Chapter Five: Truths and Lies
"Good morning, gentlemen," Warrick said as we entered the foyer. It was as if he had been waiting for us, standing behind his desk. Outside, the rain poured and the thunder crashed.
"Not exactly, Mr. Warrick," I said, staring at the storm raging outside. "And although the sky seemed favorable upon my waking, it seems that Mother Nature is against us. I believe that Watson and I will be staying another night in your inn." Warrick's face lit up with joy.
"Really? Well, you boys may single-handedly save my business," he chuckled lowly. With a small nod, he smiled broadly. "In fact, I think that I shall cut your price in half. Five pounds for the two of you, with another five for resources."
"Are you serious?" Watson asked, his brown eyes wide with wonder. We had thought that our previous night had been cheap, but this price was almost ludicrous. I nodded, my mouth slightly agape as I reached into my pocket and pulled out ten more pounds, handing them to Mr. Warrick. He accepted, and returned to his papers he had set before him. I glanced at Watson, and he motioned for me to ask the manager what I had truly come for. I cleared my throat, and the redheaded man looked up.
"Mr. Warrick, may I ask something of you?" I asked.
"Ask away, young sir."
"Well," I tried to think of the best way to word my question. It is not usual that a young man asks to see a dead woman's effects. "Your story from last night has interested me terribly. The tale about Mrs. Gayle Mayhon?"
"Yes, I remember, Mr. Holmes. It's a wonderfully exciting story, is it not? Is there something else you wish to hear?"
'Jack,' Sherlock Holmes muttered, 'this trip has proven to be more prolific than expected. Listen to what he has to say, it may prove extremely important.'
"Why, of course," I told him. "I'd be all too happy."
"Well, do you remember that I told you that she entered with three men: husband, father and brother? It seems that her brother-"
"Benjamin," I muttered. Warrick paused, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Yes... It seems that her brother Benjamin was found arguing with Mrs. Mayhon only short time before she was killed. He seemed to be arguing the point of his own comfort." I remembered when Holmes had been speaking with Mrs. Mayhon, she had mentioned that they had been traveling the countryside for quite a while before stopping at the Ostendorf Inn. "If I remember correctly, I was already abed, but I could still hear his angry words from my room. My father had to step down from his own room to calm the two of them down. They seemed rather enflamed about it, if memory serves."
"It seems to me that your memory is quite acute for a murder that is 27 years old now," I said conversationally.
"It's not something one forgets very easily, Mr. Holmes. I suppose you wouldn't understand, being so young." He sighed, and his pale eyes took on a sad look. I straightened myself out, as if preparing myself for the question I was going to ask.
"I have taken quite a keen interest in this episode. I was wondering... You wouldn't happen to have any of Mrs. Mayhon's effects still here at the inn, would you?" I asked. Warrick glanced up at me, and I was struck by the sadness in his eyes.
"That I do, Mr. Holmes. Though it was hers, it was meant for that unborn child inside of her. Her father had given it to me after the murder, saying that it held too many memories for him to be able to keep." He reached under the desk and pulled out a corrugated cardboard box. Lying inside of the box was a neatly folded pink knitted blanket. Embroidered on one corner of the blanket was the name "Marianne." I ran my fingertips over the name, feeling the thread under my skin. My thoughts returned to the vision I had seen of Gayle together with her child Marianne. I blinked, and I could feel hot tears welling in my eyes. How could a man take a weapon to such a beautiful woman, let alone a woman so with child she was fit to burst? I grasped the knitted blanket close in my hand, and felt the rough stitch against my skin. I nodded, turning my eyes again to Mr. Warrick.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, the lights around us flickered briefly. I felt Watson's hand grab my sleeve and bunch the fabric in his fist in fear. Warrick's hands gripped the desk in front of him, his knuckles burning white. A chilling blast of air soared through the hall as the main doors burst inwards. Instinctively, I shielded Watson from whatever had just appeared, looming in the doorway. A soaked umbrella crashed to the ground near my feet, and a man stepped into the foyer, rainwater dripping from his entire person.
"Mr. Warrick, I need a room," the wet man said, taking his coat off of his person. At first glance, he was a gray, elderly man, possibly in his seventies. Despite his age, he was in extraordinary health, judging by his build and his set jaw. When his gray-green eyes stared down at me, I felt an involuntary shudder of fear pass down my back.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Richardson," Warrick said briefly, stepping out from behind the desk to shake the new man's hand. I didn't need Holmes to remind me who this man was.
"Richardson," I muttered, remembering the name of the man that had given up his room for Mrs. Mayhon. Richardson raised one eyebrow in confusion.
"Have we met, boy?" He asked in a booming bass voice. I shook my head and offered my hand.
"No, sir, but I've read a great deal about you," I told him, taking a chance that his name had been in the papers. "I'm Jack Holmes." He took my hand and shook it with a jarring grip.
"Neville Richardson," he offered. "But you probably knew that already."
"Indeed, sir. It was quite the tale, about Mrs. Mayhon. It was in this very inn, was it not?" It was a risk, but something inside me dared to continue with it.
"Damned unfortunate business," Richardson muttered, shaking his head. "Sometimes I can still hear the poor girl. You're a might young to have heard about it, aren't you?"
"Well," I started, "I like to think of myself as a sort of detective in training. I'll shuffle through old papers and try to decipher the mystery before I read about the conclusion. Unfortunately, this particular story didn't have an ending."
"Damned unfortunate," Richardson said again, seeming as if he wanted to step past me. "You have your own hypothesis then?" Before I could answer him, the lights flickered again. Warrick cleared his throat.
"What brings you so far into the country, Mr. Richardson?" Warrick asked, standing next to the register. Richardson stepped by me and took the pen in his hand, signing in what seemed to be a very elegant hand.
"My wife passed away not two weeks ago. Left everything to her damned sisters, including my house. You could say I'm in the market." Richardson shook his head and placed the pen above the register book. "Do you have anything to eat, Warrick?"
"Yes, of course, just step this way." Warrick led the man back behind the desk where he had been standing earlier, and opened a door to an adjacent room. I looked briefly at Watson, then charged after the two of them.
"Mr. Richardson," I called. I was determined to solve this mystery. "The papers that I read never gave a full account on your telling of the events. Do you think that you could possibly-"?
"Listen," Richardson growled, turning sharply. "I'm flattered that you know me, or even that you care. But it's just not something I want to remember. Not that there's much to my story to tell anyway. If you'll excuse me, I haven't eaten since six last night." With that, he was gone. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came. Stamping my foot, I turned, passing Watson on my way back to the mysterious room 13.
"Holmes!" Watson called, his footsteps frantically keeping up with mine. "Holmes!" I pushed open the jarred door of the spectral room and lay myself flat on the bed. I cast my eyes upward, toward the blank ceiling. It was only another few moments that passed until Watson entered the room. He stood in the doorway, perhaps deciding whether to enter the frightening room. Eventually, he moved to my side and sat down on the bed beside me. We sat there, listening in silence to nothing. Then I heard it again. The sobbing of Gayle Mayhon. The wind outside howled and the rain hammered against the windowpanes.
"I want to help you," I called into the room.
The crying stopped.
Cold, invisible fingers touched my cheek lightly.
"Then you must tell him the truth," a voice close to my ear whispered as softly as a breath of wind.
"Tell Watson?" I murmured.
"Tell me what?" Watson asked.
"He wishes with all of his heart to help you, little Holmes. Tell him the truth, and then, just maybe, you can help me." The woman, who could only be Mrs. Mayhon, touched my cheek once again, and suddenly the cold feeling was gone. I sat up on the bed, feeling Watson's brown eyes on my form. I turned to him and forced a weak smile.
"Something I should have told you from the beginning."
It seemed as if even the rain had abated, waiting, hanging on my every word.
"Watson," I started, searching for the right words, "when we first met, you asked me how I was able to infer everything about you, and later, everything about the murder. I wasn't able to even describe it to myself, so there was no way that I could tell you." I paused, listening for any objection from Sherlock. None came. "But now I can." Watson's breath caught in his throat. "At first, it was a sound like a small voice sounding from the back of my mind. Then the voice grew. It told me everything. And the voice had a name." I sighed, turning away. "You'd think me insane."
"Anything but, Holmes," Watson said in a subdued voice, his eyes holding a certain sense of awe. I was loath to continue, but the look of almost childish anticipation that was shining in my friend's eyes bade me to continue. But the words couldn't come. How could I tell this boy that Sherlock Holmes was living inside of my head? Again, it seemed like the man inside of me had a solution to all of my problems. He once again took total control of my body, forcing me from sitting. My body bowed, and it was Sherlock's words pouring from my mouth.
"Watson, finally we meet again," he said with a smile. Watson's face was contorted in confusion, but a great smile soon spread over his cheeks, and he too leapt from the bed, taking both of my hands in his.
"Holmes! It is you! How long it has been! To think that both of us-"
"I am sorry, my dear Watson, but now is not the time for reminiscing. If it were my own time, I would have us talk all through the day. But this is Mrs. Mayhon's time."
"Oh, yes, indeed. I'm afraid that young William has not given me much information considering the mystery. He's quite stubborn."
"As is my own young friend," Holmes added with a chuckle. "I have a theory, and in order to prove its legitimacy, Mrs. Mayhon has insisted that the two boys must work as one."
"Logical assumption," Watson said shortly.
"Time is of the essence. I believe that our villain is within these very walls as we speak. If we do not hurry, he will escape our grasp. Are you prepared, old friend?"
"As I always have been, Holmes. Lead on, and I will follow."
I was suddenly in control of myself again, and I stumbled slightly. Watson's face was still beaming with joy. I was suddenly seized in his arms as he embraced me with ferocity. All of the air escaped my lungs.
"Holmes, I thought I was the only one," he said as he released me. I coughed, trying to breathe again. "I thought I was the only one who heard..."
"Our murderer at the orphanage heard also. Professor Moriarty, reincarnated in the mind of a madman." I grasped Watson by the wrist and tore from the room. "Just as Holmes said, we have very little time."
Then I felt word bubbling from deep inside me, as if they had been waiting my whole life to be said.
"Come, Watson, the game is afoot!"
-----------------
AN: I am sooooo sorry that this story is taking so long. I just got over a huge battle with writer's block. There is no excuse for delaying a story for so long. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me! Oh yeah, and I hope you like the new chapter!
"Good morning, gentlemen," Warrick said as we entered the foyer. It was as if he had been waiting for us, standing behind his desk. Outside, the rain poured and the thunder crashed.
"Not exactly, Mr. Warrick," I said, staring at the storm raging outside. "And although the sky seemed favorable upon my waking, it seems that Mother Nature is against us. I believe that Watson and I will be staying another night in your inn." Warrick's face lit up with joy.
"Really? Well, you boys may single-handedly save my business," he chuckled lowly. With a small nod, he smiled broadly. "In fact, I think that I shall cut your price in half. Five pounds for the two of you, with another five for resources."
"Are you serious?" Watson asked, his brown eyes wide with wonder. We had thought that our previous night had been cheap, but this price was almost ludicrous. I nodded, my mouth slightly agape as I reached into my pocket and pulled out ten more pounds, handing them to Mr. Warrick. He accepted, and returned to his papers he had set before him. I glanced at Watson, and he motioned for me to ask the manager what I had truly come for. I cleared my throat, and the redheaded man looked up.
"Mr. Warrick, may I ask something of you?" I asked.
"Ask away, young sir."
"Well," I tried to think of the best way to word my question. It is not usual that a young man asks to see a dead woman's effects. "Your story from last night has interested me terribly. The tale about Mrs. Gayle Mayhon?"
"Yes, I remember, Mr. Holmes. It's a wonderfully exciting story, is it not? Is there something else you wish to hear?"
'Jack,' Sherlock Holmes muttered, 'this trip has proven to be more prolific than expected. Listen to what he has to say, it may prove extremely important.'
"Why, of course," I told him. "I'd be all too happy."
"Well, do you remember that I told you that she entered with three men: husband, father and brother? It seems that her brother-"
"Benjamin," I muttered. Warrick paused, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Yes... It seems that her brother Benjamin was found arguing with Mrs. Mayhon only short time before she was killed. He seemed to be arguing the point of his own comfort." I remembered when Holmes had been speaking with Mrs. Mayhon, she had mentioned that they had been traveling the countryside for quite a while before stopping at the Ostendorf Inn. "If I remember correctly, I was already abed, but I could still hear his angry words from my room. My father had to step down from his own room to calm the two of them down. They seemed rather enflamed about it, if memory serves."
"It seems to me that your memory is quite acute for a murder that is 27 years old now," I said conversationally.
"It's not something one forgets very easily, Mr. Holmes. I suppose you wouldn't understand, being so young." He sighed, and his pale eyes took on a sad look. I straightened myself out, as if preparing myself for the question I was going to ask.
"I have taken quite a keen interest in this episode. I was wondering... You wouldn't happen to have any of Mrs. Mayhon's effects still here at the inn, would you?" I asked. Warrick glanced up at me, and I was struck by the sadness in his eyes.
"That I do, Mr. Holmes. Though it was hers, it was meant for that unborn child inside of her. Her father had given it to me after the murder, saying that it held too many memories for him to be able to keep." He reached under the desk and pulled out a corrugated cardboard box. Lying inside of the box was a neatly folded pink knitted blanket. Embroidered on one corner of the blanket was the name "Marianne." I ran my fingertips over the name, feeling the thread under my skin. My thoughts returned to the vision I had seen of Gayle together with her child Marianne. I blinked, and I could feel hot tears welling in my eyes. How could a man take a weapon to such a beautiful woman, let alone a woman so with child she was fit to burst? I grasped the knitted blanket close in my hand, and felt the rough stitch against my skin. I nodded, turning my eyes again to Mr. Warrick.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, the lights around us flickered briefly. I felt Watson's hand grab my sleeve and bunch the fabric in his fist in fear. Warrick's hands gripped the desk in front of him, his knuckles burning white. A chilling blast of air soared through the hall as the main doors burst inwards. Instinctively, I shielded Watson from whatever had just appeared, looming in the doorway. A soaked umbrella crashed to the ground near my feet, and a man stepped into the foyer, rainwater dripping from his entire person.
"Mr. Warrick, I need a room," the wet man said, taking his coat off of his person. At first glance, he was a gray, elderly man, possibly in his seventies. Despite his age, he was in extraordinary health, judging by his build and his set jaw. When his gray-green eyes stared down at me, I felt an involuntary shudder of fear pass down my back.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Richardson," Warrick said briefly, stepping out from behind the desk to shake the new man's hand. I didn't need Holmes to remind me who this man was.
"Richardson," I muttered, remembering the name of the man that had given up his room for Mrs. Mayhon. Richardson raised one eyebrow in confusion.
"Have we met, boy?" He asked in a booming bass voice. I shook my head and offered my hand.
"No, sir, but I've read a great deal about you," I told him, taking a chance that his name had been in the papers. "I'm Jack Holmes." He took my hand and shook it with a jarring grip.
"Neville Richardson," he offered. "But you probably knew that already."
"Indeed, sir. It was quite the tale, about Mrs. Mayhon. It was in this very inn, was it not?" It was a risk, but something inside me dared to continue with it.
"Damned unfortunate business," Richardson muttered, shaking his head. "Sometimes I can still hear the poor girl. You're a might young to have heard about it, aren't you?"
"Well," I started, "I like to think of myself as a sort of detective in training. I'll shuffle through old papers and try to decipher the mystery before I read about the conclusion. Unfortunately, this particular story didn't have an ending."
"Damned unfortunate," Richardson said again, seeming as if he wanted to step past me. "You have your own hypothesis then?" Before I could answer him, the lights flickered again. Warrick cleared his throat.
"What brings you so far into the country, Mr. Richardson?" Warrick asked, standing next to the register. Richardson stepped by me and took the pen in his hand, signing in what seemed to be a very elegant hand.
"My wife passed away not two weeks ago. Left everything to her damned sisters, including my house. You could say I'm in the market." Richardson shook his head and placed the pen above the register book. "Do you have anything to eat, Warrick?"
"Yes, of course, just step this way." Warrick led the man back behind the desk where he had been standing earlier, and opened a door to an adjacent room. I looked briefly at Watson, then charged after the two of them.
"Mr. Richardson," I called. I was determined to solve this mystery. "The papers that I read never gave a full account on your telling of the events. Do you think that you could possibly-"?
"Listen," Richardson growled, turning sharply. "I'm flattered that you know me, or even that you care. But it's just not something I want to remember. Not that there's much to my story to tell anyway. If you'll excuse me, I haven't eaten since six last night." With that, he was gone. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came. Stamping my foot, I turned, passing Watson on my way back to the mysterious room 13.
"Holmes!" Watson called, his footsteps frantically keeping up with mine. "Holmes!" I pushed open the jarred door of the spectral room and lay myself flat on the bed. I cast my eyes upward, toward the blank ceiling. It was only another few moments that passed until Watson entered the room. He stood in the doorway, perhaps deciding whether to enter the frightening room. Eventually, he moved to my side and sat down on the bed beside me. We sat there, listening in silence to nothing. Then I heard it again. The sobbing of Gayle Mayhon. The wind outside howled and the rain hammered against the windowpanes.
"I want to help you," I called into the room.
The crying stopped.
Cold, invisible fingers touched my cheek lightly.
"Then you must tell him the truth," a voice close to my ear whispered as softly as a breath of wind.
"Tell Watson?" I murmured.
"Tell me what?" Watson asked.
"He wishes with all of his heart to help you, little Holmes. Tell him the truth, and then, just maybe, you can help me." The woman, who could only be Mrs. Mayhon, touched my cheek once again, and suddenly the cold feeling was gone. I sat up on the bed, feeling Watson's brown eyes on my form. I turned to him and forced a weak smile.
"Something I should have told you from the beginning."
It seemed as if even the rain had abated, waiting, hanging on my every word.
"Watson," I started, searching for the right words, "when we first met, you asked me how I was able to infer everything about you, and later, everything about the murder. I wasn't able to even describe it to myself, so there was no way that I could tell you." I paused, listening for any objection from Sherlock. None came. "But now I can." Watson's breath caught in his throat. "At first, it was a sound like a small voice sounding from the back of my mind. Then the voice grew. It told me everything. And the voice had a name." I sighed, turning away. "You'd think me insane."
"Anything but, Holmes," Watson said in a subdued voice, his eyes holding a certain sense of awe. I was loath to continue, but the look of almost childish anticipation that was shining in my friend's eyes bade me to continue. But the words couldn't come. How could I tell this boy that Sherlock Holmes was living inside of my head? Again, it seemed like the man inside of me had a solution to all of my problems. He once again took total control of my body, forcing me from sitting. My body bowed, and it was Sherlock's words pouring from my mouth.
"Watson, finally we meet again," he said with a smile. Watson's face was contorted in confusion, but a great smile soon spread over his cheeks, and he too leapt from the bed, taking both of my hands in his.
"Holmes! It is you! How long it has been! To think that both of us-"
"I am sorry, my dear Watson, but now is not the time for reminiscing. If it were my own time, I would have us talk all through the day. But this is Mrs. Mayhon's time."
"Oh, yes, indeed. I'm afraid that young William has not given me much information considering the mystery. He's quite stubborn."
"As is my own young friend," Holmes added with a chuckle. "I have a theory, and in order to prove its legitimacy, Mrs. Mayhon has insisted that the two boys must work as one."
"Logical assumption," Watson said shortly.
"Time is of the essence. I believe that our villain is within these very walls as we speak. If we do not hurry, he will escape our grasp. Are you prepared, old friend?"
"As I always have been, Holmes. Lead on, and I will follow."
I was suddenly in control of myself again, and I stumbled slightly. Watson's face was still beaming with joy. I was suddenly seized in his arms as he embraced me with ferocity. All of the air escaped my lungs.
"Holmes, I thought I was the only one," he said as he released me. I coughed, trying to breathe again. "I thought I was the only one who heard..."
"Our murderer at the orphanage heard also. Professor Moriarty, reincarnated in the mind of a madman." I grasped Watson by the wrist and tore from the room. "Just as Holmes said, we have very little time."
Then I felt word bubbling from deep inside me, as if they had been waiting my whole life to be said.
"Come, Watson, the game is afoot!"
-----------------
AN: I am sooooo sorry that this story is taking so long. I just got over a huge battle with writer's block. There is no excuse for delaying a story for so long. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me! Oh yeah, and I hope you like the new chapter!