Chapter Text
I take an immediate liking to the ivory box adorned with an intricate chrysanthemum design sculptured atop it. The perfect item in which I will soon fill with the spills of my detective work. Yes, dear reader, I, Enola Holmes, am officially a detective of London. Well, I've solved just the one case so far, but the handsome reward I was given will be more than enough to set me on the right course towards becoming a true, great detective. Phase 1 of my plan has hit some minor hiccups - I was inclined to put a notice in The Morning Herald advertising my services as a detective, but I'd rather not get the attention of my brothers at the moment. So, I've done what every other detective would - sneak into the local police station dressed as a boy (clothes courtesy of a fruit-seller I'd chanced upon), and riffle through their casework until I find something of interest.
There, I chanced upon a treasure chest of backlog cases - that the police and detectives, like my dear brother, have perhaps deigned beneath them to solve. I noted down one - a shopkeeper at 18 Hackney Street who had reported theft in his stores, where I precisely happen to be at the moment. I pick up the ivory box.
"How much for this box?" I ask the grey-haired man tucked in a corner.
"Two shillings," he replies, his eyes not leaving the bit of intricate woodwork in front of him. He cuts a lonesome figure, hands rough from his craft, eyes curved in a natural squint.
I produce the money, but stop just short of handing them over. I'd also like to solve your case."
"Case?" he asks, his eyes rising to meet mine for the first time since I've stepped into the shop.
"Well, I'm aware you've been the subject of thievery these past weeks, and I'm here to help."
His eyes narrow. "You?"
"Yes! I, er... I'm a junior detective, and I came across your case while looking through the police documents." Close enough. A slight extrapolation of the truth at appropriate moments is probably warranted for an independent, junior detective just starting out, right?
He sighs. "Well I guess you’re better than nothing.” He stands up, walks over to a small shelf and produces a faded brooch shaped like a “S”.
“Whoever took off with money from the shop left this behind the last time they were here."
“May I look at it?” I ask, receiving the brooch. Interesting - I am not quite sure exactly how, but this looks to be a great case in the making. The game is officially afoot.
A Few Days Later...
Or perhaps, the game is not afoot. Or as afoot as I’d thought. Let’s run things through together. In these past few days, my progress has been as follows:
Leads: none
Suspects: none
Clues: none
The book in my hands detailing my progress seems to mock me. Empty save a bunch of useless words on its first page. Pathetic. Clearly, there’s an angle I’m not yet seeing. Or, perhaps, the case is simply a dud - maybe that's why it's been relegated to the storage pile by the police.
I sigh as I weave idly through Covent Garden. The market stands are overflowing with flora; flowers brightly in bloom whichever way I look. I find my eyes laying rest upon a vaseful of chrysanthemums, the pinks and whites of its petals mesmerising to look at.
What would mother do? She’d see a S-shaped brooch and see it instantly as a cipher, a code of some sort. Surely it must mean something - no brooch is shaped into that strange, S shape without good reason. But what?
“Dendranthema grandiflora”, comes a voice from behind, right by my ear. I start, hands reflexively lifting into a jiu jitsu pose as I swing around -
“Tewksbury! Don’t creep up upon me like that you nincompoop!” I scold, but a smile forms instinctively on my face.
“That’s Lord Nicompoop to you,” he replies, mockly stern. He’s dressed in a full suit, hair slicked back under his top hat. It's been a while since I've seen him, and that's evidenced by the sort of imperceptible physical changes only time apart would make one conspicuous of: he looks just a little taller, his shoulders are slightly broader... I'd even venture to say he looks more mature, but I'm sure he'll prove me wrong on that duly. Still, he looks good.
“So what’s the occasion?” I ask, as we step into a stroll. “Why do I find myself meeting you amidst the hubbub of Covent Garden?”
“Well, I couldn’t miss the newest imports of flora to Covent Garden, obviously,” he replies, his eyes already flitting about at the various plants on display, surely reciting in his mind their scientific names. “I read your letter - how’s that case going?”
Right, the case.
“It’s… going. I think I should be on something soon… but surely that’s not why you asked me here.” I promptly change the subject - it would be plainly disappointing if the subject of our first meeting after our farewell by the gates of the House of Lords was my entirely underwhelming subsequent detective work.
“Right. Well... I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to my estate tomorrow.” he suggests with a hint of a stammer.
“Oh, what’s the occasion?”
“Well… it’s my birthday actually.”
Enola Holmes, you’re an idiot. How am I to become a great detective when I’m absent-minded enough to forget Tewksbury’s birthday? He’s supposed to be the nincompoop here.
“Oh, but of course, I… definitely remembered that,” I reply with an embarrassing lack of grace, suddenly wishing I’d picked out some flowers as a gift earlier. Well... better late than never? I whip around and… huzza! A bundle of burdocks - arctium lappa - the first plant he’d pointed out on our adventure together.
“One moment,” I say to an amused Tewksbury, as I hastily purchase the bundle of burdocks, and present it to him with a slight flourish.
“Arctium lappa? What-”
“The first flower you pointed out to me after we rolled off that train, silly. Not the prettiest flower out there, but as I recall, highly useful for a hearty meal when one is eloping to London on foot… sort of like you, I suppose.”
There's a short beat - oh no, am I about to be called out for a sub-par gift? - but then he replies with a hearty laugh, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Flattering as always, Enola Holmes,” he remarks as he receives the flowers, hands carefully clasping around the stalks. “So, how does tomorrow sound?”
“Of course I'd love to be there. I’ll be there around midday,” I reply, mind buzzing at the prospect of revisiting his estate - the last time I was there, his grandmother nearly killed us both. I briefly wonder how the place might have changed since then.
“Well, that’s… very nice to hear. I have to be on my way now. Till tomorrow then, Enola Holmes.”
“Good day to you too, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether.” I say in a comically posh accent, then drop into a bad imitation of a curtsy.
“Be careful with how you use my name Enola Holmes, you’ll wear it out.” he replies, feigning disapproval.
There’s a short bit of silence and for a moment, our eyes meet in deadlock, and we’re stuck in an aloof orbit of just two. His hands reach out, as do mine, and we clasp our palms together briefly… then recede. He tips his hat, and parts with a smile and a lingering gaze.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. Enola Holmes, great detective of London, falling for the foolish, proud and utterly ridiculous Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether? Well… those eyes though. And he is growing nicely into that suit… oh, pull yourself together Enola.
I walk off, finding a smile plastered to my face. I suppose a brief respite from the city could do the trick for my current predicament - detective’s block, I’ll call it. Besides, I couldn’t miss his birthday, however much a nincompoop he is. It’ll be a fine day tomorrow. I’ll celebrate a dear friend’s birthday, clear my mind to get a fresh view on the case, and return to London with brilliant new lead. Sounds perfect. What could go wrong?