Thank you to everyone who reviewed/added to favourites/added alerts for this! I do hope I don't disappoint. This is my first fic, so the encouragement is gold. You lovely people!
I'm afraid this chapter is mostly filler. Ya gotta get to where ya need to be. The proper fun kicks off soon. Oh, and I forgot to put a disclaimer on the last chapter, but needless to say I don't own Sherlock, Molly or John. Or Mycroft. Or Mrs. Hudson. I think that's it. And I'm not getting paid for this. Unfortunately.
Cheers!
If John Watson could have chosen one word to describe the Ravensdale estate, it would be... Sprawling. Two words? Sprawling and Schizophrenic. As the land rover rounded the last corner of the winding, tree lined driveway and the house (could you call it that?) came into view, John's first thought was that the photograph in the file came nowhere close to doing it justice. The photograph had shown only the central part of the building, a large, grey Georgian mansion, but it had failed to take in what surrounded it. Sherlock, in the driver's seat, noticed John's expression and explained:
"The main part of the house was built in 1753 by Nicholas Ravensdale as a country house for his family. Each generation that moved in added something else. They kept building extensions and features and what you see before you now..." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Is veritable timeline of British architecture. Or a lesson in bad taste."
John thought it was glorious.
Flanking the house were Victorian extensions, vast, extending beyond the mansion and almost overwhelming it, fairytale-like structures in red brick and glass. One had a turret. On the left side, another red brick building grew out of the Victorian one, long and small-windowed, crowned with a brass weathervane. A winding cast iron staircase led to the door, oddly located on the second floor. On the other side rose a neo-gothic tower, almost dwarfing the main house. Everything was covered in ivy.
A fountain in front of the building pattered softly around the feet of the statue of a woman, bending, washing her bronze hair. More statues were scattered haphazardly around the entrance, their asymmetrical placing giving them an eerily naturalistic look, as though a group of revellers had been frozen where they stood. Outside the gothic tower, two palm trees swayed softly in the breeze.
As the car crunched over the gravel of the driveway and came to a stop beside the fountain, John caught sight of what looked like a pagoda about two hundred yards away from the main building. He shook his head with a smile as he climbed out of the land rover and stretched his cramped legs. This place was insane, and he loved it. Still, he had to admit there was something forboding about it. Even in the bright warmth of a July day the stone facade radiated pure cold, and the sunlight glinting off the many windows only served to give the house an amaurotic, baleful look. John shook off the creeping feeling of apprehension and opened the back door to wake Molly.
She was folded over like a ragdoll in the back seat, her head resting on an open book. Her light brown hair fanned out over the seat, hiding her face. John smiled fondly. As he leaned forward to gently shake her, Sherlock pounded on the window with his fist and Molly awoke with a startled gasp.
"Wake up Molly, we're here!" he bellowed. John sighed and went around the back to help him with the bags.
Molly, wide eyed and dishevelled, climbed down from the landrover as the boys bickered over the luggage. Looking up at the Ravensdale mansion, she felt as though she were still in a dream. She met the blank gaze of a statue and wrapped her light jacket tighter around herself, shivering in the summer heat.
777
A heavy brass bell-pull hung in the doorway, but as Sherlock reached for it it the door creaked open. In the doorway stood a pretty, dark haired girl with sallow skin and full, pouting rosebud lips. She was wearing a maid's uniform. John's jaw unhinged itself.
"Good afternoon," she said, her low voice tinged with the slightest hint of a French accent. "Mr. Holmes and party? Madame has been expecting you. Let me show you to the drawing room."
"She's from France!" John muttered to Sherlock as they followed the maid through the gloomy entrance hall. "She's an actual french maid! I didn't know they even still wore those uniforms!"
"Auvergne to be exact," Sherlock said absently, his eyes darting as he took in their surroundings, "And as for the uniform... The upper classes will retain their pretensions. Ah, Lady Ravensdale!" he exclaimed as they entered the vast drawing room. A thin, straight-backed woman rose from her chair to greet them. She was in her mid sixties, with a shrewd, wrinkled face and bright hazel eyes. Her steel grey hair was pulled back in a chingnon. She strode forward and shook Sherlock's outstretched hand firmly.
"Welcome, Mr. Holmes. I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
"Yes, thank you. This is my assistant John Watson and Molly Hooper... My pathologist."
"It's a pleasure to meet you." Lady Ravensdale greeted them both in turn. John was disarmed by her strong handshake and grinned at her nervously.
"Do please take a seat, I shall have Marion fetch some tea."
777
Molly had been surprised when the tea arrived not in bone china, but in sturdy mismatched mugs. She wrapped her hands around hers gratefully. Despite the heat outside, the drawing room held a slight chill. She listened as Sherlock quizzed Lady Ravensdale about her husband.
"Mortimus was a good man. He retired last year. I had never seen him happier."
"Lady Ravensdale," Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, "Can you think of anyone who may have held a grudge against your husband? I know, stupid question – he was a politician wasn't he? But is there anyone in particular?"
Lady Ravensdale smiled sadly.
"Nobody who could have gotten into a locked room and filled it with lakewater. And please, my name is Dorothy."
Sherlock sat back and steepled his hands under his chin.
"It is impossible of course," he mused, "Completely implausible, and yet somebody managed to do it, which makes it absolutely possible..." he fixed Lady Ravensdale with his piercing grey eyes. "At this juncture I am not so much interested in who as how."
"Maybe the room wasn't filled with water," John volunteered. "Maybe someone just made it look like it was."
"Thank you John, I had yet to consider that possibility."
John looked proud until he caught Sherlock's eye.
"Oh."
"Anyhow," Sherlock rose from his chair, "The sooner I get to the actual crime scene the better. There's only so much I can deduce down here. The fact that you and your husband haven't shared a bed for the past five years, for example. And that you changed into that black dress for our benefit."
Lady Ravensdale chuckled.
"I loved my husband, . But after forty years of marriage the nature of love changes. It evolves. Towards the end I loved him as a friend, almost a brother. Of course you must think me a suspect, but you must know I would not have harmed that kind man in any way."
Sherlock held her eye for a moment longer before looking away.
"I will bring you to the study, but first you must get settled into your rooms." Lady Ravensdale set down her mug and stood up.
"Your quarters will be in the west wing, the converted stables. I do hope you will be comfortable there. I have had Marion dress the rooms to your are enough power points for any equipment you may have brought to aid you -"
"Equipment?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Yes. I expect you have the usual appliances. EMF detectors, infrared cameras..."
"Madame," Sherlock drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at her, "I am a detective, not a ghost hunter."
Lady Ravensdale returned his gaze steadily.
"Mr. Holmes. I realise that your reputation hinges upon logic. In this case, however, you may be advised to keep an open mind." She gestured to their surroundings. "This estate has housed its fair share of sceptics. And I must assure you that none of them left with quite the same perspective. Your brother was close to my Mortimus. He insisted upon sending you here. I do not know what he expected you to find. My husband was not killed by a mortal hand."
Molly's spine tingled. She gave a small shudder. Sherlock registered this and he shot her a withering look.
"Now," Lady Ravensdale beckoned to the maid, "I shall have Marion show you to your rooms. You are of course granted free rein of the house. Do please make any explorations you deem necessary to uncovering the answer to my husband's demise."