Today's Prompt (from cjnwriter): "Fruitcake."
Holmes stared intently into the fire, his thoughts doubtless far beyond the dancing flames. Watson sat in the chair opposite him, alternately reading and glancing up at Holmes, at once curious what his keen mind had already uncovered and keeping an eye out for any sign of relapse back into the illness that had mandated their vacation in the first place. But even Rome did not fall in a single afternoon, and so at last Watson returned to his reading
However, he did not have long before M. Dupond joined them in the parlour with a preoccupied, "Good afternoon, M. Holmes, Dr. Watson."
Holmes's attention quickly turned from the dancing flames to the new arrival.
M. Dupond took the remaining chair by the fire and set the package he had been carrying down upon the table. From it, he drew out a loaf of fruitcake, and cut a thin sliver.
After taking a single bite he said, "You are welcome to try it, but it is dry and I have not a clue what spices he put in."
"You have been to the bakery?" Holmes asked, accepting a slice, which he examined like a piece of evidence rather than something to eat.
"Yes, and it is all wrong. My aunt and uncle used to run the bakery. Their fruitcake was always moist and beautiful; it was a holiday treat when I came here as a child. The whole town has changed so much since then." He sighed. "M. Holmes, are you truly a detective?"
Holmes raised his chin. "Yes, I have made something of a name for myself in London in my small way, with no little thanks to Dr. Watson's accounts of my cases." He gave Watson a small smile.
"Then perhaps you may be able to help me."
Holmes turned to Watson, questioning, and M. Dupond's gaze quickly followed, if more perplexed.
Watson shrugged, unable to truly offer any protest, and, he could not deny, intrigued.
Having acquired the necessary permission, Holmes motioned for M. Dupond to proceed, and leaned forward in intent interest.
"You see, it is like this," M. Dupond began. "My father was born in this village, but left for the city to seek his fortunes. When I was young, we returned every few years to visit his family, and since his death, I have been writing to my dear aunt and uncle. I do not, perhaps, write so frequently as I ought, but we would exchange a few letters each year, at least. However, I have not heard from them in some years now. At first, I thought it was not so unusual; it is not uncommon for mail to get lost in the mountains, and that winter was a particularly harsh one. But it has now been more than three years, and I have not heard from them, though I have sent several letters since.
"Finally, I decided to come and pay them a visit, and see if all was well, only to find that they cannot be found. Their bakery has been taken over by this young M. Renaud who does not even know how to bake a cake, and no one can tell me where they are, not even Constable Durand. I do not know what to do! Plainly, something is amiss, but in a town so small and peaceful, I cannot fathom what could have befallen them."
Holmes sat for a minute or more considering M. Dupond's tale, his hands steepled before him. "It is indeed a deeper matter than I had thought. Watson, I am afraid you were not mistaken that there may be some danger lurking after all - though I do not believe it is quite time to call it spectres just yet. M. Dupond, tell me precisely, when did you last receive a letter from your uncle and aunt?"
"It must have been four years ago, that August."
Holmes nodded. "They said nothing out of the ordinary, expressed no desire for a change of scenery?"
"No," M. Dupond said, "they would never leave this village, and I am certain that this is where they lived. I remember their bakery well."
"It is remarkable how well one recalls the scenes of childhood. And when did you send the first letter to which they did not respond?"
"By then it was late October; the snows had already begun in the mountains."
"And the next letter?"
"Not until April, I am afraid."
"You meant to wait until the snows had passed?"
"Yes, I think so."
"In their letters, did your aunt or uncle ever express any sense of danger? Did anyone bear them any animosity for any reason? Anything unusual, however apparently inconsequential, may in fact be of the utmost import."
"There are always little arguments in a small town like this, but I don't think there was anything serious."
"Would it be possible for me to read these letters? I presume you have brought them with you."
"Yes, certainly, if you believe that it will help in any way."
"It may. Now, you have carried out some investigation of your own already, is this so?"
"Yes, though I am afraid that it has raised more questions than it has answered."
"Then you are asking the correct questions, at the least. Let us hear the complete account of your investigation, from the beginning, if you please, omitting no detail. When did you arrive?"
"Nearly three weeks ago, on the 26th of November. I arrived at the bakery, expecting to find my aunt and uncle there - I could hardly imagine that it had been anything other than abysmal luck, resulting in waylaid letters, or that they had simply forgotten, occupied with daily life. However, I only found M. Renaud there, and when I asked him about my aunt and uncle, he claimed not to know them, that I had come to the wrong place.
"I had no choice but to come to the inn. The next day I spoke to Constable Durand, but he had little more to say. He had no record of them, alive or dead, and I do not think he liked that I was asking questions - there is something brutish about the man. I also asked Mme. Beauregard, she said that they were gone, but could say no more. I have since spoken to nearly half the town, and I have heard that they have left, died, and never existed at all. And I have checked, they have no grave in the cemetery. But I know that they truly lived here, whatever has befallen them!"
"It is not so unusual for a small, remote village such as this to protect their own when faced with the inquiries of an outsider. I am afraid that even if I may discover what has become of them, I will not be able to return them to you," Holmes cautioned.
"I know. I just want to know what happened."
"Very well, then we will uncover the truth whatever it may be," Holmes declared.
"Thank you, M. Holmes."
Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then absently took a bite of the fruitcake - a mistake.
M. Dupond observed Holmes's wince. "Perhaps in the meantime I will ask Mme. Beauregard if I can use the kitchen to make a real fruitcake according to my aunt and uncle's recipe in return."
"A most worthy endeavor!"
Holmes glanced encouragingly at Watson who smiled despite himself. "Indeed."