"Tea, anyone?" Clara asked as they stepped through the front door of her home.
"No."
"Please." John said, remembering that he had accidentally left the water boiling back at Baker Street. He texted Mrs. Hudson, and then both men followed her as she moved her hand towards the staircase.
"Follow me." Sherlock looked around the hall, absorbing every detail of the house. It was open and airy, with classic Victorian features with the lofty ceilings and pillars. All the walls had been painted white, and Sherlock was shocked at the amount of carefully covered up scuffs in the wooden floor. Original flooring from the mid to late 19th century. The old house was filled with light, from curving panes of glass above them.
Her black high heels clicked across the floor as she led them upstairs, hand clutching an ornate railing.
"May I have a look around?" he asked incredulously.
"If you please, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock; call me Sherlock."
"If you please, Sherlock." he grinned at her slyly and dashed around the corridor the stairs led up to. He found a small girl's room, filled with odd bottles of different herbs and reeked of burned sage and sweet grass, first; he supposed that this was the psychic's room. Or supposed psychic, anyway; Sherlock didn't believe in things like that. The room next to that featured two beds and bookcases, one filled with quantum physics books and the other with mathematical journals. The twin prodigies's room without a doubt. The next room was reasonably dry and barren, except for the fact that everything was black. The girl whose parents committed suicide, He thought. The next room he came to was a small room that was painted a light grey and had psychological posters plastered everywhere. Therapist's room, he mused, and then left in a hurry to the room at the end of the hall.
This one was a brilliant white, and had a set of french doors in the back, which Holmes deduced led to a small balcony. All of the furniture was black, even the vanity in the corner that appeared to be original to the house. A tumble of pale, transparent curtains hung in a neat rectangle around the bed, in a way that would hide the occupant from view. He thought this might be Clara's room, but he couldn't tell very easily; the room was so clean that it was almost frightening. He glanced at the vanity and his suspicions were confimed. On the table was a bottle of Imperial Magesty, the most expensive perfume in the world. The diamond in the bottle glittered in the light of the setting sun, and before he could help himself, he had pulled off the cap and taken an inhale of the contents to memorize it. There was very little of it used, but the bottle was about three years old. Only used for special occasions, then.
"Careful with that, Mr. Holmes. The bottle alone is worth around a hundred and thirty thousand quid." Clara said smoothly, heels clacking against the dark wood.
"Just trying to remember it." he replied, setting the bottle down on the table. "A gift, then?"
"Yes. There were only ten made for women, you know, and ten for men. It was my present for my thirtieth birthday, two years ago. The CEO of my parent's company had apparrently been saving it." she said, smirking at the huge, ridiculously expensive bottle of perfume.
"And you leave it out on your vanity?" She gave him a funny sort of smile.
"I assumed that my security system was impregnable, and I trust my staff."
"Clearly you should do neither." Sherlock replied.
"You're not wrong. You're not right either, but you're not wrong. I should probably have this put in my safe deposit box." she mused. patting the crystal top. "But I do love using it for special occasions." Sherlock smiled at her, before his mind returned to the case.
"The kidnappers came in through your balcony, I think." Sherlock said, examining the door handles on both sides. "Yes, definitely. They can climb."
"Fabulous." she responded, a hint of complaint and even more worry in her tone. He pretended not to hear her.
"Any fingerprints?"
"I dont think they dusted my room." she replied. "I wasnt allowed inside." Sherlock pulled a fingerprinting kit out of his pocket, and carefully dusted over the balcony. The were seven distinct sets of fingerprints, one of which he quickly matched to Clara. All but one were unfamiliar, and the one that was familiar belonged to Eloise, the maid, judging by the records that Clara brought out from a file in her desk.
"I dont know these five." she said, squinting at the dark prints and a full palm print on the ledge. Sherlock snapped a picture of the prints, and then continued through the room. He didnt find anything else.
"Where's the boy's room?" Clara gestured for him to follow her.
"I came up here to get him for Uni, but, as you can see..." she gestured to the room. It was probably the smallest room of the bunch, and very tightly packed together. There were no windows, and judging from the differences of the wood and paint fadeing, Clara was right; everything had been disturbed.
"Intriguing." Sherlock said.
"You see it?"
"Plain as the nose on your face." he replied, stooping down to look at the disturbances in the dust under the wardrobe. "Oh, yes, there was a struggle. A big one." He said. John looked at Sherlock with obvious intrigue.
"Sorry, i dont see it.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No"
"Yes." John and Clara answered at the same time. Sherlock pointed to the floor.
"See here? There are four indent marks in the wood." He said, and pointed to the small dents with a slim finger. "These match up to this bookshelf-" he pointed to the white bookshelf next to the bed. "And these match up to that one." He pointed to the smaller one across the room. "On the shelves you can see variations of color from where the book covers themselves have rubbed up against the paint. All of them were color coded. Then theres this lamp-" He pointed to the light on top of the shelf. "On white it's harder to tell, but the lamp has been turned nintey degrees. Obviously, they were put back in a hurry. The dust under the wardrobe has been disturned in the distinctive pattern of human fingers, most likely of a man, judging from the size. They had him on his stomach and he was clawing underneath the wardrobe for a weapon or something to grab onto. I'm more confidant in the latter. So, someone breaks in, pushes over the first bookcase to try to keep him in. He tries to fight them, knocking over the second bookcase and the lamp. The bulb shatters, and two of the crew take him down and try to pull him out of the room."
"-He clings to the dresser, until one of them steps on his hands?" John deduced.
"Very good, John." Sherlock replied. "So, he's pulled out of the room and probably drugged. Then, the other four or five members of the team fix up the crime scene like nothing ever happened. They used forensic countermeasures to take him alive."
"Alive?" John asked.
"If this room was this clean and a Ryan had been murdered here, what would you smell, John?" John looked puzzled. Clara nodded, her own theories making sense.
"Sorry, I've got nothing." Sherlock smirked at the heiress.
"Clara?"
"Bleach." Clara said. "And the wood would have absorbed the blood. There would have been a stain where the blood pooled. Thats why I knew it was kidnapping and not a covered up murder."
"Yes, very good. I'm very impressed, Ms. Evangeline."
"Clara." she corrected as he continued.
"This was all right before you arrived home." Sherlock said. "They knew that you would remember them if you caught them, and you would have to become a hostage too. They knew they'd launch a massive manhunt after their hides if they took you. However, they were careless. They didn't put everything back in order, and, thus, tipped you off." He said.
"What can you get about Ryan?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at the room.
Obsessive compulsive organizer. Book lover. Straight A student. He took as step to look through a small black box. Tattered photograph... sentimental but scarcely put down. Parents murdered, Clara said; clinging to their memory. High school diploma says valedictorian. No class ring in jewelry box; size ten ring no where to be seen, wear on the ring holder; girlfriend of more than six months. No other jewelry, clean cut. No tattoos. Recently had his hair cut. Football player. Defence.
"He seems... remarkably normal and intelligent." Sherlock said. "Well rounded. He was valedictorian, had a girlfriend, clean cut, constantly wearing his class ring...And athletic. Defensive football player, correct?"
"Yes. What about the kidnappers?"
"Sloppy, for one. Probably hired." Sherlock replied. "The cover up is sloppy too; they waited for everyone to leave but they didn't do their research. If they had, they would have put everything back in exact order." he said. He glanced at the picture of the fingerprints "From the size of the prints, three men and two women. The men brought the kid down and the women probably did the surveillance and clean up. Of course, they only remembered to put on gloves once they got inside; that was a mistake. No one saw them because, of course, everyone was at work. These rich people never miss a moment to make more money." Clara pursed her lips.
"Anything else?" Sherlock noticed something that he hadn't earlier; one corner of the small rug had been slightly disturbed. He knelt down by it, before flicking the fabric up. Written in red paint was:
CLEARER THAN WATER THICKER THAN BLOOD
Under the painted words, a family crest was inscribed into the wood, with a phrase written underneath:
Videlicet et sanguis, sed est ante omnia.
"That's my family crest." She said, blanching.
"Wit and blood before all else." Sherlock said. "Family motto?" she nodded. "Intelligence and Family above all else..." He trailed off, mind racing.
"This wasn't about Ryan." Clara said. Sherlock looked up at her with a funny sort of smirk.
"Oh, no, darling. This is about you."