Chapter Three

He did not speak at all on our walk home, and I could tell his mind was focused on the small set of details he had thus far collected. He was lining them up, turning them around and around, changing their place, mixing them only to start the process over again. The splendour of the English countryside could not be more meaningless to him now. Nor could I, I did understand this. In moments of the cool processing, which now churned through his thoughts, all he needed was him. I wondered if there ever would come a day when I could properly reconcile with this fact.

We ordered supper, and while I ate two plates of some of the best homemade pie I had ever tasted, on top of a full meal of potatoes and venison stew, Holmes was content with pinning his gaze on one spot on the wall to the left side of my head, not touching his food and lighting a cigarette as soon as the maid departed from the room. The snap he created by shutting the lid of his silver cigarette case was all the noise he made for another twenty minutes.

I rose from the table once it had been cleared, walking up to the only small window of the room and glancing down upon the yard of the Inn. It was in terrible shape, for it had rained just after Holmes and I had returned, and the paths all now consisted of mud. I watched as a maid struggled with a basket in her arms, headed for the stables.

"Have you contemplated the case, Watson?" Holmes' voice rang out behind me.

"I have, old chap," I replied, turning where I stood to meet his gaze.

He seemed fondly amused and fairly interested as he waited for me to continue.

"But I have yet to see the facts," I admitted, his right eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

"Be so kind then, as to tell me of the players. Have you them before you?"

I thought it over.

"There is the family," I said, putting one hand out, palm up. "There are the villagers," I added, doing the same gesture with my other hand.

"And one more set," he reminded.

"The servants."

He granted me a smile, rising to his feet and beginning to pace around the room.

"Motive, motive," he said quietly. "It is the most elusive part to any conundrum. Jealousy, hatred, greed, love; but the scenario in which we are to address them is not yet given."

"You have thoughts on the subject, then?"

"Thoughts are easily bent and influenced," he replied simply. "But lady Amélie figures as the central building block for this tragedy, and answers are to be found at Ashley House."

He brought out the pin and slowly held it up to the light. It was thin and small, made of what I could only assume to be silver, straight in design, with a clover affixed on top.

H

I was woken by a noise undistinguished, but for the conviction that it was no part of my dreams. I opened my eyes, feeling sleep insistently lingering behind the lids, and as I tried to free myself from the sluggishness confounding me, I came to the understanding that an unwonted presence was sharing the room. I heard the rustle of paper; I heard the stealth of steps making their way from Holmes' side of the compartment, to mine. It was not many steps to take, for the room was timid in size, but it was far enough to keep me from reaching my pistol in any time that would take the intruder off guard. I lay in indecision for but another second, and then I sat up.

"Holmes!" I said in order to rouse my companion, my eyes on the shape bent over my suitcase.

At the sound of my voice the bending figure straightened itself, turned a quick eye my way, and then dashed for the door.

"Holmes!" I repeated, throwing my covers off.

I saw no time to lose, and set after the trespasser down the stairs, but upon reaching the front door of the establishment, which was still swinging on its hinges, I was met by no more gratification than that of the emptiness of night. I returned to the room to find Holmes still soundly asleep. I found it ironic that he should be so consigned to rest this one time when I should have needed him sprite on his feet.

"For God's sake, man!" I exclaimed, shaking him awake.

He looked utterly perplexed, and the youngest I believe I have ever seen him, as he met my gaze - disoriented and uncomprehending.

"There was someone here," I said as he sat up.

He eyed me for a moment, soberly.

"Was anything taken?"

"I have yet to check."

He looked about the room, then back at me.

"Did you catch sight of anything with which to describe the interloper?"

"Male of build, quite tall, robust, and fast on his feet," I answered, Holmes gaze gleaming with awoken interest.

"Did you give chase?" he inquired.

"I followed the scoundrel as far as the front door, but beyond that point his trail vanished," I replied, having a seat on the edge of my bed.

"I would imagine it quite an aggravating business," he said.

I gave him one of my more disliking frowns before getting the covers over me and lying down. I was in no mood for his particular sense of humour and as I could see he was wearing a slight smile I opted to pay him no further attention.

"As a matter of fact it was," I replied against all better judgement.

He laughed, a short bark, which was one I was quite familiar with at this point in time, but which sound still managed to surprise me with its origin seeming to come from the very centre of him, its undertones always the most good-natured, even instances such as this. It was so clear to me that he knew something he had not told me, and it truly set a strain on my nerves as it now affected not only him, but also me. That he did not get up to search his belongings was a clear sign and I was just about to part my lips to voice my observation when I turned my head to him and saw what he held between two fingers.

It was, of course, the pin, and by the look on his face I understood that he saw the intrusion of to-night as no less than a triumph. He granted me a smile before closing his fingers around this now stated vital piece of evidence, shutting his eyes.

I watched him in the silence, wondering if anything could ever bring him out of balance, or if everything was indeed pieces of the puzzles he was continuously putting into place.

H

"He came in through that window," Holmes stated the following morning.

I had no idea how long he had been up, but as his sleeping habits followed not that of the more ordinary of men, I shouldn't say it was so very astounding that he was the one to declare breakfast was soon to be expected. He was dressed and combed, impeccable as always. I wrapped myself in my robe and got off the bed, watching as he pointed at the mud-tracks made by the intruder.

"We are two floors up," I said, sounding quite as amazed as I felt at the sheer acrobatic endeavour this feat must have required.

"I believe we can add 'limber' to your list of attributes," Holmes smirked.

I shook my head at him, though having a smile spread on my face nonetheless.

"He went nowhere near our sleeping forms, but walked to either end of the bed, searching our luggage as well as the desk-drawer," he pointed out the trail. "He is a heavy man," he added as an afterthought, mostly to himself. "With large feet," he finished, another glance directed my way.

"I'm happy you find it so amusing, Holmes," I muttered. "There still is a killer loose out there, and we might have come to harm, but if you wish to treat the matter as trivial, then I shan't stand in the way."

"My dear fellow," he said, sitting down opposite me at the small table as I had just taken a seat. "The matter is of crucial importance. However, he is not quite so desperate yet that he should take to violence in order of preventing our further interference."

I gave a small nod as there was a knock at the door, the maid entering with a tray smelling alluringly of eggs and sausage. It was not until the maid put the tray in front of us that the words he had just now uttered actually fell upon my ears with all their weight and I looked up at him. He observed me, at ease.

"Yet?" I repeated the object of my slight alarm.

He looked innocently uncomprehending, an act which had never managed to work its charm on me. I gave him a frightfully stern face, something which I had never managed to have working its threat on him but that for producing the smile I now got from him.

"There is no sign of danger as of this moment, Watson," he replied lightly. "Have some eggs."

It was not the first time we had been at peril in the company of the other, but this was a risky undertaking. Certainly a necessary one, but whomever we were dealing with was capable of a tremendous amount of physical force, and I had yet to understand the logic which told the brain that murder was a resort of any kind but that of pure lunacy. This, in turn, caused me fear, for I did not know what to make of our situation.

"I wish you would share some of your suspicions with me," I said.

Holmes, having just pierced a piece of a sausage, was observing it detachedly.

"They have not been fully exposed to me," he answered, putting the fork down without having touched what it contained. "When they are, you are the one with whom they will be shared," he added.

Seeing my disappointment he caught my gaze firmly, and once I smiled he returned it. I relaxed into the trust I held for my friend, reassured in the knowledge that he would not proceed if it posed any real hazard to either of us.

H

It was not often I got to bear witness to Holmes being charmed by a woman, but his regard for Lady Isabel seemed only to grow with every moment he spent with her. She carried all the traits I should think he would have appreciated in a woman. Her quiet nature was home to a fine set of artistic gifts, conversation being one which she mastered with amicable insight. Her respect for both Holmes and myself was very evident, and I suppose the leisure with which she inquired Holmes of his profession was enough to put him in a favourable state of mind. She seemed to have read everything I had ever written, and at times quoted to me from my own prose, something which I found both haunting in an unused sort of way, but also rather flattering. She was never nervous, but collected and soft-spoken, her smile sometimes directed at either of us as we discussed the simplicity of everyday, which always seems more palpable in the country. The excellent pot of tea, having been prepared for our arrival, was soon finished; Holmes having half a cup, a gesture which confirmed my thoughts on the matter of his personal acceptance of the lady.

"Have a biscuit," I prompted, pushing the plate towards him.

His grey eyes told me to leave it well alone, but I found it refreshing that he should find someone with such influence over him, so as to make him behave himself in a manner he, usually, only contrived when setting out on a course of gaining something he lacked.

"Come now," I pressed on, "they were really very good, old chap."

"Baked today," Lady Isabel smiled, lifting the plate a tad.

I could see how aware he was of my anticipating observance of him, and when he finally did reach out a hand to take one of the biscuits occupying the plate, I leaned back with a gleeful smile on my face, one which, dear reader, I could not have smothered even under his most deadly of stares.

How Sherlock Holmes, more often than not, lived on air, with substances abusing his body instead of nourishment being fed into it, and without the sleep I, as a doctor, would surely have subscribed anyone else, is still a medical mystery to me. At times I ask if it was all a scheme of his, an act he put on for me, to keep his character as elusive to me as to those who read my capturing of him in the Strand. His arrogance is still truly one of his more forward traits, but deception is not, and so I must deduce that he would not have drawn a blind before my eyes, and that, when caught in a case all that mattered was the case, and when out of a case, all that was left was a decrease of appetite and a bout of insomnia. My approving of his accepting this as any kind of lifestyle, he would never have, even as he day by day managed to keep his strength and exuberance somewhat intact.

But it was from this the glee came, watching him eat the biscuit and thoroughly enjoy it, I might add.

Perhaps his pallet was so sensitive that most food offended it. I had never prodded into the matter, and had the most stifling premonition of what would be the end result if ever I did; his amusement not being part of it.

"I am sorry that my children were not here to greet you," the lady apologised. "They went out early with their father and will not be back until later this afternoon. They had planned this little field trip for weeks and saw no use cancelling it. Lord knows we all need distraction from all that has taken place."

"Naturally," Holmes said.

"Amélie is arriving this evening," the lady said, Holmes and I exchanging a glance which told me how pleased this news made him. I had thought as much, as she had been described by him as the central point of the case. "She is bringing Matthew," Lady Isabel continued. "She wouldn't give me another reason for them coming than that they have not been to see us for such a long time, but I can feel there is more behind it. She never believed Ian was guilty, so it cannot be fear driving her out of London."

"Perhaps it is something deeper," Holmes mused, bringing his cigarette case out and opening it with familiar movements, taking a cigarette and tapping it twice against the lid before putting it between his lips. Lady Isabel looked wondering at him and he smiled a half smile, searching his pockets for his matches. "Curiosity," he clarified. I had produced my own match box and now struck one as he leaned forward, placing his hand on mine to steady it before drawing the proper glow from the fire between my fingers. Leaning back he blew out smoke in a soft, blue haze about his face. "Curiosity will bring the devil before God. It is what drives us to do unbidden things."

"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose it is so. And my daughter wishes to see this to the end."

Holmes granted her a smile of confirmation, tasting his cigarette and leaning his head back to seek rare enjoyment in the rays of the sun.

H

We spent the afternoon in interview with the servants. The house employed half a dozen maids, one housekeeper, one butler, one cook, three stable boys and one groundskeeper, who had made it a habit of also bringing in helping hands from the village. The grounds were never closed off to the villagers. They could fish in the streams and hunt game in the large forest, as long as they recorded their kills and captures.

None of the employees could recall having seen or heard anything out of the ordinary the day of Frederick Harrington's death.

When showing the pin we were told that it, indeed, had belonged to Mr Harrington. The cook, Mrs Dennison, said that it had been his most prized possession and that he had worn it in his hunting cap when walking out with the younger and elder master. Frederick had been raised by his uncle, Mr Shuffle, who had been the previous groundskeeper and gardener. When Mr Shuffle unexpectedly died, Frederick no more than four years old and without any relations, Lord Woodsworth had decided to let the boy stay under the care of Mr Herring, the current groundskeeper, who had then been but thirty, a bachelor, and mighty fond of the child. Frederick had developed his skill with fauna and had worked hard, had been well-liked for his humour and friendliness, and had gotten along with everyone in the house. His passing had been a shock to all, Mrs Dennison had professed, with the corner of her apron to one eye.

"Could anyone, in your mind, have sought to cause him harm?" Holmes had asked, her eyes widening.

"Why, yes, sir," she had answered. "That young fellow that he sent to jail. He had every reason to, didn't he? Revenge is a dreadful poison, Mr Holmes."

And tears filled her eyes again.

"With whom did Mr Harrington associate?" Holmes asked the butler, Mr Wilkes, an older gentleman of considerable manners.

"With some boys his age, from the village, but he was quite close with the young master," Mr Wilkes replied.

"They were friends?"

"Indeed, sir."

"And was he a friend of young Miss Josephine's as well?"

"I believe they never got to be as close friends as he and master Luc, but they have all grown up together and have gotten along as one should think."

"Thank you," Holmes gave a nod, Mr Wilkes rising and leaving.

Frederick Harrington's life had expired in the late afternoon, which was the time of day when the house usually was deserted. He had been found by Fee McAdams, the youngest of the maids, and she told tearfully of how horrendous it had been. Holmes listened with half an ear, his mind already skipping forward to the next point before the girl had finished speaking. He patted her hand, gave her a smile and sent her on her way. It was evident to me that he was growing frustrated.

"The possibilities are there," he murmured as Miss McAdams closed the door behind her. "None of the family members were anywhere to be seen, half the staff were on leave, a dozen villagers were working on clearing the western part of the forest. We have hands from a variety of people that could easily have done the deed. But to find the right pair before they deem fit to strike again."

"Do you believe he would do so blindly?"

"No," Holmes replied. "But to bury the secret ever deeper..." He met my gaze. "Tonight we must observe this house closely, Watson," he said, voice still low, filled with thought. "Any minor detail may serve as an arrow."

"As you have so often proven," I said, his eyes flashing to mine again before his mouth curled in a soft smile.

H

At a quarter past four, I put the newspaper I had been browsing down on the side table of the couch, which was placed in the middle of the large sitting room I was sole occupant of. The house was remarkable, infused with a grandeur which never got the better hand of taste. Its archways and niches, wide halls and hand-painted murals were all of a subtle luxury that made the large structure feel inhabited, and not as lonely as many other houses I had had the privilege of visiting.

The weather had changed, as it so often does, and clouds were mounting the sky with their bleak prospects. The wind had caught up with summer and was trying to chase her away, and though I knew the attempt was useless, I still mourned it, for it seemed a rare treat to have been granted such lovely conditions when the month of May was not yet late in her progress, and June was still allotted some time to prepare herself.

"What are you writing?" Holmes' voice asked, from where he had materialized I did not know. "Another fantastic exploration into the unconventional art of bending to your reader's every whim?" he added, a rather sardonic lilt to his tone.

"I was making a simple observation of the climate," I replied, looking up at him where he stood at my side.

"Waste of your time, in an hour it will have changed before it changes again," was all I got from him on that point as he moved around to take the seat beside me, placing one arm on the armrest and linking his fingers together as he observed me.

"I suppose you're right," I said, putting my notebook into the pocket I usually kept it, closing the cap of my pen.

At that moment rain began to patter heavily against the window panes of the room. We heard the front door open and both got to our feet. There was laughter, and as we entered the hall we saw the origin of it. The lord was drenched, and so were his two children. Lady Isabel had come to meet them from an adjoining room and she had a hand before her mouth, all four utterly amused by the appearance of the three. I felt my own mouth start to twitch in a wish to join in their mirth. The image of them was so relaxed and familiar, and the laughter seemed to do them such good, that I wanted to be a part of it. Holmes wore but a faint smile, his eyes all the more astute to the scene.

"Mr Holmes! Dr. Watson," the lord greeted, beginning to collect himself. "What terrible state we're in for this first meeting, but I should like to present my children."

Josephine was as pretty as her sister, though a little plainer. Her hair was fairer, bundled up on top of her head and her hairdo filled with fresh flowers. I gathered they had been put there by idle hands this very afternoon. She smiled at me, and even more brightly at Holmes, bending her knees in a beautiful curtsey.

"Dear sirs," she said, her eyes rising to Holmes' face and I understood right away how taken she was with him.

I suppressed a smile, unable to fairly trace the origin of my amusement but for the fact that he should be so cold toward a sex which he managed to warm with such effortlessness. He had never loved, he had told me, and even as this beautiful young specimen of a woman stood before him filled with clear adoration, he was unmoved. I still, after all this time, failed to see how he managed to be; and wondered if he even knew himself or if it was all a fluke of nature and his eccentric personality.

Luc was the very image of his father, though his eyes were his mother's. He carried more of a resemblance to Josephine, who seemed to be a mixture of both parents, than Amélie, who was influenced solely by her mother. He was not as tall as his father, and stood not at height with Holmes' gaze when he met it. He delivered an easy smile, taking my hand and then Holmes' in as firm a grip as his father.

"Very good of you to come," he said. "We hear great things about you, Mr Holmes," he added. "We are most grateful for your particular skill being put to use to solve the calamity we are in the very midst of."

"Yes," Holmes smiled slightly, his eyes drifting over the young man's face in such a subtle search that he would never have been detected, had I not known he had set out for a study and now would use every moment to devote himself to it.

Josephine had retrieved a basket which had been set on the floor. It was bursting with flowers, some of which I recognised as being used for medicinal purposes, some of which were herbs. She smiled at me, pulling out a daisy and handing it to me.

"And what flower is your favourite?" she asked Holmes, who had a momentary pause come over him before he glanced at mine.

"That one should do fine," he said.

I smiled as she gave him a different specimen of the referred flower and he accepted it with a somewhat quizzical air before watching her remove herself from sight. Luc and the lord walked upstairs, the lord calling for Wilkes to draw him a bath. Holmes observed the flower, and then turned his eyes in mine.

"I cannot see what would have you grinning, Watson," he muttered when noting my smile.

"Perhaps that is the reason for my grinning, Holmes," I replied and he rolled his eyes at me.

Affairs of the heart always had perplexed him, as well as I felt they fascinated him. They were in a realm of their own, one where he had never set foot, and where standing on the outer rim would never be enough to bring him answers. If he was even aware of asking questions I did not know, but I could see it on him when confronted by love, that looking it in the eye for a longer amount of time both did him good, and ill, and that in it there was sadness unexplained.

Hello, dear readers! How nice it is to hear from you! Thanks to Velvet Green for both reviews! I'm so happy that you're liking the H&W interaction, and witches are fun, aren't they? :) And thanks to KCS - very nice to see you're still there, and thanks for the compliment! :) I hope you liked the chapter above!

Big hugs,

Annie.