Ostara
Title: Ostara
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: As usual, I own nothing. Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or possibly his Estate.
Summary: An Easter story written for the challenge on Holmesian.net.
Word Count: 1,281
A/N: My first attempt at a Holmesian pastiche, so I hope it hasn't come out too dreadfully. Comments and concrit as always appreciated.
When I came down for breakfast a couple of days before Good Friday, I found Sherlock Holmes in a pensive mood. Through long association with the man, I have learnt that he does not care to be interrupted when his great mind is flying free in some other place. Accordingly, therefore, I focused my attentions on the culinary delights provided by Mrs. Hudson and left him to his own devices until, with no warning, he spoke.
“Are you aware, Watson, that many believe Easter to have been appropriated from a pagan festival to celebrate the goddess Eostre? Or Ostara, to use the German.”
“You may have mentioned it last year,” I returned dryly, buttering my toast. “And the year before that. And possibly -”
He raised a hand to stop me. “This is no idle speculation. A statue of Ostara has been stolen from the home of Lord Philip Erlynne and he, fearing it will be used in some dreadful pagan ritual, has sought my advice on the matter.”
I bit back a laugh, unsure as yet of how to take the matter. “Pagan ritual?”
“Oh yes,” replied Holmes, his expression serious but his eyes dancing with glee. “He seems to believe his own tale quite implicitly and fails to take into account the fact that the statue’s eyes are emeralds, valued at over a hundred pounds each. His wife informed me of this last fact. I understand that the statue was a gift to her and she is naturally quite distraught at its loss.”
“Naturally,” I agreed. “But surely this is a most simple case? No doubt it has been stolen by one of the servants.”
“It would be easy to pin the blame on them, were it not for the fact that they have all, without exception, been sent away until Easter Sunday, Lady Josephine having expressed a desire to live as simply as possible during Lent. No, my dear Watson, I’m afraid it wasn’t the butler this time.”
I smiled at the reference to a case he had recently narrated to me, that of the Musgrave Ritual. “Well, if not the butler, then who?” I asked.
“I cannot say. I am highly doubtful as to the existence of pagan gangs roaming the streets of London, but I think I shall need a tour of the house before I can produce anything very definite.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“I,” retorted Holmes with some asperity, “am waiting for you to finish your breakfast. It is, after all, such an important meal.”
Forbearing to mention that this had never stopped him in the past, I abandoned the plates and fetched my coat. A little under five minutes later, we were rattling along towards Half Moon Street.
“The principle characters in this little drama are Lord Philip himself, his wife, Lady Anna Erlynne, and his mother, Lady Josephine,” Holmes explained.
“Lady Josephine of the Puritanical bent,” I noted.
“Indeed. I wonder what she makes of all this talk of pagan rituals?”
I smiled and we lapsed into a companionable silence until our cab jerked to a halt and we stood on Half Moon Street, gazing up at the impressive façade of Lord Philip’s townhouse. Holmes strode to the door and rang the bell. Although I now knew that there were no servants in the house, it was still a surprise to be welcomed in by a fashionably dressed woman I took to be Lady Anna Erlynne.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed. “Please take a seat in the drawing room while I fetch my husband. Poor dear, he seems most affected by this loss; he has spent the whole day in his study.”
She departed in a swirl of skirts and Holmes and I were left alone. Presently Lord Philip entered, shutting the door behind him. He was immaculately dressed, tall and strongly built, with proud, aristocratic features that wore their current expression of fear very ill.
“Mr. Holmes, I’ve told you all that I know. I simply can’t understand your reasons for coming here. What can be learned from retreading old ground?”
Holmes affected a look of innocent surprise. “Why I merely thought that the criminals who must have made off with the object might have left some traces behind. I thought it a good idea to search the house thoroughly.”
The other man paled considerably. “I am afraid I really can’t allow that, Mr. Holmes. My mother is in delicate health and such a search would mean putting her to considerable trouble.”
“In that case, I fail to see what your Lordship wants me to do. I am perfectly prepared to assist in any way I can, but only if you tell me the truth.” In several strides, Holmes had crossed the room to confront him.
It would take a hardened criminal indeed to withstand the power of Holmes’s imperious stare and Lord Philip was simply not equal to it. He sank onto a sofa and passed a hand over his face.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. How you know I haven’t the faintest idea, but I can see that the only way I can redeem myself is to at least attempt to explain my actions.”
“No need, Lord Philip. I know all about your disastrous luck at the Clover Club. The Clover Club, Watson,” he added, turning to where I sat, “is a most notorious gambling den run by a gang from Dublin. So you sold your wife’s statue to pay your debts?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly. You see, I hadn’t the first clue how to go about getting rid of the thing once I had it so it’s still sitting upstairs in my study.”
“I thought as much. My Irregulars have visited every jeweller’s in the city with no result and, since you could hardly expect me to believe your far-fetched concoction of pagan mysteries, I surmised that the statue had never left the house. My advice to you is to return it whence it came.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” murmured Lord Philip, piteous in his anxiety. “But what of my debts? Even if the fellows don’t decide to extract physical retribution from me, I shall still be shamed if the matter becomes public. The shock would kill my mother.”
“I suggest that you put the matter to your wife. She seems sensible enough and deeply enough in love to forgive any lapse on your part. Besides, I intend to take steps very soon to put an end once and for all to the pernicious Clover Club.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. I hope things work out like you say. Poor Anna! If she forgives me now, how can I ever repay her trust and loyalty?”
Smiling at these and more protestations of undying love, Holmes indicated to Lord Philip that he should go make his feelings known to his lady. He watched him go with a sympathetic expression. I pointed out that this was hardly the behaviour one would expect from Holmes, the stern upholder of the law.
“Easter is a time for redemption, is it not?” he replied. “I do not think our gentleman thief will feel tempted again, nor do I think him a truly bad man. Why, he even had the decency to wait until the servants left to assure us of their innocence! Hardly the action of a master criminal.”
I conceded the truth of his words.
<><><>
In the cab on the way back to Baker Street, Holmes said, “I hear from Mycroft that a new confectioners has opened not far from here and that they sell chocolate eggs. Do you think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate the gift?”
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: As usual, I own nothing. Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or possibly his Estate.
Summary: An Easter story written for the challenge on Holmesian.net.
Word Count: 1,281
A/N: My first attempt at a Holmesian pastiche, so I hope it hasn't come out too dreadfully. Comments and concrit as always appreciated.
When I came down for breakfast a couple of days before Good Friday, I found Sherlock Holmes in a pensive mood. Through long association with the man, I have learnt that he does not care to be interrupted when his great mind is flying free in some other place. Accordingly, therefore, I focused my attentions on the culinary delights provided by Mrs. Hudson and left him to his own devices until, with no warning, he spoke.
“Are you aware, Watson, that many believe Easter to have been appropriated from a pagan festival to celebrate the goddess Eostre? Or Ostara, to use the German.”
“You may have mentioned it last year,” I returned dryly, buttering my toast. “And the year before that. And possibly -”
He raised a hand to stop me. “This is no idle speculation. A statue of Ostara has been stolen from the home of Lord Philip Erlynne and he, fearing it will be used in some dreadful pagan ritual, has sought my advice on the matter.”
I bit back a laugh, unsure as yet of how to take the matter. “Pagan ritual?”
“Oh yes,” replied Holmes, his expression serious but his eyes dancing with glee. “He seems to believe his own tale quite implicitly and fails to take into account the fact that the statue’s eyes are emeralds, valued at over a hundred pounds each. His wife informed me of this last fact. I understand that the statue was a gift to her and she is naturally quite distraught at its loss.”
“Naturally,” I agreed. “But surely this is a most simple case? No doubt it has been stolen by one of the servants.”
“It would be easy to pin the blame on them, were it not for the fact that they have all, without exception, been sent away until Easter Sunday, Lady Josephine having expressed a desire to live as simply as possible during Lent. No, my dear Watson, I’m afraid it wasn’t the butler this time.”
I smiled at the reference to a case he had recently narrated to me, that of the Musgrave Ritual. “Well, if not the butler, then who?” I asked.
“I cannot say. I am highly doubtful as to the existence of pagan gangs roaming the streets of London, but I think I shall need a tour of the house before I can produce anything very definite.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“I,” retorted Holmes with some asperity, “am waiting for you to finish your breakfast. It is, after all, such an important meal.”
Forbearing to mention that this had never stopped him in the past, I abandoned the plates and fetched my coat. A little under five minutes later, we were rattling along towards Half Moon Street.
“The principle characters in this little drama are Lord Philip himself, his wife, Lady Anna Erlynne, and his mother, Lady Josephine,” Holmes explained.
“Lady Josephine of the Puritanical bent,” I noted.
“Indeed. I wonder what she makes of all this talk of pagan rituals?”
I smiled and we lapsed into a companionable silence until our cab jerked to a halt and we stood on Half Moon Street, gazing up at the impressive façade of Lord Philip’s townhouse. Holmes strode to the door and rang the bell. Although I now knew that there were no servants in the house, it was still a surprise to be welcomed in by a fashionably dressed woman I took to be Lady Anna Erlynne.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed. “Please take a seat in the drawing room while I fetch my husband. Poor dear, he seems most affected by this loss; he has spent the whole day in his study.”
She departed in a swirl of skirts and Holmes and I were left alone. Presently Lord Philip entered, shutting the door behind him. He was immaculately dressed, tall and strongly built, with proud, aristocratic features that wore their current expression of fear very ill.
“Mr. Holmes, I’ve told you all that I know. I simply can’t understand your reasons for coming here. What can be learned from retreading old ground?”
Holmes affected a look of innocent surprise. “Why I merely thought that the criminals who must have made off with the object might have left some traces behind. I thought it a good idea to search the house thoroughly.”
The other man paled considerably. “I am afraid I really can’t allow that, Mr. Holmes. My mother is in delicate health and such a search would mean putting her to considerable trouble.”
“In that case, I fail to see what your Lordship wants me to do. I am perfectly prepared to assist in any way I can, but only if you tell me the truth.” In several strides, Holmes had crossed the room to confront him.
It would take a hardened criminal indeed to withstand the power of Holmes’s imperious stare and Lord Philip was simply not equal to it. He sank onto a sofa and passed a hand over his face.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. How you know I haven’t the faintest idea, but I can see that the only way I can redeem myself is to at least attempt to explain my actions.”
“No need, Lord Philip. I know all about your disastrous luck at the Clover Club. The Clover Club, Watson,” he added, turning to where I sat, “is a most notorious gambling den run by a gang from Dublin. So you sold your wife’s statue to pay your debts?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly. You see, I hadn’t the first clue how to go about getting rid of the thing once I had it so it’s still sitting upstairs in my study.”
“I thought as much. My Irregulars have visited every jeweller’s in the city with no result and, since you could hardly expect me to believe your far-fetched concoction of pagan mysteries, I surmised that the statue had never left the house. My advice to you is to return it whence it came.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” murmured Lord Philip, piteous in his anxiety. “But what of my debts? Even if the fellows don’t decide to extract physical retribution from me, I shall still be shamed if the matter becomes public. The shock would kill my mother.”
“I suggest that you put the matter to your wife. She seems sensible enough and deeply enough in love to forgive any lapse on your part. Besides, I intend to take steps very soon to put an end once and for all to the pernicious Clover Club.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. I hope things work out like you say. Poor Anna! If she forgives me now, how can I ever repay her trust and loyalty?”
Smiling at these and more protestations of undying love, Holmes indicated to Lord Philip that he should go make his feelings known to his lady. He watched him go with a sympathetic expression. I pointed out that this was hardly the behaviour one would expect from Holmes, the stern upholder of the law.
“Easter is a time for redemption, is it not?” he replied. “I do not think our gentleman thief will feel tempted again, nor do I think him a truly bad man. Why, he even had the decency to wait until the servants left to assure us of their innocence! Hardly the action of a master criminal.”
I conceded the truth of his words.
<><><>
In the cab on the way back to Baker Street, Holmes said, “I hear from Mycroft that a new confectioners has opened not far from here and that they sell chocolate eggs. Do you think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate the gift?”