Chapter Text
"Bonne soirée détective-inspecteur Guillory, je suis Pierre Fontaine, de la Police Department d'Ivry-le-Temple, heureux de vous rencontrer." The man wearing a gendarme, dark blue undercoat, uniform walked towards Henri and offered his hand for a shake. (Good Evening DI Guillory, I am Pierre Fontaine, from the Police Department of Ivry-le-Temple, pleased to meet you.)
Sherlock(Scott) and Henri had made their way within the Ivry-le-Temple department, and had drove to Rue des Jardins, inside a country house, only to discover something… a suicide. The gendarmerie had gathered around the body of a man who had drunken a poison based on the statement taken from his family member that occupies the house with him.
"Oh oui Detective-inspector Fontaine, d ' un plaisir à rencontrez vous. c ' est William Scott mon apprentissage." Henri introduced Scott, who smiled as he held out his right hand to the man who had dark leathered gloves that covered his whole phalanges up to his carpal. What a pleasure to meet you…
"Ahh. Scott ? Un anglais ?" The man asked who had stood his body like a mountain across Scott's features, though he is only a six-footer, same as his, yet he had managed to stick out his chin, harshly and stiffly, and predominated Scott, appearing like a grotesque old man. He had his brown orbs piercing like the hawk's against the cold, yet calm ocean of the East, who himself never falter. Isn’t it obvious? An Englishman.
"Yes." Scott answered his question as he shook his hands deflecting the heat arising.
"Um. Si vous nous excuserez. ... Peut-être, vous voudrais pour vérifier le corps pour l ' umpteenth heure?" Henri asked clearing and cutting the barriers that suddenly being founded and built within them, then grasp Scott's forearm, leading them to a voided space leaning at the corner, far from the arrogant man's aura. (If you’ll excuse us… Perhaps, you would like to check the body for the umpteenth time?)
"William. Don't try to deduce or whatever you are going to do...just don't do it in front of him." Henri said, keeping his voice low as he looked at Scott who had been nipping with his lower lip. Picture them as a father scolding his son...a weird version of the commons.
"Well then. He is an ex-convict, based on the tattoo 26 written at the back of his neck, quite concealed because of his jet-black hair, and I believe he had also the two of them hidden underneath his heavy clothes, one at his right hand, between his thumb and index, and in his belly. Afraid to die? Might be— he's wearing a bulletproof vest, adding at least five inches of his body width, because of the obvious difference between his body and neck, not proportional." What else? "Wearing a Larouche perfume? Yes, atrociously too strong. And been eating the same food for the whole day, Shawarma, too much chili he should consider adding more pepper— or… Oh! he's having his halitosis? Obviously, he is...been brushing his dentures nine times a day, and I believe he had brushed it 10 minutes ago, see his coat—toothpaste lathers were on the sleeves edges, quite new, slightly damped. Annoying bloody officer, who had been convicted of stealing? Pardoned by your government. Wearing plain contact lenses— ranging from 145-200. And I'm quite eager to know how does it feel to punch his plastic-surgeried nose, I presume it has a silicone." Scott said while stomping his feet, and his arms enveloped in his chest.
"Don't do that." Henri said as he looked at his eyes.
"Why? Stop me?" Scott's eyes crooked and pursed his lips at the vision he's having.
"Yes. I'll stop your silly antics."
"Ohh. But how?" Henri turned his back at Scott, defeated, and said, "Just keep them in your mind." You are thinking too garrulously.
"And Scott. Shut your bloody mouth up." He added, as he walked towards the other officer who was checking the body for, estimated, less than 10 times.
"Now there are three little pigs, and a wolf." Scott muttered as he walked back to the scene.
The wolf that blows the wind.
"Alors, DI Fontaine, qu'avons-nous ici ?" Henri asked the gendarme from the Ivry-le-Temple. (So, DI Fontaine, where are we?)
"Un homme. Nous avons cru que c'était un suicide, les wife a dit elle aussi. Une inspection plus approfondie sur le corps est le processus." He answered looking at the corpse. (A man. We believed that it was a suicide, the wife said it also. Further inspection on the body is on process.)
"Bien puis il sir. est l ' enquête qui dit précédent l ' victime a été poisoned?" Henri inquired as he looked back at the gendarme for an affirmation. (Well then sir. Is it the previous investigation that said the victim was poisoned?)
"Oui, il s ' agit d '; cependant, nous voudrais pour vérifier à nouveau avant d ' manipulation des elle le corps pour l ' autopsy." (Yes, it is, however, we would like to check it again before handling the body for autopsy.) The man affirmed, and looked at Scott asking, "Quel est votre but ?" What's your purpose Sherlock, if you're not allowed to speak?
"Oh monsieur, il 's mon adjoint, je crois que vous n ' ont pas d ' droits de l ' à la question Qu ' Il lui. en vertu de toute 's pas de votre surveillance." (Oh, monsieur, he’s my assistant. I believe, you have no rights to question him. He’s not under any of your supervision.) Henri made his way as he held both upper arms of the man, and shifted his attention— trying to start a conversation, for Scott to examine the body yet he turned his head to Scott and shouted, "Murmur. It's a murder. Crème de Cassis," then turned back to the Inspecteur-détective.
Don't talk out loud. Just murmur.
It's not a suicide. It's a murder.
A murder?
Yes. Crème de Cassis.
Bull's-eye.
Scott looked down and checked the body, looming at it for details with his glasses.
'Not a Frenchman, nose formation, quite steep...um, mandible and maxilla—very visible, he's too skinny, unbalanced diet? No. Barely eats, like me, yes. Probably, from Caribbean? Caucasian, though a farmer,' he flipped the sleeves, 'tan-lines, proof— living near a farm, obviously, a peasant? Nope. Hands were not much calloused, except for his right mitt which is his dominant extremity, both not used in household and working chores, merely helping...but why is he here?'
Scott rotated around his exact place, to inspect the room, checking any sign that might be a clue, or the answer itself.
'Wallpaper paneled room, of blue and brown vertical stripes, panel woods were brown' he walked towards it and knock at it—'ply board? Useless. What else?' He looked up from his ducked position, 'Messy...too messy, too masculine. Luggage? Arranged yet disorganized at the corners... This man will be staying for a long time, I suppose?' He got up on his feet and walked back at the man carelessly lying at the wooden floor checking him once again.
Poisoned. By who?
Clearly, it's not suicide, no bottles of meds, not drugged, no Opium or what— the room is cleared. Bloody, it might be…someone has been here.
"Henri, can I speak with you, and that annoying depleted-brain bugger?" Translate my words.
"Depleted? Why? He's not that much—"
"Oh yes. He is. From the Latin word depletus, which means empty." After hearing that word, Henri shared a chortle with Scott as he kept his head bowed down, ensuring that his company would be oblivious about it.
"Yes, yes. Wait." He turned his head back, serious, to Fontaine, "Fontaine, mon ami voudrais talk à nous à propos de l ' corpse, serait vous?" (Fontaine, my friend would like to talk to us about the corpse, would you?)
"Oh oui. Réprimer tout trempe l'idiot, je pourrais l'étrangler." Fontaine made his voice projectable for Scott to hear him clearly. Strangle me, idiot? (Oh yes, just repress the idiot’s temper, I might strangle him.)
The two walked towards Scott's spot as he kept talking, "The corpse's not yet identified?"
"He's positively identified by his wife as Josh Andrew Phillips." Henri answered as he looked at Scott with his smile beaming.
"Wife? I thought he's single... I mean, his ring finger, no tan line or any markings that would testify that he's married. Look at this room— good for one person." He said as he point his hands towards the bed, "bed's too restricted to let a couple sleep on it. Baggage, for one occupant only. Check the cabinets, pure manly. The room itself is quite disheveled, masculine indeed. Must be his neurogliacytes depleting. Completely useless right and left hemispheres." Scott said yet mumbled the last words for Henri to hear, who's been chortling.
"Que fait-il dire Henri ?" Fontaine asked him quizzically. (What is he saying, Henri?)
'That you are a bloody asshole officer.' Henri thought as he looked at Scott, knowingly.
"Mon mister mauvais, mais il parle de la femme... Il n'y a pas d'épouse et si vous le pouviez, amener ici pour y être interrogés? Merci." Henri let out his proper words of manners to dismiss the man, who pierced his eyes at Scott's direction, and walked away. ( My bad mister, but he’s talking about the wife… There’s no wife, and if you could bring her here for interrogation? Thank you.)
"Nice move."
"Nice deductions you have."
"Enough of foolishness. Why are we here, really?"
Crème de Cassis?
"I just thought that we must be here. Sounds a good reason?" Henri looked at Scott who's taking pictures at the crime scene, the victim, the room in general, the luggage and the bed.
"Sounds bearable. Maybe I'd ask you if that's utile. Why Crème de Cassis? May I know for a good reason?" He asked as he looked at Henri, stopping his tracks.
"Ahh. Trivial mistake? Slip of the tongue. I think." Henri smiled.
"Nope. I don't think so." Scott looked back at his phone and dialed a number.
"Think whatever you want to. Call your brother's landline, though your Mom would never bother." Henri said as he skimmed his nails.
What?
Your Mom would never bother.
Mummy is anywhere near Mycroft.
Scott stopped and hanged the line, then hid his phone back on his pocket. "Well. Why so sudden? I believe you do know." This is a change of game.
"So sudden? Not so. I was actually late." Henri said grinning and concealed his hands inside his undercoat.
"Oh. I see. Welcome to the game, Henri Guillory." Scott offered his hands.
"Though I believe I've been playing since the whole evening. But I'm never like my sister. Though, I have purposely done it to test you, of course; the man told me to." He accepted the hands, which buckled through the crisp of his knuckles.
This is a change.
"Yes. It is Crème de Cassis , you think?" Scott asked as he clutched Henri's phalanges. Does it hurt?
"Ouch. That's too much pressure Scott. Loosen up!" He answered as he shoved the grip with his left mitt.
"My question Henri." Answer me.
"I thought you're a good observer, you're merely a spectator, though you just missed a point, yet it is the turning point of this crime." Henri crooked his brow and grinned devilishly, "When we got in." Not a suicide... It is a murder.
When we got in.
Henri closed his eyes, as he pliantly placed his right hand against Scott's, who still had his grip on his manus. After an inspiration, he let out a suspire of air, then look at his eyes, perforating Scott's walls, drifting him to a place—
—when they got in.
"A bottle was neglected. Hidden near the bushes, at the entrance's fence, I'm quite surprised that you neither knew it nor observed the patterns." Henri said as he walked around the house's entrance where his and Scott's body has been suspended, he showed the bottle, revealing it from the fences, with bits of soil at the base.
"Patterns?" Scott asked puzzled.
"Yes William, patterns. Shall I count from one to five?"
"Counting? So you're saying I'm a kid?" Scott walked near Henri who was leaning at the door's handle with the bottle in his grip.
"Very good observation, Mister Scott. Indeed you are. We all are — currently a kid, all of we, in a nursery. I thought you know Christie? Barely observing, rather spectating." Henri said as he let his hand slip the bottle of Crème de Cassis, making a noise of shards, radiating around the room, drawing them back to the present realm— where Henri is leaning back at his previous position, and Scott who had his body turned away looking at a glass— where Henri's reflection is visible.
A kid.
"I'm not a kid."
"Then prove it. The evidence has been destroyed. Look back at that place. It's a pattern." Henri smiled and had his body stiffened as he looked at the body, though Scott's been walking away. "Poor young man, pure obscure."
Scott got his feet looking for the bottle, only to find a dark fabric covering the ground. He flipped it, revealing shards of a black bottle with a sweet smell... The evidence is destroyed.
"No. Not yet Sherlock."
"Molly?" She made her way from her lab. Wait lab? Yes. The two of them were in the laboratory at St. Bart's.
"Sherlock, let me do that.. So you can check the samples left." She said as she damped the cloth at the chemical.
"What? Why?"
"For it to trap the dissipating liquid and moisture, absorption." Molly said as she walked out of the doors, and Scott was back at the entrance of the country house.
Prove it.
Scott uncovered the whole domain, and tucked the cloth with some shards and the cork, carefully avoiding his fingertips from getting any contact with the evidence, then he started getting his feet firmly and walked back to his friend.
"Hensley, here it is." He said as he shoved it at the resealable plastic bag placed atop of the desk inside the living area of the country house.
And here she is.
'A woman in her mid-thirties, with burgundy-colored hair, arranged in bun. Cobalt orbs, academically inclined, American. Peasant? No, not really, skin color's crème— no tan lines to prove that she's getting direct ultraviolet contact. Possible jobs? Considering her wellness, office? Nope, lazy femme. Married? Obviously, a ring; so she must be the so-called wife?'
"Oh. Are you done Scott?" Henri asked turning his neck towards Scott’s position who had the plastic seal on his left and the body on his right, bearing most of the weight.
"Yes. So she must be the so-called wife. Have I missed anything?" He answered the grinning man.
"Yes—the whole picture, though she is indeed the wife." Henri spoke as he chuckle, then added, "Maybe you do want to know how? Shall we?" Interrogate her.
∞Ӂ∞
What?
"Yes. Sherlock, you have missed the whole picture." A man stood, like a mighty man of virtues in a three-piece suit of charcoal and red tie, with a cream-colored dress shirt under his concealed waistcoat, in the threshold of the St. Bart's Hospital. The place was somewhat familiar to Sherlock, the streets that leaned down from the foundations of the infrastructure, the small boundary of fences made up of flattened cement, and the one-manned wooden door that connects the Hospital from the rooftop, everything's so natural.
Déjà vu.
The fall.
"Mycroft?" He asked walking at the framework of a man standing in the edges.
"Yes, dear baby brother. Neither of your assumptions are correct." Mycroft said as he rotated through his feet, 180 degrees, ending, face-to-face with Sherlock, with his smile, sinister.
"Why Myc? All you have is bragging that, 'Sherlock, I AM the smart one' so what do you say now? That I missed something because I am not the smart one? Go to bed* Mycroft." Sherlock mocked changing various gamut of tones, annoying Mycroft.
"I am the smart one, Sherlock"
"Oh you see. I never missed something."
"Well you do." Mycroft uttered as Sherlock closed his eyes when they had altered places, reciprocally. Now, Sherlock was the one standing at the edge, holding for his dear life as he looked at Mycroft who had his previous spot.
"You missed something. A tiny piece of steel, a link that will colligate the two details of this story, though not the whole, itself." Mycroft spoke with his hands roaming in the air, obviously because his brolly is absent.
"This isn't the whole?" Sherlock asked looking at his brother with his forehead creased.
"Sherlock, baby brother, we go in details. Have you seen my brolly?" Mycroft said walking towards Sherlock, who is still standing at the edge with the air whistling and zipping through the vacant stares.
"Oh, I thought it must be with me. Maybe someone had it...or someone hid it in their encephalon." Mycroft said as he turned his head, looking though his body's still.
"You're getting old." Sherlock said smiling, silly kid.
"And it's getting cold." Mycroft walked towards Sherlock, his height completely dominating the others. After a few exchanges of glances, Mycroft reached his right hand and pointed at Sherlock's chest part where his heart lays, and pushed him to rest back down the pavement. Sherlock looked up, with his face horridly amazed, when Mycroft's face morphed into Moriarty's face laughing, a fox, then disappeared out of heavenly sight— he, himself still falling down, down into abyss.
"Scott." Henri said as he rushed towards the gaping figure of the man.
"Oh..Mycro. Bl—why?" Scott blundered as he snapped himself out of his reverie.
"I said, we better start interrogating. It's getting midnight."
Scott had only answered with his nod, his feeling uneasy.
∞Ӂ∞
"So, Madame? May we know your name?" Sherlock asked as he took the seat opposing the lady's who had looked intently at him.
"Marie Claire Phillipss, sir. I am the wife of the victim." She said as a hot drop of water from her duct rushed down, leaning back at her seat with her hands clutching the lower exposed garment of her dress. "He. He. Bought something... I don't know. Why does he have to die, this time?"
"Why, Madame?" Henri asked looking at the lady, giving a sympathetic stare.
"He's not your husband." Scott said rolling his eyes.
"He is, Scott." Henri said as the lady nodded, then Scott closed his eyes, his left legs dominating his right, as he leaned back and gesturing his hands, touching both indexes as his other fingers clasped, forming "the church".
"She is the wife, William." Henri appeared at his pictured dimension of the room, in which the woman was frozen with her eyes open, and tears ice cold stone from her duct.
How can you say so?
"Perhaps you missed something important on the body." Henri walked with a smirk towards the door of the victim's room.
Don't tell me, Mycroft's right again?
"As you can see... It seems that he is." Henri said as their surroundings had changed into something from his Mind Palace.
The man was now settled at the vacant sofa across Sherlock's chair while there are two figures— obstructing his view of his companion's smirk. It was a play, his play, recorded and saved at his storage, which is depicted as a young plumped tiddler with a much older man, conversing.
The tike with small curls was wearing his favorite, the usual plain rouge-colored jumper over his white dress shirt, desirably fitted with his body shape, and a trousers of burnt umber paired up with his black laced up shoes. He was looking upward at the man's direction. The man, the older character he had played, was wearing his achromatic, grey-colored shirt, fastened and folded up to his cubitus as his two chest buttons were undone, revealing his slightly visible anterior thorax's hairs. The bloke had his lower half covered with his black trousers and shoes polished of coal, when the floor began playing.
"Shall we play a game, brother dear?" The older man leaned down, leveling himself down, as he crossed his gaze at the younger one.
"What is it?" The young bloke asked, with his eyes blooming with light and sparks— This will never be boring.
"May I know if you have acknowledged the rarity of father's band at his annualry?"
"Is he? Might be forgotten it at the restroom?"
"Nope. Wrong move." The man stood, predominating his silhouette from the tiddler. "If that's the case, then anyone can see it, anyone can return it back to the lost and found. However, that's not the case." He said as he traverse with his back at the younger.
"Then he must hid it somewhere, invisible or unobvious."
"Yes."
"But where?" The kid asked the man who had twisted his body directly towards him.
"Somewhere close to him, somewhere he knows that only him could find. The unusually usual place for hiding bonds ." The man answered as he walked back towards the kid who looked up from his height.
"But why?"
"Find out, brother mine." He leaned down and whispered notes in his head as the time stopped, ineffectively hearing the man's last words.
Prove yourself.
"The brolly. The ring. Relate them Scott." Henri said as he stood from the sofa and walked towards the Scott's seat, patting his shoulders. "They are patterns, what is left must be done." Then he was gone, as the environment turned pitched black.
Relate them.
Mycroft's gamp is like his better half. And so as the ring? Sign of marriage, matrimony, union, to the commons.
Didn't I say hidden?
Perhaps hidden. But where? Find out William. Your kin. Your memories, your encephalon.
My family. Father... Where did he hide it? Must be same as the victim.
Somewhere near him. Somewhere only him could know and find. An unusually usual place.
Scott pondered at the previous thought of something must be near... It's cold in here, the heart. Mycroft's previous encounter's dress shirt, unfastened first two buttons, to reveal his neck, his thorax; father once hid his ring there, as a pendant of his silvery chain held it in place. Must be.
Scott opened his eyes and looked at Henri who's talking with Madame Phillips. "At the neck. Come Henri." He said as he stood and walked towards the opened door, with Henri biding sorry and followed suit, and check the victim's neck, revealing an invisible lines of unbalanced colored skin, only seen with his pocket magnifier.
Bull's-eye.
"He's married but where might be the ring? Though I believe your husband was hiding it under his shirt. And Henri where's the idiot? Won't they'd be delivering this corpse for autopsy?" He asked as he stood looking at the lady.
"No pathologist would want to get involve at this time of the night." Henri said slouching.
"And thank you." Scott said turning towards Henri smiling.
"Not at all. I presumed you already know the motive why?" Henri said looking directly at his face, then added, "Everything goes in details. We do."
His motive.
It's getting cold in there.
The time rolls as Scott hold his temples with his both hands that are formerly arranged in a church.
"When people fall in love, they marry, don't they?" The young Sherlock asked his brother as he sat with him at the edge of a rock while fishing.
"A common misconception."
"Then why on earth Victor Hugo had to create Marius and have Cosette marry him, they did fall in love, if they could just stay engaged, they're mutually beneficial, aren't they?" He protested.
"Same as a man who is willing to marry his country." Sherlock added.
"Perhaps it is. But to a man having an affair, not really. Then a man must also marry his mistress, then? Not really, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock asked, with his face an exquisite spectacle for the viewers.
"Must one know anything better than that who one thinks know nothing?" Mycroft said as his bait has been pulled by an emphatic force hidden under the folds of the waters, as he started opposing, giving the same intensity against his pole then said, "this must be a big fish."
"Father?" The young him walked towards the closed door that he believed that his father had been occupying since someone had rang their bell. He then opened the wooden door of two inches revealing a man being kissed by a woman, furiously, he then said, "Father, who's this?"
The woman stopped from her tracks, which made her hands flew down to her sides that are previously being draped around the older man's shoulders and neck, while her lips swollen from all the bites and magic that their lips had made acrobatically.
"Son! She's ugh... Just an old friend."
"You never mentioned that you have a cute son here living with you." The mistress said adulterously as she touched Sherlock's right shoulder.
"Don't touch me, you flirty filthy woman." He said as he hit the mistress's hand from his shoulder and looked at his father. "Father, where's your ring?" He asked then looked back at the woman, "didn't he also mention that he has a family, and you're all an adulterer. I must say not, with all your shocked expression exposed down your wriggling fingers, though you must be aroused." Sherlock said with full anger as he stomped down the lady's foot.
"Ouch, you young bastard! Your mother never did teach you all any better." She said as she scooted down towards her aching toes, distracting her from the Holmes. Sherlock then gripped his father's arm and walked themselves far from the human form of the 17th century courtesans.
"Father, tell me why?" As Sherlock said it his father's features froze as his surroundings turned into dust of winter leading him back to Henri.
It's getting cold in here.
"Your husband does have an affair. Any reason for separating your quarters?" Scott asked as he looked at the lady.
"Yes, I know he has an affair with the woman...We just visited the place for his project. He's a painter." Visited the place, for how long, really?
"Woman?" Henri asked.
"Yes, his model... That Putain. Cette maîtresse. How dare he try to keep that under wraps?" She answered. (whore. That mistress.)
"May we know who the lady is?"
∞Ӂ∞
"Toby? What have you done?" Molly asked as she rushed forward, towards Toby's purring paces. The lampshade that she had kept at the coffee table had flew itself down the wooden furnished floor of her flat, bulb broken.
Toby answered her inquiry with a series of purr and walked under the refrigerator, quite asking for something.
"My baby's hungry." Molly muttered walking at her refrigerator as her stomach grumbled back... You're hungry, Molly. Maybe make something, a dinner for yourselves. She then opened its doors, showing a fully stocked frozen room of foods. Checking the freezer for a frozen meat or chicken, she gasped as she saw a gingerly-shaped fingers of a man, a surprise from the idiot. Better make him also a food. (7:00PM, London)
The little woman brought her cute little pink bib-styled apron, with pockets patterned in lime green and an embroidered "I am a cat person" at the chest portion, around her neck and tied it at her back, hugging her figure closely, protecting her from stains.
Looking at the kitchen island, where her appliances lie, she began producing her ingredients from her refrigerator and kitchen dressers, and arranging them in a procedural patterns. After a while of preparation, she had now started cutting the half chicken into pieces, creating four parts, and deboned them.
∞Ӂ∞
"I think the name's Sofia." The lady answered as she looked at her husband's bluish body.
"Any surnames you have heard?" Henri asked.
"No... There must be a picture of her in his wallet, bag, or one of his canvases... He's a painter, and she's his model. Must be upstairs, to the studio." Sherlock said.
"Yes. The studio's upstairs." Lady Phillips answered.
"Then, must you accompany us." Henri uttered.
"Thank you, Henri, for stating the obvious. Shall we then?" Scott said, offering his left hand, gesturing for the lady to comply.
Mme. Phillips had walked and toured them to her husband's studio, finding different palettes of various wood boards, with a wide range of color mixtures of rainbow suspended in its body. Palette knives stuck at the canvass boards of unfinished artworks, different weights of paintbrushes imbued with alcohols and diluting agents, three vacant stands for canvasses erected in a half circle formation, acrylics, oils and poster paints dribbled at different spaces of the floor and a simple kitchen stool for the painter were all present at the scene. The whole paneled room was furnished with a tan-colored wallpapers, embedded with an ivory wood; also, the floor with a rectangular sheet of woods. No embellishments present with it, except for the jade rayon-made curtains that concealed the sunrays from the only widely exposed windows of a 3x1 glass pane
Scott coughed upon breathing the air inside the room, then produced a sickening sound , "How foul could an amateur artist create? His must be disgusting, reason why he was killed. Too boring, mustn't be his mistress grow tired of his business?"
The lady switched on the lights, giving a clear view of the distasteful place for a sexual encounter, then uttered, "What?"
"Oh nevermind, I was just heeding the view. And I must say, this is not bad." Too bad.
"Oh. Thank you, Josh might be glad, if he had heard that complement of yours Monsieur Scott." She said as she walked towards the stack of canvasses, disorganized.
"Yes. He must be, it's a pleasure." Scott said looking at Henri who was laughing in hushed sound, though he was focused on how the place do smell, as his nostrils flew a bit bigger.
"Hey, if you don't mind me injecting at your friendly chit-chat, I would like to ask you how often does your husband occupy this?" Henri said, looking at the lady with his arms crossed, and inspecting.
"Twice a week." She answered as she dug down the cloths.
"Thank you Mademoiselle."
"Hey Scott, do you smell something?" Henri murmured at Scott.
Scott got himself alerted by Henri's words, and immediately tried to deduce things.
"Oh thank you Henri, I almost forgot, perhaps, I could make up?" Scott made his chest popped as he slightly hid his face under his undercoat's collar which now stood, dominantly shadowing his edgy features; then, he gestured for his left hand in a gentlemanly manner as if a man is asking for a lady's hand for a waltz or a minuet dance in a ball.
"Perhaps?" Molly said as she held the casserole in a tight grip from her soapy and sticky hands from the chicken being cut and deboned into pieces of edible shapes for her French dish that she knew the arrogant man would love, though she's very much aware of her hatred at his previous words— hours ago, she could still not bear to leave his ego astray... For she knows that he needed her more than anything, given his bloody circumstance. And she needed him? No, not really, yet she loved him, greater than the sun's rays; she wanted to be of help, useful... She mattered, did she? "He will love this meal, right Toby?" She added as her cat purred twice, with its tail high as a her patella, and scratched its dear whiskers at her bare proximal fibula. He definitely will.
Few minutes later, Molly erected from her slouched curvatures as the telephone set she had as it started singing its mind-numbing repetitive sound. She walked as fast as she could to keep the sound from waking her inner devil.
"Hello, Molly Hooper?" She asked as she clipped back the handset to its place, pressing the loudspeaker button to continue her kitchen work.
A voice answered, "How do you do Dr. Hooper?"
∞Ӂ∞
"Yes... I'm good." Henri said as he took Scott's hand, tapping his palm against it once, yet as the second beat pumped— the friction drove between each bodies, Henri gripped hard the other man's knuckles and clutched it, perniciously. "Let's dance, then."
"Oh, yes. Take the lead." Scott said as he reciprocated Henri's grip with an equal force of grasping and traction. His face was unfaltering, emotions were unwavering, his stature was stiff and his eyes was slightly shifted, darting at the stifled face of a woman, who was looking cautiously and affrightedly at the two loony men.
"Aside from the thickness of dust encircling around this place, what can you say about the air conditioner sprayed, Scott? Shall I consider it as a typical spray as a typical cleaning material, or perhaps a material used to conceal yet to convey something?" Henri started tilting his head sideways looking over both his kid and the victim's wife.
"Yes. Thank you for your donations, Guildford." Scott shifted his frontal posture towards the side, directly crossing Henri's smaller facial features, half smiling as the corners of his lips found its way upward that is plastered medially upon his overrated buccal zygomas and mental mandible.
"A pleasure." Henri slightly bowed his head at Scott, who was now focused with his senses.
∞Ӂ∞
"Smelled so good." Molly said as she dropped both of her pot holders from her palms and smelled the emitted aroma from her the typical French cuisine in orangey presentation prepared and placed at the casserole, soon be dined at the table with two personalities, with a common denominator, "right Toby?" The feline just answered his woman with a purr.
∞Ӂ∞
"Orange."
Henri made his face grinning abnormally at the lady who was standing behind his back who has her sweat flowing frantically on her head, draining the dams of fluids caused by her butterflies that jitter around her empty stomach.
Why orange?
"Perhaps to conceal odors, remember that Sherlock, a citric acid, a Chemistry 101... I must ask, where have your baccalaureate degree in Chemistry gone?" Mycroft said, twisting his umbrella from its handle as he shifted his weight from his other foot.
Both the two men were standing in a kitchen where Mycroft was cutting an orange into half with an unusual type of sharp knife... No it wasn't a knife.
"Though it is pointless. Your stupidity got yourself tied down in a...a war, as how might the greater put it in his words." Mycroft said as the pulp from the hesperidium fruit burst out, revealing a reddish orange liquid. Red? "Self-inflicted pain, brother dear. I must say, this blade is quite sharper than I thought."
The man who was standing with him had flew out of the empty space as his universe had gone back to reality— gone back where Henri and the lady had been standing, looking at his expressionless face and his blank vision.
"Henri, any thoughts?" Scott asked looking at the man, clearly looking for second opinions.
Henri looked at him smiling devilishly while stroking his own chin with his digits, gently and aristocratically. Scott never needed any lubricants to make each statement understandable with his encephalon, he never needed any enzymes to be a catalyst in his channels, yet this one is generally an exception.
What happened to your intuition?
I don't know.
"Alright. Let's go back down... We shan't be involved with this. Costing us a minute or two, if I would speak my mind." Henri said as the lady looked at him questioning his language.
"Why?"
"Obviously, nothing is utile in here. Unless, someone else had directed us to a bait?" Scott answered the lady with his rhetoric and lowered his head with his retractable magnifier and fake glasses to check for any bearable signs of presence before theirs or at least any inconsistency with the wood prints.
As Henri led the wife out of the room, a darker door visibly peeked out its contrasting facade against the sharp brightness of light on the corner, which had interested the man's instinct that what is in the back of the blank plank of wood will uncover at least one of the evidences of this murder.
On the other hand, Scott scoot his body up in an erected position, and steadied himself with his two stiff legs, bearing all his body weight. He tried to take a deep breath of the dusty surroundings and closed his eyes, maintaining the equilibrium of his senses in both the natural world and his mind palace.
Weigh it. His inner voice murmured.
What?
"I wanted to play! Let's hunt treasures!" The young kid said elatedly as he approached his elder brother who had his books with him, neatly organized and placed its weight on his desk opposing his anterior.
"Something had happened to your eyesight, I suppose, Sherlock." He looked at the young kid, slamming his left hand above the books and papers, who had his eyes merely blurring with small tears, "That's what younger brothers wanted, attention, and yet you're a no exemption... Treasures? Nothing shall be considered as treasure, except for our minds." He said as he shifted his weight to his feet and kneeled down with the younger Holmes's height, "Sherlock. These are daggers, a sword of edges, an acute shard against the existents. Could either corrupt or create at any state. These are what shall be treasured. No other treasure will be of any importance; however, playing with treasures might be interesting."
The young man could only afford to nod his head against the dead-eyed stare of his brother that could penetrate into his soul.
--
"Why do you keep on replaying these memories, Mycroft?" The older Sherlock lifted his head from his blank vision of darkness.
"I'm not in control in any of your thoughts, brother dear. It is merely all in your mind, though I must say, what you wanted to do years ago is all in your hands again, yet cuffed you are." Sherlock looked at Mycroft with his brows knitted together forming an invaluable frown from his emotionless face. You have nothing yet you have your treasure. No hands.
"Form a theory... Focus. Control. Compose. Above all, we do have this edge, shall we say, our own treasures. Yet, some do have the other view of it. Find the clues. Find their motives. Find them, thou shalt be rewarded." And things turned in a blackout.
Examining the victim proved nothing except for a murder, in such a manner of poisoning.
Includes the same Cassis we had saw back in the office, a full one though the same identity. The cassis was found near the bushes of the entrance, in shards and the alcohol was spilled, yet, I have been able to save few parts of it for chemistry.
Meeting the wife, and knowing small clues about the man and his lady friend model Sofia. The whole situation suggests an on-going affair between the painter and the model. Therefore, a good motive for a murder is jealousy; the wife is indeed a green-eyed one.
An interesting turning point for the whole circus. The absence of wedding band on the man's hand, nevertheless, found it hidden, and plastered between his ribs and shirt, hugging his neck.
A turning point, why?
The man's lady friend, mustn't be knowing something about her beau's marriage, before, however, time did consumed itself, probably out of hatred, the mistress had killed the man, leaving no traces of her being in the man's life with her canvassed image, and ultimately, ending his sentence.
Uh oh... Tut tut tut. Oh dear Sherlock, that is a wrong answer. Moriarty's smile showed within his Mind Palace, “The murderer is a murderer. You know how these things work don't you? Think the same way I do, Sherly.”
Then probably it was the wife, then? Or both had participated?
No proofs. Uncertain.
"Scott, I need you here!"
"Oh shhh! Do you know how bloody precious my private time is? I'm in a middle of—"
"Oh idiot savant, spare me your rebuking. I found something worthy of your preciousness." Henri shouted at the other side of the room, near the door.
Scott blinked and walked towards the space where the voice of the other man had rung.
"What the bloody hell was it?" Henri looked at the lady as Scott uttered those words enough for the two figures to acknowledge his presence.
"Go and check the room... I've seen a whole lotta there." Henri answered gesturing his hand in a Bonjour stance.
Scott opened the dark door and surprised by how the little room become a storage for the crime scene to materialize.
∞Ӂ∞
'I told you, John. That was a mistake. -Molly'
The lady pressed the send key visible at her screen to clarify the mistake she had taken during the phone call.
'Pardon? A mistake... Oh yes I get that. Sorry that my actions are quite unpredictable, I just want to meet up. -John Scott.'
'I though Gloria had already informed you that I won't be entertaining such rekindling of old romance, which is more likely with you. Sorry John. -Molly'
'Please Molly Hooper.'
The next reply answered.
This is going nowhere.
She then heard the silly sound from her feline accompanied by the outrageous grinding sounds from her own gastronomic space, that made her focus blurry yet clear for the meal.
Sherlock. Where are you?
∞Ӂ∞
"Oh bloody hell! Burnt portions of plastics and of course, rubbers... Which may indicate a—" Scott shocked at his own conclusion locked the door and opened the closed windows, allowing some fresh air for his intake and exchange.
He inspired a vast amount of air and expired it, then uttered with his deep voice, "A nitril."
"What? Isn't that Nitric Acid?" Henri asked looking at Scott with his brows furrowed in a straight angle.
"Not the aqua fortis. Any of a class of organic compounds containing the cyano radical, which is the CN." Scott looked at his back, staring daggers at the man who questioned his statement.
"So it's cyanide, then?" Henri asked; his left brow now stretched in an upward position, asking for the man's confirmation.
"Yes, it is. Oh, you could conclude now, Henri." He said as he looked at the lady. "Perhaps, you may also want to conclude your possible alibis, Madame."
"First and foremost, you had actually received the bottle of Crème de Cassis from the shipment or delivery? After taking an odor of the alcohol, I could estimate that it was a three-month old Cassis, shipped three days ago, judging by the tape with the date plastered at some parts of the shards." Scott said as he walked around the room, shifting weights against his plain paces of the leathery sole.
"Second, you do realize that there is an ongoing affair between your husband and the model, after witnessing such... intimacy, inside this four-cornered area."
Claire was having her pace slower than the usual as she tried to balance the platter full of juices and sandwiches for the audiences, roaming towards the room where splashes of vividly painted chromatic sheets of canvas and wallpapers were suspended against the wall and frames made of mahogany woods. She had her weight shifted along with her feet that are slightly hammering through the floor, with either a grin or a smile of plasticity pasted on her flattened facial profile— well, who would be happy if your husband had just got his new model, this might bring tons of pounds and pennies, let it be. Her thoughts were quite louder enough for the heavens to hear her evil voice. Tons of pounds and pennies, indeed.
Her heart, head and mouth dropped with the single vision of how her husband and the model's lips had simply held each other’s pace against their entwined tongues sharing shadows of lust and desire as their both palms roam over the whole carved skin of crème again the lightings of the daylight.
"You do realize that they are having an affair." Scott's voice echoed inside the room as his body encircled 360 degrees from its origin.
"Sentiments got over you... Obviously, hatred it is, at the same time, jealousy over the lady. Perhaps you do want to kill them both?"
Flashes of broken shards were splayed lying down the brownish floor as she had caught the attention of the lovebirds.
"Oh! What happened? Sorry, it slipped out of my grip. How silly of me?" Claire said as she tried to pull down her weight towards her lower body and picked up the shards thru her reach.
"Oh sorry, Um-Clay, have you seen anything?" The man asked.
"Oh nothing— I haven't seen any rats that did cause those tiny tinted prints... I don't think that rats are cute enough to let them feel at home." She murmured her last words against the man's sharp intake of breath.
"Oh I see. How can you probably say that I am indeed the murderer? The thought isn't that clear, there ain't no murder weapons, this is pointless. I am certain that it was that model." The woman stood from her sharp edge and shouted her defense as Henri started typing something at his touch.
"I suppose, this has something to do with the Crème de Cassis?" Henri asked as he continued typing.
"Yes, it is indeed— however, a great question is possibly dwelling in your foolish thoughts, lady; and that is..." Scott said as he looked up from his stance towards the ceiling's patterns of woods and cement.
"What does it have to do with the Cassis, I mean, you do think it's poison—I did drink one— there is no possibility that I was infected, you saw it prepared at the kitchen." She protested.
"No. No. No. I wasn't referring to that Cassis. And if you were, then you must be dead, ten minutes ago. Also, poison came from that room." Henri shot a glance and directly pointed his slender hands to the door where storage is.
"Yes. I must say, Gilford do indeed have a point. The poison originated from that room, not necessarily, the room itself—I doubt that there is a presence of drugs in there... Well, I actually thought you heard drugged him, intoxicatingly, yet something surprised me— plastics and rubbers. Sounds delirious, yet not, for psychopaths, this meant death. Cyanide Poisoning isn't it?" Scott said as he looked down from the contact with the ceiling and made his left brow stretched upwards for a confirmation.
"However, I must add that you did also realize that burning all, would cause no good to you and your plans. It could also kill you and burn your home... though I must say, it was never been built... through the depletion of adenosine triphosphate, which indeed could kill cellular activities and the cell itself, which composes the individual, such as us, the organism. And killing yourself is quite out of the tee-shirt, for it is that, basically, your husband's such a loon. You did try to burn some, suggested by the dark carbon marks inside the room, yet frustrated." Scott explained then walked towards the vacant canvas stand and held out his right hand to grasp a brush.
"Is this a black acrylic paint?" He asked.
"Yes, it is." The woman answered.
"Really? Are you hungry, Scott?" Henri asked as he looked at the man intently.
"I am in no good terms for ingestion, slows down brain activity, blah blah... Good God! Now you have heard of ingestion, shall we go back to the murder?" He asked as he fluttered his face, turning around, walking focused, then stopped as he reached over the lady, and stood with his six-foot height, towering over the lady's. "Over the counter drugs of Cyanides would work properly and did work, yet you failed to do something... To dispose the receipt, far from everyone's reach, it was actually downstairs. How silly of you, woman?" He walked back then uttered, "You can't make him drink meds without any prescription, he requires it... So, you did one thing. Could I doodle?"
Doodling is not his past time, so do not expect the man to be one hell of a good one with it... However, shall one let the music tabs and notes go— he's quite fascinated with those, as a matter of fact, he had written down the whole piece of Rossini's La Gazza Ladra, accurately and precisely identical with the original version of the classical tune, without him having any knowledge about the music piece, or Rossini, himself. He planned to doodle some silly face of the plank of wood, nevertheless ended up with a treble clef, a time signature, with sharps for G, C and F, and a full whole tone lying at the space designated for the E.
"This means you have to combine both notes in one bow stroke." He lectured as he drew a curve above the first note and the second one. Legato. Tied together.
"You have to combine, mix the supplements with the Cassis, that's why you had it powdered." Scott said as he stopped and scooped his slumped back in an upward position, then saying, "you do know that the bottle was infected, for you never tried to drink it, not even a sip."
"But, the Cassis, it's in the kitchen. And you saw me drinking."
The inspector led the two men towards the house as Scott saw the woman drinking with the bottle, with no wine glass.
"That is not the Cassis. See the bottle, it's not even identical, even the liquid itself, that's a typical tequila. It is only your husband who had drunk the Cassis. Obviously, because of the number of wine glass that you had in the sink— one. If you indeed drank one, then there must be two wine glasses however, the previous scenario made that impossible, it was actually your glass that was broken during the intimacy. This isn't your house, you are quite temporary, so there's no good if you would provide things or belongings more than two, two beds, two spoons and forks, two wine glasses. And since your wine glass was now in shards, and you don't fancy drinking alcoholic beverages aside from tequila, which you do need for inner strength and is pointless, the glass in the sink was unfortunately your husband's." He turned to Guilford, "Were the results done from the lab?"
"Yes. DNA samples indeed matched the Mr. Phillips's, positively identified and cyanide traces was also present." Henri answered.
"See?"
"But...why? The evidence is quite insufficient." The lady answered.
"And yet, as per your words, you had simply implied that you are indeed the murderer?" Henri said, then added, "green-eyed monster?"
"Then I shall take that as a compliment, mister."
"Uh-oh. Giving up already Madame?" Henri asked the lady, "Perhaps you would want to know some accessory details, such as the absence of Lady Sofia's portrait?" Narrowing his gaze to the only woman in the room as he hid his both carpals on his lumbar back.
"Oh yes. I almost forgot about that." Scott agreed, "Shall you please take the privilege to do so, Guildford?"
"A pleasure, though I must admit it myself that Mister Scott is quite unaware of that fact." Sherlock's grin turned a bit of mess, providing a crease on his forehead. How an unduly remark.
"Wanting to draw the execution to the Mistress? How?" Henri asked as he threw his body fat from the two people, caging his pace towards the unused and clean palettes over the splashed cans of paint.
"Enlighten me."
"When we got in... I noticed the foul smell from this room, sort of a mixture of citrus perfume and VOCs— of course, one would not suspect about that odor because the first sense that would be depleting as a person ages is the olfactory. I must say that the Inspector that you have talked to the last time who was Pierre Fontaine, did not smell any of your fragrance, aside from his age, his lacking of logic due to years of inhumane activities and purely religious studies inside the bars of jail, as well as his focus was being barred by his oral odor."
"Shall I consider him completely useless?" Scott asked the older man.
"No. Not now, really." The man answered him. "As what I'm saying, some droplets of painting here were quite new. Check your soles," he pointed his finger to Sherlock who immediately rotated his leathers slightly pointing towards his direction, "That. Is. Acrylic. Specifically white."
"Thank you for stating the obvious, Guildford." Scott quipped with his vowing manner.
"As we do all know, it is water-based, and one of those white colored canvas uncovers the face of the illustrious character in this novella," he pointed at the discarded canvas at the edge of the room. "And unfortunately, the canvas which holds the truth was burned, wisely, as it seemed. Isn't it? So how could we have the idea of Sofia?"
"Sofia might be imaginary?" Voices of John Watson echoed throughout Sherlock's brain— Oh God! He missed his bloody foolish partner.
"No, she isn't an imaginary one. But why would you have to burn her?" Scott asked the woman's dumbfounded facial expression.
"Look, Mister, you have gotten it all wrong. Please do ask for the complete result of the Chemical composition from your evidence. It was never just Cyanide." She answered and stared blankly with her fingers trembling under her chin, then Henri began swiping down his phone.
Come on Sherlock! Make your hard drive work!
DELETE. DELETE. UNDO.
No! Wait... Come on.
Come on.
What are the probabilities, brother dear?
His mind palace began formulating the house's floor plan.
- Where was he killed?
o His body was found in his room, therefore, he was killed there.
Though, there are possibilities that would suggest that he may not be killed in his room, rather outside his room.
- If he was and wasn't killed there:
v Bathroom?
Nope, as what is said there are no chances of him being there, no signs of Dihydrogen oxide anywhere near his body or even his clothes.
o What if his clothes got changed?
No... Not really. Could she do that?
v Living Area
No. We've been there. I have checked it, no signs of his presence, as if he hadn't been there throughout his life.
o What if the killer had purposely hid the victim's traces?
What for? And if she did it, then any fountain pens or at least a sign would be left there. Men loves giving marks, a mark that says "We've been here".
v Dining Area
There is a possibility. Since there are no bottles seen inside the victim's room.
v Josh's Room
No signs of bottles. And if there was, since the bottle had been destroyed, there could be at least a marking of the bottle's butt.
o What if the killer had already cleaned it up?
Then there must be still a marking of dampness in anywhere which the wine had been placed.
✔ Dining Area.
Second Level
v The only place we've been is the Studio.
However, we could extract that there are actually three to four rooms upstairs, including the studio and the storage room. And assumingly, one of those left is the Lady's room. (The outside frame would fit the typical size for a master's bedroom, and not a water closet.)
The room right next to the staircase is indeed the Woman's room, for it was a neatly decorated peach door, as well for the fact that it is quite unlikely for bathrooms to use wooden ones, fearing that it might induce termite-pestering over their wooden 'home'.
Well, we are quite lacking of a solid proof. I need fingerprints, footprints or any prints that would point her as the one who committed this gruesome murder.
"Guillory, ask one of the gendarmes downstairs if they have seen any finger prints near the body using the UV Light." Then Sherlock began typing on his phone.
Guillory heard his words and flew out with the wind, off to do some work with the French police officers.
"And you, Madame Antoinette?" He spoke as the lady held her eyes wide-eyed against the figure in front of her, "I would like to hear your confessions."
"I have nothing to confess... Aside from the fact that—"
"You killed your Mother, who killed your father." Sherlock looked at the woman's facade and studied her, while letting his hand click.
"How did you know?"
"Remember the man, the French Police Detective? He said that I should tell you that I have solved your family puzzle." Scott smiled slightly, then opened his mouth as if to speak out words ruthlessly, however, immediately deleted the thought of it and uttered, "You killed your mother inside her room, I presumed that her body was still in there... And Guillory's checking it. You are taking the quarters with your mother, you heard or read her plans."
"I have read her notes."
"I saw everything. The murder that had taken its place inside the dining area... I helped mother in carrying father, then when my mother turned back to her room, leaving me, after saying that I should hid his body inside his cabinet. She said that I will get paid but must forever hold my peace and disappear like the ashes... I knew her plans of killing me after that, and so I took my chance, I killed her, however, I was wrong, she called the police and said that it was I who killed my father. Where's the justice?" She began crying, shedding her tears as she added, "I saw everything... every little thing that father had done, including his affair with that woman. The cassis had—" The lady stuttered the words as the door busted open, with Henri's figure stood and his phone far from his fingers.
"Carbon."
"Yes. Carbon. The cassis must have actually contain pure carbon molecules, as well as the alcohol, the unknown man, that only Mother knew brought it here, I think he was the delivery man. He looked like he hadn't shaved for years, brown-haired... A German? As what I remembered. Only mother... Only she could name the man, I know. And they planned it. I know for once that my parents both had an affair... I hate them both." She said as she kicked the easels standing within the studio, a domino effect; which earned a grunt from Henri and a stiff from Scott.
"But hating both doesn't mean that you have to disguise as your mother; also, to kill her." Henri uttered with his head lying low.
"I did it because... She hated me...she hated me that I was from a sin of my father with other fornicatress he had slept with. She never loved me."
"A word with you, Antoinette?" Scott asked her.
"Yes?"
"You are a Chemist." Scott smiled.
"Bright deduction sleuth Chemist." She answered with a big smile and offered her both hands in front of Guillory to cuff. “And you, perhaps you have read the testamur in my father’s room?” Henri nodded and smile, “Oui, Antoinette.”
∞Ϫ∞
Dear Diary,
She never really loved me. Not at all. It was never true that she would always hug me in front of our family guests, saying that I was her daughter. Who is she fooling? Herself.
Antoinette
∞Ϫ∞
Dear Diary,
It was never been true that she had let me stay inside the room with her, for a good fact, she had made me sleep inside the stables, or worse let me be molested by the disgraces of this land — by the peasants, by the drunkards. She wanted me to sleep with them, treating me like the same slut my biological mother had been. It was my father who had really cared, but when we land here in France and started an affair with that Russian beautiful lady, he had started neglecting me— and my mother was never happy. I could see her jealousness. I felt unloved, unlived, and disgustingly raped by the crisis I've been holding. This is not the life I had prayed for. I was indeed miserable because of them. I hate them. BOTH.
Antoinette
∞Ϫ∞
Dear Diary,
I have heard my mother with another man inside her room...Another affair, I suppose? I thought they were just kidding, for they were laughing eagerly. They were talking about some plans of killing someone with a wine. I know that there are possibilities of food poisoning that could cause septic shock to human body, as well as different structure of alcohols, but wine? Ethanol being placed by isopropyl? Really?! Then one night, as I was about to go and get my clothes changed, I saw a paper, a piece of it, mapped is the plan, the one I thought was a faux. She will be killing my father. I need to make a move too, get them both out.
∞Ϫ∞
"What's that Scott?" Henri asked as they searched the stables for further evidences, aside from the different underpants of people who had occupied the stables, including a worn out corset and knickers that are believed to be Antoinette's belongings.
"Diary entries. Enough to support her confessions." Sherlock answered, handing him the papers. "The only problems are Sofia, her identity; as well as, Augustus Knight."
"Augustus Knight?"
"Yep." Scott said, emphasizing on the p, as he held his both hands around his back, "the delivery man."
“Oh, then you do know the answer now?” Why are we here?
“Hmm.” Scott said as he looked up to the horizon.
“I have arranged the laboratory for you, in Ivry-sur-Seine— 74 kilometers away from here. It’s the only available.”
“So?” Sherlock’s looked down to Henri, with his expression immovable.
"Then there are no problems at all." Henri murmured as he walked back the country house, leaving Sherlock in his own miserable thoughts.
There was... Molly Hooper.
∞Ӂ∞
“Mother, what happened to Papa?” The lady asked the woman who was bound to go upstairs.
“Can’t you see? He’s sleeping, for eternity.” Looking back down, she answered, “Make sure you’ll dispose his body far from there, get him to his bedroom, I’ll be upstairs, meet me there—I’d give you reward for helping me,” then disappeared from the steps.
Antoinette pulled her father’s feet off the ground, dragged his built from the Dining Area towards the open door of the room. “Papa, I’ll give you revenge, but let me admit this first, you are a drag— you deserved this, you both.” She packed some of her father’s articles of clothing and packed it inside his baggage. “Once you would run away with your lady friend… I have prepared her you as a present.”
When her planned actions were done, the younger Phillips had made her way towards the grown woman’s room. Hearing her mutter some words, she had placed her left auricle against the slightly opened door, peeking and eavesdropping at the same time. “Augustus Herrmann? This is me, Claire… Everything’s fine, we’re done. I’ll just call the police and let them take that brat, and then we can go now.”
The woman’s conversation had made her brain not working properly, what Antoinette did the next is to quietly drop her feet down the stairs to the kitchen to grab the butcher’s knife, hid it on her back and stomped her feet up to the room; purposely, to let the woman be aware of her presence. Once she opened the door, revealing the smile formed between the woman’s mental, she walked slowly, a lady-like bachelorette dancing against the thorns of roses—then dragged her hand in a grip that stabbed and killed the old lady, leaving her words.
“The end of the mistress of the sea.”