

My remark seems to have discarded the last bit of the spell that had both of us under its control. He coughs and I look away and eventually, he breaks the silence.

“Yes. You’re here.”

Awkwardly, he sits down in his armchair again, thoughsmiling still. Tenderly instead of mischievous – perhaps, the spell isn’t entirely gone just yet.

I want it to be gone, if only to be able to read the situation better.

“Alright, open up!”, I say, impatiently, practically running over to where he is sitting. I try to lean over his shoulder. Tewkesbury has never been tall and that hasn’t changed. I have no trouble spying the envelope with its teasing yellow seal wax, especially not when he is sitting and raising it for me to get a better look. In this position, I am acutely aware where his head is turned and takes me no time at all to realize he isn’t concentrating on the envelope – to be fair, I would have known regardless, as he makes no move to actually open it – but instead busy looking at me.

Smirking at me.

“Excited, aren’t you?”

His grin widens and I glare in return.

One day I will admit that said grin looks good on his stupid face, but that day is not today.

“If you won’t open it, I will rip it from your fingers.”

I’ve never been the most patient one and I may have made my threat become reality if he had teased me any more, but luckily, he gives in, finally. Carefully, he breaks the seal with the silver letter opener he picks up from the table.

I lean even closer and my breath hitches when the first letters come into play. And it most certainly only the letters that make me do so – and not the delicate sensation of his soft hair that is starting to grow back already and tickling my cheek.

“The lady at the bank, she holds

My memories, once young and bold

When daring still my being was

During golden days long past

A time long gone, yet never lost

What lovely time I’ve had must.”

It don’t need to have read the entire riddle for the feeling of butterflies to have suddenly all but disappeared – I shift uncomfortably. We have to dive into the late Lord Andrew’s…

“Childhood memories?”

Tewkesbury speaks up, his voice sounding both surprised and entirely unsurprised at the same time. The duality itself is strange and I wonder just how he did it.

“It seems so”, I respond, shifting once more. I do not like this...I feel like I am about to invade someone’s privacy, even if said person very clearly wants one to do so.

Even though I have invaded plenty of privacies before.

It shouldn’t feel as uncomfortable as it does.

It’s probably best to move on – Tewkesbury seems to be of the same mind.

“I suppose we now know what kind of information we’re looking for – unless you’ve already have an idea?”

I do have one, but I haven’t found too many sources yet confirming my findings. And if that was the first piece of information I’ve found, chances are it’s the wrong trail once more.

I let out a heavy sigh as I lean back and stretch, preparing myself for a long session of reading.

“Memories it is.”

It still doesn’t sit right with me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I pick up the first book on Tewkesbury’s little stack and skim the first page, putting it down again immediately after.

“I didn’t know what the riddle was going to be so I just tried to cover as many topics as I could.”

I blush slightly at that – for no particular reason at all and I must stop, lest I give anyone any ideas. Trying to distract myself, I take book after book from the pile, sorting them in two new piles and soon enough, he speaks up once more, his voice...cracking?

“There...I think there are two books in there that might be of help. Perhaps we can look for more accurate ones? They might just serve as a beginning of sorts – to our research, of course!”

I nod silently as I skim the last few titles. I agree, though I’d dissent as well . Clearly, there are three books of use here.

It takes me a moments of silence, slowly filling with tension to realize that Tewkesbury couldn't have possibly seen me and is awaiting a response. I can feel his eyes resting on me and if I were a cat, my hackles would be raised.
Curiously enough, it doesn’t feel entirely unpleasant.

“Of course”, I cough, slamming the books I am currently holding shut. I turn around – and stumble back a few steps, narrowly missing falling over the table as I realize how close I was standing to him.

“Of course”, I repeat, gathering my bearings:”I suppose we might start by searching for more books – we do have all evening. Word is Lord Andrew won’t be back until dinner, out and about, talking to some folk down at the village and Mr. Whittler is currently being kept busy with legal documents.”

Ms. Brughs isn’t the only one trying to keep her competition from, well, competing – though the situation may be different for Mr. Whittler, seeing how he is an actual contestant.

Perhaps it will change for me, too, now that Mr. Vandell knows about Lady Andrew’s and my agreement.

“Perhaps you could skip dinner or take it in your room again? We could get some reading done in the meantime...”

The excuse is getting old, but it simply is too convenient not to use. But Tewkesbury is shaking his head already.

“I promised I will have dinner tonight – Lord Andrew wants to discuss things. Again. For the second time today.”

Tewkesbury makes an annoyed face and I laugh, being able to guess just what exactly the conversation will centre around.

“The lawyer will be there as well – I must attend if we want to keep our charade up – or at least the pretence of it...”

I’d really like to keep it up.

“...and mayhaps, I may find some useful information? They will be talking and perhaps, either of them has a loose lip.”

“You think either of them will talk?”

“We are to retreat to the academy after.”

“The billiard room?”

“According to Cocker. There...there will probably be liquor served there.”

I narrow my eyes at his blushing cheeks. Liquor, huh? I remember mother’s stance on it well. She smoked and she drank, always reminding me that there are no such things like a man’s or a woman’s habits.

“Drink if you must”, she’d say:”But keep in mind what you’ve drunken and what you’ve smoked and always keep your wits about it.”

I doubt Tewkesbury’s home will have told him otherwise – except perhaps for the part about a man’s and a woman’s habits – and yet...

“You better not have loose lips yourself then”, I admonish him and never in my life have I seen someone’s expression switch from mildly embarrassed to wildly indignant is so little time.

“Who do you take me for!”

He jumps up and I can’t help but chuckle just a little at his utter disbelieve at my words. It gets him to settle down again, though he is grumbling all the way until he’s seated comfortably once more.

“I hardly drink – Uncle always warned me not to engage in such habits, for they can be most dangerous.”

He is glaring at me still, though my amusement hardly fades.

“My apologies. Did I hurt your pride?”

His glaring doesn’t stop and his scowl deepens – not at all good-humouredly too and the feeling that he might actually be mad slowly creeps up on me.

My grin falters and I sheepishly avert my eyes.

“My apologies”, I repeat, my voice soft and stern:”I truly did not mean to hurt you.”

I smile – sincerely, with no amusement whatsoever this time – and his expression clears up again.

“Apologies accepted – though you did hardly anything wrong. I know you were only joking.”

I wasn’t – I may have guessed he wouldn’t get completely drunk, but I didn’t know for sure, but he doesn’t need to know that and there’s no reason for me to bring that up.

“Alright then – shall we make the most of our time? The clock waits up for nobody.”

Quickly, Tewkesbury and I divide the tasks. He gets to skim the books we’ve already found for any and all helpful sections and informations, after we’ve held a brief contest in who reads faster which he surprisingly won (“It’s been the last half a year – there’s more legal jargon in any single bill presented last season than the average person will ever hear in their entire life.”) and I will search the library for more books.

I am not vexed by the fact that Ebenezer reads faster than I do. Exploring the library is fun. And I get to see him let out a huff whenever I place another book on the every growing “might be of use” pile.

An hour or so passes in silence, until yet another book finds it way on the stack.

“At this point you’re just giving me nonsense”, he grumbles, putting away the third book he’s skimmed so farand warily glaring at the pile sitting in front of him still. With a sigh he picks up another, but not without redirecting his glare towards me.

“One more book and then I’ll help you read, if it’s that much”, I respond with a smirk. He rolls his eyes at me, though he nods all the same and with a newfound skip in my step I am off to the last third to last section of the library.

It is a strange book that catches my eye. Mother once told me that people crave a certain cohesiveness in life – they will do most anything to fit things together. There are exception of course – as always, there are a great many exceptions – yet if anything seems to be out of the ordinary, it should always be approached with a certain suspicion.

This very book must be treated like that. The Andrew family’s library is magnificent. The room it is housed in itself is as grand as it gets – often used as part of the ballroom should such elaborate celebrations be hosted – and the collection of books easily keeps pace, be it by the sheer size of it or the beauty of each and every specimen. There’s a variety of topics covered and each book is wrapped in their very own leather binding, many of which must be hundreds of years old.

All the stranger that this one lacks any of the elaborate decorations its siblings show. It’s simple and brown and, quite frankly, looks more like a note book than anything else.

It doesn’t fit in.

It is only natural that I step closer.

“This is a diary”, I say upon closer inspection, pulling out the book from where it has been put.

Tewlesbury looks up from where he is sitting, his own book in his hands still and I do hope that my discovery was worth ripping him from it.

“How do you know?”

“It has hand-written dates on the back.”

Deciding to look further into it, I turn the first page as Tewkesbury gets up to have his own look – and already, the next discovery makes me grow all the more suspicious.

“It’s...it’s written by a servant...”

“A servant?”

Curious, Tewkesbury leans over my shoulder, examining the pages himself.

“By the chamber maid? Late Lady Victoria Andrew’s chamber maid?”

I nod and turn a page – neither of us needs to state the all over grumble. It must be a clue – a book conveniently placed to help anyone player along with their riddle. I am most certain I have never stumbled upon this book before and I have spent many an hour “cleaning” this room.

Together we read the first page – but the Tewkesbury turns away, cheeks burning a bright red.

“You should read it. Alone”, he suggest, backing away already and picking up his own book.

I frown.

“Why?”

His blush deepens into a pretty Scarlett.

“It is a woman’s diary...”

“A dead woman’s diary”, I interject and Tewkesbury shoots me an irritated look that I’m sure is directed at my comment’s content rather than the comment itself.

“What? I’m right!”, I mouth back, but he’s already not paying any attention to me anymore. Instead, he moves to sit in his armchair.

“If we are to already invade this poor, dead lady’s diary”

He shoots me a pointed look.

“The least we can do is let you do the reading.”

I frown.

“Why does that matter?”

My question seems to catch him off-guard. For he stumbles around his words for a bit.

“W-Well – she’s a woman! And so are you! Lord knows what she might have written about!”

“What – what could she possibly have written about that you shouldn’t read for some ridiculous reason...”

“Just read the book, Enola”, he interrupts me:”Please?”

He is looking at me pleadingly now. I roll my eyes in response – though I do not protest either as I walk over to him to sit down in my won armchair. I open the book back up on the first page and Tewkesbury picks up his as well and soon enough, the room is immersed by a comforting silence once more. No one comes to disturb us for once, nothing seems to be out of the ordinary and Ms. John’s life seems rather boring. More than once do I catch myself yawning as I turn page after page. Seemingly nothing ever happens! Ms. John complains about Lady Andrew from time to time – her mistress must have been immensely intent on keeping any and all scandal away from the estate, as it seems. So far, the most interesting thing that has been brought up was when she sent a young servant girl away for supposedly having been caught sneaking around with a boy from the village, usually sent to deliver goods. Ms. John seems to have been furious “for the girl was hard-working and once can hardly blame children for their antics”. Other than that there’s...nothing. More often than not Ms. John doesn’t even mention her mistress. She curses some of the other servants and swoons over a man or two and sometimes she thanks the lord for her station in life, usually when Lady Andrew did something nice.

I glance at Tewkesbury who seems to be much more immersed in his book and wonder whether he knew what a bore it would be and that is why he asked me to read it.

I shouldn’t have judged so quickly though. It is only another month of boring nothingness and I finally stumble upon something worthwhile.

“Lady Andrew told me a story today, of when she was younger and first came to visit the estate. They went down to that lake and played all day until they boys vanished and the governess had to search for them the whole afternoon – quite a scare that must have been! They never found them and it was only when they jumped out from the bushes and startled them. Lady Andrew never did find out where to they vanished, yet she insists that the boys had scratches all over and must have had a terrible time sitting there all by themselves for hours on end.”

The entry doesn’t end here, but Ms. John goes on to complain about the evening’s dinner and that is of little interest to me.

What isn’t is the mention of a childhood memory.

Remembering my notes again, I get up and stalk towards the tray. Right under the cloth that I was too bring in case anything gets spilled, I’ve hidden a few of my notes and I pull them out now, comparing them. Tewkesbury seems to have realized that I must have found something, for he is currently leaning over my shoulder, reading alongside me.

“That sounds promising”, he says and I mutter in agreement. It does sound promising.

“Have you found anything?”

I lean back a bit to whisper it into his ear – though, from this position its really just his face – and my motion gets Tewkesbury to lean back in his chair as well, as he pulls out his own notebook filled with scribbled down information.

“There’s mentions of the balcony up on the first floor – and the picture gallery. In different books, in fact – I’ve yet to read them all more closely, but I’m sure they’ll bring up something new. And I’ve found out about a spot called “ruined temple of Apollo”, though I’m not sure what exactly that could mean.”

That does sound strange.

Though for now, perhaps we may have to focus our time on the other three leads. It most certainly is more than we’ve had at the start of the day, but neither of us will be able to get to all three locations at once and as long as I don’t know how far the other three contestants have gotten, I will be in a hurry to finish each riddle as fast as possible.

“Perhaps we should split up?”, I suggest. It’s the obvious choice and I don’t need to turn my head to look at Tewkesbury to know he’s agreeing.

“I will go during dinner. I will find some excuse – but you must attend. Perhaps – as you’ve proposed already – casually! – ask for everyone else’s progress. Ms. Brughs may not want to tell me how she has gotten, but perhaps the other’s might be more talkative.”

“That...sounds great?”

He sounds hesitant – a great deal hesitant, but it is good enough for me. I get up, keeping the book in my hand. Am I allowed to keep it for now? Does that count as interfering with the competition?

After a few seconds of deliberation I decide it probably does and I put the book back on the table – though I perhaps I should have put it back where I’ve found it.

“Have fun during that dinner of yours – I’ve heard they’ll have Lemon Cheese Cake as afters.”

It sounds amazing – I am tempted to ask Tewkesbury to smuggle me a piece, especially after he shared his dinner with me the days before. It tasted heavenly and I am sure to miss it once this case ends.

“Are you sure you wish alone?”, Tewkesbury calls out, just as I am leaving and it does make me pause. I stop and turn and frown.

“Am I sure?”

“Yes. That you do not wish for me to accompany you.”

He isn’t smirking, but his voice does have that arrogant edge to it that he manages to always hit just right.

“Of course I am”, I whisper scream in disbelieve:”Now you stay here and read that book – call me up an hour before curfew starts so that we can reconvene, understood?”

I turn around again and it’s only the rustling of fabric that tells me he’s getting up as well.

“I will – but spare me no detail!”

.o.O.o.

It’s cold outside. Colder than I anticipated and it is my own fault that I did not, for it is November and it has stormed the past few days, the wind still howling occasionally as well.

It is my own fault for refusing to bring a jacket of sorts and trusting my everyday clothes to keep me warm – I regret my decision the moment I step outside, but the cold isn't quite biting enough yet for me to turn back around again.

I know the path down to the artificial lake well – it’s one of the biggest on the grounds, as it lays right in the middle of the ‘grand tour’ – a walkway meant to showcase only the prettiest of sights the gardens have to offer. Nestled between the river and well-managed forest – too light to be a wild one, but dense enough for it to create a barrier keeping one on the path laid out before me.

It’s not long until I get to the lake – or perhaps describing it as a pond is more appropriate – but it isn’t until I am almost at the monopteros – which looks suspiciously like an old, Grecian Temple – that I make my first, noteworthy discovery.

There’s a path, a beaten trail, leading into the darkness of the forest.

Something...seems to be back there. I don’t remember this path to be drawn on any of the maps I have scouted – nor do I remember having seen it when I first explored the grounds.

How could I have missed something as important as this? Should I...investigate it now? It is...quite late.

I am all on my own.

Nevertheless, I step closer – but then there’s a crack somewhere in the bushes. Goosebumps litter my skin as I blow puffy clouds into the autumn cold. I am being silly – there’s nothing there, there are no such things as ghost or…

CRACK.

I shriek as I fall backwards, scrambling away from the undergrowth as fast as I can possibly manage, with my hands on the ground.

Not a moment later an owl erupts. Bewildered I look after it as it takes flight, too stunned to as much as breathe for a few, silent seconds.

Then I erupt into laughter as I get up, wiping my hands on my apron, shaking of any of the slightly wet leaves.

Of course – an owl. What else could it have been?

Determined to not let my imagination get the better of me I step closer once more, just to change my mind immediately after.

The monopteros looks Grecian and Tewkesbury found that mention of Apollo – I can always come back later.

So it is decided. Marching on I cross the final distance to my end goal. There’s barely any light left – I will have to return tomorrow and that is when I can investigate that suspicious looking trail,

The door to the monopteros creaks loudly, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent night and I flinch.

Nothing happens.

Of course not – no one’s here to hear anything. I am being ridiculous – if Tewkesbury were here, he’d definitely make fun of my ridiculous behaviour. I am not a scared twelve year old, terrified of even the smallest of sounds at night, shrieking whenever the wind howls and the branches tick against the glass.

There’s a torch on the wall and I ignite it. I am glad I haven’t brought my own – I would have dropped it earlier and might have burned myself or evens tarted a wildfire.

The leaves are wet still, but one must be prepared for the worst at any times, mother used to say.

I put the torch back into wall fixing once its lit, the fire barely giving enough light for me to have a proper look at everything.

The monopteros is empty, for the most part. One can sit on the benches at the wall and there’s a table with a build in chessboard but for the most part, it is as bring and unexcitable as I remember. Nonetheless I get on my knees and start shuffling around, looking under each bench and specifically inspecting the chess board for any code that might be hidden in it.

Noting seems out of the extraordinary – as a matter of fact, nothing is here, nothing that indicates anything about a lady by the banks or anything else the poem talked about.

We need to find out more about this childhood memory. Maybe there is a diary written by the Late Lord Andrew himself to be found in the library if we look closely enough or maybe Lady Andrew will know and write us the answer.

I have done enough for the day.

Shivering, I get to my feet again.

CLACK.

Frowning, I turn around – the door is closed.

That must have been the wind. Shaking my head at my own antics – not a word to anyone, you hear? G – I step towards the torch, trying my best to extinguish the flame. It takes me some time – once it’s done, I turn to the door again and turn the know.

The door doesn’t budge.

I try again – but still. Nothing. Again, I shiver, a dreadful realization setting in, one I desperately wish not to be true.

Maybe the lock is stuck, surely, if I just try harder...nothing. Nothing moves. The door doesn't open and I...I start panicking.

I shouldn’t have extinguished the torch – I should have asked Tewkesbury to come with – how didn’t I notice anyone follow me?

But most of all: I need to get out of here. Now.

WHAM.

I ram against it with all the force I can muster – it still doesn’t budge.

WHAM.

Still – no movement. I try a third, fruitless time and then stumble back, staring at the door in disbelieve. Someone...followed me and…locked the door.

It is then with horror that I realize that I am trapped here – just as curfew is about to start and Mr. Vandell will be sure to check my room.

I shiver.

Bloody hell, why didn’t I bring a coat?

.o.O.o.

They are seated at the dining table already, waiting for dinner to be brought in and for the entire length of it to be filled. It reminds him of his home, quite a lot, and perhaps that should be of no surprise. The long table could have been found in Basilwether Hall, too, and his mother, sometimes uncle, and him would take in their meals together, shouting at each other to be heard across the distance.

For a moment, Tewkesbury allows himself to indulge in his own mind, imagining what it would be like if Enola were to be there – perhaps, if she were to stay the night for once – or perhaps even longer – or perhaps had accepted his mother proposal to stay with them forever.

The dining room would be more lively, for sure – she’d definitely butt heads with his uncle and he can vividly hear his mother’s admonishments as she tries to form Enola into someone resembling a lady. And, perhaps, once she’s gone and his uncle is gone, Enola would bridge the distance between them to bring up her newest case, consulting him on it - that might just be the most useful that table could be – to store the countless notes she’s sure to have made to go along with it.

It’s a nice image. Especially if he adds him putting an arm on her shoulder and her blushing at it – but it’s a fantasy and he has to snap out of it. He can’t dream off like that – he’s on a mission. Enola is out and about, scouting the first location and he’s on his very own mission.

Almost as if he were her assistant – partner in crime, of perhaps partner against crime is more appropriate in their case.

Either way, he’ll have to concentrate. That is made all the easier when the doors are opened and instead of their dinner – which they have been told will be Turbot – Mr. Whittler enters the room in a hurry, smiling triumphantly.

“My apologies for being late – I meant no disrespect.”

He takes his assigned seat, smiling apologetically at the other attendants – well, Lord Andrew and him, for Mr. Whittler does ignore most of the servant, not even as much as glancing at the servant leaned toward Lord Andrew who had come in but minutes early.

“You are excused – dinner hasn’t been served yet anyway. But since you are here now – may I ask you on how far you’ve gotten with the counterclaim to the Bourwell’s family?”

Tewkesbury listens curiously. Anything they say may be of used – it most likely won’t be, but it can be and he’s made a promise to Enola. Additionally, his own pride is at stake here as well. He’s sure Enola will find something useful and he wants to contribute equally to the case.

It doesn’t take long for dinner to be served after Mr. Whittler came in – perhaps Tewkesbury can sneak Enola a piece of the cake or two and perhaps some of the bread served as well – and the room erupts into pleasant small talk.

It’s a strange situation to be in. Tewkesbury isn’t stupid – he’s aware of how suspicious his arrival must look and he knows Lord Andrew is only buying into the lie because his sister has never had a single suitor in her life ever before. That doesn’t mean he isn’t on thin ice though – it most certainly doesn’t and he can’t just change the conversation to the treasure hunt without completely blowing his cover. Tewkesbury may not be a lawyer (yet – mother has made some comments that make him think she may want him to pick up the study of law once he’s a bit older and more set in his role as lord) – but he knows enough to realize the rules hardly protect Enola and him.

He doesn’t want to ruin the case for her or for Lady Andrew, so he sits back and listens and participates in whatever conversation the other two strike up, patiently awaiting his chance to find out more.

Soon enough, the topic strays from the mundane to the more serious and eventually, the subject matter lands on the Redistribution Act. It’s the first time Tewkesbury feels invited to really join the conversation. Lord Andrew will become a Lord once his father passes but Tewkesbury already is one.

For once, the line of command has turned on its head and it is up to him to give an account of the debates currently had.

“It has all but passed already”, he responds eventually:”It was a prerequisite for the Representation of the People Act to be passed. If we fail to get it through the House of Lords, we may start another constitutional crisis.”

Tewkesbury hadn’t been there for the first one – but it had gotten bad enough for Queen Victoria having to put a stop to it and no member of either house wanted to anger her majesty another time. The deal had been made and it would go through.

“Though I personally wish I could vote against it – I believe a modern country like our Great Britannia to be granted a modern government. It’s time this happened.”

And so much more.

“You won’t vote against the bill?”

“Sooner or later it will probably be repealed – or perhaps amended. Not to mention that I highly doubt that Lord Salisbury’s plan will bear as many fruits as he hopes it will. Would you vote against it?”

Thoughtfully, Lord Andrew chews on his food for a moment, taking his time to find a satisfactory answer.

“I would. I am in agreement the bill will have much less off an effect than calculated, but I’d dislike as much as to even negotiate with the Tories – and I dislikes Lord Salisbury on a personal level,”

Tewkesbury hadn’t met the man all too often yet, but he understood the sentiment. What did surprise him however was...everything else off what Lord Andrew had just said.

His surprise wasn’t to be lifted anytime soon either.

Lord Andrew was...surprisingly liberal. Enola all but cursed him out and Tewkesbury isn’t one to disagree with her – he doesn’t quite understand why one wouldn’t want to get married, but he’s mature enough to realize his opinion on the subject hardly matters – yet he’d be amiss to say he entirely dislike the man. He may disrespect his sister’s wishes and may be a tad bit overbearing – he had never fully understood what Enola meant when she called courting “selling of cattle” until he met Lord Andrew and the way he talks about his sister is strange enough to make even him feel uncomfortable – but he did bring up that he supported the criminal law amendment brought up a second time already, but which would most likely be dropped again.

Though Tewkesbury supposes Lord Andrew might be supporting it for the wrong reasons.

It isn’t long after that discussion that dinner is finished and the three of them end up moving to the billiard room.

(“There’s no wives nagging us about out drinking habits here, after all”, Lord Andrew gave as a reason, hollering out loud and it’s now that Tewkesbury is once again reminded of why Enola dislikes him so much.

Tewkesbury isn’t blaming her for that in the least.)

Mr. Vandell joins them eventually and not much later and the game is underway. According to his uncle, Tewkesbury was a decent enough at billiard which meant he had to pretty good, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten the compliment.

Lord Andrew starts sipping on his first whiskey after having lost the second game in a row.

It’s all Tewkesbury could have hoped for and it gets even better when Mr. Whittler joins in. Tewkesbury start to feel himself fade into the background, until he eventually lets himself sink into on of the plush armschairs, hands folded in contemplation as he listens to the other two men speak. He never does figure out whether they truly forgot about his presence or whether they were too arfar’an’arf or simply didn’t care at all.

Whatever the reason, it works.

Next time, he might be able to sneak a notepad to write down anything they may say, lest he forget something. It’s a high stake game their playing – not the billiard, of course – and they can’t afford to lose.

For the first time ever since parliaments been out, he feels exhilarated. It reminds him of when he takes a stand in the house of lords, partaking in a discussion of sorts and he’s glad Enola agreed to let him help. As much as spending time with Enola would have been enough incentive for him to help, he does understand what it is about this profession that attracted her.

“I’ve figured out the first riddle for days already – it was too simple almost”, Lord Andrew eventually boast after losing another round.

Tewkesbury starts wondering whether he truly was as good of a billiard player as he thought or whether perhaps Lord Andrew is simply really bad at it.

The other thing he starts wondering about is whether Lord Andrew has any inkling as to what the second riddle might be about and whether he may let anything else slip.

He doesn’t, content to triumphantly hum as he sets up the next game. Briefly, the thought of getting him more drunk crosses Twekesbury’s mind, but he drops that almost immediately. The thought of...almost drugging someone to get a piece of information doesn’t sit right with him, regardless of how valuable that piece of information is.

Luckily enough, just as the cue ball has been struck Mr. Whittler responds.

“I have solved the second riddle already.”

The remark passed by nonchalantly and Tewkesbury almost missed it, but he catches it just in time and decides it’s time to make his presence known again.

“Riddle?”

It probably was best to pretend not to know a thing about what was going on.

“What riddle?”

Mr. Vandell coughs and Lord Andrew narrows his eyes – Mr. Whittler chooses to glance at Lord Andrew, seemingly confused – then he shrugs.

And starts to explain.

Neither of the two give up any more information – but at the very least, Tewkesbury knows where they are standing.

And that they urgently need to catch up.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 27

-

19^th - 20^th of November 1884

Case III: The elusive inheritance
File VI: Revelations

Perhaps you may be familiar with “The Purloined Letter” by Edgar Allan Poe – if not, I can recommend you read it. Regardless – it tells a story of a famous detective who – after the police has failed miserably – manages to find a stolen letter, hidden in plain sight. It is a simple tale – though expertly written and of course a staple in my family’s library.

I’ve read it, too – so has mother and, like any great work of literature, we discussed it.

I quite enjoyed the story.

Mother had her qualms about it. In fact, it was the conclusion she found quite unsatisfactory – she used to say that hiding things in plain sight is only ever useful if the thing to be hidden away is looked for by no one.

“No person in their right mind will examine an inconspicuous letter carelessly thrown on the table or a book resting on a night stand – remember, one can only ever suspect when a reason for suspicion is given.”

Mother argued that the way things must be hidden are dictated by the circumstances surrounding them. An entire police department would obviously open up any letter they might find – too easy is it to conceal and disguise. Yet, if I were to suspiciously hide something from view, anyone of sound mind would wonder way.

Perhaps, had I been suspicious of anyone following me, I would have noticed them – yet I did not and I suppose it couldn’t have been helped either way. It was dark and I was too preoccupied trying to find a clue of sorts to pay much attention to anything other than the case I am currently on. It wouldn’t have mattered whether the person that locked me in was behaving suspiciously or not – I wouldn’t have noticed either way.

I let my guard down – I can’t afford to let that happen a second time.

.o.O.o.

19^th of November

I curse as I glare at the door in front of me – it has been a good five minutes already. It is starting to get cold, too, and my discomfort is hardly weakened by the immense frustration I am lead to feel at my own failure.

I was careless – this should never have happened. How could I have been to foolish? I should have known that I am being watched. Surely, Ms. Burghs will have told others about my disguise. Yet, I was too distracted by stupid owls and childish ideas of ghosts as to pay proper attention.

I should be ashamed of myself.

Yet, commiserating my own failings will hardly get me out of this place – and I have to get out as fast as possible if I do not wish to disqualify Lady Andrew.

I – I really don’t want to fail this case. Not only do I put my own reputation at stake, but Lady Andrew’s livelihood as well. I cannot let that happen.

I try to rally all my strength as I glare unflinchingly at the door. This is merely another opponent and I will not fail.

Yet fail I do – the first slam gives hope but as I try a few more times, kicking and slamming against the door in a desperate attempt to force it open, all it does is leave me bruised and exhausted and with pain in my right side.

Tears of frustration start welling up in my eyes as horror sweeps through my veins.

“BLOODY HELL.”

I doubt anyone can hear me – and I’ve never been much of a lady to begin with. I curse another time, kicking the door in anger as I do so – one could believe me to have the Foot-and-mouth disease.

The faint chiming of a bell doesn’t help the matter – and neither do my mother’s words.

“No matter the circumstances, hardly any situation will be helped with hot headedness. Keep you calm and clever as you are, you will most certainly find a solution.”

I am very much not calm. I should calm down, I know I should and…– breathe.

I need to breathe.

Allowing myself respite for a moments time, that’s all I do. Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out.

Breathe in...and out. All I need is to collect my strength. In...out. That’s all and then that bloody door will finally open.

In – out.

SLAM!

The door doesn’t give in still. Another breath – another attempt – my labour is to stay fruitless once again.

I am starting to lose hope – perhaps mother’s advice is harder to follow this time than usually. But I keep trying, ignoring the pounding in my arm and – it is only when my hairdo starts to fall apart that I realize that mother was right.

Mother is always right – and thank god that she thought me how to lock-pick.

Nervously, I pry a pin from my hair, intensely glaring at it. I should have kept my calm – mother never let me practice lock picking – for I might have gone looking through her things, I suppose, I have always been rather curious – but I have tried myself at it a few times, in dark nights long after mother had gone to bed and the candles were about to burn out.

My hand is shaking nervously as I push in the pin. Stilling my breath, I wait for the telltale “click” that promises success.

It takes entirely too long for me to be met with some, but after an agonizing five minutes the door finally swings open and I allow myself to take a breath of relief.

Good.

Hearkening for the church bell, I realize I still have time to spare which is even better.

I waste no time to look around. I estimate I may have a good 40 minutes before curfew starts. If I wait until tomorrow, all the evidence might be gone, the crumbs that lead me to culprit blown away by the autumn wind.

Perhaps the culprit left a clue – but I am left empty handed.

Until a light appears not to far away – a light clearly carried by someone.

I go rigid – who could possible be out this late? Did whoever locked me in come back?

Why?

Who else would be outside at this time?

Making my decision I decide to hide, listening to tell-tale footsteps edging closer. My breathe is halted almost completely and I close my eyes, to better listen to the sound. The leaves don’t crunch, but there’s this squelching sound and I know for sure.

Close and closer and closer and...

I don’t scream as I tackle this unknown person to the ground, no childish cry alerting them to my presence. Though perhaps I should have, for as I tackle them to the floor and hear their surprised grunting, I am reminded of a different time where I rolled down a dangerous floor and no sooner than when we both collide with the floor and the torch tumbles from their hand I realize…

“Tewkesbury?!”

I scramble away from him, getting up again and snatching up the torch – luckily, the leaves are all wet, for we most certainly would have started a fire otherwise.

I hold the flame closer to his face – and indeed it’s him. He’s glaring at me, too – perhaps, if the situations were reversed, I might do quite the same.

“What took you so long?”, he hisses as I help him up. He seems greatly befuddled and I can’t blame him – yet it was dark. And I had reasons to be suspicious, of course. And anyway, there is no reason to be this disgruntled – it is leaves he’s fallen on and I’ve pushed him from a moving train before – to save his life! – he’s lived through worse.

Watching him disgruntedly dust of his jacket almost makes me hear the words “And I’ve lost a button.” in the wind.

My lips twitch – Tewkesbury glares at me in return, though seems to be content to let it go, his back straightening when the bell goes off in the distance.

My smile fades in response.

We have to hurry – we might have to run.

“What took you so long?!”

Tewkesbury repeats his question, his voice all the more demanding which greatly irritates me. I didn’t ask him to help me with this case – quite frankly, he simply showed up and then expected me to be alright with it – risking my own disguise!

He has no right to get snarky.

Pressing my lips together, I glare at him but he doesn’t let go off it, glaring right back in silent stubbornness.

If I weren’t too preoccupied trying to silently tell him off, this whole situation might have been awkward, but as it stands, it isn’t.

Tewkesbury’s the one to falter first – his waning determination signified by the way he turns his head ever so slightly.

“I was worried”, he admits, distinctly not sounding worried at all:”I thought something might have happened. It’s terribly dark already.”

Yet, regardless whether his voice sounds honest or not, I am reminded as to why I was late and...it almost makes me feel bad.

Maybe it does make me feel little bit bad. Something did happen after all and that’s all it takes to make me falter, for as much as Tewkesbury very much invited himself to the case, he is part of it now.

And he should probably know.

The story’s told fast enough – I leave out any unnecessary detail. There’s that pathway I spied between the bushes, the things I found in the monopteros – or rather the things I didn’t find there – and finally that I was locked into it.

That, at last, earns me a gasp. Any leftover anger has vanished from Tewkesbury’s eyes – just like it has from mine – and he pauses for a moment.

“So...you were followed?”, he asks once he picks up the pace again.

I nod.

“Yes – and locked in. I suppose it must have been another contestant. Or perhaps, they have their own helper?”

Deliberating, Tewkesbury nods along – but neither he nor I know who it might have been. I suspect Ms. Burghs, for she seems to have more control over the staff that the others – she is the head maid after all – yet it could have been anyone, really.

I decide to think more about it tomorrow.

“Has anything interesting happened at dinner?”, I ask, clumsily changing the subject and Tewkesbury snaps out from his thoughtfulness.

He fills me in on what he heard during dinner – and once he’s done we’re at the entrance to the estate already.

“We’ll have to separate here”, I say, eyeing the area:”It is better for neither of us to be seen entering the house together, to avoid pantry politics. We’ll speak more of this tomorrow? In the picture gallery?”

I am set to help clean it tomorrow and us meeting there hopefully won’t arise many suspicions.

“Alright – after breakfast?”

“Of course.”

“Splendid.”

.o.O.o.

20^th of November

I am the first to be in the picture gallery – which is hardly as surprising as you may be lead to believe, for I have been ordered to clean it. Hence why I suggested it as our meeting place.

It will be more inconspicuous, I hope, if we are to meet here.

Though I did not expect Victoria to be there with me.

“I thought Elizabeth is the one in charge of cleaning the gallery today?”

She arrives later than I do, loud foot steps echoing on the polished floor.

Elizabeth is another servant. She’s nice, though immensely shy and perhaps, a tad bit sickly. She always looks as if the lightest of breezes will blow her over.

Victoria stands next to me, checking my work so far.

“She was.”

She checks the showcase and it seems to be dusted to her satisfaction, for she motions me to move on.

“But she’s been quite tired this morning – she might just come down with something. You better be careful, lest you wish to catch her cold as well.”

Well, I am not surprised by that.

We move on swiftly, working in silence as there is not much to say. Victoria works hard and perficiently, leaving little room for small-talk (though it must be said I am doing must of the dusting – she mostly checks, but she also isn’t really a servant). A few greatly curled hairs eventually slip from her hairstyle – I wonder just how many of Elizabeth’s tasks she has taken over already.

Eventually, we make it to the very last of the pictures – a portrait of the late Lady Andrew. Middle-aged and dressed in the finest of silks. Red hair is put into an elaborate hairdo and only a few strands frame her face, deep brown eyes staring down at us.

Literally.

The late Lady Andrew was rather tall – almost as tall as her husband, in fact or perhaps taller even. The details are a bit skewed in that regard.

“She’s beautiful”, I remark. Not a second later, Victoria next to me goes rigid, though she does not respond either.

“She remind me of Lady Andrew. Don’t you agree?”, I add, but she disagrees.

“The red hair I agree – everything else, not so much”, she says, scrubbing the show case furiously. I wonder why Victoria seems to dislike the late Lady, but I dare not ask.

“You seem quite convinced – do you know Lady Andrew well?”

“Yes – we have been friends for as long as I can remember.”

“It must have saddened you to learn she isn’t here at the moment.”

If I had a chuckaboo – which I suppose I don’t have, other than mother, but then again, I hardly see the need for one either, for I am most certainly happy with life as it is – I’d probably want to see her as often as possible.

“Do you sent her letters? Is she doing well?”

I hope she does, but...Victoria’s expression grows sombre.

“I wish I could”, she says. And suddenly, she’s glaring at me – perhaps my comments were insensitive one way or another? – though she replies with a huff a few moments later already.

“As you can imagine, I cannot send Lady Andrew any private letters – he brother likes to intercept them and I know he’s paid off the postal clerk.”

That – I didn’t know that. I must keep that in mind when I try to-

My face grows pale almost immediately. We-We’ve tried to send Lady Andrew a letter. If Lord Andrew were to intercept that one as well then…

I need to tell Tewkesbury – but not to Victoria, so instead, I settle on saying:

“That’s a...a terrible breach of privacy.”

My mother would have a fit if she heard, all the more if she found out why. I hardly believe that Lord Andrew makes a habit of this and I suppose the game may influence his action – yet, it is no defence against this despicable behaviour.

I’m not sure if Victoria agrees though. All she does is huff again, blowing up her cheeks widely before pressing all the air out. For some reason, she seems incredibly annoyed.

“Of course – anyway. I must go. Other duties are calling. I do hope you will be able to join us soon as well, Claire.”

I frown – but mustn’t we still clean this last painting?

Victoria doesn’t seem to mind, hurrying away with sudden speed, leaving me – literally – in the dust.

Well. Next to the dust.

Regardless. I turn back to the painting, huffing myself. It’s quite big, but I do make quick progress.

It isn’t long after Victoria has left that Tewkesbury shows up. As a matter of fact, the swiftness with which he appears seems almost too coincidental.

“You waited for her to leave?”, I ask, mildly surprised by his foresight.

“You may find this troublesome to believe, but I am not a complete idiot”, he retorts, content to watch me finish my work.

“You could help, you know”, I say as I get onto my tiptoes to reach the higher up spots, glaring at him.

He doesn’t move.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“It’s dusting, Ebenezer. It’s hardly a science.”

His expression sours at the use of his first name – I will never let him live that down – but he steps closer.

He looks helpless. Wordlessly, I hand him a cleaning rag – Victoria took her duster with her – and continue my work, as he hesitantly mimics what I do.

He’s surprisingly not too bad at it and he doesn’t complain either – until something, somewhere creaks and he jumps back, jolted.

“If someone sees me, our charade is up”, he whispers, apologetically. Huh – I hadn’t thought of that – and the last showcase is almost done anyway – and least, but not last, his words remind me of a pressing issues.

I almost drop my duster when I whirl around.

“Have you send the letter already? The one addressed to Lady Andrew?”

Tewkesbury holds up his hands in surprise at my sudden action. Bewildered he blinks a few times, before he responds hesistantly.

“I – yes. Yesterday, as soon as I was free to go – why?”

“According to another maid, letters addressed to Lady Andrew are opened and read – we can’t have anyone read them. Not if we wish to stay hidden.”

Tewkesbury gulps at that – but he nods fervently.

“Of course – I will try to get it back as soon as possible – though, how are we supposed to contact Lady Andrew if we can’t send her any letters?”

I haven’t thought of that yet – to be fair, I didn’t have much time to come up with a solution. There’s has to be a way for a letter to get out without the postal clerk getting a hand on it. Perhaps we can disguise it somehow, fool them into thinking it isn’t meant for her at all…

My thought process is rudely interrupted – he sounds excited, too excited and I can’t help but wonder why.

“We can send the letter using a private messenger!”

He’s looking at me, his eyes shining with childlike glee, tempting me to give in to his enthuzimuzzy, but I do better than that. I contemplate his idea for a second – then my expression breaks out into a frown.

“That’d be – that’d be incredibly expensive, wouldn’t it?”

It must be. There’s no way it isn’t.

“Of course”, he responds:”But I can commission the delivery!”

Right from the start, I dislike that suggestion immensely.

“This isn't your case”, I remark dryly. I put away my cleaning device and then start walking, Tewkesbury following closely behind.

“Of course not!”

His face take on a spooked expression – almost as if he thought he had offended me.

“I’d never! I could never! Of course it is – I-I meant no insult!”

It’s a bit amusing and...reassuring to know he thinks that way.

“I...merely want to help. You did save me – I owe you.”

I don’t like that thought either.

“Your family has paid me back plenty of times already. You owe nothing.”

“But I feel like I do!”

“And I don’t want you to pay for this!”

My words come out harsher than I intended – they make us halt, both of us halt as we look at each other. He seems taken aback – but nods. Hesitantly, hurt almost. He doesn’t seem happy with my decision, but accepts it nonetheless.

It turns silent afterwards and soon enough, we’ve almost reached the little forest where I suppose or next answer could lie. But just before we get there, I allow myself to pause – and turn around and look at everything I can see.

I won’t let myself be surprised a second time nor will I lead any of our competitors to the next solution.

“I made sure no one followed me”, Tewkesbury rushes to assure me – but then he blushes and I know there’s a “However” in there somewhere.

I quirk an eyebrow – he gulps.

“What happened – tell me. Now.”

He refuses to meet my eyes and I am about to step closer – but he finally speaks.

“I...suspect Lord Andrew is suspicious of our charade already.”

Oh.

“He is?”

It’s – it’s not as surprising as I may want it to be. Perhaps I am simply not meant to disguise myself or perhaps I must learn more first – but I’ve never been that well-hidden in the first place. I do wonder what might have set him off? Or perhaps, Lord Andrew figured it out from all the little clues and inconsistencies scared all over our flimsy cover.

“He kept eyeing me during breakfast this morning – though that could be for any reason.”

It probably isn’t, but I appreciate Tewkesbury’s optimism regardless.

“I suppose it wasn’t much of a charade to begin with”, I say, trying to not sound nervous at the prospect of truly having my identity be uncovered:”Ms. Brughs knew from the start and hardly anyone believed our lie about the marriage proposal.”

“A proposal of courtship”, Tewkesbury hurries to correct:”A proposal of courtship. Should word get out and anyone print it in the papers, we can call this charade off with much less of a hassle than a marriage proposal could.”

I watch him expectantly – he seems surprised that I seem to care – or perhaps simply because I do not know – until he shakes his head.

“Is there anything your mother taught you about life, Enola? Anything other the sciences and great minds that the world has brought forth so far? How could she ever expect you to find a match then?”, he asks, flabbergasted and I narrow my eyes at his disbelieving chuckle.

“I am fairly sure my mother spend very little time thinking about nay future marriage of mine”, I respond hotly and his chuckle trails of.

He definitely deserved being tackled to the floor yesterday though.

I dare him to disagree – he doesn’t.

“Yes, I-I understand.”

Does he now?

I turn and continue on our way and a few seconds later he stumbles after me, nervously flitting around me almost. Finally, we reach the pathway I spotted yesterday – well-hidden behind branches and bushes, but when I push the scrub away, it reveal a well-walked trail.

I smile – this must be it.

The excitement almost managed to quell the obnoxious thoughts in my mind.

I do not like the idea of Tewkesbury courting anyone else, but I wisely keep these thoughts to myself. It isn’t my decision to make who Tewkesbury courts – and anyway! Who could possible want to court him! He’s an obnoxious nincompoop with a penchant for messing with my plans!

“But wouldn’t all of this...cause a scandal? Regardless whether you are courting or engaged? Isn’t she older than you?”

I try to sound nonchalant.

I am nonchalant.

It’s a winding path that we go down, but I suppose it might have been nice when the leaves are green and healthy.

“There have been plenty of cases of the wife being older – it isn’t that uncommon.”

I hum – I never knew – and push aside the last branch, focussing myself on the case at hand again. There’s...not much to be seen. It is a clearing with an unstable looking hut built against a tree – nothing but a rotten wooden plank, flimsily held up by a few branches that will hardly stand the test of time. Yet it is a beautiful little spot, hidden away where hardly anyone can see and I suppose in spring it could have been quite magical. But the colours have died away and it is all the sadder to look at it now.

“I still...she’s much older than you! At least three years! Wouldn’t this cause a grand scandal of sorts?”

“I’m not that young! I’m going on 17!”

“17?”

I frown. Well. It makes sense, I suppose. He was 16 when I saved him – multiple times! – from getting murdered and it has almost been a years since then.

“You’re turning 17 soon? You never did tell me when your birthday was.”

“Neither did you!”

“The day we jumped from the train. It must have slipped my mind.”

I smile at him to show no really harm is meant, but Tewkesbury seems to be almost horrified at my words.

“Your...mother left you on your birthday?”

Oh.

She did, of course – but for good reasons! I step away from him, refusing to meet his eyes.

I know this already. Mother and I have talked about it.

She left, but for good reasons and I have forgiven her.

“I was an adult. Mature enough to ensure my own safety and livelihood. Why would she have stayed?”

Tewkesbury doesn’t respond to that – it makes me shiver and if I were a less controlled person, tears might have sprung into my eyes. But as it stands, all I do is close them for a moment to take a deep breath.

There are tears anyway – carelessly, I wipe the away.

“I was doing fine on my own”, I insist and turn to him, daring to disagree.

He doesn’t meet my eyes either, but respond he does.

“Of course – I would never question that.”

Good – neither of us say anything else after that though and it leaves us in an awkward silence once again, one I am all the more determined to get rid of today. I clear my throat – then a second time and then, I’ve found my voice again.

“Enough of that.”

I turn my back to him, trying to sound nonchalant, though I’m afraid I might have failed in that endeavour.

“When is your birthday? You said it’s soon?”
Tewkesbury seems equally happy to latch onto my question – I can hear him step closer and I am almost shocked by the speed with which he answers.

“December. My birthday is on December the ninth – we’ll celebrate of course and, uh...”

He sounds almost out of breath.

“...perhaps you may want to...to attend? I understand perfectly if you are unable to do so – I imagine your brother’s might assume you will and I’d never dare to endanger your living situation, but...I’d be most honoured if you would. Come that is.”

He sounds all excited and nervous which is kind of charming and that is an entirely involuntary though that I just had.

I try to distract myself by answering too quickly.

“I will try!”

I almost stumble over these words, but I catch my tongue just in time.

“I will – I will come, lest anything shall happen before. I promise.”

Already I sound much more composed – Tewkesbury seems to ease as well, as his eyes grow soft and perhaps a tad bit triumphant.

“I’m glad.”

I smile at him – and he smiles back.

Both of us start blushing immediately after but I am unable to look away, too. It is only when the far away church bells chime that I realize that an inappropriate amount of time being spent staring at each other has passed and I scramble to get back on the track.

“The case!”, I say – too loudly, but I have greater concerns. I turn around and I can hear shuffling behind me and a muffled.

“The case. Yes.”

It is all I need to pay attention to the clearing in front of me again and – more importantly – it restores my composure – my heart is beating wildly still, but slowly I can feel it fall back into its usual rhythm.

As I’ve said – the clearing must be gorgeous during spring, yet it is empty now – empty, save for a wall, half-collapsed so artfully, it must have been done on purpose.

It takes me a minute or two which I spend catalogue all there is to see, before I trust my voice enough to dare and break the silence.

“Nothing of this is marked in the garden plans.”

I circle the wall in search of more clues. It is clear that this must be this “ruined temple of Apollo” – I can’t help but grin at the childishness of it all.

“Where did you find the name for this place?”, I ask into the silence and when I look up, Tewkesbury is smiling as well.

“A book written by late Lord Andrew’s father.”

Huh – I wonder if anyone ever cared to change the name.

“I suppose it might have been a place dear to the late Lord Andrew’s childhood then – there has to be something here. If you didn’t find anything and the gallery is as clueless as we’ve found it, this is the last lead that we have.”

Tewkesbury nods and so do I and then we start shuffling around the small clearing, in search for anything that might be a clue. It’s then that I notice the only speck of colour left in this rather bleak world. I frown and kneel down, my nose scrunched as I carefully – afraid I might destroy this last piece of evidence which very well might be the object we are looking for.

“Do you know what this is?”, I ask, handing him the yellow leave. Surprisingly, he doesn’t take it, instead raising his eyebrows mockingly.

“It’s a petal.”

His lips are pulled into a smug and I roll my eyes at him.

“I can see that. Is there anything else that you know?”

This time, he rolls his eyes and in response, I narrow mine. Which was foolish, for Tewkesbury had a very good reason to roll his.

“Enola, I am not a wizard – it’s a yellow petal – in bad condition no less – it could be pretty much anything.”

My annoyed expression freezes on my face and I – well, I fell stupid. He’s right of course, and I should have thought of it. Focussing back on him, I realize that he is smiling smugly still but makes no move to comment on my ridiculous question, Instead he glances at the flowers and then to the leaves on the floor. Wordlessly, he signs me to step away.

“I can look at the plants around though – you seem to be standing in something that might be a flowerbed in spring – if we clear the space a bit...”

He comes closer and I make even more space, trying my hardest not to use any more steps than necessary.

I really do hope I haven’t trampled anything.

Tewkesbury looks down at the leaves – wet and rotten. It takes him a moment before he lets out a sigh, realizing he’ll have to get his pants dirty.

I might have offered him my help, but it is rather funny.

The leaves are wiped away soon enough, revealing damp earth underneath him – and a few, sad green leaves. I silently watches Tewkesbury pulls at one of the plants, his brow furrowed in concentration until he eventually sits back.

“This seems to be Rosa banksiae.”

Quizzically, I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Is there anything else you know about these flowers?”

Tewkesbury vaguely shakes his head.

“I’m not most familiar with them – my father mostly taught me about plants naturally found in the English countryside and if I am not mistaken, this specific rose is native to parts of China. However...”

He is careful not to damage any of the plants surrounding the one he is currently investigating as he pries it from the earth. He seems to take care not to rip the roots which might be important to identify the species – I do not know. Mother taught me in biology, of course. She always reminded me that to have a sound understanding of medicine – which should be of great importance to everyone – one needs a sound understanding of the biology surrounding it.

But she never much cared for the classification of flowers.

I’m not entirely sure why not – being able to recognize wild flowers and herbs for their healing abilities would most certainly have come in handy at some point.

Perhaps it was simply a preference of hers.

Regardless – Tewkesbury seems to be done unearthing the specimen – paying no mind to whether his jacket gets dirty or not, he tucks it away and the turns his attention to me.

“...I can look into it. I’m certain the library will have a book or two on botany and plants. Perhaps we might reconvene later today?”

He pats his breast pocket one last time – I nod.

“That will be for the best – I will be needed somewhere anyway. We can’t stay away for too long. Though, I suppose we’ll have to go back together again. It’d be strange if someone saw us leave together but we didn’t return together as well.

I can only hope the chattering is kept to a minimum.

.o.O.o.

Tewkesbury hadn’t expected to be accompanied during lunch time, hence why he decided to take it in his room. Yet Lord Andrew shows up quite unexpectedly. Not just to his room – he had excused himself this morning, claiming work he had put off so far.
Tewkesbury wasn’t one to judge. Whenever uncle was home he kept him busy, though most of these task were rather pretentious – albeit fun at times.

It’s not long that Tewkesbury realizes that Lord Andrew being here is no good news.

“You were gone for quite some time”, he says roughly five minutes after having sat down:”Out in the gardens, they say, accompanied by my sister’s mysterious maid.”

It is an accusation as much as a statement.

Lord Andrew eyes him and must have noticed the dirt on his trousers, but he chooses not to comment on it and Tewkesbury can’t help but wonder why that is.

“I have been told by Ms. Brughs herself that the both of you spend an...almost inappropriate amount of time around each other.”

Tewkesbury isn’t surprised at all that it was Ms. Burghs who spilled the tea – does this count as interference?

Tewkesbury supposes it doesn’t.

“I asked her to show me around the gardens – that is all”, he responds, keeping his voice calm. There's no reason to be nervous.

Yet.

“Her? Her of all people? Wouldn’t it have been better had you asked someone – more acquainted with the scenery?”

“I have been assured by your sister that she is sufficiently knowledgeable of the grounds.”

Lord Andrew chuckles.

“Yes, I have been told she studied them extensively during her stay here – perhaps more so than she ever attended to my sister…Rather...strange, don’t you think?”

Perhaps it is time to get nervous. But Tewkesbury likes to think he can be just as stubborn as Enola is and this battle isn’t lost just yet. Looking up from his book, Tewkesbury frowns, feigning innocence.

“I am confused as to how that relates to me? I wasn’t aware she was new – perhaps another servant may be better suited to show me around? I’d gladly have another tour.”

He tries to sound happy and welcoming.

Tewkesbury can read other people well enough to know it isn’t having the effect he had hoped for. He notices the way Lord Andrew narrows his eyes, the way he leans back and lets out a puff of air.

“You are helping my sister, are you not? You and that “maid” of hers as an informant?”

It’s not often that words can fill entire rooms. Tewkesbury has been to parliament often enough to know this – a great many words are swallowed by either the all-encompassing silence on a slow day or the screams and shouts from other lords.

But then and there it happens – a speech that captivates even the sharpest of critics.

It’s quite like that now.

There’s no use in denying it any longer – Tewkesbury glances away and only hears that Lord Andrew steps closer. Ever closer, until he is inappropriately close almost.

It feels like a threat and perhaps it is mean to be one, too.

“I do not expect you to understand this”, Lord Andrew hisses – Tewkesbury shifts away ever so slightly.

“You do not have a sister – but rest assured, I have her best interests at heart. My sister needs the protection and the good name and the security that comes with marriage and I will not let this foolish idea of hers go on any longer!”

Lord Andrew seems determined and...well, maybe a year back, Tewkesbury would have agreed. But a year back, he hadn’t known Enola and he wouldn’t have ever thought of questioning this specific aspect of life (his father may have been liberal, but a feminist he was not).

It is time he does.

“But why? If she wins this inheritance, she will be able to live her life the way she wants – you needn’t worry. Why do you care so much about whether she gets married or not? Why care if a woman gets married at all? Isn't it her right to choose?”

Tewkesbury’s retort seems to have the effect on Lord Andrew he had hoped for. Unfortunately, not for long, as his expressions darkens and he is met with an almost scornful scowl.

“I am fairly certain you would care – wasn’t there this...”

And that is when Lord Andrew’s eyes narrow in suspicion and a cold shiver runs down Tewkesbury’s spine.

“...’lady detective’?”

Their eyes meet – both realize something at the same time and Tewkesbury doesn’t like it one bit. It is bad enough that Lord Andrew figured out Enola and he are very much working to help his sister, he’d rather not want her identity come to light, lest Lord Andrew decides to do something drastic.

Such as telling Sherlock. Or worse, Mycroft. Enola would never forgive him if he were the reason her brothers caught up to her again.

“I am unsure what you mean.”

Lord Andrew has no proof for this and if he just denies…

“I am fairly certain he saved your life – did she not. And wasn’t there that scandalous hand kiss exchanged between the two of you right in front of parliament?”

Oh. Yes.

He almost forgot.

Tewkesbury blushes – though he doesn’t refute Lord Andrew’s claim either. He isn’t the first person to comment on this, after all. Tewkesbury’s uncle hadn't stopped glaring at him for the rest of his day and mother had fussed around him all day as well, mildly scolding him and reminding him of the expectations placed upon him (though she was grinning, too, and well, she has always been a romantic at heart).

He didn’t regret it either way.

“Well – I do remember her, of course. Though I haven’t see her since.”

Pretending not to know Enola had been foolish, but Tewkesbury childishly clings onto the hope to salvage their charade – it is a flimsy excuse that hardly works in his favour.

“Did you not help with that case regarding Miss. Hughesbury? I am fairly certain I read of it in the papers.”

By god, this was – Tewkesbury liked Enola. She was bricky and funny and it filled him with pride, knowing she’d become a successful detective once. But bloody hell, if he didn’t wish that case hadn’t made the papers.

There is no point in replying.

“It seems my sister hired a detective”, Lord Andrew muses once he realizes that Tewkesbury is out of excuses. Smiling, he crosses his arms. But just as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanishes again as well.

“You will cease this foolishness at once, Viscount Tewkesbury – at once. I will not allow you to meddle with my family’s affairs!”

It’s almost as if Lord Andrew didn’t expect Tewkesbury to refuse his request? Command?

“I’m afraid I can’t – I will not leave, neither will Enola. It may pain you, but we will ensure your sister can enjoy this world the way she wishes.”

Carefully, Tewkesbury closes his books – it doesn’t have anything on the roses they’ve found and now he wishes he would have brought his own encyclopaedia, the one his father worked on.

It is so much more comprehensive.

Lord Andrew doesn’t like his answer. His expression darkens even more and his lips are merely a thin line, almost fully swallowed by his moustache.

“I will inherit my father’s title eventually”, he says, lips pressed thinly together and Tewkesbury swallows hard.

“Rest assured – I do not forgive easily.”

With that, he turns and leaves.

Chapter Text

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter 28

-

21^st  of November 1884

Case III: The elusive inheritance
File VII: Not quite expected

.o.O.o.

Mother valued friendship. Mother valued friendship a great deal and the loyalty associated with it. It may even have been the virtue second most important to her. And while she never once tried to impose her thought onto my own mind, she did argue for the necessity of long lasting friendship time and time again.

“Be careful, Enola, and pay attention to every little thing displayed by the peers around you – especially to the behaviour of those who style themselves your friend.”

She had put great emphasis on that – always telling me to judge wisely whom I allow to know my deepest secrets and to allow myself a moment of mindful peace before deciding to share even the smallest of detail.

“Trust is often misplayed, but if only you have a true friend, you’ll never once have to dread betrayal.”

Sometimes I wonder whether mother had ever been hurt by anyone – vividly I recall Ms. Harrinson’s claiming to have known my mother when she way younger.

Had they been friends to? Had mother met Edith that way and all the other woman that frequented our home?

Needless to say, I devoured her every word, listening attentively to what she had to say on the matter. Accordingly, I read the grand stories of friendship that prevailed through times of hardship and the grand battles that had been fought and while I’ve always found them just a little bit cliché at times – they did warm my heart greatly. Having a friend to trust, no matter what, seemed like a faraway dream at times, like one of these things that you only ever read about but will never have yourself. All the stranger then, perhaps, that I didn’t have a great many friends whilst growing up – there was mother and Mrs. Lane if one were to be generous and – I never much left the house to go down to the village.

There were reasons for that though! I had to focus on my studies – and I was happy regardless!

Anyway.

Mother cared for friendship – much less than she did for blood and whilst I never quite understood when I was younger – ever so much infatuated with my brother’s cases and profession, of the tales written by Doctor Watson of deduction and murder – I did come to agree with her when she reminded me, time and time again, that family can never be chosen.

“If you cannot choose – if you do not have a choice – how important can such a connection truly be?”

All that is to say that my brothers’ betrayal of sorts is one thing.

Yet the betrayal of a friend is something I had never quite thought I might ever have to experience – regardless of how small and perhaps understandable it was.

.o.O.o.

…

I am a tad bit ashamed to admit this, however – I sincerely do not want to leave the house that morning. I really, really do not want to leave the house. Now, mind you, I have grown up on the countryside and I am used to the cold, miserable winters and the way everything gets more muddy and dirty and a whole lot more unpleasant after it has snowed. And by no means am I too naive to believe that late November couldn’t bring snow. Yet! That doesn’t stop me from groaning in heavy annoyance when I see a pristine layer of white covering the world as far as my eyes can see.

...

I greatly dislike snow – it’s cold and wet and stops being fun after the first day of frozen joy.

Have I already mentioned it is cold, too?

I did, didn’t I?

Needless to say – I am less than pleased that I have to get up early and that I am the one that has to light the fires. The manor is seldom warm, but at the very least, there were some bearable places after the fires have been lit. Fortunately enough. I did not have to leave the estate to step foot in the gardens and I do not plan to do so for the rest of the day, either. But when Tewkesbury smiles triumphantly at me that noon, when I bring him lunch – I hate this charade even more now that he gets to have a burning fire and I get nothing and seeing how most everyone was viewing me suspiciously on my way up it may be time to retire it– I realize I most likely won’t have much of a choice.

“They’re more commonly known as “Lady Bank’s rose”, his greeting words are, smirking as he pulls out the book he was hiding behind his back with a flourish. Curious, I take it and open it at the designated spot, only barely managing to catch the leaves that fall from the pages. A page is bookmarked and when it look at the drawing of leaves and roots and all other kind of things, I believe to notice some resemblance to the plant that we’ve found yesterday, though I cannot be sure.

Perhaps I can get Tewkesbury to teach me some time.

“Most people don’t think of them as roses”, Tewkesbury explains further:”seeing how they, well, are white or yellow but never red. They are, however, part of the rosa species nonetheless.”

He points at said leave for me to compare. In the morning light it looks even more sad and pitiful than it did yesterday.

Again – it could be the same plant. It could be completely different.

I do not know. Though, Tewkesbury doesn’t seem to mind, for he doesn’t ask, simply continuing telling me what he found out.

I am glad he came after all – he’s helped me a great deal so far and I’m quite grateful for that.

“I am fairly certain this is what we are looking for this time – though that species of rose is a vine more than anything else. Perhaps we can return to the clearing and explore further? I’d like to look for the vines.”

My pleased expression vanishes the moment he utters those cursed words – no longer am I elevated that we’ve solved the next riddle already, as horror creeps into my bones at the mere thought of having to go out in this weather.

Tewkesbury is right of course, regardless of how much I dislike the idea of frolicking through the snow. We should go out and look into it.

We should.

We definitely should.

I wish I had thought to bring a sal hatch.

“Enola?”

I have to reply, don’t I?

“You’re right”, I begrudgingly admit, closing the book I’m still holding and then glaring at it.

“It’s a short trip and I don’t want us to lose one of our missed guesses on something that could have been easily prevented.”

I hand it to Tewkesbury who takes it and puts it back where it belongs. I let out another sight, glancing out thee window. It has stopped snowing and it is better we use this time of gracious pleasantness, but once again I find it hard to admit that.

The book clanks against the wall – it’s the sound that forces me to move.

“Alright. I suppose we might leave then.”

That seems to take Tewkesbury by surprise. He whirls around almost and looks at me with fifteen puzzle as I try to convince myself to actually rise to my feet.

“Now? Won’t that blow our cover?”

For all his surprise though, Tewkesbury doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t even wait to hear my reply, already turning around and grabbing his coat.

I did not think to bring my own.

“Do you have a second coat, by any chance?”, I ask as I finally get up, preparing myself as well as I can in regards to me not having brought said coat.

“A second coat?”

He turns around again, facing me and frowning.

“What would I need a second coat for?”

I shrug.

“It’s colder in the servant’s chambers and I’d waste time if I were to go back to retrieve mine – I’d have to sneak in, too.”

I’d like to speak to Mr. Vandell first before telling anyone else and if another maid stops me on the way down I may be found out. Yet Tewkesbury is frowning still and I can’t help but feel as if I did something terribly wrong.

“Is there an...issue?”

Should there be an issue? Did I break some ridiculous rule that should never be broken and that Ms. Harrison would have undoubtedly taught me about had I stayed longer at her equally ridiculous school?

“It...isn’t your coat.”

I frown. It must have been important and – did Tewkesbury’s face gain colour? Perhaps it is merely the light, yet it does look like the onset of a blush.

“I’ve worn clothes that weren’t mine plenty of times. Two times I even paid someone else to switch clothes with me – including one of the gardeners at your estate.”

I didn’t really pay mind to what I said, accepting that I’ll have to fetch my coat – there’s no use arguing about it now – and I have already turned half-way away when I notice Tewkesbury sudden, utterly horrified expression.

“You did what?!”, he all bout screeches and once again I am left utterly baffled by his response. Is wearing handed down clothes all that strange?

“As a matter of fact, I wore my brother’s old clothes that first time we met.”

He hadn’t commented on it back then, had he?

“That is decisively not what I am – Enola, where did you...”

Then he interrupts himself as he further processes my words, a deep, scarlet-red blush now most definitely painting his cheeks as his expression changes from shock to disbelieve. Tewkesbury blinks – then he seems to realize something as he looks up at me again.

“I – I thought”, he starts, turning shy all of sudden. Perhaps his blush would have deepened, but then again, it hardly can get any worse than it already is.

“I thought your mother and you simply...wore trousers most of the time? Not that anything would be wrong in doing so!”
“...Why wouldn’t we wear dresses..?”

Tewkesbury opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Blushes even more which is quite the feat and then he looks away, refusing to meet my eyes.

“On second thought, there was no reason for me to assume anything.”

He still refuses to meet my eyes and I get even more agitated – being greatly bothered at his strange reaction of thinking I regularly wear dresses than I am by him not lending me his coat for some reason.

I keep forgetting that he is a nincompoop, I suppose.

“I wear skirts regularly!”, I protest, my brow furrowed in irritation:”I’ve worn dresses in your company plenty of times! What on earth would make you think I wouldn’t? As a matter of fact, I even wore one of these ridiculously silly ones that supposedly make you a lady!”

I glare at him, daring him to disagree.

He doesn’t. Instead, he frowns – glances at me.

Frowns some more.

“What are you doing?”

I do not trust that frown and I trust it even more when it is joined by an amused smile and a pair of eyes that finally dares to meet mine.

“I’m trying to imagine you wearing a fancy dress and I just can’t quite picture it.”

He keep smirking and I suppose he meant it as a jab of sorts. What a fool – he should know better than to think that I am insulted by the insinuation that I do not look pretty in a fancy dress. I prefer practicality and for as pretty as the dress had been, it had hardly been practical at all.

Well – the corset stopped me from getting stabbed.

“Well, now that you’ve tried and failed – do you have another coat?”

Tewkesbury blinks again – then he blushes, a deep, scarlet red again.

“I really rather you – I don’t want to give you my coat.”

That implies he does have another one and that also implies there is no reason for him not to give it to me. But other than blushing, he’s also staring at me stubbornly and I suppose this is a fight that I will not win.

“You’re ridiculous, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Bothersome – and seeing how you seem to be so bothersome, I suppose we might as well meet downstairs at the main entrance in fifteen minutes? I will get my own coat then.”

I nod at him and he nods back, still blushing furiously – and then I leave, leaving that nincompoop to his own strange antics.

Both of us are on time – though Tewkesbury seems to have been early, already waiting for me when I arrive.

I took my precious time getting here.

I still really don’t want to go out in the snow. But it is too late to run back now and so we leave, entering a world of muted silence and cold.

I am the first to break the former, if only to distract myself from the latter.

“Do you still have the letter to Lady Andrew?”

Tewkesbury next to me frowns, briefly glances at me.

“What do you mean?”

“The one we didn’t sent? You haven’t thrown it away, have you?”, I further elaborate as I try to gauge which steps to take to keep my dress as dry as possible. The hem is close to the ground and I simply know it will be soggy and wet by the time that we’ll have returned.

For a moment Tewkesbury goes rigid – I wonder why, even if he had, we could simply write a new one. Quite frankly, we’ll have to regardless, seeing how circumstances will have most likely changed – but then he catches himself again.

“The – the letter? I still have it. Why? Did you...find a solution to our problem?”

He seems nervous all of sudden and I really can’t help but wonder why. Side-eyeing him for a second, I decide to ask later – for now, we should use the time that we have to discuss our next course of action.

“Yes – I plan to ask Mr. Vandell for help. If Lord Andrew truly does intercept the letters sent to his sister that is in clear violation of the rules, for it most certainly interferes with Lady Andrew. There has to be a way around this.”

Tewkesbury nods, though unsure and I can’t say I blame him. Even if it were in violation of the rules – how do we even proof this? How could Mr. Vandell put a stop to it? It almost seems as if he’d have to fight space with a hair pin, it seems.

We do have to try though. It can hardly hurt.

“Additionally, I intent to give up this charade that we’ve put on so far – hence why I did not bother to find a proper excuse for this latest outings of ours.”

That seems to be less of a surprise to him.

“You will?”

“Yes. I’m afraid our cover has been blown. Ms. Brughs knows already and I doubt anyone else still has any illusions on the matter.”

Tewkesbury told me of what has occurred yesterday – if Lord Andrew has found out, there really is no reason for us to pretend any longer. He is the only one who could possibly have us thrown out, after all.

“I am unsure, but perhaps he cannot make us leave. He has sent his sister away already – surely, sending us away as well must count as a violation of the rules.”

He nods along – then agrees and then the world is dipped into silence once more. This time it’s Tewkesbury that break is, asking me about the winter’s I’ve spent with my mother and we engage in pleasant small-talk, all the way until we reach the small forest that hides away the clearing we’re looking for.

I let out a sigh at the sight. It has snowed and the snow hasn’t melted yet – all the branches are filled with it, weighed down by their heavy adornments. Tewkesbury chuckles at that. I never explicitly told him about my dislike for snow, but I suppose it has been more than clear.

“Shall we?”, he asks, mockingly holding out an arm for me to take – I push it away, naturally, determined stepping forward.

It is but snow.

“I can walk by myself”, I grumble as I push the first branch away, shuddering as I make contact with the ice. I do have a pair of gloves but ever since Mycroft remarked upon me not wearing them, I stubbornly “forget” them all the time.

Mother would undoubtedly scold me for this, for “Pride can be everyone’s downfall, the Greeks of old already knew.” but for once I can’t be bothered to listen to her.

“Don’t slip”, Tewkesbury responds and I scowl.

I may not be able to balance a book on my head, but I am perfectly capable of walking.

I don’t slip – again, I am perfectly capable of walking by myself – I do, however, push the wrong branch aside which results in the snow to slip off of another branch – I shriek the moment the cold touches my skin, jumping – quite cat-like – into the air at the sensation. I can hear Tewkesbury laugh behind me and if I weren’t desperately trying to get the snow off of me, I would most definitely have scolded him.

As it stand, I merely glare at him sideways as I dust myself down, desperately trying to get the snow away before it melts and drenches my clothes.

“There are some rotten leaves in your hair”, Tewkesbury points out good-humouredly once I’m done and I roll my eyes, picking up on the smirk in his voice.

“Next thing you’ll tell me they’re edible, too.”

He seemingly did not expect me to reply – his eyebrows shoot up – then he laughs and it is my turn to smirk. Shaking my head I continue our walk, leaving him behind for now.

“I was the only reason we had food that night!”, he eventually calls after me as he hurries to catch up – he sounds way too cocky for his own good.

“If I recall correctly, I was the only reason we had a fire to cook it!”, I respond easily, ducking under a low-hanging branch as we approach the clearing before us. We’re almost there – just behind a few more bushes and trees.

Though I do wish this path hadn’t fallen into such disarray. It must have been some time since it was readily used and I wish I could calculate the exact amount of time that has passed.

Having caught up to me, Tewkesbury looks at me from the side, smiling widely – the sort of smile that is highly contagious and that spread a blush on my cheeks that is entirely due to the cold.

It’s a soft smile and perhaps the one that I dislike most – aside from his smirk, of course.

“I suppose it really goes to show what an excellent team we make.”

We finish the last steps and are back in the clearing – neither of us waste anytime looking for that vine, a silent competition soon sparking between us who can find it first.

I win – by a lot. Tewkesbury was most unwilling to dig around in the snow and cold and dirt, leaving that to me – though I certainly did not enjoy it either – spending his time obnoxiously making his way over to my side to oversee my progress. I shoo him away again each time and each time I do he glares at me, complaining about something along the lines of “calloused fingers” and “hands not made for this”. It isn’t until I show him the vine I’ve found that Tewkesbury stops muttering and we make our way back again.

There’s not much to say about out way back – nothing at all other than Tewkesbury realizing his pants have gotten wet as well which he disliked just as much as I did. It isn’t until we arrive at the manor that something...interesting occurs again.

Though, interesting may be the wrong word to describe it – it was much rather obnoxious.

We shouldn’t have left through the main entrance.

“I do wish I had seen you leave sooner, for I would have been able to follow you then”, are the first things Mr. Whittler says once we’ve entered again, seemingly have waited at the entrance for us to enter.

“Good afternoon”, are his seconds words once Tewkesbury and I simultaneously look up in surprise, as he regards us with eyebrows raised.

Not once before in my entire life have I seen a smile as conceited, haughty and patronising as the one he’s wearing right now. I suppose Mycroft would be capable to smile such a monstrosity, but for the most part he has only ever scowled at me.

He’s standing there, his hands folded in front of him, not quite leaning at the wall and I narrow my eyes.

This would be much worse hadn’t I decided to drop our charade already – nonetheless, I dislike this situation we’ve found ourselves in. It’s uncomfortable and, most importantly, it isn’t on my terms and far less controlled that I’d like it to be.

“Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Whittler”; Tewkesbury responds, ever so concerned with formalities that are clearly unnecessary at this point in time.

Hence why I decide to ignore them and simply cross my arms in front of my chest. Tewkesbury glances at me and I glare back. It’s enough for him to glance away again, though he does seem to be a tad bit annoyed.

I will refuse to obey society’s most ridiculous laws of “proper behaviour”.

“I suppose you saw us return?”, are the first words I speak to him – Mr. Whittler scoffs.

“That and I saw you leave – I would have followed you if I hadn’t risked discovery and I can always just follow the footsteps you’ve left behind.”

Great – yet another reason to dislike snow.

“I suspect you are hoping we give you a lead on the second riddle?”

“I am afraid so, yes – and I’m quite grateful for the generous help that you, no doubt, have provided me with.”

He’s smiling still, greatly irritating me. It’s so smug and annoying and all in all unlikeable, I may just change my mind to thinking he’s the worst out of all the other contestants. Perhaps Tewkesbury agrees with that sentiment – I hear his coat rustle as he shift uncomfortable, though he speaks up for other reasons.

“You said you had solved the second riddle already!”, he accuses Mr. Whittler, but he merely laughs it off.

“I did – I was hoping to perhaps elicit a reaction to gauge where everyone else was standing, or perhaps to even find a clue to this next riddle. I did not, but seeing the two of you leave – I suspected you may have found something and as it turns out, that suspicion was correct.”

The first thing his words lead me to realize is that I need to learn how to better read someone’s intentions.

It is obvious, now that he said it, what his intentions were, but I should have know right from the start. It also leads me to realize I really do need to pay more attention to my surroundings and then lastly….

“You knew we were working for Lady Andrew?”

“I knew you were working for someone. I suspected it might be Lady Andrew.”

Bloody...I should have kept my mouth shut.

“How did you find out?”

Perhaps I sound more bitter than I had wished, but can you blame me?

I am miserable at disguising myself.

“I never reveal my sources.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he replies and my mood sours even further. Of course.

Jerk.

Mr. Whittler doesn’t seem to notice my worsening mood though – again, he has yet to look at me – and neither does Tewkesbury who has seemingly decided there really is no reason to stay any courteous at all and is, too, glaring at Mr. Whittler.

“I assume you are not willing to share your knowledge with me, regarding the solution to the riddle, do you?”

Mr. Whittler looks at Tewkesbury now, as if expecting him to respond and – I frown. Then realization dawns on me and my glare is back.

He is not…

“...No?”

Tewkeybury, at least, has the courtesy to look confused as he drops his own scowl and glances at me, as if looking for help.

“We won’t?”

“Pity.”

I’d be more likely to believe that if he actually looked as if he found that surprising – or pitiful – at all.

“I’ll have to thank you regardless. I may be able to follow your footsteps still.”

He glances at the door and so do I and for a split second I wonder how long Tewkesbury and I would need to stall him for to prevent that from happening.

It hadn’t been snowing when we came back – but there are heavy, grey clouds with a smudge of yellow, promising snow, so maybe…

“Assuming you’ve found something at all – you did, didn’t you?”

He’s looking at Tewkesbury still and a suspicion start to form in my mind – one I am severely offended by, mind you!

Judging from his rather questionable deduction skill, following our foot steps will hardly be of any use to him – he wouldn’t know what to look for anyway.

Neither would I have known, of course, if it weren’t for Tewkesbury, but that hardly matters considering I also didn’t gloat to anyone else about spying on them. That being said – Mr. Whittler is expecting a response still and this response needs to be carefully phrased if we want to make the most of it.

“We found something”, I say, carefully considering my words as I try to craft my expressions into looking somewhat begrudgingly admitting.

“Whether it is what we were looking for needs to be determined still.”

Tewkesbury frowns at my response and perhaps it left you puzzled as well – denying that we’ve found something would have been entirely useless. He’d expect the lie and catch on to it fast enough. Begrudgingly admitting to having found the solution seemed quite pointless as well – if we hadn’t stumbled upon the answer to the riddle it might have been of use, setting him on the wrong track and such, but sadly we found something and I’m quite certain he’d take our word for it.

This, at least, will keep him guessing – or so I hope. He seems to be considering my words as carefully as I’ve chosen them, so there’s that.

When Mr. Whittler speaks again, he’s talking to Tewkesbury still – I purse my lips. If Tewkesbury as much as snorts at this…

“I’m sure you’ve found something – you are quite the detective. It is no surprise Lady Andrew asked for you to come here.”

Tewkesbury seems to finally understand as well – and does, in fact, snort. Naturally I glare at him and he tries to cover it up with a cough – failing miserably.

I glance away again – downwards as I cross my arms in front of my chest, pursing my lip, because – of course he’d laugh.

How very funny.

“I’m the detective – not him”, I snap, unable to keep my emotions away from my voice. Yet I refuse to let that hold me back as I raise my chin and step forward, challenging him to disagree with me.

The fact that I have to at all leaves a bitter, foul taste in my mouth. Yet regardless how difficult it is to swallow the disappointment, I have to stand my ground.

Mother said to always stand your ground – regardless of how insulting it may be that you’d have to at all – or how condescending the other person may be,

“You?”

Mr. Whittler frowns as he takes in that piece of information and my own expression darkens, especially when he turns to Tewkesbury yet again, furrowing his brow as if he were trying to recall a very specific memory.

“But weren’t you involved in that...whole scandal concerning the Hughesburys? I distinctly remember reading about it in the papers.”

Now – you may easily be lead to believe that this development – this connection Mr. Whittler drew from one of my old cases to this new one would...lessen the disappointment – and perhaps anger – I feel at having been mistaken – or rather at Tewkesbury having been mistaken for someone else.

Yet, for some curious reason I, to this day, still can’t quite put my finger on, it doesn’t.

Quite the opposite – it makes me feel even worse. As a matter of fact, I am ready to snap at him again, though he does speak up first, putting a swift end to that specific response.

“Is he your...assistant then?”, he asks, somewhat flabbergasted:”Surely, he must be – though, it does sound quite laughable.”

Mr. Whittler hasn’t even fully finish his sentence and already I can feel Tewkesbury’s eyes burning into my skin.

Right.

He asked something quite similar not too long ago and I – well, I never – I never replied.

It takes me entirely too long to reply and the three of us are plunged into an awkward silence – of course, one may argue that this is my fault, for I probably should have simply responded the first time Tewkesbury asked instead of ignoring the question altogether – but I don’t know how to respond.

I truly don’t. And anyway – this is entirely Mr. Whittler’s fault for bringing it up again.

“...We’re...we’re friends. He simply helps me with cases from time to time.”

There – that’s vague enough, isn’t it? It seems to be enough to avert Tewkesbury’s burning eyes from me, though I refuse to look at him – fearing what I might see.

“A friend?”, Mr. Whittler responds, sparing me from having to think to hard about that – which is perhaps the only thing he did that I will ever be grateful for:”A friend, indeed, I suppose.”

He nods, accepting my response and I’m left with the gnawing feeling still, that he’s the only person in this room that is content with it.

“Well, then I shall leave you and your friend to go and solve the riddle – I will be on my way to looking for whatever it is that you found. Have a good day to you, Viscount Tewkesbury and...Detective Burdock – if that is your name at all.”

And then, he’s left through the door, leaving me to deal with the consequences that he – no, that I created.

Mother always told me to take responsibility for my actions and it was my indecisiveness that lead to this. And perhaps an act of cowardice as well.

Mother too always told me that being afraid is a human emotion – an important human emotion that we shouldn’t deny, yet that we should never mistake cowardice for mere fear.

“Fear chills your bones, Enola, and makes your teeth chatter and lets you break out into cold sweat – but cowardice is a choice. Cowardice isn’t your mind telling you to run from a battle you can’t win, it is you refusing to take a battle because you do fear, you may not leave unscathed yourself.”

Talking to Tewkesbury isn’t a battle at all – neither is making a choice, which is why I am making the choice to make a choice.

Now.

Right this instance.

…

I hate this.

“Well – that was quite the interaction”, I say, letting myself breathe before I turn and finally face Tewkesbury. His disappointment is badly masked behind a lopsided grin

“Quite rude, too.”

I wish I knew how to form the feelings and thoughts inside my head to address the issue at hand but I – I just can’t.

I don’t know why I wouldn’t want him to help me along all of my cases. The times he’s been there he’s only ever been helpful – as he is now – and as much of a nincompoop as he is, he is my friend as well.

He’s a great friend in fact – perhaps better even than I deserve – for Tewkesbury seems to swallow his disappointment and his grin morphs into that well-known smirk he always does that gets me to roll my eyes at his ridiculousness.

“Rude? Weren’t you the one unwilling to as much as even greet him?”

“He lurked around the entrance hall waiting for us – I’d argue that is hardly courteous either.”

“He did still greet us though...”

I harrumph – of course he’d think that way.

“He was spying on us!”

My retort echoes through the now empty hall as I continue on my way. I suppose simply proceeding without giving notice first might be considered rude as well. Then again – it’d be ridiculous if it were.

Tewkesbury doesn’t seem to mind, but perhaps he’s realized he’ll fail trying to make me behave like a “proper lady” – which I will refuse to do until my last, cold breath, if only to spite Mycroft.

“From my understanding, he merely spotted us walking out into the garden – one can hardly call that spying!”, he calls after me and I harrumph once more, foregoing a spoken response. It says more than any words could possibly convey – at the very least that is what I intended.

Tewkesbury catches up to me a few moments later, regarding me for an equal amount of time, before coming to his own conclusion.

“You’re mad at Mr. Whittler.”

I roll my eyes.

“Obviously.”

It isn’t hard to tell that I’m mad at that man, though I doubt Tewkesbury will figure out why.

“Why...you can’t fault him for trying to solve the riddles.”

“That inheritance rightfully belongs to Lady Andrew and I can blame him for trying to take it.”

I am quite surprised by my own reasoning – I am – not necessarily mad at Mr. Whittler for that alone, yet it most certainly makes me dislike him.

“Technically, that inheritance belongs to the late Lords brother – and any other siblings he might have. And after that to whoever solves the riddles first as dictated by his will – it is his inheritance to give, after all, and I’m sure he had reasons to set up this treasure hunt.”

Yet another mystery surrounding this case – perhaps the most important mystery of all, yet that is neither here nor there.

“Lady Andrew needs that inheritance more than he ever could.”

He has choices – and while Lady Andrew does have choices, too, hers are severely limited if compared to Mr. Whittlers, by no fault of her own, at that.

“We don’t know that – perhaps there has been a family tragedy. He may be in need of it as well.”

I frown – that...that’s ridiculous!

“That is a weak argument and you know that.”

I glare at him sideways and Tewkesbury shrugs in return.

“That is a weak response and you know that”, he responds – but he doesn’t speak after and for a blissful few seconds I am lead to believe he’s dropped the topic. I realize he has not when I glance at him, just in time to see his furrowed brows open up again, as realization dawns on his face. H even has the audacity to speed up his steps, successfully getting in front of me, as he triumphantly concludes:”You’re mad at him because he thought I was the detective, aren’t you?”

He’s smiling that bloody smile again and whilst it may be almost charming at times – it most certainly isn’t now.

“No, I am not”, I press out through gritted teeth – at a later point I might realize how that very gesture had already given me away fully, yet that thought did not occur at me during that time – pushing forward, too, to pass him once more.

I am not mad at that – I’m not prideful like that.

Once again, mother’s thoughts on pride and other such ridiculous emotions come to mind. I’ve listened to mother all my life and I like to believe that I’ve learned from her words and lessons she bestowed onto me.

I am not prideful.

“Oh, but you are.”

He’s already caught up again, humour accompanying his every word and any other time – if it...if it weren’t this, his triumphant mood might have lifted my own spirits – yet it doesn’t and his next words are….I’m not quite sure how to describe it.

“I found his...misconception quite amusing”, he says, nonchalantly and I – I freeze.

I...I am unsure – no. Not at all, I know – I am not unsure why I snapped at Tewkesbury back then. Not any more. I know why I reacted the way I did – we’ve talked about it plenty of times after all – but perhaps, when it happened, I was too blinded by...by the invisible terror I felt at his words to realize the obvious.

The words burst from my lips with such violence one may be lead to believe he gravely insulted me, without a thought put into why I did react to – banter, banter that I know so well by now.

“It isn’t funny!”

The grand halls make my words a´sound all the more sharper as there’s an echo with them, distorting my voice enough for it to sound eerie almost.

It startles me – it startles Tewkesbury as well, but most importantly it startles me.

Mother used to tell me that emotions are important – they are what makes us human, each and every one of them. One shouldn’t shut them away, as such behaviour is cowardice and insincere. Yet there are times in which they are better pushed aside as well, to be let out at a later, more appropriate point in time – when their outbursts can be controlled a tiny bit.

I’m ashamed to admit I pay no attention to that lesson in that moment – I’m the first to overcome my surprise and the sudden cold that settles into my bones, make me shiver and hug myself.

“It – it isn’t funny!”, I repeat, taking out the volume, yet keeping the sharpness.

My words are enough to get Tewkesbury to move as well. Sheepishly, he turns his head, refusing to

“I...”

He trails off – glances at me but already his eyes are shying away again, clearing his throat.

“Yes. You’re right. My apologies.”
I look at him for a second longer – before turning my head away as well – this – I shouldn’t have gotten as mad as I did.

I don’t say anything either though – and we proceeded on our way through the estate – the only distraction the few servants we pass that seem to be rather curious as what must have happened.

There’s an apology on my tongue – yet it never quite seems to find a way out of my throat.

.o.O.o.

It’s not long after...the incident that we are seated in front of Lady Hilster. I was asked to pour the tea again and then we’re allowed to rest on the couch – awkwardly, as my outburst has brought a certain tension with it – her eyes never once leaving us.

It makes the awkwardness between Tewkesbury and me go away – it diminishes it, at least. We haven’t spoken a word since my outburst and I know that I need to apologize, but I never quite found the right words and maybe – maybe after we’ve gotten the note it will get better.

It’s already getting better, in fact! Though make no mistake – Lady Hilster’s watchful eyes may disperse one awkwardness, yet it swiftly fills that hole with another – I find it quite unnerving. Unnerving enough for me to not be quite sure how to start – Tewkesbury has that vine and I shouldn’t have given it to him – I was the one who found it, and because he refused to dig into the snow no less. It wouldn’t be an issue any other time, but again – there’s this certain tension I do not want to cut through and asking for that bloody vine would feel wrong and – I’ll just have to get out with it!

“We believe to have found the answer to the second riddle”, I say – to no one’s surprise, my words catch Lady Hilster’s attention and – once again, to no one’s surprise – her eyes rest on me now, instead of bouncing from Tewkesbury to me to Tewkesbury again and back.

It’s unsettling, though my nervousness is partially broken when her lips quirk up amusedly as she takes a sip from her cup.

“Do you now?”

She takes another sip and it’s clear to me that my annoyance partially stems from my temper, heated still, though it doesn’t make her any less obnoxious.

“Yes. We found the clearing and – and the...”

I motion to Tewkesbury, slightly turning my heads towards him, hoping that he’ll understand – for a brief moment he looks up and-

I shouldn’t have done that. We don’t need that vine to get the next riddle! And-and if I hadn’t brought it up Tewkesbury and I wouldn’t be looking at each other now, his eyes all drooping with sadness and mine shying away from guilt and I wouldn’t be reminded yet again that I have to apologize.

Great.

At least it spurs him into action – our eyes meet for a mere moment only – and he pulls out said stupid vine – I’m glad to notice the way he perks up as he gets to present it to Lady Hilster.

“Rosa Banksiae. We would have brought a flower bud, if it weren’t winter.”

Gracefully, Lady Hilster accepts the vine, examining it before handing it back again. It’s too short of a time for her to truly have identified the plant – unless she’s as interested in plants as Tewkesbury is and I’ll allow myself to doubt that – and now I feel stupid all the more for brining it up.

“Quite frankly, I do not know much about plants”, she explains, shaking her head as if we should have known.

Maybe we should have known.

It’s still rude.

“And I cannot say whether that is the one you’ve mentioned – but Lady Bank’s rose is the answer to the riddle, therefore it doesn’t matter. Congratulations on solving it – you are the first to do so.”

She smiles at us ow and I force myself to smile back.

Tewkesbury goes further and thanks her for her praise – then he glances at me, but...too shortly. I’d expect him to tell me later how terribly rude I am being by not expressing my gratitude as well, yet he seems – too nervous to do so now.

I lower my gaze.

I should have apologized.

Lady Hilster doesn’t mention my lack of any response, however, and maybe him thanking was enough or maybe she doesn’t expect me to be proper or maybe she simply doesn’t mind.

I get my answer when she gets up – it must have been the latter – wordlessly crossing the small distance towards her desk. Her back is turned to us and I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can hear her opening drawers and I’m sure she’s taking that note we’re supposed to exchange for the riddle from a hidden compartment somewhere.

She turns around again, her hand clutching onto that note indeed and when she sits down – slowly which I once again find obnoxious – she snatches up the word immediately – not that I would have wanted it and doubt Tewkesbury wanted it either.

“I am glad you seem to be doing this well – I’d be a shame if Lady Andrew were to lose – with her trying to win for someone else and all that.”

And for the first time during this entire conversation I – feel myself perk up. In fact, if one would have looked from the outside, perhaps they would have found amusement in the way that Tewkesbury and I both simultaneously frown at her words, paying all the more attention.

I am entirely baffled by this newest revelation. Lady Andrew is trying to win...for someone else? Wasn’t she trying to win the inheritance to prevent herself to be shackled down by the vows of marriage?

“Someone else?”

I presume her response will be cryptic – if I get one at all – but one can always try. Mother used to tell me there is hardly ever a reason not to try and while it will do me good to realize when I may have to abstain from whatever it is I am planning – if I were to be unsure whether whatever that is will be successful – for the most part, trying does no harm other than having you shoot into the brown at times.

I was right in this instance of course.