"Just some tissue." Margaux's voice was higher in pitch than she had meant it to be.
She hid the container behind her back, balling her other fist to hide the swab inside the mound of tissue paper.
"Shut the door," Bart instructed the guard.
The guard slammed the door shut and stood in front of it, blocking it with his huge body.
"I would like to leave now," said Margaux, turning away.
Bart stormed towards her, pulling a gun from the drawer next to the couch and grabbing her wrist tight. She dropped the tissue on floor, the swab rolling out of it. Bart looked down and took a few steps back.
"What do you know?" he said.
"Everything." Margaux revealed the swab container and dropped it on the floor next to the tissues. She took the recorder out of her bra and switched it off, throwing it over to the couch and raising both hands. "But that's it, that's all of my evidence, so…" she trailed off, her eyes wandering to the floor.
"How can I be sure?"
Margaux raised her arms higher in the air. "I'm not sure what else you think I could hide under this ridiculously tight dress. A gun too, perhaps? Or maybe a sword–"
"Who are you working for?" Bart interrupted, marching towards her and holding the gun inches from her face.
"No one." She lied. "I… I worked on the case of a body found in a field. I managed to identify it as Bartholomew Mentford. Then I saw your story in the paper; I put two and two together and realised you're a fraud… and a murderer." She scowled. "I'm working alone."
"I can't trust you," he began. "You can come with me to accept my money. I'm not letting you out of my sight."
He grabbed her and turned her to face the door. He pushed her into it, clutching at one of her arms, his other hand pressing the gun into her lower back. He nodded at the guard to open the door and pushed Margaux into the foyer.
III
Sherlock bent down, examining the piece of Painite which sat inside its case. It was a huge chunk of deep, brownish-golden crystal, the edges were jagged and to any normal person, it was completely unremarkable. But Sherlock could see its value. As he leant in close, watching how those jagged edges reflected the light like glitter, he could see straight through the stone, as if it were a piece of rich amber-coloured glass. It reminded him of Margaux, somehow. He couldn't look away.
"Ladies and gentlemen…" the museum curator addressed the room. "If you could all make your way over here, we would like to invite Mr Mentford to… sign some very exciting contracts!" She smiled, the room murmured with subdued laughter.
Sherlock peeled his eyes from the Painite, turning to see Bart Mentford's imposter strolling into the room; cut lip, bloody shirt, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, fake smile. Something had happened. He glanced to the woman in Mentford's arms. Margaux. She was smiling too; a worried smile. Every few moments, she would look up at Mentford, her smile dropping instantly, before looking around the room again.
Sherlock and Margaux's eyes met. He scrunched his brow inquisitively, as if asking her what she was doing. She replied with a quick glance down to the arm holding the gun behind her back. Sherlock understood.
John appeared at Sherlock's side.
"I couldn't have kept them any longer. They were… Wait, what's Margaux doing with him?"
"John, I need you to go into the room they've just come out of. There will most likely be blood, either on furniture, on tissues in a bin or on a swab if she managed to get that far. Get it to Molly." Sherlock spoke without breaking eye contact with Margaux who was being led like a piece of arm candy across the room by Mentford.
"Right. Will she know what it's for?"
"Yes. She already has the other two samples. She's waiting."
"Got it." John nodded, rushing through the crowd towards the room.
III
"I'm putting the gun in my pocket," Bart muttered to Margaux. "But if you try anything, it will take me seconds to pull it back out. Now smile, we'll probably be in the papers tomorrow morning."
He began grinning and waving to people, shaking their hands as he walked by. He kept one hand on the small of Margaux's back. The backless dress allowing his clammy hands to press against her bare skin. She shuddered, forcing a smile and placing a hand gently on his chest as if he had said something funny.
"Don't worry, my job in all this is done," she said, smiling sweetly at him.
"What does that mean?"
She ignored him, walking a few steps ahead and standing next to the display of Painite. Bart stepped up to the curator and shook her hand. The room erupted into applause and the curator began her speech.
Sherlock and Margaux locked eyes again, a full conversation beginning through nothing but subtle glances, head nods and mouths curling at the corners.
III
John entered the room, immediately spotting the crumpled tissues and blood soaked swab on the floor. He picked them up and pushed them into the pocket of his blazer. He stepped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him, and ran for the exit of the museum.
III
Margaux gently clapped as another geologist finished another exceptionally long speech. Sherlock's fingers tapped against the pocket containing his phone as he anxiously waited for John's text. The text that meant he could stop everything. He tapped and tapped as he waited, watching the charade playing out in front of him. He looked at Margaux as she clapped, his eyes trailing the curves of her body. What was he doing? Stop. He blinked a few times and averted his gaze to the mayor as he began his speech.
"It is always a wonderful thing when something so magnificent is brought to this city," the mayor began, "I would like to begin by thanking Mr Mentford for enriching London's culture and–"
"If only the real Mr Mentford were alive to hear you say that, I'm sure he'd be touched," Sherlock interrupted. He held his phone tightly in his grasp, John's text illuminating the screen.
"Excuse me?" The mayor asked as Sherlock stepped through the crowd, parting them effortlessly.
"That man right there is an imposter."
Bart's back stiffened, his hand hovering over the gun in his pocket.
"How? Oh this is my favourite bit, have a seat. Oh and detective Lestrade, this where you arrest him," said Sherlock confidently. He was almost excited.
Lestrade appeared at the back of the crowd, along with a team of police officers.
"Bartholomew V. Mentford was a ghost man. No social media accounts, no driver's license, no family except one remaining relative who happens to be in a coma. He had no local friends; only some from school and university who now live in various parts of south-east Asia, Burma in particular, where he visited this summer and made his discovery. He was a man who, to the tabloids and the museum here in London, could have had any face. Your face." He pointed to Bart. "To find such a rare mineral, you would have to be an experienced hiker; your soft hands and weak knees suggest you are not."
Margaux laughed slightly, covering it with a cough.
Sherlock continued, "Bartholomew was a businessman, successful in his own right. He would not wear an ill-fitting, cheap suit and a polyester shirt to such an important event. He would know that the amount of money he was about to agree to was only half what the Painite was worth. He would still be tanned from his trip…"
"This is ridiculous!" The mayor interjected. "If this is an imposter then why hasn't the real Mr Mentford come forward!? It's been all over the news for christ's sake."
"Because he's dead. Drowned at the hands of this man. Most likely an attendant of some kind; a cab driver. Privately hired many times by Mr Mentford so knew he didn't have any connections in London. Got talking to him about the Painite after helping him get it in the boot of the car to take him home from the airport. Caught wind of how valuable it was. Went back to his home later that night where he broke in, drowned him in the bath and disposed of his body in a field. Of course by this point, the real Bart Mentford had already made all of the arrangements for the Painite by phone, so all this man had to do was fill the role."
The room was silent. No one dared breathe. The footsteps of the police echoed as they walked towards Bart.
"And I can prove it," John called out from the other end of the museum. He ran towards the crowd holding a piece of paper. "DNA doesn't lie. And when we tested yours against Mr Mentford's uncle who is currently lying in a coma, there was no match. However, the body of a man found in a field matched perfectly…" John couldn't help a small, victorious smirk seeping through the edges of his mouth.
"Sir, you are under arrest," Lestrade began.
III
On a higher floor of the museum was a small balcony looking out over the streets of London. Margaux leaned gently against the railing as she gazed into the darkness, watching the lights of cars and buildings. The wind carried a cold, wet mist that pricked the hairs on her arms into goosbumps as it fell across her skin. The faint sound of music and sirens from the city brought a strange calmness.
Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony, slowly joining Margaux at her side. Neither looked at the other, yet there was a comfortableness between them, like they didn't have to.
"You owe me," she said.
"You enjoyed it," he countered.
The bustle of people could be heard from inside the museum, making the cold, wet stillness of the balcony feel like a different world.
"I did enjoy it, up until I had the barrel of a gun pressed into my back." She shivered, but not from the cold.
Sherlock finally looked down to Margaux, her profile illuminated in the warm glow of streetlights. She looked up at him. It made him think of the Painite; golden amber with the clarity of glass, almost identical to the colour of Margaux's eyes. He knew now why he had thought of her when he saw it. He noticed her shiver, he was perceptive after all, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He took one from the pack and placed it between his lips before offering one to her. She looked at them for a moment before sighing and taking one for herself. He lit hers first, watching as the smoke escaped her lips, when he realised he couldn't decipher how she was feeling. It was infuriating.
"You don't have to stand out here with me, you know. I only came out to get away from the crowds," said Margaux.
"I didn't come out here for you. I couldn't be bothered shaking any more hands."
"Oh how awful it must be, to be so admired," Margaux joked sarcastically.
"I suppose I should… Say thank you," Sherlock began painfully. "And I guess while I'm here, a normal person would ask if you were okay…"
Margaux laughed. "I'm okay. Really."
What happened next happened in four seconds. Four seconds that could only be described in slow motion; as if happening on film and someone had slowed reality right down. The police struggling past the open doors with the imposter in tow, him catching a glimpse of Margaux's pearlescent dress as she smoked on the balcony, the police losing their grip on him, long enough for him to run to the doorway and pull the gun from his pocket. Sherlock's ears pricking like a wolf's, his head turning before Margaux could even blink, his fingers wrapping themselves around her cold arms and dragging them both to the balcony floor. The deafening burst of a gun being fired, the bullet skimming across the hairs on Margaux's head, her weightlessness under the effects of Sherlock's adrenal strength as he pushes them both into the corner, covering her with his own body. The police tackling the imposter to the ground, throwing the gun out of his reach, Margaux's sharp intake of breath against Sherlock's chest.
Hi Readers!
If you are enjoying this story, I would love to hear from you. Please read and leave a review as they help me out so much.
I will be posting a new chapter in the next few days and I hope you like this one,
MD.