My very first mystery, and Sherlock Holmes story!

Disclaimer: I own nothing having to do with the movies or books. The movies belong to Warner Bros. and the books belong to whoever owns the rights to them. However, any original characters are mine.

A/N #1: In case anyone's wondering, yes, I did name this chapter after the song by Abney Park. I thought it would make a great theme song.

A/N #2: "English italics in quotation marks" = translated French.

The Case of the Masked Gypsy

Prologue – Beautiful Decline

City of London
March 1st, 1892

The early morning sun shined weakly through the lightening gray clouds over the equally as gray city. It was March, but winter still seemed to have its hold on her, determined to keep its cold, hard grip for as long as possible, until the golden light in the sky finally broke through the barriers in its way. Though truthfully, the city of London didn't expect much, since sunny days over any area of it were rare. Still, though it was about half past eight, and the gas lamps were still lit, the city itself was already bustling with activity, whether it be honest or not. Cabs rolled down almost every street, the sounds of the hooves of their black, brown, and sometimes gray horses against the road being heard by those near or far away. Both men and women, in upper and middle class dress, walked down the streets – the men in long strides, the women in short strides – sometimes together, and sometimes alone. And every now and then, ragged children could be seen. While some would be happily playing games such as hide-and-seek, others would be doing what they could just to survive the bitter cold and great hunger that had been forced upon them.

It is said that significance can come from the most unlikely of persons. If that is the case, then no one among this great sea of people could have guessed the crucial role that one young girl among many in their city would play in the suspenseful drama that was about to unfold.

Inside the chemist's store she stood, in her plain brown dress, coat, and fingerless gloves, a girl of the middle class. The few other people inside barely noticed her, and she preferred to keep it that way. Had they known who she really was, they probably would have asked high favors of her, favors she couldn't, and very likely shouldn't, grant. The only time she did tell someone outside of home her name – or in this case, her father's name – was for business reasons. Other than that, she preferred to keep a low profile.

She soon received what she'd asked for – a small medicine bottle containing a dark liquid – along with the instructions on how to use it. She nodded and gave only a hint of a smile.

"Merci," she said as she paid the man and put the bottle into her pocket. Yes. She was French and not English. But it wasn't necessary to hide that fact. There were others like her in the country, and she could speak English as well.

"Good day, Mademoiselle," the chemist replied.

She nodded again and then walked out of the store, back into the grim, dense city that awaited her. Thankfully, most of the mist seemed to have cleared, as she could actually see several feet in front of her. She could have taken a cab if she wished, but she did not need nor want to. She knew the way back from here, and she liked walking. Somehow, being on her feet just seemed to help her think better, even if the sights that greeted her were not always ones she wanted to greet.

One was a rough-looking man sleeping sprawled out on the doorstep of the first house she walked by. She could see traces of wine on the sides of his mouth, and dark circles under his eyes. Apparently he'd been out late the night before, had a bit too much to drink, and passed out before he'd gotten to the door. If he had a wife, she likely didn't care enough to get him inside, otherwise she would have fetched him by now. She sighed, as she couldn't help but pity the man. Though she was also glad that her father wasn't of his kind.

Her papa was Jean-Pierre de Beaumont, ballet master of the local opera house, and she had the privilege of being his seventeen-year-old daughter, Esmé, as well as one of his dancers. They lived at the house along with her orphaned cousins, Josette – another dancer – and Victor, both of whom by now had been living with them for ten years, ever since their own father was tragically killed by a mysterious gunslinger.

Her papa had fallen ill only yesterday, and she had to wonder why, since his health was excellent, even at his current age of fifty. She really had no reason to worry more than she needed. He showed symptoms only of the common cold. Still, she stayed by his side through most of the day, even missing morning rehearsal with the other dancers. Today she was on her way home after getting medicine for him, medicine she hoped would help him recover quickly.

Being the sort of person who can't look at just one thing for long, Esmé allowed her eyes to wander. On the other side of the road, she chuckled when saw a black dog being chased by a boy of about ten or eleven years. But then, her heart sank when she saw a man on the same street, sleeping on the pavement in ragged clothes, under at least a dozen newspapers in a likely desperate attempt to get warm. No matter how many people like him she saw, she always pitied them greatly. As much as she dreamed of dancing for the crown heads of Europe, she yearned to help the poor and downtrodden of the city she always somewhat hesitated to call home, though she didn't really know how.

A third sight came into her view, one that caused her eyes to widen. 221B Baker Street. It was a flat that looked like any other she'd ever seen in the city, but in this one lived the greatest detective in the country: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Her papa and Victor were admirers of his, having read books about his escapades written by his former flatmate, Dr. John Watson. Esmé herself was impressed after hearing about what he'd done only in the previous two years, stopping two of the most notorious criminal masterminds on the continent. From what she heard, he had a remarkable list of abilities, from being an accomplished scholar and chemist to an expert marksman, a superb violinist to a master at hand-to-hand combat and disguise.

But of course, what he was most well-known for was his brilliant deductive mind, his greatest weapon with which he used to drive the criminal underworld of Europe mad. It was said that he could tell all sorts of things about a person he'd never even met simply by observing them for a few seconds. For some reason, this frightened Esmé somewhat. She actually managed to run into him a few times since she'd come to live in London, the previous one being just over a week ago. She could only wonder what he'd possibly deduced about her, with those brown eyes which – every time she'd seen them – seemed only to reflect fierce concentration, perhaps on a case.

While she knew he likely wouldn't harm someone like her, every time she came across him, the man never failed to send a shiver up her spine. However, she soon pulled her own concentration back on her own mission as soon as she passed the flat: getting this medicine back to her ill papa.

Just then, a big splash of muddy water came her way. Before she could react to it, the left side of her skirt was wet. Though he couldn't see her, she glared at the cab as he drove off, wishing she could make him pay for hitting that puddle and getting her last clean dress dirty, even if it was an accident. Even so, she continued on, hearing her black boots against the pavement. Suddenly though, she felt a short but freezing gust of wind, and she shivered. She then took the head scarf that covered her head, and wrapped it around her face and above her nose, both to keep from catching cold herself and to prevent the smelling of bad scents that passed her by every now and then. In nearly five years of living here, Esmé never got completely used to London, and doubted she ever would. Though Paris was similar, at least it was somewhat decent. However, nothing could prepare her for the level of indecency, if not savagery, of the next great sight she beheld.

On the street opposite of hers, she caught a small but still rather prevalent commotion going on, one that filled her with great alarm. Outside a flat stood two men in fine dress – though one was finer than the other – and another man in somewhat worn dress, with a woman holding a small boy at his side – likely his family. Even from where she stood, she could hear the frantic pleas of the poor man addressed at one of the wealthy men.

"Please Sir!" he cried, "I beg of you! I promise you I can pay rent as soon as I am able!"

"If you can't pay me when you're supposed to why should I allow you to live here?!" the other man snapped back.

"Sir, I told you," the poor man said, "My business is running slow, and my rent money has been stolen! Please, have mercy!"

The wealthy man stood in silence for a few seconds, almost as if contemplating the poor man's plea, until suddenly, his eyes turned to the woman next to him. Specifically, Esmé noticed, at the strand of pearls around her neck.

"Very well, I shall consider your request," he said as he took a few short, intimidating steps toward her, "That is, if you will consider mine."

He then took his forefinger and slowly traced the necklace with it. The sight filled the poor man, his wife, and Esmé with silent dread.

"If you are willing to part with this, rather exquisite, pearl necklace, perhaps we could both think of it as, compensation?" he asked with a bit of a snake-like smile.

The woman's hand instantly went to her necklace, causing the man to pull back his finger.

"Sir, please don't," she said, shaking her head, "It was my mother's."

"Then I'm sure it's worth a fine sum of rent money," the man pressed her.

The poor man, suddenly looking angry, got between his wife and the other man. "Sir," he said in a firm tone, "you will let my wife be or…"

"Or what? Are you threatening me?" the man asked, raising his voice. Without waiting for a reply, he swiftly took the woman's necklace, causing both her and Esmé to gasp in alarmed unbelief.

"For that I shall keep your wife's necklace even if you do manage to pay me, for this time and the next!" he angrily declared.

Esmé's heart instantly felt heavy. Feeling the overwhelming need to do something, whether or not it would help, she shouted out in English, "No! You can't…"

Suddenly, before she could finish, the other, more finely dressed man, turned around and glared at her. She immediately stepped back in alarm, both in reaction to such an expression directed at her, and at recognizing the man's face. She'd seen it several times before, and she knew his name. Lord Richard Wellington, a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth, the managers of the house she and her family lived in. Though why they were friends she could never figure out why, because the few times she'd come across the man she thought of him as conceited and arrogant. However, with his ominous looking gray eyes, she couldn't help but wonder every time she'd seen him whether he was hiding something under his posh and respectable exterior. In fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if Scotland Yard had at least one file on him.

Why he was here with this landlord, she didn't know. She then heard weeping, and when she saw the woman crying while her husband held her, Esmé's heart leaped to her throat. But when she looked back at Wellington, and saw that he was still glaring at her, her feet seemingly gained a mind of their own, for – not knowing what else to do, and sadly accepting that she could do nothing to help – Esmé took her skirt in both hands and ran down her own street, almost frightened by the expression now stamped in her mind.

As she got further away, weaving through groups of people and not caring what they thought of her, one question after another emerged. Why did Wellington glare at her like he did? Did he even recognize her, considering that half of her face was hidden by her scarf? And why was he with that landlord, whom she'd never seen? Clearly, something was not right, and she didn't like it at all.

Esmé didn't stop running, but now, she ran as a way to vent her slowly rising anger, rather than escaping her sudden fear. She was angry not just because of the incredible injustice she'd just witnessed, but because she knew that the police – nor Sherlock Holmes, whom she somewhat admired – would not stop that landlord, at least not any time soon, simply because the man and his family were poor. She'd learned not long after she'd come to live here that both were content to keep themselves occupied with cases involving those of the higher classes. While not dismissing those as unimportant, Esmé thought that cases involving those like that poor man and his family were just as important. Why did they have to go unnoticed simply because they weren't "respectable"? It only angered her more when she remembered just how many people in this city were in similar situations.

Esmé could feel her face flush, thus keeping her somewhat protected from the cold. She slowed down back to a walk and let go of her skirt, still keeping her scarf wrapped around her head and face. She found herself solemnly remembering how the woman said that her necklace had once been her mother's. This scarf was special to Esmé for that same reason. Her own maman had made it and given it to her on her twelfth birthday before she… No. She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't. And yet, the day her beloved maman passed away was the saddest day of her entire life. She would never forget how much she, Josette, and even Victor, wept at her bedside on that darkest of nights, Esmé shedding more tears than she had ever before, or since, shed. She remembered how her father kissed her hand repeatedly, wet it with his own tears, and said her name over and over, "Mirela. Mirela."

This scarf in hindsight seemed almost prophetic, with its black material in a way symbolizing her mother's death, as much as its sewn-in white material seemed to symbolize the light of heaven. Still, though it may have been haunting, Esmé would always cherish this last birthday gift from her.

She walked on, not stopping, and knowing it would be past nine when she got back. Even when her feet slowly began hurting, she continued at the same pace, until at last she came to her home: the opera house. Only months after her mother died, her papa had gotten an offer to be the ballet master here. He thought it a good opportunity – since there were only half a dozen others in England at the time – but Esmé also wondered if it was because he wanted to get away from the sadness that she had seen plague him since her maman's death. So, despite her private objections, she and her family went to live in London. Though she'd considerably warmed up to it since then, it still didn't feel completely like home.

She quickly ran across the street, looked for and located the usual entrance, on the side of the building and closed off to the general public, and walked in, breathing a sigh of relief at escaping the outside cold. Will spring never arrive? she wondered after walking up the short flight of stairs and past the next door. She didn't receive an answer, but she did receive an immediate greeting.

"Esmé, there you are!" Josette rushed over to her, apparently having been waiting for her. "Where have you been?"

Esmé rolled her eyes a bit. Though Josette was eighteen, one year older than she, why did she have to be so bossy?

"I've been getting medicine for Papa," she replied, "Did no one tell you?" She quickly took out the bottle to prove herself and then removed her gloves, coat, and finally her scarf, revealing her almost black hair, pulled back in a ponytail with braided bangs.

"Why didn't you take a cab?" Josette asked.

"I woke up early."

"No matter," Josette shook her head, clearly dismissing her, "In case you don't remember, rehearsal starts in less than half an hour. You could have missed it again!"

Esmé looked and saw to her far right that the rest of the dancers wore their hair up and were outfitted in their white tutus, tights, and pointe shoes, stretching onstage. She did admit that Josette was not completely without reason to worry. Only a week from today they would be dancing in a new opera, as goddesses foretelling the future of a newborn Egyptian prince. And while Esmé did want the very best show as much as Josette was, her first concern for now was her father.

"No I couldn't," she said as she looked back at her cousin, "I know my way around. I should after living here for five years."

She then took up the medicine bottle and walked away from Josette, both to get away from her bossiness as well as to find her father, though she quickly looked back and said, "Yes I will join you as soon as I get this to Papa."

"We will be starting with or without you!" Josette called.

"I assure you you'll start with me!" Esmé called back.

She then looked forward again – and just in time as she was about to run into a curtain – and then continued her way to the deeper parts of the house. But soon, before she could get to the stairs that led to the lodgings on the next floor, someone behind one of the corners held out a small skull with long hair attached to it, making her let out a short but loud scream. Immediately after, she heard a laugh that she instantly recognized, much to her annoyance and frustration. Out stepped her other cousin, Victor, Josette's younger brother.

"Oh I'd love to see that face in a photograph!" he laughed.

Esmé briefly allowed herself to wonder why an intelligent fifteen-year-old boy like him could still possess some level of immaturity.

"Oh, you little wretch!" she sneered through gritted teeth before proceeding to pinch him, hard, causing him to let out a short cry of pain. "You could have made me drop the bottle!"

"That hurt!" Victor complained as he rubbed his pinched arm.

"Good!" Esmé exclaimed, "Now if you'll excuse me I must tend to Papa!"

She then moved on her way up the stairs, past her pest of a cousin, and into the hallway on the second floor. She first went to the room she and Josette shared to put away her gloves, coat, and scarf, and then, at last, went to the door that led to her father's room. Taking a few seconds to calm down after her more than frustrating encounter with Victor, she smiled and knocked on the door four to announce herself before opening it.

"Papa?" she said, "I brought you the…"

She stopped before she could finish, as she saw, to her sudden alarm, that her father wasn't in his bed as she'd seen him before she left. The covers had been pulled back, indicating that he'd simply come out of bed. But still, not only did it not make sense, but Esmé had the ominous feeling that something was wrong.

"Papa?"

She closed the door and looked both left and right. Still, she didn't see him. She then looked toward the window, which was slightly opened, as it was when she left. She swiftly ran over to it, opened it fully, looked out, and called, "Papa?"

Against her hopes, she received no reply, save for the sounds of the cabs outside, and Londoners going about their daily business, while her current situation was anything but daily. She closed the window until it was slightly opened again, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She assured herself as many times as she could that there was likely a reasonable explanation, but that shadow of doubt never left her. Even so, she left the room and decided to go back downstairs.

"Victor!" she called out.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again!" he called back on the first floor.

She met him at the foot of the stairs. Thankfully, he'd gotten rid of the skull, but she quickly brushed aside any ill will she had toward him.

"Victor," she said, "Papa is not in his room. Did you see him come through here?"

"No," he shook his head, "I thought he was sick."

"He is," Esmé agreed. She wanted to call him a half-wit, but decided not to, for although Victor was somewhat annoying, he was not stupid. "So why would he leave his bed?"

Victor smirked. "Perhaps he went to use the privy?"

Esmé was not amused. "Funny," she smiled a fake smile. Then, looking more serious at him, she said, "Wait here." She then went back the way she came, to the stage where she had last seen Josette. She saw her with the other dancers, dressed as they were, and hurried across the stage toward her.

"Josette!"

"Esmé!" Josette exclaimed once she saw her, the expression on her face showing both concern and frustration. She then pointed in the direction of the dressing rooms. "You need to get dressed! Rehearsal starts soon!"

Esmé stopped herself from rolling her eyes, wanting to look as serious as possible. "Josette," she said as calmly as she could, "I can't find Papa. I went to his room to give him his medicine and he wasn't there as I had left him. Have you seen him?"

Suddenly, Josette's expression changed, showing only concern without a hint of frustration, concern for her oncle. "No, I haven't," she replied, "Are you sure he wasn't there?"

"It's a small room, Josette. Not much space to hide."

"Have you asked Victor then?"

"Yes," Esmé nodded, "He hasn't seen him either."

She then turned to the other five dancers, trying to keep her heart from racing any further, and asked, "Have any of you seen my papa?"

They all shook their heads, frowning, and said one after another, "No. I'm sorry. I haven't seen him."

Esmé felt that uneasy feeling in her stomach get even more intense. She then decided that she had to ask every person in the house, hoping at least one of them knew where her father was. She proceeded to ask the stagehands, then the concierges, then the musicians, but all gave her the same answer she received from her cousins and the dancers: No. They had not seen him.

After she had asked the musicians, Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth – a somewhat finely dressed couple and both sporting blond hair and blue eyes – came down to the seating area to watch the dancers rehearse their scene, and their eyes widened when they saw that, while Esmé was on stage, her hair was still down and she wasn't dressed to perform. Luckily, Mrs. Ashworth quickly saw the now clearly worried look she wore.

"Esmé, what is wrong?" she asked, "Why are you not ready?"

"I've been looking for my papa," Esmé replied, "He's missing and no one has seen him. Perhaps, you have?"

"No Esmé," Mrs. Ashworth, "I am sorry."

"I have not seen him either," Mr. Ashworth spoke up.

Esmé could feel her breathing grow shorter. Now she was sure, as she had guessed before, that something was very wrong. Feeling that she had to do something, anything, to continue her search for her father, she asked, "May I go search his room again?"

Mrs. Ashworth nodded. "Yes, of course."

"Merci," Esmé returned the nod, ran off the stage, and headed through the house back to the stairs, where Victor still waited for her as she'd told him. Concerned only with getting answers, she ran past him without speaking.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

"No," Esmé replied as she hurried up the stairs as fast as she could. Once she made it to the top, she dashed back into her father's room, still vacant, to her silent dismay. She then quickly, but carefully, looked around the room for any kind of clue other than the pulled back blankets. She looked in both the wardrobe, and underneath the bed, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

"Très étrange," she muttered. Very strange.

She then sat on her knees, staring at the wooden floor, and before long, she began feeling hot, fresh tears spring up in the back of her eyes. Deciding to wait a little longer before she would let them flow, however, she looked up at the window again, wishing that some golden ray of hope would shine through it, and into her heart, when suddenly, her eyes caught something near the corner of the room behind her father's chair.

Thankful for any possible lead, Esmé quickly rubbed her eyes dry, and squinted at the sight. It looked like a small, folded piece of paper, one she didn't recall seeing before. She got back up on her feet, walked over, and picked it up, where a black seal – one she didn't recognize – on one side of the folded paper greeted her. Knowing very well that this wasn't a business letter – otherwise it would have had a red seal – she quickly opened it, and found a short message – one she could not have imagined – written in fine, black ink.

Do not bother looking for him.

J.M.

Upon reading it, Esmé's eyes instantly widened as much as they could, she let out a small gasp, her heartbeat went for full force, and she let go of the medicine bottle that she forgot she was carrying, causing it to fall to the floor and break against it, a poignant realization of the shattering of her calm state of mind. Her papa hadn't willingly left his room, he had been taken by force. He had been kidnapped.

But when? And how? These questions as well as countless others, instantly flooded into Esmé's mind. She barely knew where to begin. All she knew for sure was that she had to tell the others. With the note in hand, she hurried out of the room only slightly faster than when she'd previously come back in, rushed down the stairs, and screamed, "Victor! Josette! Everyone!"

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