Molly's head still felt full of cobwebs as Holmes set her down in a parlor chair well away from the Clairmont's fume-filled dining room. Her vision swirled as she watched her dark-haired detective whip apart a pair of heavy drapes and slam open a creaky window. An instant later, he dragged her chair noisily across the floor until she was positioned next to the opening. Her first few inhalations of sweet, clean air were an enormous relief. She closed her eyes and leaned against the high-backed, winged seat as her fog began to clear and her stomach settled.
"Huh?!"
She jumped when fingers brushed a hair from her face. When she opened her eyes, Holmes kneeled directly in front of her chair. He retracted his hand with a halting uncertainty. She blinked several times as his impossibly handsome face came into sharp focus in the blue-white moonlight. His high cheeks were smooth as honed alabaster. His dark brows drew together in a slight frown. Her flesh warmed as his slightly constricted eyes caressed her features.
"Better?" His bow lips twitched.
She nodded. "Y-Yes, thank-you."
"Are you nauseas at all? Do you think you will be ill?"
Molly shook her head. Her stomach felt a bit queasy but significantly less so than it had during the séance. She looked down as she felt the whisper of movement over her lap. She watched his large hand with its elegant digits slide over her knuckles and then gingerly flip her wrist up. With his opposite hand, he pressed two fingers lightly against her pulse. The feather touch set every fibre in her being quivering like a string plucked on a cello.
"Your heart beat is irregular," he murmured.
She pressed her lips together. Yes, yes it was irregular but it had little to do with the happenings in the next room.
His eyes flicked up again. "Your pupils are quite dilated as well."
Molly knew her face must be flaming. "I-ah-. . . erm, it is dark in here, that's all. I am perfectly well. I just needed fresh air. The incense was too pungent, I think."
The corner of Holmes' nose jumped. "It is not just pungent, it is most likely laced with some sort of chemical intoxicant. Forgive me Hooper, I must ensure the evacuation of that room before anyone else succumbs. I will return momentarily."
"Of course!"
Holmes shot up, backed away, then turned and strode from the room. She heard a brief exchange between him and Mary and then the warbling voice of Mrs. Clairmont from the direction of the dining room. However, as the conversation went on, the matriarch's tone became frantic and screams ensued. The tremoring timber of her wrenching wails caused a prickling of fear up Molly's spine. This wasn't just a woman disturbed by the theatrics of her misguided séance, something terrible had happened. Molly jumped to her feet. She still felt a bit unsteady but she was compelled to ascertain for herself what had transpired. She made it to the entry of the dining room just as Greg and Dr. Watson rounded the corner from down the hall.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Dr. Watson panted.
She shrugged anxiously. "I-I do not know . . ."
The three of them piled into the room again. The haze of the incense had long since cleared. Mary stood near an open window pink-faced and fanning herself. The overhead electric light fixture with its multitude of incandescent bulbs brightly illuminated the scene. Molly slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Good God!" She gasped.
Mr. Clairmont laid on the floor where his chair had fallen backwards from the table with his arms splayed out. A shiny, almost black puddle collected beneath him in sickening contrast to the honey oak stain of the floorboards. An intricately carved, antler handle stuck up from his chest above his heart. Molly wasn't sure if the instrument was a knife or a letter opener but its aim had been true. Blood wicked from the wound into his white shirt and beneath his black waistcoat.
"Do something!" Mrs. Clairmont screeched as her daughters sidled up to her in shock. "Somebody do something!"
Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade rushed to join Holmes who was already crouched down as he assessed the man's airway but Molly could see that Mr. Clairmont's skin was not just ashen, but a dull grey. She recognized the shade very well. Mary bumped up against her as she peered over Molly's shoulder.
"Oh, bloody hell, how did I not notice that?" She whispered.
Holmes glanced up at them with rounded eyes full of disbelief. Molly clenched her teeth and shook her head and mouthed the words, 'he is gone'. The detective grimaced and dipped his chin in silent agreement. He then turned his gaze upwards to Mrs. Clairmont and her daughters. The two girls seemed to instantly grasp the situation. Their eyes filled with tears. The older girl buried her face in her hands.
"Why are you not helping him? Why is no one doing anything?" Mrs. Clairmont demanded.
"C-Come away, Mum," the younger girl cried as she grabbed her arm.
"What? Are you mad? Your father is injured. Somebody wake him! Robert? Robert?!"
The next few moments were chaotic as, at long last, the horrific truth dawned on Mrs. Clairmont. Her wild eyes turned to Holmes. One could almost see the fracturing of her soul withing.
"You promised!" She shrieked. "You promised to protect him . . . to protect us all!"
Holmes appeared stricken. His mouth parted with distress and he shook his head weakly. What little composure Mrs. Clairmont had left collapsed like an infested timber giving way. She howled and tried to fight her way to her husband but was restrained and then hauled off by Lestrade as well as her butler and a footman who had been drawn by the commotion. Her devastated daughters followed with their arms around one another. Molly's eyes stung at the look of pain on their faces. She knew only too well what it was like to lose someone so important and have the world wash away beneath one's feet. She dashed away a tear.
Mary squeezed her shoulders. "How horrid this is! Was this Donovan woman the culprit, you think?"
Holmes' head jerked up from where he had collapsed beside the motionless form of Mr. Clairmont. "Thank you, Mrs. Watson, whatever would we do without your pointing out the blatantly obvious?"
Mary pouted and folded her arms over her chest. "John! Is he mocking me?"
Dr. Watson glanced at Holmes with large eyes, shrugged and resumed his assessment. "Holmes does not need to mock, my dear. This situation is already absurd in the extreme."
"On that we can agree," Holmes mumbled in return. "I take it you were not successful in intercepting the bride?"
"Sorry, Holmes, they are all gone, the assistants and everything. It is like they were never here."
The detective closed his eyes and shook his head as if to shake away a spinning twister. It took him a few moments to steady himself. Then, he seemed to think of something and looked up at Molly. His eyes were filled with silent contemplation. He frowned.
"Hooper, you appear ready to keel over again. Mrs. Watson, would you please kindly escort her back to the parlor?"
Molly shook her head. "No, that will not be necessary."
Mary snickered and held up her hands. "The lady has spoken."
Holmes rose from the floor. He cocked his head to one side with a deep glower from temple to temple, then adjusted his waistcoat. He drew in a breath and expelled it slowly.
"It is best if you retire from this room at once," his voice was tight. "You have both been exposed to some form of narcotic given off by the incense."
"So have you and Dr. Watson!" Mary interjected.
Holmes' brow arched. "Yes, but as men we are naturally more resistant to its poisonous effects."
Mary's lips fell open in disbelief. She crossed her arms. Molly's lips pursed. The pair of them squared off against Holmes with similar expressions of disapproval.
"Christ, I am going to hear about this later," Dr. Watson muttered under his breath and went back to examining Mr. Clairmont.
"Oh, really, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Mary's voice was a bit pitchy.
Dr. Watson peered up from the body anxiously. His eyes were round. He kept glancing back and forth between his wife and Holmes. Finally he cleared his throat.
"Ahem, . . . mass, Holmes . . . mass," he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Holmes blinked at Watson and then lifted his chin. "Well, yes, Watson is right. We men are considerably heavier and thus, the drugs are much more diluted in our system. Of course, additionally, we are stronger in every other sense of the word . . ."
"Holmes!" Watson groaned.
". . . especially when you consider a man's mental fortitude-"
"Holmes, shut it."
". . . and our superior emotional control-"
Watson's hand slapped across his forehead. "Oh, my, God, Holmes. Just stop."
"Oh, no! Do go on," Mary exclaimed, "for I surely need a lesson in the courage of men!"
The large detective pressed his lips together. His nose wrinkled. He appeared as if he wanted to argue some more but also knew that would probably prove futile. Molly sucked in her bottom lip to prevent from grinning, as absurd as it was to do so in that moment. She had never seen Holmes look . . . indecisive. He regrouped quickly. She clenched her teeth when his stare hardened. Somehow, she knew he was about to say something awkward.
"Do you know what you problem is, Mrs. Watson?"
The room fell silent. Mary waltzed forward and swept her arm in a wide arc.
"Enlighten me, Mr. Holmes."
"You do not really believe women are equal to men," he grumbled. "You are convinced women are superior to men."
At first Molly thought Mary might become angry but instead, she grinned and a frothy laughter bubbled from her lips. Dr. Watson stood up at long last to bring an end to the bickering.
"Holmes, perhaps you should allow Miss Hooper to examine the body. You did invite her and my wife here for their insight, did you not? Though I am not sure what use it is for any of us to speculate when we already know who the culprit is-"
"We do?"
"Since when?"
"Oh?"
Dr. Watson appeared to be caught off guard by the trio of responses. "I-It was the ghost. You all saw her . . . the bride, I mean!"
Holmes rolled his eyes towards Molly. "Hooper, I rescind my earlier recommendation that you leave as it has become apparent the irrationality of opinion in this room would be lopsided without you."
Molly nodded. Her feet felt a bit leaden though as she shuffled forward. Holmes stepped quickly to her side and offered her a hand as she clutched her skirts and kneeled down. There wasn't much more to assess of their dead man. Upon closer inspection, she could see that Mr. Clairmont had been stabbed with a letter opener.
"Odd," she murmured and tried to put out of her mind that this man had been alive quite recently.
Holmes crouched to her right. "What is it?"
"I do not think it was the bride who killed Mr. Clairmont, be she a phantom or otherwise."
Molly feigned a stabbing motion as if subconsciously reinforcing her assertion. "There is a slight tilt of the opener's handle towards his face. This is an awkward angle to achieve if one is above the victim on the table. No, I think that the killer stood behind him and I have no doubt that the blow was from a left-handed person."
Holmes' lips twitched in a flash of a smile. His eyes flared with excitement.
"Yes, the angle is ever so slightly downwards and skewed leftwards," he leaned forwards, their heads almost touched as he swirled a long finger just off the top of the handle, "do you see also how this handle is irregularly carved, almost in the shape of a 'D'? It would have been most comfortably held in one's left hand at this particular rotation."
"Ooh, yes, oh and look," Molly breathed as she tugged Mr. Clairmont's shirt to reveal his flesh, "there is a slight tear to the wound in a vertical trajectory which means . . ."
Holmes completed her thought. "That the killer pulled him to make it look as if a forwards blow knocked him back!"
Next thing Molly knew, she was on her feet with her hands held tightly by Holmes. He shook them excitedly. His eyes shone with admiration. The rest of the world barely registered within their sphere. Her pulse pattered wildly in her throat. She knew then why he chose to be a consulting detective. This kind of discovery was addictive.
"Clever girl," he whispered absentmindedly. "We have almost certainly narrowed the killer down to one of the Clairmont women. They are all left handed . . ."
Molly shook her head in disagreement. "Not necessarily. Did you not notice the way Miss Donovan's smaller assistant wielded the pitcher of oil? She was also left handed, ooh, as is Inspector Lestrade!"
Holmes' eyes constricted and his lips drew together as if impressed. "You were paying attention."
Someone cleared their throat and popped their bubble. Greg had returned just at that moment.
"Erm, yes, I am left-handed but you can eliminate me as a suspect straight away," he said gruffly.
Holmes blinked and frowned down at Molly's hands. Then he shook his head and released them quickly. He stepped back and spun towards Lestrade. His movement was jaunty as if he were discombobulated. He gestured emphatically at the Inspector.
"Theoretically, we cannot discount you since it was pitch black and no one witnessed who delivered the fatal blow."
Greg's mouth hung open. "Then take my word for it."
Holmes shrugged. "That is something the killer would likely say. Your word is not incontrovertible evidence."
Molly heard Mary laugh and Dr. Watson mumble something unintelligible. She glanced at the pair of them. Watson shook his head at the cieling while Mary winked.
"I did not kill this man!" Greg exclaimed.
Holmes waved his hand at him. "Yes, yes, yes, I know this but-"
"No, buts, Sherlock Holmes!" Greg pointed his finger. "You know, cold reasoning can only take you so far in deducing some crimes, at some point you must use your heart."
Holmes sneered. "I would never do anything so nonsensical."
Again, Mary snorted, peeked sideways at Molly and raised her brows. "No, of course, Mr. Holmes. To believe otherwise, we would surely first need to see evidence you possessed a heart."
