Tredannick Wartha

The car door slammed and dirt crunched beneath their feet as the two men walked up the path. Tredannick Wartha was huge and white, with a steepled roof and a wide bay window overlooking the lush lawn. It was obviously well cared-for, and a watering can sat on the path. Another car slowed to a halt, and Rev. Roundhay and Marty Tregennis stepped out, crunching up the path behind the other two.

"Which window is the kitchen?" Sherlock asked, turning toward Marty.

"The one two to the left of- watch out!" Too late. Sherlock's leg knocked over the watering can with a splash, drenching both his feet and the path.

"Two to the left of the door, you said?" The detective continued striding along as if nothing had happened.

"Sorry," John apologized for his friend, tipping the watering can back up. He raced to catch up, since Sherlock was already at the door. "What was that for?" he muttered. "And don't say it was an accident; I know you noticed the can."

"Footprints, John." With that, he rapped on the door. The doorknob rattled and it opened with a creak to reveal a kind-faced old woman.

"You must be the detective bloke and his friend that the reverend called," she said. "Well, come right on in, dearies. I'll show you to the kitchen." Looking down, she noticed his shoes. "Oh, and do take off your shoes, young man; you'll track mud on the... Oh, well." She trailed off as Sherlock brushed past her.

"Sorry," John apologized (he seemed to be making a habit of this), once again trying to catch up with his friend, who was already part of the way down the narrow hallway, heading for the second door. As he reached his friend's side, Sherlock gave him a manic grin, twisted the knob, and pushed open the old door.

The sight that greeted them was remarkably mundane: a modern kitchen with a stainless steel oven, fridge, and sink. At first glance, other than the fact that the chairs had been pushed back from the table in the center of the room, nothing looked remotely out of the ordinary. However, under closer inspection, things began to look strange. A deck of cards just sat there next to long-forgotten cups of tea. A breeze from the open window rustled the ghostly curtains, the whole scene just feeling wrong.

Sherlock, obviously not feeling as somber as John, strode over to the table. "Whatever happened, it happened immediately after Marty Tregennis left; the cards aren't even stacked." He opened the fridge, glanced around, shut it again. As he wrenched open the oven, he started coughing violently.

"Sherlock? You ok?" John rushed over, putting a hand on his friend's back.

"I'm fine!" he snarled. The doctor almost rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage to look annoyed while practically hacking up a lung.

"Are you all right, dearie?" Mrs. Porter peeked in the room. "I would make you a cup of tea, but seeing as the kitchen's a crime scene, I thought it would be best not to touch anything."

Catching his breath, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anything significant that was in this kitchen was trampled or moved when the police came. The idiots couldn't recognize good evidence if it punched them in the face."

"Does that mean it's safe to make us all a cuppa, then?" The kind old lady quickly went to put the kettle on.

Sherlock protested, "I don't need-"

"That would be lovely, thank you." John glared at him.

Just then, a shaken Marty Tregennis entered the kitchen, Rev. Roundhay following behind.

"Sorry about the delay," apologized the reverend. "Marty here got a call that he needed to take."

The detective perked up. "From whom?"

Gulping, Marty said, "H-helston."

"Helston?"

"The local asylum," said Rev. Roundhay. "They were calling about making arrangements for George and Owen."

"It's just terrible, what happened," Mrs. Porter piped in, shaking her head. "I've known those boys since they were making mud pies in the yard. I-I never thought, something like this, not in a million years…" she sniffed, blinking back sudden tears.

John rubbed her shoulder consolingly. "We'll catch whoever did this; don't worry."

She nodded. "I just care about them so much, as if they were my own children. I'm their housekeeper, not their landlady, after all."

Marty put his arm around her shoulders, pushing John's hand off. "We'll get through this, I promise."

"Sorry to interrupt this heartwarming moment," said Sherlock (he could almost slice through all the sentiment in the room with a knife), "but would you mind telling me about what happened last night, Mrs. Porter?"

"There's not much to tell, really," she said, wiping her eyes. "I went to bed at nine, like I always do. I didn't hear anything during the night. This morning, when I came down to fix breakfast, I saw them s-sitting there. I must have fainted, because, the next thing I knew, I was on the floor. After I got over the initial shock, I called the police and opened a window- the atmosphere in the room was just suffocating."

"Last night, did the Tregennises seem afraid, nervous?"

"They were just as cheerful as ever."

A high-pitched whistle filled the room as the kettle boiled. Mrs. Porter bustled over to pour everyone a cup of tea, giving the first one to Sherlock, with admonishments to "take something for that cough, young man!"

Sherlock glared at his smiling friend, but had to admit that the tea tasted quite excellent. "You know, John, I do believe Mrs. Porter makes better tea than you do."

"Oh, no! You cannot complain about my tea when you never make any yourself."

"Can't I? I seem to be doing it right now…"

"Correction: you shouldn't complain about my tea." John rolled his eyes.

"Mrs. Porter," said the detective after a brief pause, "have you baked anything with potatoes recently?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Um, no. I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"I was simply curious." He brushed off the hand that John was threatening to place on his forehead. "It's a perfectly logical thing to ask. I found a piece of potato in the oven and wondered if it corresponded with a recent meal."

"Mr. Holmes," Marty interjected, "I just remembered something about last night."

"Which was…?"

"Well, it was while we were playing Euchre. I had my back to the window and George, being my partner, was facing it."

"I take it you saw something out of the window, then?"

"I saw him looking over my shoulder, so I turned around to see what he was staring at. Since it was raining so hard, as you'll remember, it was difficult to make anything out, but I thought I saw a dark shape of some sort."

"A person? An animal?"

"I really couldn't say."

"Surely you could give some judge of size, at least."

"Well, it was r-rather big. As I said, it was hard to tell. None of us thought it was important enough to investigate; we were engrossed in the game."

"I see. Mr. Tregennis, is there anyone who would want to kill you family or do them serious harm?" John gave him a not-so-gentle elbow in the ribs. "Sorry." No sarcasm there. "What I clearly meant to ask was if you have any neighbors."

"J-just Curtis Leo. He's a bit of a botanist." His face fell suddenly. "He is- was- sweet on p-poor Brittany. The poor man will be crushed when he hears. He's on a trip to Africa at the moment. Not much of a motive or opportunity for murder, but he's about the only neighbor we have."

Sherlock abruptly stood up. "I believe it's time to take a look around the yard. You've been extremely informative."

JWJWJW

Voila! Another chapter for you (at long last)! Sorry about the late update, life has been pretty hectic, and will most likely stay that way. I'm not sure when the next chapter is coming, but I'll do my best.

Thank you for your continued support. All of you are AMAZING! Thank you for reading! Once again, reviews/favorites/follows are always appreciated!

~JillianWatson1058