Gretchen Lebkuchen. Beautiful, privileged, talented, deceased. If you believe everything you read in the gossip columns and plastered across Twitter by the Chatterati (which I do not) that is. I believe that Herr Friederick Lebkuchen made a huge error of judgement when he allowed his emissary to employ me to find his brooch. I believe that his daughter is alive and that she is right here, in his overly-protected little cottage, in the heart of a great forest. Seven signs alerted me to the presence of guard dogs, in addition to several well-hidden (well-ish hidden, actually) CCTV cameras and the state of the art locks on all windows. Hardly in keeping with a fairy tale cottage in the woods. And why, I must speculate, would a homely housekeeper need a swipe key card (also, very high spec.) attached on a chain around her neck? Does our Teutonic property developer have a priceless wine cellar or artwork stuffed beneath his homely dwelling, or is he not so much keeping people out, but actually keeping people in? One person, in fact.
Gretchen.
A torn wisteria beneath the third window along on the third floor brings my eye to the ground beneath. Even from this distance, I note a trampled and disturbed flower bed (the general up-keep of the garden is excellent, and I always find myself drawn to the out-of-place), and the footprints are large (over a size eleven) and plentiful, indicative of a struggle or altercation. A possible escape attempt, foiled by security guards? In a side note, a delivery of four cartons of milk seems a little over-generous for such a skeleton staff of two when the family are away, so …
A tug upon my sleeve and I focus to see Molly Hooper`s face (oh, that face) staring intently into my own. How long have we been standing here?
"Sherlock, we need to go. Curtains are twitching, and I do not want to end this charming excursion being chased into the woods by the big dog of Baskerville!"
(Damn John Watson and his literary flourishes)
Yes, I agree, inside my head. We need to go, but then we need to come back, because if there is anything I hate, it`s when a client is not as truthful as they might be; mystery at one end of a problem is bad enough. As I escort Molly Hooper through the towering hedgerows and back down the drive, a happy little voice bounces around my head and causes a tiny smile to tug at my mouth.
We will be back, Gretchen, and we will see why you are a prisoner in your own home.
~x~
"Yoghurt?" Mycroft Holmes speaks the word as another might say "mucus."
Anthea marginally inclines her head as she offers the tray (with spoon), since a nod would somehow reduce the efficacy of her aloof and absolute tranquility.
"We have word from the New Forest," she offers, alongside the lamentable health food, and Mycroft`s querulous eyebrow is all the question she needs.
"Some irregularities have emerged. We await further developments."
Mycroft petulantly tugs at the silver lid, remembering, only just in time, the fate of his tie the last time this happened.
"Oh, Sherlock," he sighs, as he abandons his task.
~x~
Obviously, he has returned.
As have I.
Herr Lebkuchen is the very epitome of Germanic good manners and hospitality, and has no qualms to admit us (Molly did advise that we should endeavor to walk proudly up the main drag two hours after our less than impressive first attempt, to show we have nothing to hide and everything to offer. I do see the good sense in her proposal, yet have a slight regret I shall not be employing my cat-burglaring skills and adept finesse at creeper climbing; there has been a well-received blog on the subject).
We are furnished with gluhwein and nuts (I advise Molly against imbibing either) and left momentarily in the cosily-furnished sitting room whilst our host goes to see what is keeping his wife. Herr Friederick Lebkuchen affects a ruddy jowelled, wild haired bohemianism that telegraphs nothing but welcome and conviviality, but we know better, no?
Molly is clearly agitated and my distracting and (slightly) inconvenient love for her alerts me to the fact that she is … worried? I attempt a stab at reassurance (not my strong suit):
"I am 92% certain that Ms Lebkuchen had formed a relationship with Wilhelm Paniermehl, youngest son of the family who stole this brooch (I gesture towards the briefcase we have with us) and almost certainly intended to run away and marry him at the earliest opportunity (love turns people into impetuous idiots, and I should know). Our host heard word of this and could not risk the two families becoming inter-linked after centuries of hatred and rivalry."
"How very Montague and Capulet of them," she whispers back, with the ghost of a wink, and I (for the thousandth time) feel a glow deep within as I revel in the joy of her.
"Indeed," I say.
Time, however, is of the essence and my plan must be set into action. It is only as I retrieve the fire steel from my pocket and hold it to the small pile of magazines next to the table that her horrified eyes alert me to the suspicion I may not have shared my plans … verbally.
~x~
Shitshitshitshit!
Chaos!
Utter chaos.
A fire alerts the Lebkuchen`s and their very responsive sprinkler system, but not before all parties are seen racing up the stairs to the third floor (rather than the door into the garden where safety lay) and I instantly know that Sherlock was right about Gretchen.
Smoke belches through the house as the efficacy of the sprinklers attempt to smother the flames, but do little but succeed in creating more acrid, blinding smoke. Cool fingers grasp around my wrist and I am wrenched from the sitting room, bundled into the corridor and unceremoniously shoved out of the back door, where cool evening air fills my lungs and soothes my stinging eyes. Sitting, sprawled in the damp grass, next to a rather showy patio area, I realise Sherlock has gone back into the house to tackle some very angry and panicky German daughter-abductors, and that he is extremely out-numbered (several bulky security men had been noticed lurking as we entered the house) and almost certainly un-armed (although, when I consider those bottomless pockets, I do wonder …).
I leap to my feet, then I dither, and hesitate – he already has to search and rescue one damsel in distress – am I really wanting to become another? My contact lenses mean my eyes are streaming and I sense I would be better off calling the police for reinforcements rather than Lara Crofting it up the smoke filled staircase. I glance back at the windows – the smoke has filled the downstairs and permeated to the second and third floors – Oh, God, Sherlock – and I make a sudden, determined move towards the still open back door.
But I don't get very far, as a large, muscled arm, with absolutely no hint of welcome and conviviality has grabbed me around the waist and another around my mouth, and I know a struggle is useless.
~x~
