Scribblings...
Ah, last night I was caught in the throes of what Watson likes to romantically term "one of my black moods." Personally, I like to think of it as "the dumps," which Watson would call, "a nerd term" and I would have to say, "sod off!" and then he would say, "damned ingrate, I made you famous," to which I would reply, "famous to governesses and weak-hearted friends of yours from school who are subject to brain fever when they lose government documents!" to which he would counter, "and noblemen who make you filthy rich, you bastard!" at which point I would light a pipe and smirk.
*sigh*
I wonder if Watson will write one of his florid tales for the Strand about this charming little problem, as it were. No doubt he will chose to include nothing of my investigative skills, my reasoning, my textbook logistical styling, but shall instead commit to paper all of the heightened personal drama of the people within. Bother.
The Count succeeded in stirring me from my curled position in one of those comfortable chairs in the parlor (well, hardly as comfortable as my chair in Baker Street, where I can easily reach the Persian slipper, where Mrs. Hudson makes those wonderful little buttery biscuits especially for me when I'm feeling sad and lonely). He came to me with a cunning observation about the tapestries in the hall where we were investigating just the other night. A bit of cajoling on his part brought me out of my dull-eyed reverie and into a keen attitude that this just might be a clue.
I followed him to the hallway, and a rather curious painting was revealed behind said Tapestry of Suspicion! I was markedly interested, but when I dug into my pocket to retrieve my dear magnifying glass... it was missing! A few moments of contemplation led me to remember offering it to Mrs. Linton, and I scurried off to snatch it away from her. It was a joy to have her... it... back on my person, and I set about investigating the painting.
It seems to detail a view of the mansion, but flushes out all the rest of the landscape. Could this be a truthful rendering of what exists beyond the small circumference we have been allowed to explore?
The Count and I removed the painting from the wall, and a mysterious door was uncovered! There are more damned doors in this place...
The Count seems to possess keen eyesight in darkness (Note to self: Must ask Watson about this), and we-- The Count, Miss Murray, and myself-- set off.
Miss Murray.
Watson would have laughed heartily at my expense.
First, I committed a grievous social error by daring to reference her by her first name. I cannot imagine what possessed me to do so, and I certainly will keep myself in check in the future. Surely I admire her as a singular lady: She is clever, bold, intuitive and certainly not governed by her emotions as most women are. She is definitely not the type of woman to be swayed by a hatpin or a curling iron, and even if her motivations are not always clear to me, I find myself trusting her and her judgment.
Perhaps this is wrong of me. As I have said before, the fair sex is Watson's department. I have never claimed expertise in that arena. But I believe he would agree with me in my assessment, and even perhaps praise me for my open-mindedness on this issue.
Then, however, she proceeded to grab my wrist to lead me down the darkened hallway.
Human contact rarely sits well with me, particularly when on a case. And particularly when my limitations are being challenged. My eyesight is... not my strength.
I can box, and fence, and I am a master of baritsu.
But I have slightly compromised ocular faculties. And to be faced with absolute darkness, treading on wholly unfamiliar ground, and to be forcibly grabbed... thankfully, I calmed myself and we made our way.
Upon finding another door, the Count and I broke it down, and happily, we found old candles to which I put my matches to good use.
And what a treasure trove we found!
Letters.
So many letters! Written in hands that are... dare I say, familiar?
Incredible.
Miss Murray and the Count helped me to gather them up, and I spent the rest of the night categorizing and making notes and observations about paper, penmanship, and ultimately, author. Or at the very least, qualities and factors which point to authorship, or rather, who the true scribe wishes for me to believe is the true author.
I should say, it is most distressing to find a letter in one's own hand and to know that the script most certainly did NOT proceed from oneself.
I am going to write Mycroft immediately. If letters can be received to this mansion, then surely they can be dispatched. I must let him know where I am, and what I have discovered. I can only hope that a threat to my person will rouse his corpulent body out of his chair at the Diogenes Club and do something.
SH
*sigh*
I wonder if Watson will write one of his florid tales for the Strand about this charming little problem, as it were. No doubt he will chose to include nothing of my investigative skills, my reasoning, my textbook logistical styling, but shall instead commit to paper all of the heightened personal drama of the people within. Bother.
The Count succeeded in stirring me from my curled position in one of those comfortable chairs in the parlor (well, hardly as comfortable as my chair in Baker Street, where I can easily reach the Persian slipper, where Mrs. Hudson makes those wonderful little buttery biscuits especially for me when I'm feeling sad and lonely). He came to me with a cunning observation about the tapestries in the hall where we were investigating just the other night. A bit of cajoling on his part brought me out of my dull-eyed reverie and into a keen attitude that this just might be a clue.
I followed him to the hallway, and a rather curious painting was revealed behind said Tapestry of Suspicion! I was markedly interested, but when I dug into my pocket to retrieve my dear magnifying glass... it was missing! A few moments of contemplation led me to remember offering it to Mrs. Linton, and I scurried off to snatch it away from her. It was a joy to have her... it... back on my person, and I set about investigating the painting.
It seems to detail a view of the mansion, but flushes out all the rest of the landscape. Could this be a truthful rendering of what exists beyond the small circumference we have been allowed to explore?
The Count and I removed the painting from the wall, and a mysterious door was uncovered! There are more damned doors in this place...
The Count seems to possess keen eyesight in darkness (Note to self: Must ask Watson about this), and we-- The Count, Miss Murray, and myself-- set off.
Miss Murray.
Watson would have laughed heartily at my expense.
First, I committed a grievous social error by daring to reference her by her first name. I cannot imagine what possessed me to do so, and I certainly will keep myself in check in the future. Surely I admire her as a singular lady: She is clever, bold, intuitive and certainly not governed by her emotions as most women are. She is definitely not the type of woman to be swayed by a hatpin or a curling iron, and even if her motivations are not always clear to me, I find myself trusting her and her judgment.
Perhaps this is wrong of me. As I have said before, the fair sex is Watson's department. I have never claimed expertise in that arena. But I believe he would agree with me in my assessment, and even perhaps praise me for my open-mindedness on this issue.
Then, however, she proceeded to grab my wrist to lead me down the darkened hallway.
Human contact rarely sits well with me, particularly when on a case. And particularly when my limitations are being challenged. My eyesight is... not my strength.
I can box, and fence, and I am a master of baritsu.
But I have slightly compromised ocular faculties. And to be faced with absolute darkness, treading on wholly unfamiliar ground, and to be forcibly grabbed... thankfully, I calmed myself and we made our way.
Upon finding another door, the Count and I broke it down, and happily, we found old candles to which I put my matches to good use.
And what a treasure trove we found!
Letters.
So many letters! Written in hands that are... dare I say, familiar?
Incredible.
Miss Murray and the Count helped me to gather them up, and I spent the rest of the night categorizing and making notes and observations about paper, penmanship, and ultimately, author. Or at the very least, qualities and factors which point to authorship, or rather, who the true scribe wishes for me to believe is the true author.
I should say, it is most distressing to find a letter in one's own hand and to know that the script most certainly did NOT proceed from oneself.
I am going to write Mycroft immediately. If letters can be received to this mansion, then surely they can be dispatched. I must let him know where I am, and what I have discovered. I can only hope that a threat to my person will rouse his corpulent body out of his chair at the Diogenes Club and do something.
SH