Chapter Two

The following morning I was woken by Holmes, who was hovering over me. Rather expectantly he eyed me and once I was quizzically gazing up at him, he gave a nod.

"Good man," he commended. "You have precisely six minutes to get yourself ready."

"I thank you for that," I muttered, wishing I could simply pull my covers over my head and that would be the end of it.

"You're quite welcome, Watson!" he replied, in much too cheerful a voice, walking up to the door. "Clock is ticking," he added, knocking the silver handle of his cane against my doorframe before disappearing.

I should like to say I was ever the considerate friend he thought me, but times such as these I had the overwhelming need to rap something heavy against his head. It passed, as all moments such as it did when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He was quite impossible to stay mad at.

Placed comfortably in the seat of the cab as I joined him, his eyes turned in mine with the greatest of content. He was in his element, and joined with it he became an unstoppable force.

I so regret that I cannot give you a description of Sherlock Holmes that could ever portray the man in his natural light. I can give you words, but the words without pictures, without movement and sound, are – I'm sad to divulge – weighted down by surrealism. You shall never fully see him the way I have seen him. His grace, his quick, attentive way, his charm and eccentricity, the actuality of the person that is Sherlock Holmes is lost to you, for imagination cannot do him justice.

Yet I write; to preserve him and to relive him, with you.

"Rather fine morning," I said, sitting down beside him.

The horse began to move along Baker Street, letting the familiar begin to give in to the unknown and whatever new mystery we were about to uncover.

"Hah!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I suppose it is," he added.

I watched his profile, searching it and finally deciding to pose my question.

"Do you have faith in Miss Woodsworth's accounts?"

He glanced at me.

"I have faith in facts, and at this moment we are poorly lacking anything conclusive, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would."

"We shall see what comes of it once we reach Briary."

"What time does the train leave?"

"Eight sharp."

"I had no time to have breakfast," I said, receiving another glance at the accusation in my voice.

"They will surely serve something on the train," he commented, raising his chin a little.

"Surely," I grumbled, though it was in good-humour as I would not have missed this for all of Mrs Hudson's most crisply fried bacon.

S

Briary was a small cottage village, eighteen miles east of London, a train ride to be followed by a nice coach ride out of the city; and further a twenty minute carriage drive from Ashley House, the seat which had been held by the line of Woodsworth since the times of Robin the Hood.

We secured a room at The Beech, a small, but quaint, Inn.

"Where do we start?" I asked as we had put our suitcases away and walked downstairs.

Holmes pushed open the door leading into the room serving as the dining and social quarters of the place; holding it open for me, the gesture was enough to make me understand his point. The room was filled with locals, if ever there was anything to find out, we should be able to find it out here.

Holmes had traded his top hat and black coat for a dark suit. The weather was becoming increasingly better, and summer was approaching. He strode across the room to the bar. I followed, looking around and considering the townspeople to look both wholesome and honest.

Joining at Holmes' side I heard him introduce himself and then myself in his usual manner, putting a hand on my shoulder to emphasise, leaning against me slightly he said in a subdued tone:

"Choose any table and get yourself into the conversation."

He laughed at something the barkeep said, giving me a slight push as encouragement. I was not convinced I was any good at this particular part of our occupation. Feeling at ease with complete strangers, while trying to pry into their history undetected, was not something which came naturally to me. But I did not wish to disappoint Holmes and so, as soon as I sighted an empty seat, I left his side and headed in that direction.

"Pardon my intrusion," I said, but I only received welcoming smiles and upon their encouragement I sat down amidst a group of four men and one woman.

They had all reached at least middle age, the men had grey sprouting through their otherwise darkened and weatherworn hair. Their faces were red and puffy, but friendly. One was smoking a pipe. The woman was the first to speak directly to me as she asked:

"So you be the townsfolk, eh?"

"Something of the sort," I replied.

She smirked.

"You be here for the killings, then?" one of the men wondered. "Angus Black," he added, taking my hand in a hearty shake.

"Doctor John Watson," I introduced myself.

"Doctor?" the woman repeated, sounding impressed. "And who's he?"

I looked over at Holmes, smiling as I replied:

"That is my good friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"You're here for the killings, ain't you?" the fellow to my left asked. He had black hair and small eyes and was the only one who didn't seem as hospitable as the rest. "I wonder what you think you'll find that the police haven't. They may be country boys, but they're sharp, or they wouldn't be the police, I reckon."

"I most certainly agree," I lied, having been witness to too many blunt mistakes by the police in the past to hold much confidence in their skills.

Holmes had coloured me in that regard as well, I suppose.

"So what do you know?" Mr Black inquired. "About the killings, I mean."

I realised I knew very little, and told him so. The first boy to have been killed, seven years ago, had been thirteen years of age. The young man they had found a few days earlier had been one-and-twenty. Both of the murders had been described as gruesome, but then I knew the newspapers rather enjoyed putting such words into use without their necessity having been established. The bodies had both been found on the grounds of Ashley House, their spots of recovery not positioned far from one another.

"There ain't much more to tell on the matter," the woman said, showing tobacco stained teeth in a smile as she shrugged. "We all know who done it."

I raised my eyebrows.

"That Irish boy," she said, making a face of disgust. "I have nothing against the Irish, mind you," she added. "But they're a violent breed. Had me a man who had Irish blood in him. Used to knock me about."

I furrowed my brow.

"Why do you believe Ian Cavanaugh should be the one to have done the deed? He has, after all, been in prison for a very long time, and was released, point of fact. Should that not speak for his placid temperament?"

"He came back here and couldn't find the girl he was looking for," the woman stated, the men, all but the inhospitable fellow, lowering their heads in clearly agreeing nods. "He was so angry he went mad."

"That ain't it," the black haired man stated. "You know it ain't it," he added, glaring at all of them before he turned his eyes on me. "All that's been written, and I'd still bet my arm that you didn't know about the legend," the fellow remarked.

"Legend?" I asked, my ears perking considerably.

"Oh, hush, Terry," the woman said, shaking her head with a laugh.

"It's true, I'm telling you! I've seen her dancing!" he exclaimed, the other's growing quiet. "They didn't print nothing of it in them fancy newspapers. People want blood, not tales. But as true as I'm telling you, I've seen her."

"Her?"

"The witch of Coveted forest," Terry said, voice dropping so low it was difficult to hear him. "I've seen her dancing."

S

Holmes laughed quite heartily when I told him what I had found out. His eyes glittered with undiluted mirth as he watched me for a moment, but within an instant he had grown serious.

"No," he said. "There are no darker forces at work here than those of man."

"I suppose those are dark enough."

"Indeed."

Though the subject was dropped at that; a smile still made itself known on his finely shaped mouth, and I did so wish it would go away, it made me feel quite inadequate in the arts he so patiently had set out to share with me.

"And your conversation with the barkeep, did it produce anything of use?"

"It would seem gossip has been prevented from seeping through the gates of Ashley House," he replied. "We shall go there."

"Unannounced?" I asked as he stood from his chair in our shared accommodations, grabbing his suit jacket and turning to me as he put it on. "Holmes!" I said as he then proceeded through the door without further reply.

I rose and followed him. He truly was the most stubborn of individuals I had ever encountered, you must understand. His will guided him like a torch might the woodsman at night, and though it sometimes blinded him into what I took as near folly, I never once saw him pause for direction or contemplation and very rarely even for afterthought. His path was set, and he set to follow it. I could do nothing but walk in his footsteps as my path was so clearly laid out along his.

"Holmes!" I repeated as we breached the town line and was greeted by softly swaying fields of wheat.

The sky was blue and displayed the rays of the sun as something extraordinary. It was a perfectly lovely day for late May, and a stroll would have done us both good, but I was not up for traipsing upon a country road, leading to nothing but an awkward encounter with an aristocracy not taking lightly on deplorable manners.

"You fret, Watson?" he finally spoke, looking truly surprised, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "You think so little of me as to believe I should not have sent a note on ahead?"

I stared at him. He gave me a sideways glance, smirking self-satisfactorily. Then he laughed, and I joined him.

"You must not tease an old friend," I reproached.

He merely smiled.

"I believe we are headed into the lion's den," he said, looking at me briefly.

S

We were shown into a large drawing-room; its high French windows open to the vast stretch of lawn beyond the house. The walls were furbished with light blue silk, carrying a remarkable pattern in gold print. The furniture was white and the whole room filled with a cleanliness which spoke to ease my mind. It seemed much less of a den in such finery.

Holmes walked about, one arm at the small of his back, coming to a halt before a petite glass display case, holding what I supposed to be miniature paintings. He waved me over and I stood beside him, gazing down at the face of a very young Miss Amélie. I leaned forward, putting my head next to Holmes'.

"She was quite a beauty, even then," I murmured, sensing Holmes' eyes on me for but a moment before he turned them away and straightened his back.

We both turned around when the butler came back into the room, announcing the immediate presence of Lord Woodsworth.

The lord entered, showing a tall man of regular build. His face was handsome, and though age had lined it with small wrinkles around the eyes and mouth it seemed it gave it more character. He was a gentleman, and his title practically shone around him when he moved. Good upbringing is something one is born with, not into, and the man before us was clearly of standard.

"Gentlemen," the lord said; walking past his servant to come and greet us. "Mr Sherlock Holmes," he added, extending a hand which was seized after a moment's hesitation on Holmes' part. "I was surprised at hearing your name uttered in these parts; especially in conjunction with my butler informing me the namesake wished an audience with me."

"Perhaps you would not be so surprised when considering the tragedy having befallen you," Holmes replied with a meaningful arch of one eyebrow.

The lord had taken my hand as well, his grip firm and self-assured, Holmes' remark leaving him unfazed as he let go of his hold, his eyes in my colleague's.

"I was under the impression a private detective is sent for, and not prone to showing up at your doorstep of his own accord," the lord retorted.

"Consulting detective," I corrected.

"Why, yes, of course," the lord smiled. "Won't you sit down?"

We did, Holmes in a chair, I on the couch opposite the lord, who sat in a chair as well.

"Our showing up was not entirely voluntary," Holmes stated. "Last night we had a summons to see your daughter."

Lord Woodsworth looked perplexed for a moment, and then he slowly sat back in his chair.

"Amy?" he asked and Holmes nodded slowly.

"She was adamant about what she wished from us," he continued, "that the name of Ian Cavanaugh should be clear of any stain. What do you think of that?"

His voice was lilting, calm and yet as intrusive as if he had been shouting the words, I could see it on the lord's face.

"I should like to say I am surprised, but I have feared she would get herself involved in the matter."

"The father of her child is being persecuted, I should think she has a right to involve herself any which way she pleases," Holmes remarked.

"You have no children, Mr Holmes," the lord replied, curtly. "And until you do I bid you stay silent about the business of mine."

"The business of yours was revealed to me by her own tongue," Holmes said, as tartly. I was becoming rather anxious. "I could not very well demand her silence as freely as you have mine, when she sent for me in distress."

"What are your business here, then, sir?" the lord asked.

Holmes blinked, casting a quick eye my way.

"Did I not just make it, as I was under impression, perfectly clear?" he inquired. "We are to find the actual murderer. For I presume you do not think the deaths were accidents."

"The police..."

"We are not the police, and thus I pray you keep them out of it altogether," Holmes stopped him, cutting the edge of his words off with a smile, which only lingered a moment before his countenance bore the intensity of his next question. "Do you wish this unfortunate affair solved?"

The lord observed him for a long moment, glanced at me, and then replied:

"I do, sir."

"Excellent!" Holmes exclaimed. "Your cooperation shall simplify matters immensely."

I smirked at the comment, unable to hold it back.

"What do you wish to know?" the lord inquired.

Holmes pulled his legs up, crossing them under him with ease and leaning forward slightly before he asked:

"Were the murders linked?"

"They were almost identically executed," the lord answered.

"What differed?"

"The location of the bodies, the age of the... victims."

Holmes nodded.

"How were they killed?"

"By beating," the lord said, his face beginning to pale considerably. "I am sorry," he said, bringing a handkerchief to his forehead as it had begun to pearl with sweat. "I had known both Jonas and Frederick since they were very young. It is a personal loss, even though one of the boys was taken so many years ago, and to speak of it as something clinical is difficult for me, not to mention my family. We have been forced to do so with the police on numerous occasions and I..."

Holmes hushed him quietly, sitting up and meeting my gaze again. We rose at the same time.

"Excuse us," I said as Holmes walked up to one of the open windows, disappearing through it. "Well?" I asked as I joined him. He gave me a questioning glance. "Something must be on your mind," I added.

"I thought he should have a moment alone," Holmes replied, watching the landscape before us. "And," he added, pointing one finger markedly at two forms walking in the distance; one clearly female, the other distinctively male, but that was also all one could make out.

"What about them?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Very good question," he said. "Very good question indeed, my dear Watson."

With that he more or less leaped back in through the window and I shook my head ever so slightly before once more following him.

The scene had changed a dash as Lord Woodsworth was no longer alone in the room. He was speaking with a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Miss Amélie; having the same dark hair, and the same blue eyes, but being of a taller stature; and with the youth of her face having been replaced by years of true experience.

They were standing, and both turned to Holmes as he stopped before them.

"Lady Woodsworth," he greeted with a flourish of a bow. "Delighted," he added with one of his most disarming smiles.

"Please, call me Isabel," she returned his smile warmly, her voice carrying but a trace of a French accent.

He gave her a very appreciative look, one not often used by Holmes in any instance, and I came to the conclusion that his first impression of the lady had been a pleasing one.

"This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," he offered.

"Milady," I bowed my head, bringing my lips to the hand she extended to me.

"Doctor," she said with a smile as I straightened my back and let her hand go. She turned her eyes on my comrade. "I am so very happy you have come, Mr Holmes," she said. "I want nothing more than to put these horrible times behind us."

"And so you shall," he assured.

"I must insist you stay with us," she continued. I picked up on the rather set face of the lord and got the pressing notion that he did not agree. "The Beech is a fine establishment." At this I turned my eyes on Holmes, who bore the expression of clear agreement, though I detected the hint of irony behind it. "But if you are to help, I believe you would be more comfortable here."

"Splendid!" Holmes said. "However, we shall stay the night in town as we have paid the innkeeper for his services."

The lady looked as though wanting to protest, but then she smiled again.

"Certainly," she said.

"Now, I wish to see the sights of both killings," he stated.

"But of course," the lord said, a tad stiffly. "I shall take you out there myself."

Holmes granted Lady Isabel another smile before walking with the lord to the door of the drawing-room.

"I beg your pardon," I said as the lady accompanied me the same way her husband had lead Holmes, "but we were admiring the small portraits and I grew curious to know whose faces were depicted apart from that of your eldest daughter."

Lady Isabel had a gentle stroke of grief on her face, but it vanished and she replaced it with a smile. It lighted her face and I decided she was a very beautiful woman; something which time would never be able to take away from any seeking eye falling upon her features.

"I assume you are referring in particular to the young man and woman who are set closest to the portrait of Amélie?" she asked, her pronunciation of the last word ringing out in clear French. I gave a nod as reply. "The man is Amélie's brother, the woman is her sister. They are both younger than Amélie. Luc is two-and-twenty; Josephine recently celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Did Amélie not speak of them to you?"

"No," I replied.

"Watson!" Holmes called and I bowed slightly to the lady.

Walking out through the front door of the house I saw Holmes and the lord striding across the lawn. Holmes waved a hand for me to hurry. I followed the instruction to the letter as I did not wish to be left behind. I knew something was moving behind his smooth brow, but I could not tell what. I hoped he would divulge it on our walk back to Briary.

The first sight contained nothing of interest, apart from the lord showing Holmes precisely where the body had been discovered and describing in what condition it had been. I would not go into details, lest to say the body they had found had been barely recognisable. The deed of a madman or a sadist, the lord observed.

The second sight had fresher marks, but of course the blundering police force had shattered most of the evidence we might have found. Holmes had been expecting this, his eyes taking in the ground with an edged stare; he walked around the spot slowly.

The particular part of forest would have been charming, had it not been the setting for such a terrible act of violence. The trunks of the trees stood at fairly large intervals, making the sunshine sift through their branches to splatter light across the foliage covering the ground. Fallen trunks were scarce, but here and there they formed natures little bench for the wanderer. The air was heavier beneath the trees, but it was also sweeter from the scent of the leaves both above and below; a husky, strangely electric smell which spoke of time standing still.

Suddenly Holmes was on his knees, his fingers slowly putting aside the litter of old flora, his eyes widening in victory. He smiled to himself, his fingertips grasping something before he stood, the knees of his pants being wet and dirty was something not concerning him as he held up his prize.

"Extraordinary," the lord breathed.

Holmes eyed the small pin he had uncovered, placing it in the palm of his hand and extending it to the lord.

"Do you recognise this item?" he asked.

"It belonged to Frederick," the lord answered. "My wife and I gave it to him on his fifteenth birthday."

Holmes pocketed the pin with an artful snaking of the wrist and then turned to me.

"Shall we?" he asked. I stared after him when he began to walk, and as it eluded me to follow him he stopped and turned back to me. "I would like to be back in the village before supper," he snapped and I came out of my reverie. "Lord Woodsworth!" he added with a waving of the hand, which looked something awful like a dismissal, as he began to stroll across the lawn.

"What time should we expect you to-morrow?" the lord asked me.

"It is not for me to decide," I replied, knowing that Holmes would have had something else to say to that.

"Noon," the lord said. "We shall have tea prepared."

"Jolly good," I smiled, taking my leave and catching up with Holmes halfway across the lawn. "We are to have tea here on the morrow," I said.

"Jolly good," he said, the corner's of his mouth turning up in a quick smile.

Thank you ever so much for the thoughts! KCS and instant dragon, it was very nice to hear from you and even more so, to hear you approve! :) Yeah, sorry about the text being all the same style, I didn't notice that it had deleted the line I put in to separate the A/N from the story until now! Thanks for the tip though - bold it is. Guess things have changed around here since I posted last. So, here was chapter two and I hope you're still enjoying it!

A.M.L,

Annie.