Chapter One
Darcy Phillips
The first thing I noticed was the dust. It filled every possible corner of the room. The cabinets seemed to be evenly coated in a thick layer. It almost looked like a light snow had fallen, except this snow was a dark grey and kept making me sneeze. The apartment was filled with even more surprises. In America, we would simply refer to it as a "hot mess". But of course, this is not America and more sophisticated language is used. So I will refer to it as a salmagundi. This French word refers to a dish typically consisting of cubed poultry or fish, eggs, onions, and often anchovies. The other definition is: a mixture or miscellany. Basically, the apartment was a salmagundi of chaos. Random papers scattered the floor so that every step I took was accompanied by the shuffle (and sometimes slip) of my shoes. Cobwebs decorated the ceiling, and disgustingly large spiders welcomed me from above. The kitchen sink was filled with what looked like sewage, but of course I didn't dare to check. The fridge was completely empty, and also completely broken. The presence of food in this room seemed impossible, just as this flat seemed inhabitable. Not just that, but living here was clearly inhumane. Unfortunately, I didn't have a choice. Thinking that there still might be some hope, I entered the bedroom. Seconds after entering, I immediately gagged at the stench of something rotting. At this point, I would have been surprised to find a body somewhere. I covered my nose and mouth, and peered behind the old bed frame (let me rephrase that; the old, wooden, rotting, broken bed frame). To my surprise, it was not a human body that I found. But that of a rat. Three, actually.
"Home sweet home", I muttered.
Was this supposed to be my beloved sanctuary for the next few months?
Now that was one thing I could control. There was no way I was living here in this condition. When the landlord called me, he promised that the flat would be "completely livable" and "very adorable". Well, guess what? It's wasn't. I stepped out of the apartment, only looking back to analyze the dreadful conditions. I walked over to the closest door, and after one strong knock, stepped back. At this point, I was not happy. I expected someplace I could actually live in. This was the complete opposite. After waiting for about two minutes, my short temper ran out and I marched down the hallway. There was a steep set of stairs leading upward. I was not sure, but I thought I heard the faint cry of a violin. Or I was just exhausted and sleep deprived, and now officially hearing things. I slowly began to creep up the stairs one step at a time, making sure I didn't make any unnecessary noise. The sweet sound of the violin grew louder, and as approached the top of the stairs, it stopped. I stopped then as well. Did the mysterious householder hear me? After a few seconds of nervous waiting and listening, the music began one again. I crept toward the door, ever so slowly. I now heard the short steps of someone inside. Most likely the person who tricked me. I neared the door, and took a deep breath. This was it. I mustered up every sense of courage I had, and barged through.
There was no one in sight. The room was quite open and large. There were books everywhere, and papers also covering the floor. This kitchen (much cleaner than the one downstairs, but still very disorganized) had a large pot bubbling on the stove. Yet, it did not smell like anything appetizing was cooking. It smelt like, a hospital. A mixture of chemicals and illness. The slow, putrid smell of death. The back of my throat started to itch as I inhaled the poison. I looked around once more. I noticed two things.
1. Whoever lived here, (whether they were aware or not) housed a skull. It was a human skull, and sat very neatly on the mantle. I now began to wonder if entering a stranger's unfamiliar home was such a good idea. What can I say? I act before I think.
2. The violin player was nowhere to be found. Neither was a violin. The music was coming from a record player. A scratchy, old record player was playing a simple tune. This was the moment when I began to reconsider my clever idea once again.
Before I could get up and leave, I felt a quick pinch in my arm, and immediately fell back. I looked up, and realized there was a man holding me. His dark hair was emphasized by voluminous curls. And although I do not notice these things, his cheekbones were quite nice. I may have been acting crazy then, but perhaps just because I was officially drugged.
The man stood over me with a syringe, which I am guessing was what I felt earlier. He looked puzzled and quite confused. He gently lowered me to the ground, and rested my head on his leg. I was not screaming, solely because of the amount of shock (and drug) in me. He looked into my eyes and spoke in a deep, British voice,
"Now, you don't look like much of a terrorist, hmm? You know I was expecting one for lunch, but apparently he couldn't make it."
He smiled down at me, and then immediately remembered what was actually happening. I groaned in pain just to remind him. By now, I could not feel my feet, and began to slowly close my eyes.
"Just a little something for induced sleep. It's not harmful, made it myself".
He smiled proudly at the bubbling pot of hospital acid on the stove. Now was when I really began to black out.
Not again. Not this again.
I fought to stay awake, but that didn't work at all. The stranger, who was now casually texting, reminded me again, "No harm, I swear. It'll wear off soon".
I began to close my eyes and decided that this was the time I was going to die. I thought to myself, "Is the last thing I see going to be some wackjob who gladly poisoned me?"Apparently so.
Seconds before I officially went unconscious, an alarmed voice filled the air.
"Sherlock! What the bloody hell is going on here?"
At least now I know the name of my killer right? Well I was wrong. So very, very wrong.