Lestrade nodded at yet another expression full of trepidation. An older Asian gent, his face covered with grime from a hard day's labor, averted his eyes and stepped closer to the nearest brick wall as the officer passed. Greg sighed. Above him, the sky swirled with layers of grey clouds. He was lost down another narrow street in the east end of London in the modest heart of Chinatown and quite removed from any shops even the most adventuresome Limey might decide to visit. He could be in Singapore for all he recognized the area and that made him feel rather foolish. This was London, his London. He should know every corner of the city and yet he hadn't bothered to get to know this community before.
However, he couldn't say anyone living within a half-mile radius had ever given him a reason to visit. They weren't particularly bothersome and generally, didn't call upon Scotland Yard for assistance. He didn't blame them one whit. Most of the men he worked with treated immigrants with either indifference or outright contempt. He stopped in his tracks and glanced back over his shoulder at the fatigued man trudging away. Greg knew he wasn't going to get anywhere by keeping to himself. He needed help. The Inspector skipped back towards him and quickly removed his cap. The man's eyes widened as he approached. The poor fellow then looked around wildly as if he wanted to scramble away.
Lestrade cursed and waved his hands in capitulation. "No trouble, no trouble! Sorry, sir, erm . . . I am looking for . . . erm, just a tick . . ."
He fished his notebook from his pocket and flipped to the appropriate page. The man seemed to relax a bit and gazed at him in curiosity. Someone bumped by the Inspector's back and jostled him making him feel even more foolish.
"It is a shop run by, erm, not sure here . . . Mrs or Miss? In any event, her name is D-Dolma Shilog and her store is called the – ah – Blue Poppy? Does that sound right? Wait - Utpal Ngonpo is what I have written here. Blue Poppy, Utpal Ngonpo? Sound familiar?"
The man raised a brow and hiked his bag up on his shoulder. He then scrutinized the Inspector with bright eyes.
"I know the shop," he responded in a wary, lightly accented tone, "why do you seek it? You after opium? You will not find it there. Dolma is a good woman. She does not sell it."
Lestrade shook his head. "No, no, I . . . am just looking f-for . . . a friend."
The man leaned closer and tilted his head in suspicion. "A friend?"
Greg swallowed. "A redheaded friend."
The man's eyes popped open. Then he wagged his head back and forth in mirth. A smile spread across his face.
"Ah, the daughter," he mumbled and then started chuckling, "I thought you said you were not looking for trouble."
The Inspector shrugged. "I just need to speak with her, that is all."
The man continued to laugh in a raspy voice. The he pointed down the lane with his long finger and its swollen knuckles.
"You are in the wrong path, my friend," he waved towards the right, "a hundred steps in that direction there is a passage between the buildings that leads to a lane. Go to the end of the passage, turn left, and in another hundred steps you will see a red door with a brass knocker. Do not rap the door, just go in and you will find the mother in the back."
Greg thanked the man. They proceeded to walk in opposite directions before the Inspector thought of something. He called back to the fellow.
"Red door?" He frowned in confusion. "Why not a blue door? You know, if it's the Blue Poppy?"
The man only laughed and waved dismissively before turning away. Lestrade returned his notebook to his pocket and hurried towards the passage. On his way, he passed in front of a shop brimming with barrels of strange goods and suspended meats. His steps slowed. His mouth began to water from the intriguing aromas. His stomach growled and he eyed a bunch of dried sausages hanging in the window to one side. At the same moment, a middle-aged woman appeared at the entryway sweeping out a cloud of dust. She looked quickly from him to her sausages.
"It is Lap Cheong. Very good. Do you want to try?"
Lestrade was gripped with bashfulness but nodded. She smiled. Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Two for a half-penny."
A bargain! Just like that, the Inspector was on his way again munching on a kind of sweet yet savory cured sausage. Then as if that one purchase had been a rung bell heard the length of the street, he suddenly found himself being solicited for all manner of goods as he made his way to his destination. Not wanting to offend any of the storekeepers, he purchased a bag of what looked like dried sardines, a small, painted tea pot and little jar of brackish liquid from a very old man who had kept wagging his brows and promising 'vigor'. Finally, having spent all his pocket change, he escaped to the passage and over to the lane he sought. He had to step around all sorts of crates and other items stored behind the shops but soon found an ornate crimson door with decorative brass straps and a circular brass knocker adorned with a long tassel.
Lestrade paused in front of the door a moment and wrestled with the urge to knock. With a deep inhalation, he followed the advice he was given, pushed open the door and made his way inside. Above him, bells jangled an alert. The shop itself was no more than ten feet wide with two narrow aisles of goods crammed onto wooden shelves that went all the way to the height of the twelve-foot ceiling. He peered curiously at statues of a jolly, rotund figure in bronze and stone next to a examples of a more sanguine figure kind of praying. A woman calling in a language he did not recognize hailed from somewhere in the rear.
"Tah-shi-de-leh!"
"Right," Greg muttered to himself and picked up his pace.
He felt his heart rate increase as he finally spied a matronly looking woman with ginger hair that had started to grey. She was garbed in a plain brown and red layers that kind of wrapped her body like a robe with beads that hung from an embroidered gold and red sash at her waist. When she looked up, her eyes rounded.
Lestrade removed his cap again. "Hello, there."
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. "A-Are you Dolma Shilog?"
Again the woman nodded. She hastily spoke a few words in her own tongue again and mumbled a broken apology. Greg got the feeling she wasn't particularly comfortable with English. She put down a colourful tapestry she had been stitching and held up her hand. She leaned over and called out towards a set of stairs leading to the next story. A different, younger female answered and came thundering down the steps. Lestrade's heart rate sped up to a frantic patter as he instantly recognized the red-headed girl who had accompanied Sally Donovan to her séance. She was dressed in a similar manner to her mother except with what looked like a multi-hued geometric patterned smock. She froze wide-eyed on the bottom step for a few seconds before whirling in an attempt to rush back upstairs. Her mother stomped her foot and barked out a few strong syllables.
Lestrade watched her shoulders slump. She faced forward again with a sheepish look on her face. Slowly, she approached him wringing her wrists.
"G-Greetings, Inspector Lestrade," she stammered.
He glanced back and forth between the pair of women. Their red locks kept catching his eye. He had never seen a redhead who didn't have a bit of Scot or Irish in them. Upon closer inspection, the daughter wasn't as old as he had thought. She couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen.
"Sorry, what was your name again, Miss?" He asked as he once again retrieved his notepad.
"Tenzin," she said simply.
"Tenzin Shilog?" He said to himself as he jotted down a few notes.
She crossed her arms. "No, our names do not work that way. I am Tenzin Rinchen. See, we . . . well, it is complicated. In any event, how may I assist you, Inspector?"
Greg smiled tightly. "Oh, I think you know very well how you might help me, Miss Rinchen. Where is Miss Donovan?"
Tenzin's mother interrupted them with a hasty question for her daughter. She looked quite cross. Tenzin shushed her mother. Her face turned pink, though. They exchanged a few terse words. Then the older woman gesticulated pointedly towards the stairs. The younger woman glanced nervously in that same direction. Lestrade sucked in a breath. Could it be that easy? Had his medium been hiding out in Chinatown? Was she above him at that very moment? He interjected himself into the women's bickering.
"Miss Rinchen, you listen here," he wagged his finger, "I will not hesitate to arrest you this very instant on suspicion of harboring a fugitive so you had better tell me what you know-"
The floorboards above them creaked and someone began their descent from the upper floor. One by one, each wooden stair protested in a squeak. Lestrade felt his pulse beat in his neck as if there were a bird flapping beneath his skin. His breaths quickened as he first observed pale-blue satin slippers followed by sapphire skirts. When Sally herself finally emerged with a wide blue ribbon tied around a knot of braided hair on the top of her head, he thought he might expire from exaltation. A sort of relief also flooded through his frame even though she glowered at him.
"Leave them out of this," Miss Donovan bit out, "it is me you want, no?"
Greg's mouth snapped shut. He swallowed.
"Y-Yes, Miss Donovan," he stuttered.
Sally hastily asked Tenzin and her mother to leave them. The two women reluctantly bustled away with the elder seemingly haranguing her daughter. Sally sighed, crossed her arms and leaned against the coarse wooden sales counter with an expectant look upon her brow.
"How did you find me?"
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and slunk back against the counter next to the slight woman. He looked over and suppressed a grin. He rather liked being a fair bit taller and broader than her.
"I am a detective and not without my own skills and believe it or not, Miss Donovan, red-headed Chinese women are not all that common in London."
She rolled her eyes towards him. "They are no more Chinese than you are American, you daft cock. Dolma and Tenzin are from Lhasa in Tibet."
Greg felt his skin heat. "Well, erm, I am not completely wrong. Tibet is still under the control of China so technically; they are Chin-"
Sally snorted. "I dare you to refer to them as such in their presence."
The Inspector sighed heavily. "Alright, alright, look, we both know why I am here. So, are you going to talk about the Clairmonts or am I going to have to arrest you again?"
She pushed away from the counter with a huff. Then, she peered over her slender shoulder at him and her countenance changed. Suddenly, she seemed a lot more relaxed and her eyes hooded. Her skirts swept in a swoosh as she spun.
"Such determination. Such commitment to this pursuit! Yet, I feel my involvement with those people is but an excuse to find me. What do you really want, Inspector?" She murmured.
Lestrade shot up as she moved closer. "What? Nothing! I mean, I just want to help you, Miss Donovan."
She let her head sway sideways. "What makes you think I need your help?"
He gulped as she stepped even nearer. "You a-are in trouble."
Miss Donovan laughed in a low, husky tone. "This is not new."
In the next second, she stood toe to toe with the Inspector. Greg's lips felt a bit numb and flabby on his face as he stared down at her eyes the colour of warm topaz. She raised a dark brow and her plush lips tweaked into a smile.
"I do not think you want to rescue me, officer."
He licked his lips nervously. "No?"
Her gaze flicked over his face.
"No, indeed, I think you want to join me."
Molly felt the compulsion to lift her gaze again. Across the expanse of the Holmes' family's grand parlor pale blue-green eyes regarded her intently from the brooding male seated in a pecan-leather wing back chair. She found herself mesmerized by his slightly narrowed focus. Warmth spread up from her chest into the flesh of her face. Her cheeks prickled with the strength of her reaction. She was not sure if Holmes was irritated, incensed or just lost in thought.
She inhaled unsteadily. Her nerves were shattered. She had never been so stressed in her life. From the moment she had taken in the spectacle of Holmes' family residence glowing like a pink temple in the waning coral and gold light from the setting sun, she had felt in over her head. She could still hear the way her uncle had whistled when he initially gaped the five story town home with its heavy quoin blocking, rows of arched dormer windows and terrace supported by columns on the second level.
"Lord, I knew they were heavy in the purse," he'd mumbled as he smoothed his hands down the front of his white waistcoat, "but I dreadfully underestimated the burden of their wealth."
Molly only gurgled.
"Well, what do you think, my dear? Is it posh enough for you?" Her Uncle chuckled.
Molly gulped down a rise of panic. "Th-This is a mistake."
Her Uncle had grabbed her elbow and walked her toward the imposing, mahogany front door. "Pish! This is a triumph!"
After they had finally made their way into the home, Molly was swept away by a furious current in her introductions to the rest of the Holmes. The whirlwind of meeting his parents and older brother was followed up by a multiple course formal dinner. Then, they all retired to the parlor to more casually socialize which was where she found herself at that moment. Fortunately, his mother and father had seemed indifferent to Molly's presence and thus, she sat next to them while they chatted with her Uncle. Of course, they had no idea of her relationship with their son. For all they knew, they were hosting a gathering in honor of their son's good friend, Dr. Stamford.
Molly glanced again at Holmes as her Uncle launched into another story. She could not hold his gaze for long. Shyly, she averted her attention to the man seated at the complimentary to her ruminating 'fiancé'. The rather portly Mycroft Holmes eyed her suspiciously. His eyes flicked to his younger brother and back again. His brows pinched together. Then, he began to speak. Molly's face warmed. Somehow, she knew she was going to be the subject of their conversation in that instant. She clenched her teeth together and stifled a sigh. She would give anything to be a fly on the wall at their backs.
"So, when will we hear the announcement, brother mine?" Mycroft asked lazily across the room and out of earshot.
Sherlock glowered at him. His fingers steepled together as he relaxed into his seat. His brother swirled the scotch in his tumbler and sniffed the invisible vapors. The rich, brown fluid glinted in the light from the fireplace crackling at their backs. Mycroft appeared to have lost more weight. His face had thinned. He actually had cheekbones.
"What announcement?" Sherlock returned, equally as unhurried.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Your betrothal."
Sherlock reached for his glass and held it up with a smirk. He lifted his shoulders.
"Ah, well, I thought I would allow you to precede with your declaration of intentions. After all, you are the eldest."
Mycroft's lips pressed together as they turned down in a frown. Yet still, a little smile then lit his lips.
"Indeed. How did you know?"
Sherlock imbibed in a slug of his drink and shrugged. "You mean, besides the fact that you let the fair Miss Salisbury whip you like an unbroken mule? Let me count the ways! Do not think your continued weight loss, new suit, recent haircut . . . oh, and that receipt for a ring in your pocket has gone unnoticed."
The elder Holmes sputtered in his drink and hacked a few coughs. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and checked his pocket. He quickly retrieved and then returned a folded piece of paper to his pocket.
"Practicing your slight of hand again, I see? Well, shush, you fool, lest you ruin any chance Miss Salisbury has at gaining mummy's approval!"
Sherlock leaned over to peer at their mother.
"Calm yourself, she is not even listening. She is quite engaged by Dr. Stamford's postulations about London's spectral bride."
Mycroft let out a long breath. "You realize, I did not have a choice, dear brother. Miss Salisbury is determined to 'save me'. Her actions have put her at risk of ruination. I could not in good conscience allow this to happen. There was only one solution."
Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, indubitably."
Mycroft snorted. "You are one to speak! At least I have not carried through on any ruination-"
Sherlock's face heated. "Christ, follow your own advice and keep it down! As for your lack of extracurricular activities . . . well, that is only because you are likely physically incapable of engaging in any in your current state."
Mycroft jerked straight up. He slammed his drink down to the table between them.
"I am overweight, not dead nor incompetent, and . . . quit deflecting! I will inform our parents in good time about my situation. However, there is no imperative that Miss Salisbury and I wed any time soon. I know the same cannot be said for you. What was the impetus for these hurried nuptials? Is Miss Hooper-?"
Sherlock rubbed his lips together. "No! That is . . . it would be too soon to determine and unlikely in any event. No, it is Dr. Stamford that forces our hand. He . . . well, suffice to say, he found us out. We will make an announcement shortly. Hoo-, erm, Miss Hooper must complete her certifications."
Mycroft's brow wrinkled. "You mean to tell me that you do not intend to announce your engagement tonight? Then why the hell are we all here? Uhg, you know how I hate these family gatherings."
Sherlock's lips turned down tightly. "It is a test."
Mycroft's brow hiked. "What? What do you mean? A test of your intended's resolve?"
Just then, a small commotion drew everyone's gaze towards the entrance of the Holmes' family parlor. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the arrival of his younger brother, Sherrinford Holmes.
"No," he muttered, "it is a test of our little brother's resolve."
