~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Sherlock, what is wrong with you today? Are you feeling unwell or sick?" Victor Trevor put down the book he was reading. Holmes had been dropping beakers and spilling chemicals all morning. "Did something wrong happened when you were in London yesterday?" He paused and thought for a second, "how is your mother?"
"My mother is fine, Trevor. And so am I. I'm just a little queasy from the trip, that's all."
Trevor whistled, took up his book, then put it down, "Do you want to take a ride to the stables? Maybe the country air can clear your head."
"No, what I need is to work. Thank you for the offer, my friend. But I need to catch up on my work." Trevor resumed his book, muttering something about his friend being an insensitive person. All his life, all those traveling, all those adventures, Holmes had never been so close to death as he was yesterday. Perhaps that was why he felt that he now had a second chance to renew the meaning of life. Nonetheless, he was still emotionally exhausted. There was so much on his mind that he couldn't concentrate. There was the Scarlet Ibis, the so-called traitor he was helping to capture, there was that man who tried to kill him, who called all Trinitians "cheats and liars," and there was also Alinere, who acted with such mysteriousness and always refused to answer his questions. What he needed now was an assignment, a divergent that could make his mind swim with concentration. A telegram was delivered to his room. It ran:
SHERLOCK, WANT TO LOOK MORE INTO KPANICHKY CASE. STOP. COME TO 56 PATON ST TODAY AT NINE. STOP. DRESS DARK. STOP. MYCROFT
Be careful of what you wish for.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clad in black trousers and shirt, Holmes appeared at the designated place, but no Mycroft was in sight. While waiting, he still couldn't stop twitching his shoulders every time someone or something came by him. Damn the nerves, he thought with another shudder. Alas, he saw his brother, in a doorway two doors down. He let him into the house, and shut the door behind them. "Mycroft, where are we?"
"This is the house of a friend of mine, whose father is the chief inspector in charge of this case," he spoke in his usual droll tone, "he had just received a package of some background check on the count." He saw the concern on his brother's face, "the family is out for the whole night, the servants are all sleeping after all that drinking."
Without saying another word, they sneaked into the master's study. How convenient. The manila folder was right on the desk. Mycroft handed him a pair of gloves, then put on a pair on his own big hands. They divided the file into two smaller piles and started to examine them under the hissing gas-lamp light. These were mostly junks: deeds to estates in places in Russia no one's ever heard of; birth certificate, oh god, the man is already dead; several Russian newspaper articles with his pictures in them; then more correspondence written in Russian.
"These can't help us," Mycroft threw them aside into a pile, then he picked up another piece of paper and called after he realize what it was, "Sherlock, look at this."
It was the Count's will, translated into English:
Here I, Frederick Vladmir, etc. Kpachinsky, Count of His Majesty's Royal Court, leaving in the event of my death, the right to the estate in Moscow, the title of count, and the sum of all the money under my name, etc. etc. to my daughter and heiress, Alinere Gertrude Kpachinsky, Countess of His Majesty's Royal Court of Russia.
Then there was another detailed list of all the count's properties.
"Do you think-" Holmes started.
"It's still too early to say so. Insufficient data, Sherlock. Also, does she have the resource and motive to accomplish murder?" Holmes swallowed. She could take down three full grown men bare-handed, and there was nothing she couldn't do. And motive, yes, she hated her father, she told him so, she hated him to the marrow of her bones. But he couldn't tell Mycroft any of these, at least not yet. There must be a logical explanation to this without putting Aline as the culprit. There has to be. There has to be. "Sherlock? Are you all right?" He must have dozed out.
"Oh, yes, yes, I am," he unknotted his brows as he looked into his brother's grey eyes. Mycroft patted him on the back and put the documents back into order.
"Let's go now, there is nothing more for us to see." Holmes was a little relieved when his brother said, "Miss Alinere is probably the least likely murderer I've ever met, perhaps it might be someone else, someone close to her. I'll look in onto Lord Wilkins, Sherlock." Holmes nodded dumbly in reply. There has to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What do you mean that she can't see me?" he roared into the poor boy's face.
"Holmes," Hughenfort said cooly, "Lady Aline cannot see you because she is unable to. When she is able, your message will be replied by her in person." This was the same thing he had been repeating for hours. In truth, he was afraid of the much taller young man, who was getting angrier and angrier each second, but it was his job. Like all Trinitians, Maurice hold his work sacred. It was a great work he and his brothers were doing, and in order to accomplish their work, they had to obey their leader.
"Fine, fine," he knew it was no use. He could wait, wait for the right time to ask her. He had poured all of himself into the Trinity, she has to be honest with him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{@}~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Oh, look'ver there, Sherlock, the tree-time fencing champ of Cambridge," Trevor pointed to a crowd not too faraway, "the girls are absolutely mad about him. Good looks, charms, and money are definitely over- rated, don't you think?"
"Huh, what? Oh," Holmes was just pondering over a difficult mathematics problem concerning the binary system, "whatever you say." Darn it, he almost had the solution in his head.
"Ah, look, he's coming this way. Sherlock? Sherlock?"
"Who?"
"Ugh," Victor shook his head.
Holmes was glad that his friend was finally leaving him alone, but before he could be fully absorbed into his problem, an out-stretching had showed up in front of his bent-down face. Couldn't help but be a little irritated, he looked up and found Edward Rubrius, Duke of Hanmel, standing in front of him, smiling.
"Hullo, Sherlcok," he flashed his usual toothy grin, "what are you doing on a fine day such as this?" Behind him, stood what could only be his group of admirers.
"How do you do, Your Grace," he shook the offered hand limply.
"Oh, please," Hanmel slapped the air with one of his pale hands, "how many times do I have to tell you to call my 'Edward'?" the crowd giggled. "Are you busy right now?"
"Yes, yes, in fact I am." Holmes was getting impatient. Small talks bored him.
"Would you care to have tea with me?" Hanmel was not one to give up. "I have business to speak to you about."
"Business?"
"Sherlock, what is wrong with you today? Are you feeling unwell or sick?" Victor Trevor put down the book he was reading. Holmes had been dropping beakers and spilling chemicals all morning. "Did something wrong happened when you were in London yesterday?" He paused and thought for a second, "how is your mother?"
"My mother is fine, Trevor. And so am I. I'm just a little queasy from the trip, that's all."
Trevor whistled, took up his book, then put it down, "Do you want to take a ride to the stables? Maybe the country air can clear your head."
"No, what I need is to work. Thank you for the offer, my friend. But I need to catch up on my work." Trevor resumed his book, muttering something about his friend being an insensitive person. All his life, all those traveling, all those adventures, Holmes had never been so close to death as he was yesterday. Perhaps that was why he felt that he now had a second chance to renew the meaning of life. Nonetheless, he was still emotionally exhausted. There was so much on his mind that he couldn't concentrate. There was the Scarlet Ibis, the so-called traitor he was helping to capture, there was that man who tried to kill him, who called all Trinitians "cheats and liars," and there was also Alinere, who acted with such mysteriousness and always refused to answer his questions. What he needed now was an assignment, a divergent that could make his mind swim with concentration. A telegram was delivered to his room. It ran:
SHERLOCK, WANT TO LOOK MORE INTO KPANICHKY CASE. STOP. COME TO 56 PATON ST TODAY AT NINE. STOP. DRESS DARK. STOP. MYCROFT
Be careful of what you wish for.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clad in black trousers and shirt, Holmes appeared at the designated place, but no Mycroft was in sight. While waiting, he still couldn't stop twitching his shoulders every time someone or something came by him. Damn the nerves, he thought with another shudder. Alas, he saw his brother, in a doorway two doors down. He let him into the house, and shut the door behind them. "Mycroft, where are we?"
"This is the house of a friend of mine, whose father is the chief inspector in charge of this case," he spoke in his usual droll tone, "he had just received a package of some background check on the count." He saw the concern on his brother's face, "the family is out for the whole night, the servants are all sleeping after all that drinking."
Without saying another word, they sneaked into the master's study. How convenient. The manila folder was right on the desk. Mycroft handed him a pair of gloves, then put on a pair on his own big hands. They divided the file into two smaller piles and started to examine them under the hissing gas-lamp light. These were mostly junks: deeds to estates in places in Russia no one's ever heard of; birth certificate, oh god, the man is already dead; several Russian newspaper articles with his pictures in them; then more correspondence written in Russian.
"These can't help us," Mycroft threw them aside into a pile, then he picked up another piece of paper and called after he realize what it was, "Sherlock, look at this."
It was the Count's will, translated into English:
Here I, Frederick Vladmir, etc. Kpachinsky, Count of His Majesty's Royal Court, leaving in the event of my death, the right to the estate in Moscow, the title of count, and the sum of all the money under my name, etc. etc. to my daughter and heiress, Alinere Gertrude Kpachinsky, Countess of His Majesty's Royal Court of Russia.
Then there was another detailed list of all the count's properties.
"Do you think-" Holmes started.
"It's still too early to say so. Insufficient data, Sherlock. Also, does she have the resource and motive to accomplish murder?" Holmes swallowed. She could take down three full grown men bare-handed, and there was nothing she couldn't do. And motive, yes, she hated her father, she told him so, she hated him to the marrow of her bones. But he couldn't tell Mycroft any of these, at least not yet. There must be a logical explanation to this without putting Aline as the culprit. There has to be. There has to be. "Sherlock? Are you all right?" He must have dozed out.
"Oh, yes, yes, I am," he unknotted his brows as he looked into his brother's grey eyes. Mycroft patted him on the back and put the documents back into order.
"Let's go now, there is nothing more for us to see." Holmes was a little relieved when his brother said, "Miss Alinere is probably the least likely murderer I've ever met, perhaps it might be someone else, someone close to her. I'll look in onto Lord Wilkins, Sherlock." Holmes nodded dumbly in reply. There has to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What do you mean that she can't see me?" he roared into the poor boy's face.
"Holmes," Hughenfort said cooly, "Lady Aline cannot see you because she is unable to. When she is able, your message will be replied by her in person." This was the same thing he had been repeating for hours. In truth, he was afraid of the much taller young man, who was getting angrier and angrier each second, but it was his job. Like all Trinitians, Maurice hold his work sacred. It was a great work he and his brothers were doing, and in order to accomplish their work, they had to obey their leader.
"Fine, fine," he knew it was no use. He could wait, wait for the right time to ask her. He had poured all of himself into the Trinity, she has to be honest with him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{@}~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Oh, look'ver there, Sherlock, the tree-time fencing champ of Cambridge," Trevor pointed to a crowd not too faraway, "the girls are absolutely mad about him. Good looks, charms, and money are definitely over- rated, don't you think?"
"Huh, what? Oh," Holmes was just pondering over a difficult mathematics problem concerning the binary system, "whatever you say." Darn it, he almost had the solution in his head.
"Ah, look, he's coming this way. Sherlock? Sherlock?"
"Who?"
"Ugh," Victor shook his head.
Holmes was glad that his friend was finally leaving him alone, but before he could be fully absorbed into his problem, an out-stretching had showed up in front of his bent-down face. Couldn't help but be a little irritated, he looked up and found Edward Rubrius, Duke of Hanmel, standing in front of him, smiling.
"Hullo, Sherlcok," he flashed his usual toothy grin, "what are you doing on a fine day such as this?" Behind him, stood what could only be his group of admirers.
"How do you do, Your Grace," he shook the offered hand limply.
"Oh, please," Hanmel slapped the air with one of his pale hands, "how many times do I have to tell you to call my 'Edward'?" the crowd giggled. "Are you busy right now?"
"Yes, yes, in fact I am." Holmes was getting impatient. Small talks bored him.
"Would you care to have tea with me?" Hanmel was not one to give up. "I have business to speak to you about."
"Business?"