Riddle me this, riddle me this, riddle me—

Riddle me that!

I bet you don't know

Just where I'm at!

-Toots Hibbert

It was black. So absolutely— Molly was on her side on a stone floor, knee and elbow barked. Behind her was a cold wall. She reached out with one arm. Nothing, and all movement was swallowed in the dark. She heard a faint voice, "Molly? Molly?"

"Sherlock?" She pulled herself to her knees. Two arms' lengths in front of her, the floor met another stone wall. She groped up. Wood! When she slapped it, it was hollow. "Sherlock!"

"Wait! Okay. Molly, wait!" There was a scrabbling sound, a click, and—Crack! The plank knocked her back as something heavy flopped to the floor. Whump!

"Ow! Damn!"

"Sherlock!"

"Get the door!"

She half leapt, half crawled forward, but the plank had swung closed again. She was suddenly pressed against it by Sherlock, who was grappling the panel from behind her. She yelped.

"Shouldn't be latched!" he cried. "Just jammed. There must be…" Both of his arms were working, tracing the perimeter.

"Sher—!" She twisted and pushed until she found his chest, placed a palm on the center of it and forced him back until she could wriggle out.

He caught her wrist. "Stay may be drop offs." He fumbled in his pockets, his elbows occasionally knocking into her.

"What are you—"

"Ah!" He went still, and an eerie blue light began to glow from his hands. His mobile. "I have a torch app." The light became white and grew much stronger. They were in a long, narrow chamber.

"What is this place?"

"Inside the wall. The stairwell is on the other side. Here!" Sherlock directed the light to the plank. Near the top corner was an ancient looking knob. He pulled, and the plank turned on an axis, revealing the space where Molly had stood and the panel to the suite. Closed fast.

"How do we open it?" Molly's heart was starting to jump.

"There should be a— Ah!" He reached up to the top corner where a circle of hammered metal protruded down. A tug, and the panel swung open to the lighted suite.

"Good. Now, let's see." Sherlock flashed the light round the chamber and moved away to explore. Before Molly could block the panel, it shut with a click. All dark. Again. Molly reached for her mobile. Did she have a torch app? She didn't think so.

"Miss Hunter?" Nurse Toller was on the walkie. "Miss Hunter!"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"It is nearly time for your walk. Where are you in your cleaning?"

"We've finished stripping the linens and flipping the mattresses in seven rooms, ma'am."

"Good. Tell Toby he must strip and flip the mattresses of the others while you are out. You both can finish after tea. Go to your room to change, Miss Hunter. Don't stop elsewhere."

"Yes, ma'am." Molly returned the walkie to its holster and called to Sherlock. "I must go."

The glowing mobile worked its way back to her. "We'll return here tonight with a proper torch. Come." He opened the panels and helped her out.

In the suite, Molly stepped aside to allow Sherlock through and stifled her laughter at the sight of him. He was a walking dust-bunnie, covered from head to toe. She brushed his shoulder. "I should Hoover you."

"And I you. Here." He brushed her back, sending up clouds. She beat her skirt and front, and Sherlock circled behind her, brushing her arms and neck, stroking round her ears— handy wasn't he? Shrugging him off, she took a clean cloth from the trolley and wiped her face.

"Ach." Sherlock pinched cobwebs from her hair. "I miss your old color."

"The brown?"

"You couldn't see cobwebs so well in that. And besides, it was the same color as my violin." He stepped back. "There. You're corridor presentable. I must explore. Must shake this off." He reached up for his overall zipper.

Molly flushed and wheeled round to leave. Behind her, Sherlock said, "Molly?"

She stopped. "Yes?"

"Did Jason have dust on his clothes this morning?"

Molly faced the door as she answered "No. No he didn't."

"Why are you turned round like that?"

"Just giving you some privacy."

"I don't need privacy."

She turned back. He was shaking the dust from his hair. Glancing at her, he asked, "Shoes? Cuffs? Did you look?"

"None. I noticed his boots in particular. They were made of snake skin, horrible things. No dust, so he wasn't here. This hidden room is a dead end, then?"

Sherlock scowled. "We'll check once more to make certain, but apparently so." With a sweep, he unzipped to his waist. Beneath the overall was a t-shirt and jeans. "A dead end. We're encountering quite a few of those."

XXXXX

"Okay. So. Loving them. Caring for them when they get old or sick. Being basically decent and respectful, which for you, means speaking politely, following their directions, upholding the family honor in public. Anything else?" Michael was looking down at her.

"I think that about covers it." Deenie, on the bed, stifled a yawn.

"You know, some people would say children don't owe their parents anything. That the responsibilities go only from the parents to the children because kids didn't ask to be born. What do you think about that?"

Deenie smiled. "Well, everyone is entitled to their opinion, I guess, but for me, I just think that would be real selfish. My parents sacrificed a lot for my sister and me, and we have an obligation—"

"Do they owe you anything?"

Deenie gave a wider smile. "Oh, sure. Mama and Daddy have always—"

"Do you think they owe you the same things you owe them?"

"Well, sure—"

"Love and support and all that?"

"Yeah."

"Let me share with you what some people would consider an ideal parent. Whole books have been devoted to this…"

Deenie nodded. She was so tired. And hungry. That nurse had given her a sponge bath, and Josh had taken her to the bathroom, but nobody brought her any lunch.

"DEENIE!"

"Oh my God— My mind must have drifted. Gosh, that was just so rude of me."

"Yeah." He stared at her. "Tell me. What is it about your parents that you don't want to face?"

"Excuse me?"

"You zone out when we talk about them. That means something, Deenie."

Deenie opened her mouth but couldn't think of anything to say.

"They failed you."

"No, they—"

"You think they did."

"I don't."

"You are glaring. You hate me right now, don't you?" She shook her head, but he kept going. "Talking about your parents puts you in a painful place, a place you don't want to be. Now I want you pay close attention, listen and be present, Deenie. Make yourself do it. This is incredibly important."

Deenie lowered her shoulders, looked him in the eye and smiled. Just like Mama had showed her. "Sure."

XXXXX

Sherlock took inventory: Nurse Toller was in the kitchen. The head grounds man was weeding. Jason, Claire and Molly were walking round the pond, and news crews filming just beyond the gate. That left Dr. Toller in the lab closet, and Michael talking with Deenie, presumably. Sherlock had twenty minutes.

He began in the hospital floor. In the front was the reception hall, a converted conservatory, according to the website. The entire front wall and ceiling were large glass panes joined with iron. The engineering of it was intriguing, but the hall itself contained only sideboards and torchieres.

Round the back there were ten recovery rooms. He hadn't the time to go in each one, but he walked past them all, listening. Nothing. In the center was the operating suite, also silent. Not here.

Downstairs were the executive suites. Although he heard nothing from the corridor, Sherlock knew these were two stories. Deenie could be on the upper floor. Or they could contain a soundproof room. For that matter, one of the treatment rooms upstairs could contain a soundproof room. He must check tonight.

Downstairs were the servants' quarters. Silent. Again! Except one door. Snoring. Someone unknown. Sherlock picked the lock. It was a young man, asleep. A guard's uniform hung from a chair. No.

Sherlock crept to the entry hall and kitchen. Nurse Toller was gone. He searched, listened. Nothing.

The basement was next. Sherlock slipped down the steps and peered in the lab door. Dr. Toller should be incapacitated—

"Toby! What are you doing!"

Nurse Toller. She was in the corner behind the stairwell, glaring at him. From where had she emerged? Sherlock put on the droop and mumble. "Sorry, ma'am. Looking for the loo."

"Codswallop!" Nurse Toller stepped forward, her hands on her hips. "What are you playing…" She froze. Caught her breath and pointed her finger. "Drugs! How dare you come here and peddle your filth!"

"Wha'! I— No ma'am!' Sherlock cringed and filled his eyes. "No! I— I never—! I just wanted to see it again! I just—" He cowered by the door, arms up.

"See? See what?"

"The— the—"

"Answer me!"

"The snake, ma'am! I wanted—" He managed two fat tears "—to see the snake again!"

Nurse Toller was silent. Slowly, Sherlock lowered his arms. She was pale and her fists remained clenched, but she didn't appear to be quite as ready to box his ears. "You are never to come down here again, young man. I will not tolerate this kind of insubordination. One more infraction, and you are sacked. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Have you completed the guest suites?"

"Nearly, ma'am."

"Upstairs."

Head bowed, Sherlock scuttled to the stairwell. Five minutes remained. He could check the treatment rooms for a soundproof—

"And don't think you can shirk on flipping the mattresses. I shall know, young man."

Damn!

XXXXX

When the cops showed up behind the media vans, Jephro sent Claire to handle it and took that Violet back to the house. At the door, he smiled. "Well, thank you, darling! I think our walking days are over, for now. You go ahead and hold onto everything, just in case. You sure are cute. Maybe we could—" The door opened. It was Patty, giving him the stinkeye.

"Miss Hunter, go to your room and change. You have work to do." Violet sidled away, head down. Patty sniffed. "Your tea is ready, sir." She was ugly enough to scare buzzards off a gut pile.

Jephro gave her his big smile, the one that showed all his pearly whites. "Well, thank you, darling! Thank you very much."

XXXXX

Oh, thank God, it was Jason. With a tray. Deenie closed her eyes. Don't be too hungry. She opened them and smiled.

"Hello, darling. Hungry?" He set the tray on the table and sat. Roast beef! Potatoes! Salad, with croutons! Apple pie and cream! "Everything okay?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Super! Yeah. Well, with all that, I guess we plumb forgot to bring you your lunch. I got you a nice, extra big supper. Here you go. Oh, hey! Before you start eating, I got something to show you." He reached in his pocket, and Deenie forced herself to look at him. Him. Not the—

"Here. It's a picture of your mama and me. Oh, golly, about a year before you were born." Mama was flat and had that square jaw she always hated. That jaw was why there were hardly any early pictures of her. Jason looked at the picture and smiled. "Yeah, she had some things done since then, hasn't she? Changed up her face."

Deenie nodded. She remembered to breathe through her mouth to keep herself from smelling the meat— butter— meat—

"Have you had stuff like that done?"

"Nose job, cheek implants, chin implant, lip injections and breast augmentation." Everything had been disclosed to the media to get in front of gossip.

"Wow! Your mama make you do all that?" Jason leaned in with a sly smile. "Be honest, darling. She think you're ugly?"

"No!" Deenie remembered to smile. "It's for the business. Expected."

Jason smiled back. "And here, another nose job. Does Roger St. Simon know you've done all that?"

Deenie nodded. "Roger and I have a real honest relationship. No secrets." God, the apple pie was so—

"Well, that's the best way to be, isn't it. Now, who is this Roger, fellow, anyway? I feel like someone should be looking out for you. What do you all do together?"

Roast beef. Potatoes. With a swallow, she managed, "Well, Roger is a collector, so we go to auctions sometimes."

"What does he collect?"

"Teacups, mostly. Really pretty. You can't, you know, drink out of them, but they are real pretty."

Jason was quiet for a while. Then he said, "Teacups." Nothing more than that, but Deenie suddenly felt stupid.

"They're really pretty," she repeated.

He nodded. Once. "Do you love him?"

"Oh, yes." Deenie nodded. Several times. "Of course I do."

"You've got to, I guess. Teacups. Well. Okay." He smiled at her. "So that's how you show him you love him. Teacups! Super. How does he show you he loves you?"

Deenie frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

"He does love you, doesn't he?"

"Yes. Of course—"

"So? How does he show it?"

Deenie thought hard. How? How.

After a long time, Jason said, real slow, "What special thing does he do just for you, only because you like it? What does he do for you because he loves you?"

What did he do? What? She swallowed. "He— He takes me to auctions."

Jason didn't say anything. Just sat and looked at her with no smile. Deenie felt like crying.

"He loves me!" she said, but as she said it, it sounded hollow. Fake.

"Sure he does, sweetheart. Sure. Well." Jason stood up. "I'll let you go ahead and eat. It's real tasty. Enjoy, darling." He left.

Deenie was quiet. On the tray, the food— Oozed. She didn't feel like eating anything.

XXXXX

Molly was exhausted and starving by dinner time. She served herself a plate of shepherd's pie with Sherlock while Nurse Toller rattled off instructions. "Toby, Miss Hunter, tomorrow, you are to report here at half-past six. Do not be late." This last was delivered with a hard look at Sherlock. "We shall prepare the operating suite and treatment rooms. Stock and sanitize. I am off to the basement to check on the laundry." She swept from the kitchen.

"The laundry room? Where is that?" Sherlock sounded petulant. Molly took a bite and shrugged. His voice became sulky. "Why is it you are 'Miss Hunter' and I am 'Toby'? I have a last name. Toby Bright."

Molly glanced up from her plate and kept her tone neutral. "I don't know. It's not fair, I suppose."

"No, it's not." Sherlock sniffed and poked at his pie with his fork. "She's got that addict husband. That's the hold they have on her. It could cut both ways—"

He fell quiet as a young man in a dark uniform and very short hair entered the kitchen and scooped himself a great heap of shepherd's pie. When he caught sight of them, his entire face lit.

"Hiya!" He looked to be about seventeen. His mouth was slightly open, his face scrubbed raw round the edges with an oily slick down the middle. "I'm Josh. The night guard. You must be the new lot."

Molly smiled and nodded. "Hello! I'm Violet and this is Toby." Sherlock gave a grudging nod, and Josh beamed, plopped his plate on the table and reached for their hands. After some fumbling on Molly's part and what seemed to be deliberate slowness on Sherlock's, the handshaking ritual was accomplished. Josh began to sit, but he leapt up, reached to his side, drew out a pistol and plunked it on the table. He then parked himself and tucked into his shepherd's pie. The gun, dark and oily, was a hands-width from their plates.

Molly cleared her throat. "Josh, that's not…legal, is it?"

Josh looked up. "What?" He followed her gaze to the pistol. "Oh, that. Comes with the job, right? A big responsibility, my job."

"So." Sherlock folded his hands. "You don't actually have a license, then."

"No, why would I? It comes with the job." Josh shoved in another forkful.

Molly took a deep breath. "Ooh! Have you shot it, Josh?"

"Yeah!" He swallowed noisily. "Mr. Amazing took me in the back and showed me everything. I loaded it, and I shot it— Twice! Don't you worry. You're safe with me and this in the house!" Grinning, he set back upon his dinner.

After watching a few minutes, Molly ventured, "Have you worked here long?"

"Eighteen months. Ever since I left school. I'm a vital part of this operation. If you've any questions about this place, I'm your man."

With a quick glance at Sherlock, Molly leaned in closer. "Toby and I, we were noticing that there seemed to be some hidden spaces in the walls upstairs. Do you know anything about them?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. This old building has all sorts of hidden passages and chambers." Josh lowered his voice. "Dark and spooky-like."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where?"

"Oh, down— all over. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a hidden chamber around here." The boy nodded and took another large bite of food.

"Oh, do show us!" Molly smiled brightly. "It sounds exciting."

"Right." Josh gulped the bite. "Well, it's— The thing is— I— I'm not—" Sherlock snickered, and Josh drew himself up. "They're top secret, aren't they? I can't show them to just anyone."

"Please," sneered Sherlock. "Mr. Secret Agent Man. Haven't you some empty rooms to monitor?"

Josh flushed and fixed his gaze on Molly. "There is a space. I could show you."

"Josh!" Nurse Toller had appeared at the kitchen entryway. "If you want clean clothing, you must deliver your soiled garments to the basket. Have you soiled garments, or have you been wearing the same things since Thursday last?"

Josh stammered, "Yes— No, ma'am. I— I have some."

"Go and fetch them, young man, before they waltz out on their own accord."

Josh leapt, snatched the pistol from the table with a glare at Sherlock and dashed away.

"You two will be ironing sheets tomorrow afternoon." Nurse Toller took up a tray and stormed into the dining hall.

The gun had left an oily smudge. Molly frowned. "Sherlock, small arms are illegal. How is it you have one?"

Sherlock was suddenly engrossed in his pie. "Special dispensation. Mycroft."

"But you've been properly licensed?"

"I am far more responsible than Josh."

"How fortunate."