The Marigold Masquerade
as told by Dr. John Watson
Part II
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"What's that on your mouth?"
"What's what on my mouth?"
He reached up to pat his lips with his fingertips. A bit of something burgundy sank into his prints.
"Wine," he clipped.
"Wine?"
"Yes, wine."
"You've not had a single drink."
My eyes looked between him and Irene Adler's shrinking figure and a spark jolted from my temple.
"Is that her lipsti–"
"I think it's about time we stepped out of this soiree, don't you?"
Exasperated – prying always lead to either exasperation on my part or his – I swallowed the rest of my Chardonnay and set it on a nearby table. Sherlock had already started for the staircase. I followed suit. Textbook Sherlockian exit. If only there were such a guide.
He had just started on the first stair when he was accosted by a beguised Molly Hooper. She was always so thrilled to see him and it was always a sore sight to watch.
"Sh-Sherlock! What a coincidence. I thought surely more people would attend a masquerade dressed as the Phantom but you're the only match I can find. Suppose everyone's wanting to be clever and such these days. Everyone's an original. I thought I was a sure bet for Christine. Do you think?"
Note to self: never vie for the affections of a sociopathic consulting detective. Especially not one hot on a scent. Her scent.
"Quite, Molly. Goodnight."
He moved to step around her when she caught his arm.
"Won't you dance with me, Sherlock?"
He retrieved his limb curtly.
"Can't. Had one too many sips of the cider, can barely keep up with my own feet, let alone anyone else's. John's sober enough to carry a rhythm, though. Makes for at least a swell shoe-scuffer. Goodnight!"
More like a swell scapegoat.
Sherlock took off and Molly's eyes followed after him forlornly before falling onto me. They seemed to glisten with the unmistakable glint of 'Well, I suppose you'll do.'
I half-smiled and extended my palm.
"May I have this dance, Molly Hooper?"
When I caught up with Sherlock he had situated himself in a large chair in the hotel lobby. His mask was gone and his face was drawn in hard lines. Eyebrows sewn together, lips taught, nostrils flaring just slightly. He had gone to his mind-throne.
I removed my hedgehog mask and sat on the sofa across him.
"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" I said.
"Watch for a distressed woman nagging a hotel hand," he replied, searching.
Sighing, I conformed, surveying the area as well.
It was always uncomfortable imagining Sherlock in romantic pursuits. He is nearly inhuman in nearly all avenues, and love seems like a wrong turn with "Do-Not-Enter" signs plastered up and down the alley. Or perhaps, more accurately, they are labeled "No Outlet." A fatal bear claw clamping the flow between logic and reason.
To him, love is invasive. Love is ivy, working its way into the missteps between the bricks of your being. Love restricts the mind and anything that disables his most glorified asset is not a toy with which to be tampered.
Trimmed weeds only embolden roots.
I was called from my discourse by a fussing woman, stabbing the floor tiles with her heels and screeching at the clerks behind the front desk.
"I insist on having another room prepared for me immediately!"
"Mrs. D'ordures, I'm afraid that tonight all of our rooms are booked due to an event being held in the conference hall."
"I didn't ask you to smother me with excuses, I asked you to carry out my solution. Someone has broken into my room, soiled my clothing and stolen my jewelry. Do I look like someone who settles for cheap accessories to you?"
"Well, no – "
"Correct. The total damages so far have amounted to well over tenfold the cost of a night's stay in this place. The way I'm being treated is simply barbaric. Have the authorities been alerted?"
"Well, no, not yet – "
"Must I perform all of your duties for you?"
She began to dig through her sizeable purse, presumably for a mobile before Sherlock approached her.
"Mrs. D'ordures. Sherlock Holmes. May I have a word?"
"Are you with the police?" asked the woman as she slunk into a seat adjacent to Sherlock and me.
"With, yes. Now as I understand it, someone broke into your hotel room, wore some of your garments and lifted a few pricey possessions?"
"Yes. This hotel should have stricter security implements in place. Atrocious handling, really."
"Please detail to me the items which were stolen."
"It was just one so far. A marigold hairpin given to me by my husband. He won it at a charity auction about a month ago – "
"And where is your husband now?"
"A business trip in the States. He's always traveling."
"Of course. And where are your room card-keys located?"
"Right here, in my bag."
"May I see them?"
She fished around in that abyssal accessory for a moment before brandishing a leather wallet. She opened it, thumbing through the first few folds.
"They're… they're not here."
"I presumed not. And you were issued two, correct?"
"Yes. But why would someone steal both of my keys?"
"Someone wouldn't. Some-two would."
"I… I don't follow."
"Don't worry," I chimed, "he's always at the end of the coaster while the rest of us are stuck on the trolley."
"Two separate individuals took one of your keys, Mrs. D'ordures. That either makes you very irresponsible or very distractible. I'm going to lean with the latter because you neglect to return your card keys with such swift changes between hotels."
I earnestly believe that in that moment, Mrs. D'ordures first experienced shame.
Her blush became the lighter shade on her cheeks. Face contorting with aggression, she snapped at Sherlock.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"You had quite the colorful assortment of card keys and plane tickets tucked in the back-most flap of your wallet. It would seem as though you've been hopping all about Europe without having a chance to empty your wallet, or your purse for that matter. Tonight you were engaged with a man who has an affinity for red wines."
She stood with such velocity that I nearly fell backward.
"Mr. Holmes! How dare you imply that I was cheating on my husband!"
"I was only implying that with whomever you were rendez-vousing got close enough to you at the dinner table to knock over a bottle of red wine, which then spilled into your bag and sent you into something of a fury. After all, your husband gifted you that bag. You wouldn't want him to suspect foul habits so you stole to the restroom to wash it out, in vain. The wine had already leaked through the bottom and left something of a blaring stain."
Mrs. D'ordures was aghast.
"But I've changed my bag! How could you know about the wine stain?"
"You didn't change your wallet. So you came back to the hotel to swap purses and you were intending to go back out until you encountered the disturbed scene in your hotel room. How wide was the door opened when you arrived?"
"J-Just cracked," she said, her voice mimicking her description.
"Right. Just one more question for you then, before we examine the room. Do you adjust your makeup while on the toilet, Mrs. D'ordures?"
"Sherlock! A little tact please," I offered dimly.
Mrs. D'ordures flushed and nodded quickly.
"Then that explains how one of your keys was stolen. Come. Let us take the elevator to your room."
Mrs. D'ordures was shaking a bit as we stepped into the shaft.
"Which floor is it?" asked Sherlock, standing behind her.
"Fourteen," she responded, staring wide-eyed at the doors.
Sherlock reached around her with his left hand and pressed the corresponding button, and as he did so, knocked into her, causing her to drop her purse.
"Clumsy man!" she seethed, bending down to reclaim her goods, "that's the second time this has happened to me today – oh."
Sherlock's lips drew into a smirk.
Vast arrogance in a tiny gesture.
"Do you remember who it was that bumped into you earlier, Mrs. D'ordures?"
"It was hours ago… All I remember is that he was dressed in formal attire, but then again so are most of the men in this place."
"Is that all you recall?"
"Yes, I believe so," she said unsurely.
"Think."
"I – "
"Harder."
She swallowed, closing her eyes.
"He was tall. Clumsy. Or at least I thought he was since he knocked my purse down. He had a quiet voice and spoke lowly."
"Yes? And?"
The elevator dinged on the twelfth floor, and the elevator froze. Its doors opened to two familiar faces, Lestrade and Anderson.
"Sherlock!" cried Lestrade, smiling wide.
Anderson's grimace held just as much girth.
"Can't chat now, sorry. Stuck on a faulty elevator," he said as he pressed the 'Door Close' button, "oh look, there it goes again. Wish me luck!"
The doors closed on two puzzled expressions and Sherlock was back to interrogating Mrs. D'ordures.
"Come on!" he ejaculated, "There must be some distinctive detail lurking in that mediocre mind of yours!"
"Sherlock," I rebuked, rubbing my eyelids with my thumb and index finger.
"Not good?" he asked.
I shook my head.
The doors stretched open on the fourteenth floor, and with the alerting ping, Mrs. D'ordures' eyes shot open.
"A twig! There was a twig in his pocket!"
"Are you sure he wasn't just mildly happy to see you?" I offered.
She ignored my jab and looked at Sherlock.
"A twig? As in the sort from a tree?" he asked, staring intently at her.
"Yes. I only glimpsed it for a moment when he kneeled down to help me pick up my belongings," she said, "but I'm sure I saw a twig."
"How very curious," said Sherlock, stepping onto the fourteenth floor.
Mrs. D'ordures' room was chilly. Equipped with a wardrobe, vanity, bed, nightstand, television, kitchen and bathroom, it seemed like your typically accommodated dwelling. Her wardrobe door was open as well as the window.
"Did you open this window?" inquired my comrade, scoping the pane.
She shook her head.
"When I walked in, I went straight to my wardrobe to find another purse to use. I noticed that the room seemed a bit disheveled and that the vanity was upset. That's where I kept the hairpin."
Sherlock plucked something from the frame and held it out to her.
"Does this earring by chance belong to you?"
"Yes. I didn't even notice it was gone. I hadn't checked my jewelry stow."
"It's replaceable, isn't it? Just like your green dress."
"My green dress?"
"Check your closet."
She dashed over to verify the missing contents of her closet. I approached Sherlock.
"You don't think that – "
"Yes. She's inadvertently become tangled in a hostage situation."
Mrs. D'ordures whipped around in shock.
"I'm a hostage?!"
"Not you, Mrs. D'ordures. A woman by the name of Irene Adler."