~Saturday Evening, 17:30~
"Thank you!" Mrs. Hudson called as the cabbie drove off.
She turned back around to Sherlock and John.
"He was nice."
Sherlock crossed his arms.
"This is absolutely humiliating."
"Since when do you care?" John remarked.
"Boys, don't be bitter. At least try to have a good time," Mrs. Hudson urged.
"What is the point of this celebration, anyway?" Sherlock asked.
Mrs. Hudson placed a cat mask on her face.
"It's for my friend Genevieve's birthday, Dear," she said. "Her daughter organised the whole thing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I take it her mother fancies detective stories?"
Mrs. Hudson nodded.
"Oh yes. She adores them. In fact, that's why I brought you and John along. I thought she might like to meet you." She smiled. "You probably have some stories to tell, yes?"
John stopped her.
"Those probably aren't stories for the faint of heart."
The landlady's smile dissipated and she nodded.
"Oh. I see." She cleared her throat. "Shall we go inside?"
As soon as the three of them set foot on the doorstep to the grand manor, a maid had opened the front door.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," she said, her French accent heavy.
She looked to Sherlock and John and smiled.
"Bonsoir, Messieurs," she said.
John acknowledged her with a nod.
"Suivez-moi, s'il vous plaît," she said.
They walked down a hallway into a large dining area where five other guests were congregated.
"Voilà," the maid curtsied.
She then exited the room.
"A French maid. How predictable," Sherlock muttered.
John slapped his arm.
"Don't be that way."
Mrs. Hudson shuffled over to the other side of the room to chat with some friends of hers. Both young and old.
"I don't see the point of these masks," Sherlock said to John as he scanned the room, noting the variety of animals the other guests were disguised as.
"The daughter probably thought it would be cute," John said with a shrug.
"On the contrary," a woman said as she slid up beside the two men.
Covered by her short blond hair was a mask resembling a wolf. The dress she wore was dark blue, paired with black flats and a silver locket.
"I assume you're the birthday girl's daughter?" Sherlock said sardonically.
"Cora Williams," the woman held out her hand.
She blushed.
"Oh dear. I forgot that we aren't supposed to reveal our names." She laughed. "It's silly, really. Just as silly as the masks."
She sighed.
"Anyway: Pleased to meet you."
Sherlock hesitantly took her hand and shook it.
"I'm sure."
She gave the detective a bemused smile.
"And you are...?"
John licked his teeth uncomfortably, embarrassed by his socially-awkward friend.
"Pardon him. He's a bit infantile. His name is... oh, what's a good alias?"
Cora laughed.
"I broke the rules. It's only fair that you do as well."
John chuckled.
"Don't mind if I do. This child standing next to me is Sherlock Holmes."
"The Sherlock Holmes?" Cora exclaimed.
"Yes. That guy," John muttered.
"Then are you John Watson?"
John smiled and shook her hand.
"You're a fan of his blog, yeah?"
Cora shook her head.
"Actually, I'm more interested in your work, Doctor Watson. I'm a huge fan." She smiled.
John was astonished.
"Really? Huh. Pleased to meet you, Cora."
She was practically shaking from excitement.
"Pardon me," she said. "My mum's probably ready to come down, now. I ought to fetch her."
Like a giddy schoolgirl, she hurried down the hall.
John turned his head to Sherlock and grinned.
"Did you hear that?"
"Not used to receiving compliments, are you?" Sherlock said, snide.
John frowned.
"You know-"
"Hello!" a busty, rather doughy woman said as she approached them. She was wearing a bird mask.
"Hi," John said, forcing a smile.
"You two looked so lonely here in the corner, and I saw that you had arrived with Martha. I just had to talk to you."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"'Martha'?"
John brought the palm of his hand to his forehead.
"That's Mrs. Hudson's name, Sherlock."
The big woman in front of them stood there awkwardly as they had that exchange.
"Pardon me," she said. "We're going by aliases, aren't we? Anyway, my name is Ca- oh! Caught myself. Forgot about the names. My name is... oh bother."
She drew a card out from her purse and squinted.
"Madame Rose."
Sherlock grumbled beneath his breath.
"Not really sure who we are," John said with an apologetic smile. "We haven't got our cards yet."
Madame Rose laughed.
"I suppose we'll find out soon."
Four others came up to greet Sherlock and John, each reading off their cards.
First was Monsieur Bleu, Cora's brother, who wore a rabbit mask. He seemed to be a kind, younger man, yet he seemed… distracted. After a while, the flatmates became acquainted with Monsieur Vert, a hearty, elder war veteran. He wore a badger mask. Mademoiselle Rouge was the only other woman in the room; Cora's older, snobbish cousin. She wore a fox mask. Finally came Monsieur Orange, an educated, quiet man who revealed that he was a doctor. Of course, his occupation was made evident by the scars on his hands and the bend in his thumb. He was an old friend of the Williams family. He wore a penguin mask.
"What is this? Bloody Cluedo?" John whispered to Sherlock.
"Excusez-moi, Mesdames et Messieurs?" the maid said. "Puis-je avoir votre attention, s'il vous plaît?"
"Oh for God's sake. Would someone please grab an English maid?" Mademoiselle Rouge sneered.
The maid narrowed her eyes.
"Désolée, Mademoiselle. My English is très mauvais; just like your French."
Rouge scoffed and crossed her arms.
"Votre Hôtre de ce soir; Madame Cygne!" the maid said, boldly returning to her first language.
She stepped to the side, revealing Cora alongside an older, yet healthy-looking, woman. She was (obviously) wearing a swan mask.
"Bonjour, my lovelies!" she said, her attempt at a French accent slipshod at best. "How are we this evening?"
"Happy Birthday, old girl!" Monsieur Vert exclaimed.
The woman chuckled.
"Merci," she said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at her dreadful pronunciation.
"Now, it might be my birthday, but that doesn't mean that anything bad couldn't happen," Madame Cygne said with a giddy smile.
Cora audibly groaned behind her.
Sherlock was tempted to speak, but was stopped by John tugging at his sleeve.
"Say a word, and I swear to God I will throw your patches out the window," the doctor said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock bit his tongue.
"Let us commence the celebration!" Cygne said.
~Saturday Evening, 20:15~
Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa he had perched himself on, watching as the hands of the grandfather clock in the corner tucked away.
John had been cornered by Monsieur Vert after he had mistakenly let on that he had served time in the war, and was currently having his ear practically talked off about injuries, bunk-mates, explosions, etcetera. He was desperately trying to distract himself by sipping away at the drink that had been poured for him.
Sherlock ignored the chatter that Madame Rose insisted on letting come out of her big mouth. She had decidedly plopped down next to him after the cake and presents had been brought into the room an hour prior.
The seconds went by painfully slowly, each tick becoming seemingly louder and louder in Sherlock's head.
"Excuse me," he heard John say quite close to him.
Madame Rose stopped mid-sentence and smiled apologetically.
"Oh. I see. Here you are," she said as she stood. "I understand that you and your husband would like some time together."
John blushed as she slinked away.
"Well then," he cleared his throat as he sat down. "How are you doing?"
Sherlock shook himself out of his trance.
"Bored," he said. "I despise parties."
"Never really fancied them either," John said, taking another sip of his drink. "But Mrs. Hudson is pretty happy over there."
He and Sherlock looked over to their landlady who was happily conversing with Cygne.
"Are we leaving soon?" Sherlock sighed.
John shook his head.
"We're probably stuck here for at least another few hours."
"Oh Hell," Sherlock muttered. "Why did you insist on dragging me here?"
John smirked.
"So I wouldn't have to suffer alone."
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a bit.
Suddenly, there was a loud thump that came from the kitchen, making everyone in the room jump.
Well, excluding Sherlock.
"Oh dear!" Cygne said. "Whatever could that be?"
On cue, the maid burst into the room.
"Le maître d'hôtel; il est mort!" she cried.
The guests all exchanged confused glances.
Cora sighed.
"Oh no!" she exclaimed sarcastically. "The butler is dead!"
The guests all nodded in understanding.
"This is off to a smashing start," Sherlock mumbled.
John, in agreement, took a large swig of his beverage.
"Oh my!" Madame Cygne said. "How dreadful!"
With scattered sighs, the party moved into the kitchen. The first thing John and Sherlock saw was a poorly constructed crime scene.
The butler had a fake knife hilt glued to his chest, fake blood covering his "corpse" and the kitchen floor. He made it a point to have his tongue sticking out to achieve the poor illusion of death.
"Oh," Monsieur Bleu said, putting a hand over his mouth. "I think I might be ill. Excuse me."
He ran from the kitchen to the upstairs.
Sherlock and John glanced at each other with the same disbelieving expression on their face.
Cora came up beside them.
"You'd think that being a wealthy family we could afford better effects," she whispered.
John chuckled and sipped again at his drink.
"At least your mum's enjoying herself."
Madame Cygne looked to be investigating the scene.
"She looks a bit like you, dear," Mrs. Hudson suddenly said to Sherlock.
The detective frowned.
"I take that as an insult, Mrs. Hudson."
"Hush up," the landlady silenced him.
"Aha!" Cygne exclaimed. "A blue, lace handkerchief!"
"This is so predictable, John," Sherlock said. "Please let me-"
"No," the doctor shushed him. "When we get home, we'll find a nice murder for you to solve." He finished off his drink and set it on the kitchen counter.
Sherlock grumbled.
"But who here has a blue handkerchief?" Cygne asked, bringing a had to her chin, rubbing it thoughtfully.
"Any lady, I suppose," Monsieur Vert commented.
Cygne nodded.
"Indeed. Ladies: empty your pockets!"
Reluctantly, each woman in the room showed Madame Cygne the contents of their pockets. All of them had handkerchiefs on hand, each one matching their alias.
Obviously given to them beforehand.
"Alright," Cygne said. "That's a bit curious. You all are innocent, it seems. That leaves the men and my staff."
Sherlock was clenching his fists. He was surrounded by imbeciles.
John rested a hand on his flatmate's lower back, understanding his frustration, but wanting desperately to keep it at bay.
"Men: you know what to do," Cygne said.
The butler coughed.
"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock said, practically shouting. "Where's the cook?"
John bit the inside of his cheek.
Madame Cygne and the other guests looked at him, shocked by his sudden outburst.
"Why?" Cygne asked.
"The cook. Given your vast wealth and obvious inability to even try to take care of your own affairs, I'm assuming you have a home chef."
Cygne nodded.
"Yes..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped forward.
"Look at the handkerchief," he said, gesturing at the item in question. "The lace has obviously been torn due to to friction over a long period of time. It constantly remains in someone's pocket. Now, an aristocrat such as yourself and these other guests here would never let their handkerchief be reduced to such a shabby state. Therefore, that means that it belongs to someone who is a member of the lower class. One could argue that the maid is the guilty party, but she wouldn't necessarily have a need for a handkerchief, given her low social status and time spent primarily in the cooler parts of the house. A cook, however, is constantly near flames; a handkerchief would almost be a necessity in order to keep sweat out of the food. If you look at the handkerchief, you can see a variety of stains, namely sweat stains and grease spots, obviously from the stove. The handkerchief would be constantly rubbing itself against the interior of the cooks apron, and would therefore be worn down over a long period of time. Other incriminating "evidence" includes the knife hilt in the butler's chest. It gives off a certain sheen that only someone with consistently sweaty palms would leave behind. Therefore, the cook is the murderer."
Mrs. Hudson audibly clucked her tongue in disapproval.
"Is that... is that right?" Madame Cygne asked her daughter.
Cora bit her lip.
"Uh... yeah. It is."
"Ah. I see," Cygne said. "Well, the case is solved. Justice has been served. I suppose we ought to open gifts now."
She walked sadly out of the room, followed by the other guests. The butler rose from his spot on the table and angrily ripped the hilt off his chest.
"Merde!" he shouted. "You are... no words can even begin to describe my hatred for you! Madame's daughter spends a month planning this day out and you come and spoil it all! My best shirt is ruined and there is a mess on the kitchen floor, all for no good reason!" He spat and left the room in a huff.
Only Cora, John, and Mrs. Hudson stayed behind.
"You utter cock!" John said, trying his damnedest not to shout.
Cora and Mrs. Hudson nervously shifted their feet.
"What?" Sherlock asked. "I was simply-"
"I told you not to say anything! Sure, this whole thing was a bit silly and predictable, but that's the whole point! It's a *murder mystery party*."
"Doctor Watson, really; there's no need to-"
"Pardon me, Cora; but please shut up."
She shut her mouth.
"John-" Sherlock tried.
"Don't!" he said. "Don't say another word."
Mrs. Hudson touched Cora's shoulders.
"Perhaps we should meet with the others?"
Cora sighed.
"I need to get some air."
As Cora left out the back door, Mrs Hudson scurried away to the study.
"John, surely you can't be that cross," Sherlock said.
"I'm not," the doctor sighed. "I'm not."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Just... I wish that for once you'd actually listen to me."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Do I not?"
"You hardly ever do."
"I... sorry...?" Sherlock phrased it as if it were a question.
"No, you're not. But it's fine."
"John..." Sherlock began to speak again. "I think you ought to know-"
"Stop, Sherlock. You aren't good at apologising." John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "We should get home."
"Would you be interested in ordering Chinese?" Sherlock asked him.
John licked his lips.
"I... sure. Whatever, otter-man."
Sherlock smirked along with John.
"You know... that mask looks rather... oh, what's the word?"
John raised an eyebrow.
"Ridiculous?"
Sherlock tightened his lips and stepped a bit closer.
"No. Endearing."
John laughed nervously and, once more, licked his lips.
Suddenly, there was a bloodcurdling scream, causing them both to turn around.
"À l'aide! À l'aide!", the maid's desperate cries echoed throughout the whole manor. "Un suicide! Un suicide!"
Sherlock and John exchanged startled glances and ran out of the kitchen to the foyer where the scream had come from.