Okay, here goes nothing.
Btw, thank you Anneliese for your generous comments. It's a fine story, but
I pretty sure that you are over-reacting. Still . . . Don't call me stupid,
but what's "rnrn"?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sherlock, have you read today's newspaper?" Sherridan asked him. Mycroft was away at a trip with a couple of his friends. Holmes got to spend his Christmas Break stuck with his eldest brother, his mother, and what was worst, his father.
"No, what's new?" he looked up from the bubbling beaker, otherwise as Mycroft called it, "Master Sherlock's cauldron of doom."
"How did you know that I was going to tell you something?" Sherridan winced a little at the green liquid. His last experience with it resulted in some third degree burns.
He shrugged, "I saw you reading the newspaper at breakfast, you also seemed surprised while you were reading, and also," he grinned mischievously, "you always tell me things from the Times."
"Don't be pert with me, mister." His big brother shook his head, then resumed conversation, "do you know about the Russian foreign minister's murder?"
Count Kpachinsky had arrived in London on commission a month ago. He had brought with him two secretaries, his wife, and his young son. The murder occurred no more than twenty-four hours before it was discovered. His secretaries were drugged severely as they were still in a comatose state when the papers were published. The Count himself was brutally tortured before he died. "He was hanged upside down from the ceiling as a pool of blood formed on the floor as the blood dripped from his dangling hands" the newspaper described. What was worse, the Count's wife had runaway with her son. There were no traces of them left, not a scrap of their whole closet of clothes or luggage were left.
"Gruesome woman," Sherridan remarked, "the Scotland Yard had to catch her or they'll get plenty of nasty letters."
"Scotland Yard couldn't catch a cold," Holmes replied. He had just solved his first case a week ago. He couldn't help thinking about investigating this one. Why would a woman murder her husband in a foreign country, where she had no place to turn to? Unless. "Did they have a description of the Countess' background?"
"Wait," the big man stumbled through an even bigger pile of different newspaper pages, "here it is."
Countess Catherine Kpachinsky, age 39. Born: Catherine Wilmington, June 17, 18- in Reading, England. Blonde hair, blue eyes; tall: five- seven, etc, etc. And there was a description of her son, Frederick.
"So she's actually English!" Sherridan blurted out, "they should check with her relatives if they have brains. And to think she had a child! I wonder what kind of murderess she was, not just killed, but tortured! I wonder who helped her, surely a woman can't do it all herself! And I wonder if the child watched the whole thing. Horrible, absolutely horrible!" he kept on blubbering this complete nonsense.
"Sherridan?" Holmes hadn't heard a word he said. He was starring attentively at the photograph of the murdered Count that accompanied the newspaper article. "Would you mind telling father and mother that I'm going to London for the day?"
"What business do you have in London?"
"Tell them I 'may' be back for dinner," and he was out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You know, sir. This is not a zoo. People can't just come in here to goggle at a murder scene." The bobby was quite polite, but determined.
"I am not just one of the public, I assure you." Holmes said in his most innocent voice, "I am a reporter for a descriptive sketch of the crime scene."
"A reporter?" he was not very convinced, "most reporters have came yesterday. Why are you so late?"
"Oh, no no," Holmes smiled, taking out a slate and pencil, "I'm here to draw the crime scene."
"Ain't photographing faster?"
"Sir, I work for the Granger magazine," he said in a wounded tone, "a highly sophisticated periodical. My customers would be enraged if I don't provide them an artistic piece. So, please excuse me." He walked in, leaving the poor man speechless. The bobby followed him inside. True to his word, he started sketching, while the working officers just stared at him.
"Stevenson, what's he doing here?"
"Sir, he said he works for a magazine. He's here to sketch the crime scene."
No one minded the tall thin young man for the rest of that day, who trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten others' presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. Alas, he was done and brushed his trousers as he stood up. He straightens his jacket, shuffles the papers straight before putting them into file, and before he could leave, an inspector stopped him.
"May I see your sketches, sir?"
"Sure, of course," he appeared to be dazed at first, which caused the inspector some private amusement. Then he opened his notebook and handed his sketches to him.
There were ten pages of pencil sketches, on every angle of the room. "Hmmm, you are a very talented artist, sir." The inspector noticed that none of the sketches contained the hanging body, but he thought better of than asking and to appear . . . well, unsophisticated in front of this apparent "artist."
"Thank you," Holmes replied politely. 'Bloody fool,' he thought. "If you don't mind, I have to get these quickly to the press."
"Of course, of course." He handed them back and watched the young man leave. The Granger Magazine? Never heard of it. Must be a thing for the rich people. He tilted his hat and went back to work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sherlock, where have you been?" his mother said anxiously. Her usually neat hair was looking like a bird's nest, and her lips were pale and trembling.
"Nowhere, Mother. Just outside walking," he knew these conditions were killing her, but there was nothing he could do. She was resolute to not leave their father.
"Yes, Madam."
"Well, dinner will be cold if you don't hurry. Christopher, take Master Sherlock's coat to the closets." She grabbed his hands with her small ones, "my, your hands are cold! There's some hot soup ready for you." In contrary, her hands were the ones like ice.
The two of them went into the dining room, which was bright and shiny with dozens of candles, silverware, and fine bone china. In the center of the north wall was a giant marble fireplace with tongues of flames dancing and cracking about. Sherridan came in the moment they did. The head of the household was sitting at the head of the table, frowning at the evening news.
"Is there something interesting in the papers, Father?" The eldest son spoke first as a servant drew his chair for him. Two other servants did so for his mother and youngest brother.
"No, none at all," he did not even look up, "only the usual: murders, international scandals, and the economy plunging down while the bloody Americans have their pockets filled with gold."
"Oh," Sherridan grimaced a little, then resumed conversation, "is there anything on the Russian foreign minister's murder?"
"Yes, they caught the woman and the boy," he gave the paper to a servant, who handed it to Sherridan, "it turns out that the boy isn't even the count's son."
"He wasn't?" Holmes was a little disappointed.
Count Kpachinsky had left a will. In it, he described of his wife's adulterous practices and his inability to consummate the marriage. He left all his titles and fortune to a child by his first marriage. He also stripped his wife and her son of any titles and claims to what he owned. There were also love letters to prove that Frederick wasn't his son, which were, of course, not published in the papers.
"Where did they find the countess?" Holmes was interested.
"It says here," Sherridan read, "that the police found her at her father's old home, which is deserted. Also, she was taken into custody and her son was sent temporarily to an orphanage."
"When is Mycroft going to be back?" their mother was uncomfortable about this topic.
"Tonight, right?"
"We have a Christmas party invitation to Lord Wilkins' mansion tomorrow, don't we?"
"Yes, mother."
Then they spent the rest of the course sipping soup in awful silence. Mycroft was lucky to have gotten away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Sorry that I just HAD to break the story up at this point. But I can warrant that the "meat" is next. I'm afraid this thing is stretching on and on forever, nevertheless, I do make very short chapters (much easier to manage). *Grin* read on and review, if you don't . . . I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. *Apologetic smile* Just kiddin'!
"Sherlock, have you read today's newspaper?" Sherridan asked him. Mycroft was away at a trip with a couple of his friends. Holmes got to spend his Christmas Break stuck with his eldest brother, his mother, and what was worst, his father.
"No, what's new?" he looked up from the bubbling beaker, otherwise as Mycroft called it, "Master Sherlock's cauldron of doom."
"How did you know that I was going to tell you something?" Sherridan winced a little at the green liquid. His last experience with it resulted in some third degree burns.
He shrugged, "I saw you reading the newspaper at breakfast, you also seemed surprised while you were reading, and also," he grinned mischievously, "you always tell me things from the Times."
"Don't be pert with me, mister." His big brother shook his head, then resumed conversation, "do you know about the Russian foreign minister's murder?"
Count Kpachinsky had arrived in London on commission a month ago. He had brought with him two secretaries, his wife, and his young son. The murder occurred no more than twenty-four hours before it was discovered. His secretaries were drugged severely as they were still in a comatose state when the papers were published. The Count himself was brutally tortured before he died. "He was hanged upside down from the ceiling as a pool of blood formed on the floor as the blood dripped from his dangling hands" the newspaper described. What was worse, the Count's wife had runaway with her son. There were no traces of them left, not a scrap of their whole closet of clothes or luggage were left.
"Gruesome woman," Sherridan remarked, "the Scotland Yard had to catch her or they'll get plenty of nasty letters."
"Scotland Yard couldn't catch a cold," Holmes replied. He had just solved his first case a week ago. He couldn't help thinking about investigating this one. Why would a woman murder her husband in a foreign country, where she had no place to turn to? Unless. "Did they have a description of the Countess' background?"
"Wait," the big man stumbled through an even bigger pile of different newspaper pages, "here it is."
Countess Catherine Kpachinsky, age 39. Born: Catherine Wilmington, June 17, 18- in Reading, England. Blonde hair, blue eyes; tall: five- seven, etc, etc. And there was a description of her son, Frederick.
"So she's actually English!" Sherridan blurted out, "they should check with her relatives if they have brains. And to think she had a child! I wonder what kind of murderess she was, not just killed, but tortured! I wonder who helped her, surely a woman can't do it all herself! And I wonder if the child watched the whole thing. Horrible, absolutely horrible!" he kept on blubbering this complete nonsense.
"Sherridan?" Holmes hadn't heard a word he said. He was starring attentively at the photograph of the murdered Count that accompanied the newspaper article. "Would you mind telling father and mother that I'm going to London for the day?"
"What business do you have in London?"
"Tell them I 'may' be back for dinner," and he was out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You know, sir. This is not a zoo. People can't just come in here to goggle at a murder scene." The bobby was quite polite, but determined.
"I am not just one of the public, I assure you." Holmes said in his most innocent voice, "I am a reporter for a descriptive sketch of the crime scene."
"A reporter?" he was not very convinced, "most reporters have came yesterday. Why are you so late?"
"Oh, no no," Holmes smiled, taking out a slate and pencil, "I'm here to draw the crime scene."
"Ain't photographing faster?"
"Sir, I work for the Granger magazine," he said in a wounded tone, "a highly sophisticated periodical. My customers would be enraged if I don't provide them an artistic piece. So, please excuse me." He walked in, leaving the poor man speechless. The bobby followed him inside. True to his word, he started sketching, while the working officers just stared at him.
"Stevenson, what's he doing here?"
"Sir, he said he works for a magazine. He's here to sketch the crime scene."
No one minded the tall thin young man for the rest of that day, who trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten others' presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. Alas, he was done and brushed his trousers as he stood up. He straightens his jacket, shuffles the papers straight before putting them into file, and before he could leave, an inspector stopped him.
"May I see your sketches, sir?"
"Sure, of course," he appeared to be dazed at first, which caused the inspector some private amusement. Then he opened his notebook and handed his sketches to him.
There were ten pages of pencil sketches, on every angle of the room. "Hmmm, you are a very talented artist, sir." The inspector noticed that none of the sketches contained the hanging body, but he thought better of than asking and to appear . . . well, unsophisticated in front of this apparent "artist."
"Thank you," Holmes replied politely. 'Bloody fool,' he thought. "If you don't mind, I have to get these quickly to the press."
"Of course, of course." He handed them back and watched the young man leave. The Granger Magazine? Never heard of it. Must be a thing for the rich people. He tilted his hat and went back to work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sherlock, where have you been?" his mother said anxiously. Her usually neat hair was looking like a bird's nest, and her lips were pale and trembling.
"Nowhere, Mother. Just outside walking," he knew these conditions were killing her, but there was nothing he could do. She was resolute to not leave their father.
"Yes, Madam."
"Well, dinner will be cold if you don't hurry. Christopher, take Master Sherlock's coat to the closets." She grabbed his hands with her small ones, "my, your hands are cold! There's some hot soup ready for you." In contrary, her hands were the ones like ice.
The two of them went into the dining room, which was bright and shiny with dozens of candles, silverware, and fine bone china. In the center of the north wall was a giant marble fireplace with tongues of flames dancing and cracking about. Sherridan came in the moment they did. The head of the household was sitting at the head of the table, frowning at the evening news.
"Is there something interesting in the papers, Father?" The eldest son spoke first as a servant drew his chair for him. Two other servants did so for his mother and youngest brother.
"No, none at all," he did not even look up, "only the usual: murders, international scandals, and the economy plunging down while the bloody Americans have their pockets filled with gold."
"Oh," Sherridan grimaced a little, then resumed conversation, "is there anything on the Russian foreign minister's murder?"
"Yes, they caught the woman and the boy," he gave the paper to a servant, who handed it to Sherridan, "it turns out that the boy isn't even the count's son."
"He wasn't?" Holmes was a little disappointed.
Count Kpachinsky had left a will. In it, he described of his wife's adulterous practices and his inability to consummate the marriage. He left all his titles and fortune to a child by his first marriage. He also stripped his wife and her son of any titles and claims to what he owned. There were also love letters to prove that Frederick wasn't his son, which were, of course, not published in the papers.
"Where did they find the countess?" Holmes was interested.
"It says here," Sherridan read, "that the police found her at her father's old home, which is deserted. Also, she was taken into custody and her son was sent temporarily to an orphanage."
"When is Mycroft going to be back?" their mother was uncomfortable about this topic.
"Tonight, right?"
"We have a Christmas party invitation to Lord Wilkins' mansion tomorrow, don't we?"
"Yes, mother."
Then they spent the rest of the course sipping soup in awful silence. Mycroft was lucky to have gotten away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Sorry that I just HAD to break the story up at this point. But I can warrant that the "meat" is next. I'm afraid this thing is stretching on and on forever, nevertheless, I do make very short chapters (much easier to manage). *Grin* read on and review, if you don't . . . I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. *Apologetic smile* Just kiddin'!