A/N Happy New Year everyone, and I'm so sorry for the unforgivably long break in updating this story and the Ida story... I'm putting the finishing touches on the latest Ida chapter, and another chapter of this one, so they should be up very soon...
Holmes entered the Trelawney house by picking the lock once more, not wishing to alert Daniel Trelawney to his arrival, should the young man have already returned. However, the house was deathly silent, and as far as Holmes could tell there was no sign of any change since he had left it a couple of hours previously.
His puzzlement over Erin and the strange man faded to a whisper in the back of his mind, as his resolve to implicate Daniel Trelawney in Morris's death once and for all grew stronger. The tenuous nature of the actual evidence which had led him to blame Trelawney was immaterial, he knew, he knew with every fibre of his being that he was right.
He found himself outside the door of Daniel's room with no recollection of having climbed the stairs. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he stood for a good 20 seconds listening hard for any sounds within, but none were obvious. When he tried the handle it was locked, but naturally that was no obstacle.
Daniel's room was more luxuriously furnished than he might have imagined, had he given it any thought. A chaise lounge occupied one wall, facing a four poster bed. All the furniture was made of dark wood that had probably once been highly polished, but now lacked lustre, and the gold brocade curtains that adorned the bed and window were dulled by dust.
Holmes scanned the room, unsure what it was that he was looking for exactly, until his gaze lighted upon the bookshelf. There was something wrong with the bottom row of books, something in the crisp cornered regularity of their spines…
…in a couple of strides he was crouching beside the shelf, pulling at one of the books. It refused to move. But with some persuasive wiggling and a good hard tug, the entire bottom shelf's worth of books came out in his hand – a mere wooden facsimile of a series of book spines, only about an inch thick. There was a cavity behind.
Reaching inside, Holmes' fingers brushed against something cool and shiny. He withdrew a small glass phial. On removing the stopper, the scent of bitter almonds caught his nostrils so gently that he wondered if he might have imagined it, but on further inhalation…
…hydrogen cyanide solution, otherwise known as prussic acid.
The bottle was half empty.
Had Lucinda Trelawney died of old age?
He replaced everything as he had found it, even taking the precaution of wiping his own finger prints off the poison bottle, and left Daniel's room. Leaning his back against the door, he pondered his next move. Just then he heard the front door close softly, and footsteps clicking on the hall floor. Had Daniel chosen this moment to return? A dozen or so strides found him at the top of the staircase, looking over the banister to see…
'Erin?' he exclaimed in astonishment, 'what are…?'
'…I got this address from the Hotel Europe. The front door was open, I'm sorry to have caught you by surprise…'
'...this is a lovely surprise of course, but…'
'Holmes…I'm sorry.' She looked down at the floor. I've come to say goodbye.'
Holmes stared in shock, as she turned to the door as if to go…
'Wait! Erin!'
He pounded down the stairs, missed his footing on the bottom one and skidded to an ungainly halt on the marble floor of the hallway. She observed him with eyebrows raised quizzically.
'I…' he started
'I have to leave, now.'
'Look, whatever your secret is, whatever your real name is, whatever it is you're playing at…' he strode over to face her, 'I don't care!'
In a lightning quick motion she bent her head forward and kissed his cheek.
'More fool you,' she whispered.
Holmes swallowed, and stood, a grim statue, as she turned,
opened the front door,
and descended the steps towards the ink black canal.
The young woman who called herself Erin Aquilla took the hand of the gondolier and let him help her clamber aboard the vessel. In the night, the gondola was merely a darker shadow against the already dark water.
A man's voice spoke from the cushioned seat towards the back.
'What sort of a name is Aquilla?'
'It means eagle, father.'
'I know what it means, Irene.'
Irene let his words fade into the background and concentrated on the gentle splashing of the gondolier's oar as they glided slowly between tall tenement buildings. She had always known she was going to have to leave some time.
'Irene! I asked you a question! Who was that young man I saw you with?'
'Just an acquaintance, father.'
'That wasn't what he thought.'
'He'll live.'