A/N: Hello and welcome to Chapter Two. ;)
A Hallow Study
Chapter Two
With Elizabeth out of the room and the painting confirmed as a fake, Sherlock strode dramatically out of the gallery and out to the street with John naturally falling behind. "So," John said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the cold wind blew in. "Where are we going to find that painting?"
"I was hoping Miss Pope could tell us," Sherlock said, turning to Carla like he knew that she would follow them. He popped the p in 'Pope' as if mocking the name. She took a step back, as if slightly alarmed at the man trying to tower over her with his hair and his coat. "Like I said, I don't read the books, and you're the only one who seems to have a good grasp of it." he continued. "Think. Where is the thief trying to lead us?"
"How on earth would I possibly know?" Carla said, pulling at the front of her Burberry coat. "There are dozens of places that could relate to Harry...oh. Tomorrow is the first of September, isn't it?" She asked it like she was absolutely dreading the answer.
"Not in three hours and forty minutes," Sherlock corrected her, checking his watch. "You've thought of something. Tell me at once," he said, grabbing her shoulders, as of trying to get the much younger girl to focus. She looked into his bright blue eyes and shook her head. Now was not the time to be distracted.
"K-king's Cross Station," she told him. "In the books, Harry would go to the train station to get to the Hogwarts Express. The start of term was always the first of September."
"We haven't any time to waste, then," Sherlock concluded, letting go of Carla's shoulders and striding to the street to hail a cab. "I will not be outsmarted by a child! On bloody children's fiction, no less," he huffed, as a taxi pulled up in front of them. He let Carla ride the cab first, she looked utterly surprised that he would want her there.
"John, are you coming?" Sherlock asked his companion, his hand already on the door. John shook his head.
"Yes, right of course." John asked, busy with his phone. "I'll have to tell Mary that we'll be out for the night. She won't like it."
Sherlock huffed in dissatisfaction. Obviously, to wait for John was absolutely unacceptable. But Sherlock wasn't willing to go out on this sort of venture without John, especially after what happened with Moriarty. Plus, seeing as his opponent was versed in a language he was not, a little research would do him good. He turned to Carla.
"Miss Young," he said. "We will meet you at King's Cross tomorrow at nine am sharp."
"Between platforms nine and ten," she clarified, waiting for Sherlock to nod like he understood. "Mr. Holmes, I'll have to insist that you call me Carla."
"Until tomorrow then, Carla," Sherlock said, closing the door of the cab before hailing another. He found Mary highly satisfactory as John's future partner, but sometimes it felt like she was slowing them down.
The following day, Sherlock and John already saw Carla waiting for them at the area in between platforms nine and ten, impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other while texting. Whistles cigarette pants and H&M cotton shirt, Sherlock noted. Shoes look unfit for casework. Hiding again. She looked incredibly excited at the prospect of this adventure, obviously she didn't yet understand how dangerous things could get and how quickly they could turn ugly. Or maybe she knew exactly what she was getting into and liked the idea of it.
"Platform nine and three quarters," Sherlock said, looking up at the structure around him. "Doesn't exist."
"Someone's been reading up," Watson remarked, making Carla smile.
"Just because it doesn't exist doesn't mean it's not there," she told him. "You could stand to believe more in magic, Mr. Holmes."
"I don't understand believing in something that isn't real," he scoffed.
She then took a few steps towards a giant brick arch, disconnected from the rest of the platform arches. The arch, instead of opening up to the trains, was blocked. She pointed up, and sure enough there was a sign that indicated that they were standing in front of Platform 9 and 3/4s, half a fake trolley lodged inside. Quite a few tourists were taking photos.
"That is wicked," Watson commented, looking up at the structure. "But now what?"
"We find the next clue," Sherlock said, walking around the arch quickly, trying to examine every point, every brick on the wall while Carla hung back with Watson.
"So how did the students get into the platform again?" he asked her. Meanwhile, Sherlock took five giant steps back from the wall.
"They just run into the platform to get to the other side," Carla said with a shrug. "Why?"
Just then, they heard a thud, and the great Sherlock Holmes was on his back, on the floor. John resisted the urge to laugh while Carla just blinked at him.
"Did you try to run into the wall?" she asked as he blinked up at her, seemingly disoriented.
"Yes," he said as John checked for a concussion. There seemed to be none. "That is the last time I believe in magic. I-"
He trailed off as he seemed to spot something in the midst of the morning sunlight. He knelt by the wall, asking Carla for some eyeshadow or a compact, which she had in her bag. Holding the makeup up to the wall, Sherlock blew on the powder, a cloud of dust rising to the air and making him smile.
"See anything interesting?" Carla asked as he handed her back the compact. Sherlock placed his hands against the pillars.
"Dust going into the cracks in this pillar," he said to her. "There's a compartment inside, one just needs to find which brick to push to find out."
"Try the combination to the entrance to Diagon Alley," she suggested. "If I remember correctly, Hagrid tapped a brick on the wall three times to get it to open."
"Brilliant," Sherlock said, whipping out his phone to find the combination while Carla retrieved a pointed umbrella from one of the gentlemen observing them on the train station. Sherlock poked at the brick in the wall three times after Watson told him where it was. "Three up and two across from the dustbin (or in this case, the trolley)." Miraculously (or was it magically?), a panel in the wall opened up to reveal a small space wherein Sherlock quickly retrieved a rolled up canvas and a note.
"This is the Van Gogh," Carla informed the two, inspecting the painting for any damages or breaks. There were none. Sherlock confirmed that they were in fact in possession of the real painting when he looked at the note. There was a triangular symbol drawn on the bottom, while the rest of the note was typewritten.
"Mister Holmes, congratulations on the re-recovery of the lost Poppy Fields," John read from behind Sherlock's tall frame. "I however, would like to procure your services to resolve the very particular case of the murder of Sir Francis Wulfie Young. There's no signature."
Carla stared at the letter. There was a look on her face that Sherlock couldn't quite read, but he knew she wasn't inclined to share anything with him at the moment. He furrowed his brows, knowing that his suspicions were most likely correct now.
"Where is your father's body?" He asked, turning to Carla, who seemed a little surprised that he was talking to her.
"Uncle said he was at St. Bart's Hospital," she told him. "What's going on?"
"We're going to return the painting to the gallery," Sherlock said, walking away from Platform 9 3/4 as his coat billowed around him (as John believed happened by sheer force of Sherlock's will). It took Carla a second to realize that she was meant to follow them.
"I thought you said you didn't like anonymous clients," John said, keeping up perfectly with his friend. He'd finally found his stride next to Sherlock again. Funny what two years did.
"Oh but I know exactly who I'm working for," Sherlock answered with a sly grin, turning just in time to see Carla coming up to them with the painting. "John, I'll need you to look at Cadmus Young's body. I'm sure Molly would be more than happy to oblige you at Barts."
"And where are you going?" John asked. This is the first time Sherlock had ever passed up a trip to Barts (at least, to John's knowledge).
"Carla and I are going to Scotland Yard to see Lestrade about that suicide note," Sherlock said, turning to her. "We can stop by your uncle's gallery to give back the painting."
"Oh, of course," Carla said distractedly as John got into a cab and went off to the morgue with a look of disbelief and without another word. Sherlock ushered Carla inside another cab and asked to be taken to the gallery first. They had been in the cab for only a few minutes when Sherlock noticed the way she bit her nails and the way her leg bobbed up and down nervously.
"You're not excited about this," he said to her like it was a fact. "If it turns out your father didn't kill himself..."
"I never believed that my father had committed suicide," she said with a deep sigh, texting someone on her phone. "He's much too proud for that."
"If you're texting your sister, I'll tell you now that she isn't going to answer," Sherlock said, looking away from her as she looked up at him in surprise.
"How did you...?"
"I told you before that only a child three years your junior could have done this," he said to her. "Once her letter came with the painting I was sure. Nobody else her age would have given a mind about Francis Young, but she went through all this trouble just to get my attention. This means only two things. Either Francesca Pope Young is somewhere she can't physically contact anyone, or she's somewhere being forced not to contact anyone. Either way, there is no way she will be able to reply to a mere text, especially not from her estranged sister. That, and she wrote 'Wulfie' in the letter."
Carla stopped and put her phone aside, taking a moment to breathe. "You're saying Frances is in danger," she clarified for him. "And that she planned all of this, just to prove that someone tried to kill our father?"
"You of all people should know if she's capable of something like this," Sherlock pointed out to her. "Frankly, the fact that a child her age can put me on such a wild goose chase is somewhat irksome, but it's quite fascinating at the same time. Definitely up to an 8 now. Oh, we're here."
The cab pulled to a stop as they arrived outside the Cadmus Young Gallery. "Now here's a question for you," Sherlock said, leaning forward as he twirled Frances' letter in between his fingers. "Would you come and consult for a consulting detective? I hardly think your presence will make a difference in this investigation, aside from the fact that you will save me a few pounds on my data plan. But if you want to know what happened to your father, then you are welcome to follow, observe and keep silent."
Carla, already standing on the street with 33 million euros in her hand, studied the only Consulting Detective. "There are a lot of people who would have motive to kill my father," she said to him. "If you have any sense, which I am still not sure if you do, you would suspect me."
The way she said it actually made Sherlock scoff and laugh. Then he realised she wasn't kidding. "Oh, you're not joking? No, it's definitely not you. So are you coming or not?"
"I'm in," she smiled with the same impatient enthusiasm he saw her have at the train station. She was just about to enter the gallery when suddenly, the door burst open in front of her and out stepped a relatively older man. Judging from his impeccably grey suit and slicked back hair, Sherlock knew he was a man of importance and made sure that everyone knew it. The detached earlobes and slightly olive skin, however, were a giveaway.
"Uncle," Carla said, her voice a touch more nervous than usual. She looked like a lackey cowering in front of a mob boss. Suddenly the enthusiasm was gone. If possible, Carla's shoulders hunched even more at the presence of the man.
"Carla," he said, looking annoyed. "What's this I hear about the Van Gogh being a fake?"
"Yes, we were just hearing the details from Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," Carla pointed out, indicating the gentleman in the cabbie with her hand. Sherlock told the cabbie to wait and descended it like he was alighting from a carriage. Introductions were exchanged, and Sherlock took a moment to observe Felix's hands. They were smooth and soft, despite having a firm grip.
"I've heard about you," he said. "The greatest detective of our time, they say. I'll pay you a quarter of a million pounds to get back the original."
"You owe me a quarter of a million pounds, then," Sherlock said with a cheeky smile. "Your niece offered us tremendous help in the recovery of the painting."
Abastor Cadmus Young turned to Carla, who looked like she wasn't sure if she should smile brightly or cower in fear. She settled for going into the gallery to have the painting returned to its proper place. Sherlock's lips formed a thin, hard line as he held his tongue. Cadmus turned to him.
"Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Mr. Holmes. I'll have Carla mail you that check," he said, walking to the sidewalk where a car was waiting for him. He gave Sherlock an odd salute and a nod with his black brolly and left the gallery.
Carla reemerged from the gallery slightly out of breath, like she had wanted to catch up to her uncle. No such luck.
"To the Met please," Sherlock said as they reentered the cab. Carla was about to say something when she noticed that Sherlock was studying the letter.
"This note was printed on normal short paper with Laserjet ink," he said with a blank expression, like it didn't really matter wether Carla could hear him or not. "Fairly common, but of good quality." he sniffed at the paper, and he retrieved the backlight from his pocket.
"More lemon juice?" Carla asked, leaning forward to see the hidden message. This time, it was a symbol. A circle with a horizontal line drawn in the middle was encased in a triangle. "Meticulously drawn. She drew it with pencil first, grubbed it off then used the invisible ink. She wanted to get this perfect, to make sure that whoever saw it knew what it was."
Then he fell into silence, still staring at the note. Carla sighed and looked at him. "You don't know what it is, do you?"
"I already told you that I know nothing that I don't consider important," Sherlock almost barked as he turned to her, watching her eyes flash briefly with fear, which made him flinch. "Which is unfair on your sister's part to use that to try and outsmart me."
"This is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows," Carla told him, ignoring his last statement and turning back to the letter. "In the books, whoever had all three of the Hallows was considered The Master of Death."
The cab pulled to a stop as they reached the police station. Sherlock had just let the staff know that he was looking for Lestrade (as if they had not seen me come in here a million and one times) when John called Sherlock's phone.
"John," he said, stopping in his tracks on the way to the Detective Inspector's office. "What do you have for me."
"You're right, he was murdered," John answered, already on his way to Scotland Yard. "Molly found a small puncture wound on his abdomen. It would have taken quite a while for Sir Francis to bleed internally and die, but gave the killer enough time to stage the suicide. The bruises on his neck were made post-mortem."
"There had been a suicide note, so they immediately assumed it was a suicide," Sherlock said, shaking his head. Amateurs. "Send me photos then come to Lestrade's office."
"Already on my way," John remarked and hung up. The images then arrived on his phone. Sherlock nudged his head to the side, indicating that Carla should follow him.
"Staged suicide, a trail of clues, yes!" Sherlock exclaimed like a kid on Christmas day. "Your sister is quite clever. Quite clever indeed, if not for the children's fiction."
Carla thanked the consulting detective for the compliment and managed not to blink at his obvious glee over her father's apparent murder. "You and Dr. Watson make a pretty good team," she commented as Sherlock ignored the collective groans that came from the other officers when the passed by. "No wonder Elizabeth broke it off with John. She must have felt threatened by you."
"I hardly think I'm threatening," Sherlock scoffed.
"I'd be threatened if I were her too," Carla said, like she was actually thinking it over.
Sherlock merely chuckled at that as they barged into Lestrade's office. Five minutes later, Carla had her father's suicide note in her hands. It didn't take a great detective to know that it wasn't a suicide note at all, but another clue. The note was typewritten on the same kind of paper with the same laserjet ink. It sounded like a suicide note too.
"The last enemy that shall be conquered is death," Carla read. "That's a quote from the book. It was written on the grave of the Peverell Brothers, who were the first to have the Deathly Hallows."
"Of course it is," Sherlock said, tutting his lips over to Lestrade, who pretended he was no longer scandalised by Sherlock's berating of his skills. "And much like the other letters, if we place it over black light…"
Sure enough, the symbol of the Hallows appeared again, this time, with words written on top. "I open at the close," Lestrade informed them, still trying to process what Sherlock had just told him about the Young case. "I don't suppose you know what that means, do you?"
"The Resurrection Stone," Carla said in a detached voice. She seemed a little out of it, like she couldn't believe this was happening. "We have to find my father's equivalent of the resurrection stone."
Sherlock paused from his pacing of the room, considering Carla's suggestion. I however, would like to procure your services to resolve the very particular case of the murder of Sir Francis Wulfie Young, Sherlock repeated in his mind the note his client had left for him. "She wants us to build the case against the killer," he said, speaking so fast that Carla almost didn't catch it. "Every good case will need motive, means and opportunity, which I assume she has patterned after these Hallows."
Whoever has the Deathly Hallows is the Master of Death.
Sherlock steepled his fingers and grinned almost maniacally to Carla. "Once we find your sister, I would very much like to have a cup of tea with her."
"A cup of tea with her sister," Lestrade echoed like Sherlock had said something particularly offensive. "You mean, the fifteen year old Frances Young, who is currently missing?"
"Of course, Lestrade. For someone to be found, they must be missing first. Where was the stone found in the books?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the confused Detective Inspector's protests. He looked into his phone and did a quick search of what the Resurrection Stone did before turning to his consul-tee. John Watson suddenly burst into the room, asking what was going on.
"We've been handed a murder inquiry," Lestrade informed the doctor."Although your friends seem perfectly content to solve it in their own."
"So what else is new?" John asked as Sherlock hushed them both, insisting that the two shut up. Then Carla remembered.
"The Resurrection Stone was hidden inside the Golden Snitch," Carla explained to them. "The note was the clue that led Harry to find the stone."
"So we'll have to find this Snitch," Sherlock said, continuing to pace the room as he pretended to know what on Earth a Snitch was. Why did it have to be Harry Potter? Couldn't it have been dancing? "We have to find the Snitch to find the Resurrection Stone, or whatever equivalent our thief had in mind."
"Thief? I thought you said Sir Francis was killed," Lestrade asked.
"Lestrade, there are times when you infuriate me with just the sound of your voice," Sherlock snapped at him. "We're looking for something that lets Sir Francis come back to life, but in a figurative manner. Something concrete that he could have left behind, possibly encased in gold..."
"Like a will?" John suggested, which made Sherlock clap his hands together and snap his body to the side at the realization.
"Of course, a will!" He exclaimed, looking like he wanted to kiss John right at the mouth. "His way of imposing rules from beyond the grave. One of the more common motives for murder." He turned to Carla again. "Where did your father keep his will?"
"Er...at a safe at home. A gold safe," she said, her voice trailing off as she recalled the safe she was referring to. It was behind a portrait of her mother in their home. She knew the will was there because her father had never let her or her sister forget it. "If anything happens to me," he had told them. "You know where to look."
By the time her head snapped back to reality, Sherlock was already saying goodbye to Lestrade, asking John to follow him. Carla ran after the two and reached them before they hailed a cab.
"Where are you two going?" She asked them, taking a breath. She wondered when she would ever get used to their pace. Her mind was reeling and it was only almost supper.
"Breaking in to your house," Sherlock told her. "Unless you want to open the front door for us?"
She shook her head. "I haven't been to that house in three years. I can help you break in, though," she said, stepping forward to hail a cab. Sherlock looked over to his companion, whose brows were furrowed, staring at Carla.
"You're suspicious," he told John, who looked up at him. "I understand that you don't trust her. You were in the military, you hardly trust anyone."
"This is different," John insisted. "Everyone knows she had a terrible row with her father a few years ago, and he disinherited her, publicly. Why is she helping us now? Is she afraid that this whole trail will lead to herself?" he pointed out as a cab pulled up in front of them.
"You're making assumptions, John," Sherlock told his friend, doing that thing he did to absolutely tower over him like there was no room for arguments. "Best to reserve judgement for an actual killer. Shall we go?" He asked Carla, who nodded and gave her address to the cabbie. John glared at her through the rearview mirror. He still didn't trust her.
End of Chapter Two