THE SETTING
Mansions, in particular white mansions, always have the distinct feature of being not quite like an ordinary building with an ordinary atmosphere, but a culture and presence unlike no other. The proof of audacious amounts of money all concentrated into stately walls and marble floors takes on its own nuanced sentience, this house in particular reminiscent of a dignified and courtly senior scholar or judge - it seems to be always watching, and silently condemning your every action. Indeed, there is a reason white means money. This the Owens' home emulated.
The group had traveled up the steep shore and cliff, awkwardly with their heavy suitcases. The island was rather a strange blend of beach and cliffs, cliffs and grass, until it smoothed out into a vast flatland unbroken by anything other than the modern, ethereal mansion.
Grand stairs waited patiently at the end of a well worn path, where once mounted a visitor would find themselves on a charming deck that ran the course of the entire perimeter. Looking a little further on his right, General Lestrade noted a very pleasant looking tea table and deck chairs, and imagined this trip would be very enjoyable indeed.
"Looks like that damned White House," Anderson says, looking up at the building with unconcealed awe. He wasn't wrong - in fact the assessment was quite accurate save for a few architectural differences, but already such a dislike for the man had settled in Sherlock that he couldn't help but take a dig.
"I'd be surprised to hear you've ever seen America, Mr. Anderson, I thought even they have a higher standard than that." He doesn't bother turning his head to look at the man, who is undoubtedly glowering at him, his cheeks aflame.
Anderson wouldn't comment again - not after that little exchange, and so not another word is uttered as the procession continues, rather drearily up to the great door. Caws of seagulls cut through the silence in a lonesome call, and a wind from the east blows the skirts of the women haphazardly. The butler stands rigid and tall.
Margaret's pumps make a strange - and really rather grand - sound as she steps through the heavy, black wooden door, though it quickly dissipates in the large space of just the entrance hall. Elegant rooms stretch for miles and miles when she turns her dark head curiously to the sides, fine furniture and old books and chandeliers catching her eyes. In the hallway, the floor is a strange dark green marble, extending into a grand staircase for the second floor apartments.
The guests were pleased by the charming - though the word implies a more quaint setting than was actually supplied - accommodations. Sebastian Wilkes declared himself rather chuffed, confidently pushing back his coat to settle his hands in his pockets.
Leaning against the right, white wall is a rather peculiar sight: a gong, with its mallet lying on its side beside it. Used to call for dinner perhaps, a rather literal interpretation of the phrase "ringing the dinner bell". It was quaint, if not a little strange, adding to the whole exoticness of the whole affair despite still being very firmly English.
The guests did their best to absorb these peculiar details, in a vain attempt to more clearly ascertain the identity of their hosts. The charade of perfect confidence required some keen observation.
Mr. Hudson turns neatly on his heel - a practiced motion, of one with many years bred for service and many years living in service, though he is not so unprofessional as to seem tired or condescending when doing so - to face the solemn party, while the Mrs. Hudson stands almost timidly by his side. "Welcome to the Owens' home," is his stiff and thoroughly customary welcome, "I trust you'll find everything enjoyable. The dinner bell rings at six, with my own wife Mrs. Hudson as the cook during your stay."
Mrs. Hudson nods her head with a kind smile, and Sherlock eyes her speculatively. If there was a source of information to be found, the servants are the real founts for whispered secrets and blunt truths.
Sensing a breaking up of the company is imminent, General Lestrade steps forward hastily enough to be conveyed as awkward, his greying hair glinting from the crystal chandelier. "Er - Hudson, is it? - when can we be expecting to meet our hosts?"
Sebastian Wilkes passes by comfortably, tipping his hat at the butler unconcernedly. "A stiff gin and tonic in my room, Hudson," he calls, not caring a whit about interrupting their conversation. He breezes as only a young man can, as only a handsome man would. Doctor Watson scowls at him behind his back.
"Very good, sir," Hudson replies dutifully, and then turns back to address the general. "We should be a full house by tonight, sir."
Margaret - or Molly, as she rarely uses but contrarily prefers - takes that as her cue, stepping forward in line with Lestrade. Foolishly - and she knows it is foolish - she feels the most comfortably around him, the safest, because he is the only one who has properly introduced himself to her. Sherlock's eyes follow her as she moves, the kind of gaze in which one is listening intently, as they always do. "Did Mrs. Owens leave any instructions for me?" she asks, feeling that if she wants to see a fraction of the promised pay then she ought to step up and assume her duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. "I am the secretary."
"Only to ensure that you were comfortable and had everything you wished for, Miss Hooper," Hudson replied steadily. He's not a likeable man, one to stiff and rigid to make you feel truly at home, and the way he brushes things off is maddening. Every question glances.
Molly frowned, the ends of her delicate mouth ticking downwards. What a strange request; she's a servant as much as the married butler and cook, it's only right she's put to work if they are to pay her for it, is it not? These Owens are strange folk.
The butler has continued, regardless of any misgivings she now has. "Now if the gentlemen would follow me, Mrs. Hudson will escort the ladies."
Dr. Watson refuses to indenture himself any further by lifting Miss Adler's suitcase a second time, instead he leaves it, stubbornly staring pointedly ahead as he follows the butler up the carpeted steps. The men follow him obediently; Anderson, the general, and Sherlock Holmes, the latter turning to look over his shoulder and down at the pair left at the base. The loss of her original bellboy doesn't bother Miss Adler - she's always been rather adaptable like that - who ascends the stairs with a hand loosely trailing the polished wood railing, her delicate lips parted in carefully manufactured wonder over a cool interior, leaving behind the lonely black case. Mrs. Hudson picks it up, struggling with the weight as the small, elderly woman she is, and Molly comes up from behind, taking the case smoothly from her in a practiced motion. Mrs. Hudson's shoulders fall in relief, and an affectionate pat on her hand is accompanied with a wavering, "Oh, you're a dear."
Molly feels an odd wave of sympathy.
The judge had lingered at the base, having had his case brought up by the too-kind-to-refuse general. The sharp angles of his well-tailored suit looked all the cleaner in the entrance, as he looked up and around with his face tilted upwards, his expression a neutral, unrevealing surface. Molly paused at the base, and Mycroft offered his arm to her like a gentleman, and she took it graciously, holding both her small, modest bag with Miss Adler's overflowing in one hand. They processed solemnly up the stairs arm and arm, his darkish-ginger hair reflecting in the light, and her elegant twist letting loose falling strands against her slender neck.
The top of the staircase and subsequent luxurious walk opened up to a long hallway, running left to right of the pair. Innovative light fixtures of twisted metals burned brightly at consistent intervals, guards to the countless doors in this home - the elders judged it with a suspicious eye, while the younger party grinned at the clever additions. It gave the grand hall a friendly air, brightening warmly the elegantly green carpet, a luxury rarely seen.
Each were ushered into their own rooms to get settled, and soon Molly found herself in a comfortable room of a rich blue and dark wood. It's far more than she ever expected as a simple secretary, and she wonders yet again what sort of folk these Owens are. Not ones for much propriety, she supposes.
The large windows on the far side of her room are covered with curtains, and when she crosses the bed to pull back the offenders, a stunning view of the coast greets her. It's a long way off, but she can see the rocky edge of the cliff, and the water that lies just beyond it. The incoming fog of the day obscures the mainland, but the turquoise endlessness of the ocean is still apparent, its restlessness prominent.
Molly sets her case in the corner, near the full length mirror and wardrobe, and it's only then that she notices a framed poem on the wall, perched neatly next to the fireplace mantel, next to a clock with a charming engraving of a bear. It's bordered with stamped merry springs of flora and ferns, and the poem itself is written in swooping, delicate cursive:
Ten little soldier boys went out the dine;
One choked himself and then there were nine.
Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept and then there were eight.
Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon;
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped in halves and then there were six.
Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little soldier boys going in for law;
One got into Chancery and then there were four.
Four little soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little soldier boys playing in the sun;
One got burnt up and then there was one.
One little soldier boy left all alone;
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.
It's a familiar children's poem - though the subject matter is notably grimmer than most fairy tales. How peculiar, thought Molly. A nursery rhyme in the guest apartments?
There was a strange feeling to this grand, spectacle of a house. The truth was that she was simply out of her element among this company. She felt particularly uncomfortable in her room, too large and drafty to suit the simple secretary and governess. They aren't proper people, if bred with any sort of decency - Americans then, if she had to guess. She hadn't the faintest ideas of their identity or person, and the other guests are keeping quite mum, when she presumed to talk to them.
A gong rang in the distance, and Molly started, realizing that her room had darkened considerably with the setting of the sun. Distantly, she could hear doors opening and closing, and steady footsteps on carpet; the others had seemed to employ their time better, and Molly had yet to change. A simple, blue dress was arranged, and she made her way to the dining room.
She wasn't alone in straggling however; Mr. Holmes was lounging lazily at the foot of the stairs, having changed into his crisp dinner jacket. His arm rests on the polished wood, his black curls facing her only. A fine crystal glass dangled from his musician fingers, half filled with liquid amber.
Molly hesitates, her foot hovering above the next step. Sherlock wouldn't miss the misstep, the drop in rhythm, indeed he'd seemed to be waiting on it.
"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Hooper." His dark voice only grew in the marble room; she resumed her steps.
"Money not very well spent," she replied, her voice too delicate to stand any taller. Molly could only remember his gaze on her legs on the train. "I'm only a secretary, after all."
Sherlock turns to look upon her, the planes of his face sharp in the hall. His eyes glinted a strange wicked blue-green. She hadn't intended the ice in her voice, but it curves a smirk on his face.
A chilling calm overcomes her, and she holds his stare.
Sherlock releases an irritated breath, rolling his feline eyes. "Alright, Miss Hooper, if it makes you feel better: I'm sorry for staring."
She won't respond, he can see that in her. Sherlock sweeps a grand - if not mocking - hand out in front of him, and she walks to the dining room, uncomfortably aware of his stare on her back.
Everybody was already seated, and Molly hesitated at the door; these were not her people, not the crowd she was made to associate with. They were above her, and she beneath - she equaled none in rank. The two remaining seat and the expectant looks from the guests compelled her to take one - not any facsimile of courage, and she had soon been served the first course, along with the others. Sherlock Holmes sat opposite.
General Lestrade asked her how-do-you-do, and the doctor - Watson, he introduced himself - inquired after her room (yes, she was quite charmed, and no, she hadn't seen quite so much marble and fine carpeting), Anderson remarked on the view, and everyone agreed that they were generally charmed by the entire home. Introductions that were still necessary were made, and by the time they were all at least acquaintances and the conversation had just begun to stall, the first course had come out by the hands of the capable Mr. Hudson.
What an odd group of people, Molly thought to herself, not for the first time. A doctor, a general, a businessman from South Africa, a judge, a socialite, a captain, a rake, a butler, a cook and a secretary. The start of a rather bad joke.
As if Sebastian Wilkes was thinking the same, he looks around the table with an unsatisfied quirk of his mouth. He's been spending the last quarter hour of mundane conversation blowing out forceful sighs and taking enthusiastic refuge in his liquor, foregoing the traditional red. "I'm sorry, but I was promised a party - and besides the delicious Miss Adler right here, Sherlock Holmes who clearly doesn't like me, and perhaps the secretary over there if she'd let me have an hour or so at her - you lot don't look like much."
Molly flushed in embarrassment, Captain Holmes rolled his eyes in clear disinterest.
"As was I, handsome." Irene lifts a cigarette to her lips, exhaling the billowing smoke with a small smile, a sigh of content. A small amount of resentment curled unpleasantly in Molly's throat, wondering if the woman could ever appear inelegant. "The company is rather dry - I suppose we were both cheated."
"I could say the same for you," grumbled Anderson insincerely, considering the appreciative glances he had been sending Miss Adler from their first acquaintance.
Everyone agreed that the Mrs. Hudson was an excellent cook, and to send their compliments in loud enough voices as to make it quite impossible for Mr. Hudson to miss. He nodded back his stiff affirmation of hearing which rather made the party doubt if he would be complementary enough to the Mrs. - it really was a rather pleasing meal. No bother, she is just the cook.
The conversation turned speculative.
"Did anyone see that odd ditty in their room? Read it and thought I might've been hallucinating." Anderson made a clumsy attempt at a chortle.
"It's a child's poem, Mr. Anderson, not an apparition," replied Judge Mycroft, taking a sip from his wine glass. He looked rather unimpressed.
General Lestrade pauses to hum in agreement, only half-listening to the conversation while choosing to focus on the excellent meal. "Oh, yes - a queer poem, isn't it?" He resumes his eating, before pausing and adding gruffly, "Though are we quite sure it isn't 'hung'?"
"If you had a hold on decent secondary school grammar, then yes, we'd be quite sure," remarked Captain Holmes mockingly. He hadn't bothered to look up.
General Lestrade could only glare in response.
In a half-hearted attempt to rekindle any sort of civilized conversation when the friction seems to be building, Dr. Watson says, "Still, it's strange, isn't it? Rather morbid?" He casts a glance around the moody table - Miss Adler, who seems to be enjoying her wine and cigarette though looking rather bored; Judge Mycroft, who doesn't much bother to participate; - and seizes upon the most approachable individual. "Miss Hooper! Do you have the same lines in your room?"
She smiles at him gently, appreciating his frantic efforts, and replies quietly, "I do, Dr. Watson. I was never much preoccupied with it as a child, but reading 'He went out and hanged himself and then there were none' now was rather startling."
"I hadn't thought you much the type, Miss Hooper," commented Captain Holmes, swirling his wine in his glass. He is reclined lazily in his chair, his crisp tails a contrast and complement to the white of the tablecloth. When Molly merely looks at him, he clarifies cooly, "For startling."
Her brow furrows delicately. "I think choking, and hangings, and deaths quite enough to startle one. I suspect you've had a rather different experience, Captain."
Sherlock stares at her, eyes too knowing, too shrewd. "I suspect you haven't."
The others could only hope to wonder what he was implying, their own conversations stalling to gape at the more scandalous. He kept his gaze leveled at her, a slight smirk traveling across his lips. Her thumb traced anxiously across her palm and her heartbeat thudded in her ears, but she kept her posture rigid and her stare cool.
"My, my," drawled Irene, her bored eyes finally sparkling with some interest. "Perhaps there is some chemistry in this company."
