The Adventure of the Girl in the Attic 1/2

[buffyaddict_fic]

Title: The Adventure of the Girl in the Attic 1/2
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Violet Hunter, Jephro Rucastle, Emma Toller
Words: ~15,000
Summary: Dr. John Watson writes up an account of the Adventure of the Girl in the Attic, in which there is: a certain amount of boredom, a worried woman, nail polish, a strange performance, a locked room, a desperate rescue, a deadly dog, and an injured detective.
Notes: This is my second attempt to "convert" one of ACD's stories into an episode of the new Sherlock BBC series. I can't tell if I was actually successful or not. This time, the original story is The Adventure of the Copper Beeches which is one of my favorites. Betaed by rain_1975 . This just might be rubbish.  If so, PLEASE tell me so I stop bombarding you with my weird Sherlock fic.





Sherlock Holmes is a free man, but he spent numerous years in prison. Not within an actual cell constructed of stone and steel, but within the small, dark box built by his family.

He is forced into this invisible box as a child. He is expected to go to school, perform his chores, obey his father without question. His future has already taken shape: it's made of splintered wood, callouses, the scream of seagulls, the stink of dead fish, the taste of whiskey. Sherlock is expected to work down at the wharf like his father. Like his uncles. Like his brother Mycroft. Only Mycroft walks out of the house (cage) when Sherlock is six. He doesn't look back. Sherlock, on the other hand, spends three weeks sitting on the front stoop waiting for his brother to return.

Sherlock is placed into a box at school. At least, his teacher's try. But Sherlock refuses to be labeled, refuses to fit just to make things easier. As he grows older, Sherlock begins to loathe any task, any choice, he considers "easy." He decides if something isn't difficult, it's not worth doing. He teaches himself to play the violin. He studies Gaelic and Latin on school holiday. He writes a term paper using a seventeenth century cipher. He spends a week speaking in a thick Scottish brogue just so he can practice bending words to fit his mouth.

When Sherlock is 16, he informs his family he's going to university on a full scholarship. He holds his preordained future like a snow globe and smashes it to dust. Sherlock is going to be something brilliant, something new, something that cannot be categorized. He is going to be interesting. The one thing he won't be, is his father.

The elder Holmes curses, throws a lamp at his son's head. Sherlock side-steps the missile; the lamp breaks against a kitchen cabinet, falls to the floor in three pieces. Sherlock isn't given to poetic metaphors, but he can't help thinking the lamp is a fairly apt representation of his home life.

At university, Sherlock continuously drives his roommates away. He doesn't intend to alienate them, he is simply too busy to be bothered with social interaction, alcohol, or exchanging bodily fluids for reasons other than the pursuit of science. No one wants to deal with Sherlock's strange experiments, his eccentric behavior, and his inexplicable ability to suss out everyone's darkest secrets.

Eventually Sherlock finds his own flat. And then another. And then, after assisting Flora Hudson during an otherwise tedious holiday, Sherlock finds himself with lodgings on Baker Street. And a flatmate who, despite spending several hours running around London with Sherlock, stays.

The media tries desperately to pinpoint exactly who Sherlock is. The readers of John's blog leave a litany of comments demanding to know what is Sherlock really like? John ignores them. Mycroft texts frequently, wanting to know how Sherlock is, what he's working on. Sherlock deletes the texts. He forgave Mycroft for leaving long ago. But he hasn't forgotten.

There are those who consider silence a prison, those who consider solitude a punishment. Sherlock does neither. He welcomes both. As long as he is surrounded by books, as long as he has his laptop, as long as he has a puzzle, a riddle, a mystery to occupy his mind, he has his freedom.

Sherlock knows there is nothing--not food, not sleep, not love, not even knowledge--more important than going where you want, than being who you want to be.

The Adventure of the Girl in the Attic

by Doctor John Watson

"The art lover in each of us should take the time to feed his or her soul," Sherlock Holmes read in a decidedly mocking tone, "at the Vermeer Retrospective this Sunday at--dear God, how pathetic." Sherlock made a noise of disgust, crumpled the Daily, and tossed it randomly over his shoulder into a corner. "Feed his soul," he mimicked. "What rubbish. I'd sooner feed my soul a strict diet of kerosene and razor blades than step into that pretentious gallery again. First they invite the public to see a forged Vermeer, and now they want to subject them to the real thing?" He scowled. "It's contemptible."

I was tucked comfortably into my chair while my friend complained, a book open on my lap.

"Okay, fine. I understand why you're sick of Vermeer. What is your idea of good art then? That?" I pointed to the gold smiley-face painted on the wall.

Sherlock stared at the face for a long moment, head tilted.

"Despite the smile there is a certain gravitas to the work. Especially when you take the bullet holes into consideration."

I rolled my eyes. "Be serious, Sherlock. Are you really telling me you don't care for any art at all?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table while he considered my question. Finally he looked at me, a slow smile creasing his face. "I am constantly amused by the little embellishments you add to our cases when you write your blog. Surely those count as art."

I snapped my book shut. "I don't embellish," I said, somewhat huffily. "I can't help it if you have a flair for the overly dramatic. If the stories sound sensational, that's because they are."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. He stretched out on the couch, hands folded behind his head, heels propped on the arm rest.

"Your mistake was in letting them sound sensational. I thought the point of your little blog was to report fact, John, not write up my biography."

I glared at him. "I haven't heard anybody else complain," I said coolly. Our flat was a good size, but at times like this, I wondered how it could possibly continue to hold Sherlock's enormous ego.

"Never mind," Sherlock said, as if reading my thoughts. "I'm simply being difficult because solving these cases is my art; I don't need Vermeer or Van Gogh or the remnants of some master's calcified palette propped on a pedestal." He stabbed a finger at the air. "What you need to remember John, is crime is common. Mundane, even. But logic? That, my friend, is rare. So when you look back on one of our cases you must look at it logically. You should write concise reports fit for study, not pull a handful of short stories from your keyboard."

I reached for the old Union Jack pillow beside my chair and considered lobbing it at Sherlock's wavy-haired head. I wondered how logical he'd feel about that.

A sparrow perched on the window ledge facing the street and peered inside the flat. It chirruped once, then flew away. Smart bird. He must have known Sherlock was in one of his moods.

It was late April, not long after we solved the case at Stoke Moran. A fire roared in the hearth, I could hear Mrs. Hudson hoovering downstairs. Empty take-away cartons still sat on the table from the previous night. Thick black pen marks accented the side of one box. It looked like graffiti. My mind automatically conjured up the cipher we broke concerning the Black Lotus smuggling ring. My brain realised the lines spelled curry, but my imagination couldn't help seeing deadman.

That was enough to put me off breakfast. I clutched the pillow to my chest instead of tossing it across the room. Sherlock was still on the couch, but he had moved his arms. They were now crossed over his chest, as if he were auditioning for the part of pale, pyjama-clad vampire--albeit a cranky one.

Sherlock had been silent and morose all morning. He had stared dully at his laptop screen, then paged through the papers with little interest. Now that he'd started lecturing me on my literary failings, I was more than ready for him to return to his silence.

He rolled over on his side to look at me, one hand pillowed below his cheek.

"Then again, it seems unkind of me to accuse of you of sensationalism when many of our cases don't specifically solve crimes. At least not Scotland Yard's black and white antiquated notion of crime. For example, you'll recall the Czech Prime Minister's little problem, Mary Sutherland's missing fiance, the con artist running about Piccadilly Circus. Without the aspect of a blood-stained crime scene to wag their fingers over, the public isn't interested." He shifted again and threw his hands hopelessly into the air. "I do not understand a world that values the trivial, John. A world that values the sensational over the beautiful simplicity of logic."

"I value logic," I protested.

Sherlock raised his head long enough to flash me a doubtful look.

I sighed. "I might not be capable of thinking logically every second of the day, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate logic."

My friend chuckled. "Every second of the day? I'm afraid you give yourself too much credit."

I sat back in my chair, thoroughly put out. "You know what's not logical? Me trying to cheer you up, when all you do is mock my attempts to give you the credit Scotland Yard should, but doesn't."

"From now on I'll reserve my mocking for those who actually deserve it," he said. "Besides, soon enough your blogging days will be over," he said despondently, and threw an arm over his face.

I felt a spark of worry flicker through me. My blogging days over? Why?

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position. He pulled his dressing gown closed and regarded me with a look that said I was to be pitied.

"The days of my great cases are over, John. The criminal element has lost all ingenuity. Even Moriarty has let me down."

My eyebrows lifted. "You consider that a problem?"

Sherlock ignored me. "Any day now, The Science of Deduction forums will be rife with nothing but questions from hapless teenagers who have misplaced their iPods and mechanical pencils. From little old ladies who have lost their Siamese cats and reading glasses."

My friend's head rested on the back of the couch, he stared blankly at the ceiling. "I'm telling you, John. You are, right now, witnessing my final descent. I can already feel my brain atrophy. I am in the depths of endless boredom and despair."

He was certainly in the depths of something.

"Remember what I said about being your being dramatic?"

"Look at this," he said, and pulled his Blackberry from his pocket. He threw it to me. "Read the e-mail I got this morning and then tell me I'm being dramatic."

I looked at the screen. The e-mail was from violethunter@yahoo.co.uk. It read as follows:

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I have recently been offered the position of au pair. I am desperate to discuss whether I should accept this position or not. If you would be kind enough to e-mail me your address, I will stop by at 10:30 tomorrow morning to discuss this issue, if you have time. I know your time and attention are in great demand.

Very sincerely,
Violet Hunter

"Do you know this woman?"

"No."

I heard the front door open downstairs, followed by footsteps on the staircase. There was a sharp knock on our door.

"Who could that be?" I doubted it was Lestrade.

"I expect it is Violet Hunter to ask me for employment advice."

I stared at my friend. "You e-mailed her back? You're actually going to play school counselor?"

Sherlock shrugged and walked to the door. "I have spent the last two days leaving slides of blood around the flat to monitor colour changes under various light conditions." He showed me his hand and I noticed there were plasters affixed to his finger tips. "If I don't stop I expect you'll need to perform a blood transfusion."

Jesus Christ. Sherlock was going to kill himself in the name of science one of these days. Or in an attempt to stave off boredom.

"Sherlock," I said, anger masking my concern. "How many times have I told you not to--"

Sherlock winked at me. "Not now, John. We have a guest." He opened the door to reveal a young woman standing nervously in the corridor.

She had auburn hair and her face was spotted with freckles. She wore a pale blue pantsuit and looked quite the professional. She smiled at Sherlock, ignoring the fact he was dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown and was presently suffering from a significant case of bed head.

Sherlock put on his best smile. "Violet Hunter, I presume?"

Violet nodded. "Yes. And you must be Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed I am." Sherlock gestured her inside the flat. "And this is my friend John Watson. You may speak freely in his presence."

Violet gave me a shy smile. "I'm a big fan of your blog," she said.

I gave Sherlock a sharp look over the top of our guest's head. I intended to say Did you hear that? but it's possible I also transmitted Sod off, you nit-picking pseudo editor.

"I apologize for bothering you with what must be a trivial matter, compared to your usual cases," she said, sitting on the couch. "But something very strange has happened to me, and I have no one else to talk to about it. My parents are dead and my only living relatives are in Germany." She blushed faintly. "I was hoping you might be kind enough to give me some advice."

"Would you like something to drink?" Sherlock asked in an astonishing show of manners. "Some water? Tea? Coffee?"

"A glass of water would be wonderful," Violet said.

Sherlock looked at me. "John, a glass of water please."

Ah. Of course. The manners Sherlock was counting on were mine, not his own. I went to the kitchen and rummaged for a clean glass. As I turned on the tap, I noticed a glass slide on the windowsill. I recognized the dry rusty spot upon it as blood. Lovely.

I handed Violet the water and reclaimed my seat.

"Thank you," she said.

I could tell Sherlock was mildly impressed with our guest's calm demeanor and speech. He perched himself on the opposite end of the couch. He sat on the arm rest so he could face her, hands clasped except for his index fingers. These he pressed together as if he were trying to point surreptitiously towards a crack in the ceiling. He closed his eyes to slits.

"Tell me your problem," he instructed gently.

Violet began her story.

"I've been an au pair for five years," she explained. "I was with the Munro family for that time, but two months ago Mister Munro's job transferred him to New York, and the family went with him. They invited me as well, but I couldn't bring myself to move so far away. Which means I not only lost my adopted family, but also my job.

"The au pair agency I work for is called Westover. I call them every week looking for a new placement. The woman who runs the agency--Ms. Stoper--finally said she had something for me this past Monday. When I went to the office to discuss the details, she wasn't alone. There was a gentleman with her, a Mr. Rucastle.

"Mister Rucastle was a large man, heavyset, with glasses. He seemed very kind and told me he wanted to hire me. He was friendly and put me at ease." Violet grimaced slightly. "Unlike Ms. Stoper."

She took a drink of water, set the tumbler back on the table. My laptop balanced on the pillow across my legs and I pulled up the website for the Westover Au Pair Agency.

"I had hardly taken three steps into the office when Mr. Rucastle clapped his hands and beamed at Ms. Stoper. 'She's the one,' he said. 'She's perfect. I couldn't ask for anyone better. Excellent!'

"He asked if I was looking for employment as an au pair and I told him I was. Next, he asked what kind of salary I was asking for. When I was with the Munros they paid me £1,000 a month, which allowed me save up a fair amount since I had no living expenses to speak of.

"'What?' Rucastle said. 'That's nothing but a pittance. I can offer you £3,000 a month. A woman with your accomplishments deserves to be paid what she is worth.'" Violet's complexion darkened. "Let me tell you, Mr. Holmes, I have no great accomplishments to speak of, at least nothing worth that amount. Rucastle was clearly exaggerating and I told him so.

"I know French and German and play the piano, I admitted. I also told him I could draw a little, but he interrupted me. He said he had spoken to the Munros and knew I had the patience of a saint and doted upon their children. He also said I had the bearing and manner of a lady and deserved nothing less than £40,000 a year."

Violet turned from Sherlock to me, eyes wide. "You can imagine, jobless and alone, £40,000 sounded like winning the Lotto. Rucastle saw my shock, and right there, in front of Ms. Stoper and myself, he opened his cheque book and offered to write me a cheque on the spot as an advance on my salary to pay for new clothes and travel arrangements.

"I had reached the point where everything seemed too good to be true. Either Rucastle was the kindest, most generous man in history, or I was being set up. I started to think I was trapped in some new version of a Trigger Happy TV episode."

I chuckled at the notion. "I take it no cameramen burst into the room?"

She smiled. "No. So I decided I'd find out as much about the job as possible. Rucastle lives in Hampshire, about two hours from London, on the far side of Winchester. He has an estate called Copper Beeches; he said the country was lovely, the house modern, and there were servants."

I raised my eyebrows. Clearly this Rucastle had money to burn. I couldn't help wishing some of it would burn in our direction.

"Did he tell you what your duties would be for this excessive yearly fee?"

Violet's gaze shifted to Sherlock. "Rucastle said he had one child, a four year-old boy named Eddie I would take care of. He told me Eddie liked to burn ants with a magnifying glass for fun. 'You wouldn't believe the patience the little whipper-snapper has to char the little buggers,' he said and laughed like he couldn't be prouder." Violet made a face. "I think he was joking though." She looked back to me. "He was joking, right? I mean, what kind of parent is proud of his son's cruelty?"

"I would suspect a parent who is cruel himself," Sherlock said softly. "Please go on."

"Rucastle said I'd also help his wife, in addition to caring for his son. I'd do light cooking and cleaning, any little errand Mrs. Rucastle needed done." Violet reached for the glass again. She didn't drink, she simply wrapped her hands around it, as if she had no idea what to do with them.

"And then he said the strangest thing."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"He said he and his wife were very interested in fashion. That there would be times his wife would pick out my clothes or instruct me what to wear for the day. She might tell me to sit in a certain chair while I read or folded clothes. I thought this was a little odd, but I know some people are very particular, so I told Mr. Rucastle it wouldn't be a problem.

"Then Mr. Rucastle smiled and said I had to cut my hair before accepting the job."

I looked up from my laptop. "He asked you to cut your hair?"

"Yes. I mean, that is a strange request, right? It's not just me?"

"It's not just you," I told her. I tried to make a joke of it. "What, he's prejudiced against long-haired au pairs?"

Sherlock's eyes were closed now, but I knew he was listening intently.

"I've considered cutting my hair before, donating it to Locks of Love or some other charity, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it for the sake of a job. My mum had very long hair and I know it's silly, but I feel like my hair is the only connection I have left to her. So I told Mr. Rucastle I was sorry, but I couldn't accept the position unless I could keep my hair long.

"He looked very disappointed. He told me his wife fancied short hair and I absolutely had to cut it off if I was to work for him.

"Again, I told him I couldn't.

"Rucastle looked honestly upset. So did Ms. Stoper. But I knew her disappointment stemmed from missing out on Rucastle's commission. She asked if I wanted to keep my name on the list for prospective au pairs and I said yes.

"'That seems rather useless,' she said, 'since you're not interested in accepting the positions you're offered.' I suspect Ms. Stoper tossed my file in the recycle bin as soon as I walked out the door. When I got back to my flat I started to regret my decision when I saw the number of bills that came in the post. I wondered if I'd made a huge mistake. I mean, what does my hair really matter? It's just foolish pride, it'll grow back. What do I care if they want to dress me up like a Barbie doll? Besides, I've been an au pair a long time, and the kind of money Rucastle was talking about paying me is unheard of."

"I take it that was not the end of your dealings with Mr. Rucastle," Sherlock remarked.

"No," Violet admitted, turning the glass in her hands. "The next morning a bike messenger knocked on my door. He brought me a letter from Rucastle." She reached into her purse with one hand and pulled out an envelope. "I brought it along so you could read it." She handed the letter to Holmes.

He slid onto the cushion beside her and took the proffered envelope. He pulled out a sheet of paper and I watched his eyes move quickly across the page.

"Hmm," he said, and leaned forward to hand the letter to me.

Dear Ms. Hunter it read.

Ms. Stoper was kind enough to give me your address. I know it's presumptuous of me, but I was wondering if there was any chance you changed your mind about the position. My wife is desperate for help with Edward, and she is very excited to meet you after my description of you and your talents.

We are happy to double your weekly allowance to reimburse you for any inconvenience my wife's eccentric requests might cause you. They are eccentric, but I promise you they are not dangerous or illegal in any way. To put it bluntly, my wife is fond of a certain shade of blue and would like you to wear a dress of that shade on occasion. You don't have to buy one yourself, as we have several of the perfect color and size; they belonged to my daughter Alice before she moved to Philadelphia. I'm sure the dresses will fit you. And, as I mentioned earlier, my wife may ask you to sit in a certain chair as long as it doesn't inconvenience you, or interfere with the time you spend with Eddie.

I am sorry my request to cut your hair troubles you. I told my wife how lovely your hair is, but she refused to budge on this particular issue. My wife can be a bit peculiar in her tastes, but I love her dearly and am eager to see she gets what she wants--within reason. My only hope is the increased salary and my absolute respect might convince you to accept this position after all. As for your duties with Eddie, don't worry. He's a good boy and very smart, you won't have any trouble with him. Although I guess every parent thinks his child is perfect.

Please call me at the number above and I'll pick you up at the Winchester station. Let me know your train schedule. I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours truly,
Jephro Rucastle

Violet was silent as we took turns reading, but now she spoke up. "I've decided to accept the position, Mr. Holmes. But before I actually make the arrangements, I wanted to get your opinion on the entire situation."

Sherlock smiled and spread his hands. "My dear Violet, if you already made up your mind, you have no need for my advice."

"So you think it's a good idea to work for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, blew out a lungful of air. "I'll tell you the truth, Ms. Hunter. If I had a sister I would prefer to keep her a good distance from the Rucastles."

"What do you think of all his strange requests?" Violet's face flushed. "I mean, he's eccentric, but I don't think he's doing anything wrong. I don't think he's filming pornos at Copper Beeches or anything."

"I don't know what to think," Sherlock told her. "What is your opinion?"

Violet finally set the glass back on the table. She crossed her legs and frowned. "I think there's really only one explanation. Mrs. Rucastle must be bipolar or schizophrenic, and Mr. Rucastle doesn't want to put her in hospital. He wants her behavior kept quiet, so he needs an au pair to care for his son and his wife. That's why he's willing to pay me so much."

Sherlock stood and walked to the window. He paced back and forth before it; we watched the sunlight tint his dark hair blue.

"I see you're quite adept at making your own deductions," Sherlock said slowly. "You could be right. But regardless of Rucastle's reasons for hiring you, Copper Beeches does not seem like an ideal household."

Violet nodded. "I know, but oh my God, Mr. Holmes, the money. I could take time off, I could travel, I could visit the Munros." Her face glowed at the thought. "I could do whatever I wanted. I could be free," she breathed.

Holmes bit at his lower lip. "Yes, the pay is good. It is too good. That's what has me worried. Why spend £40,000 a year when this Rucastle could have his pick of au pairs for half that? There must be a reason."

"I understand that. But I thought...I thought if I told you everything, maybe you could help me if things turned out to be, well," she lowered her voice, "not exactly on the up and up." She looked at Holmes earnestly. "I'd feel so much better if I knew you were on my side."

"Not only am I on your side, my dear, I have your back as well," Sherlock said.

If my brain didn't automatically reject the idea, I'd swear he was flirting.

"Your problem is quite interesting and I've been looking for something to occupy my mind." He nodded in my direction. "Just ask John."

I grimaced. "It's true."

"Not only have I been in the doldrums, but Mrs. Hudson took away my gun," Sherlock said, looking as if he'd lost a beloved pet.

Violet's mouth dropped open. "What?"

Sherlock blithely ignored her concern. "There's something strangely ominous about all of this. If you find yourself in trouble--"

Violet looked shaken. "Ominous? Trouble? What exactly do you think is going to happen?"

"If I knew the future I'd be a fortune teller, not a consulting detective. I'd also be even more bored than I generally am. Listen," Sherlock told her, handing her one of his cards. "Call, e-mail, or text me any time, day or night. I'll help you in any way I can."

I ducked my head behind my laptop screen so Sherlock wouldn't see my smirk.

"Thank you very much," Violet said, and shook Sherlock's hand. I noticed she held on a bit longer than strictly necessary. "I'll call Mr. Rucastle from the taxi and give my hair the chop on my way home." She gave us each a little wave and left.

"I noticed you didn't seem quite so bored around Ms. Hunter," I pointed out. "Does the estimable Sherlock Holmes have a crush?"

"I don't have a crush," Sherlock snapped. "I have an interest in a case, that's all." He made a face. "Please. Can you imagine me spending time with a woman? What would we talk about? What would we do? The idea is preposterous."

I thought of Sarah's smile. "Not everyone feels the way you do," I reminded him, and added a silent: Thank God.

"More's the pity," Sherlock said irritably. "Think of what society could accomplish as a whole if men and women weren't constantly trying to climb into each other's trousers." He peeled a plaster off one finger, inspected the tiny scab, replaced the bandage. "No," he sighed. "Violet is an impressive woman, but she doesn't intrigue me, the case does." He met my gaze. "I suspect it won't be long before we hear from her again."

* * *

Maybe Sherlock was destined to become a fortune teller after all, because his predication came true before two weeks had passed.

During those days of waiting, Sherlock spent his time reading, writing up the findings from his experiments, and playing the violin. I say playing, but what I really mean is, he sawed away at the strings as if he were trying to cut the instrument in half. Occasionally he sat still as a statue for 15 or 20 minutes at a time. He wouldn't admit it, but I knew Violet's strange story was on his mind.

Saturday morning I woke to find Sherlock studiously painting the fingernails on his left hand. His feet were propped on the table and the tip of tongue was tucked between his teeth as he worked. I had woke to find my sister in this exact position countless times during our adolescence. I stared at him in stupefaction for some minutes as he carefully applied black polish with the tiny brush.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What in the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock moved on to the next finger. "I thought it would be fairly obvious, John."

I sighed and tried again. "Why are you painting your nails?" I asked, then grinned. "Gone Goth, have you?"

Sherlock glanced up from his work long enough to aim a glare in my direction. "Why do you think I'm painting my nails?"

I sank into my chair. "Because black is the new pink? You're bored? Oh, wait," I said, trying hard not to laugh, "is it because you're a secret transvestite?" I snapped my fingers. "That's why you've been wearing first-aid plasters! To hide the polish."

"Have it all out of your system now?"

"Not yet." I wasn't going to let him off so easily. "I've got it," I said triumphantly. "You're painting your nails black because you're mourning the fact Violet hasn't called you yet."

Sherlock finished his task, returned the brush to the bottle, and leaned back on the couch. He stared at me with the look of annoyance he usually reserved for Anderson.

"Now have you finished?"

"For now." I looked at his newly-dark nails. "You want to see how long it takes the polish to chip off, of course."

"Exactly. I've been thinking about it ever since observing Jennifer Wilson's body. It could have bearing on a case down the road."

"With a teenager missing her iPod, or a granny missing her cat?"

Sherlock stalked over to the door and threw it open. "Mrs. Hudson," he yelled down, "I am going to need my revolver back now."

"Not a housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called back cheerfully. "But feel free to come and get it yourself, love."

Holmes slammed the door and let his head fall back against the wood with a thud.

"Why must everyone conspire against me?"

"Who's conspiring?" I asked innocently, heading to the kitchen. "I'm making toast and tea. Want some?"

Just then Sherlock's cell bleeped, indicating he'd received a text.

He pulled the phone from his pocket, pressed a button, and read the message. He turned the screen so I could see the words.

Plz meet me at the Black Swan in Win tomorrow @ noon. I have no idea what to do & really need your help. VH

"That doesn't sound good," I commented.

Holmes threw himself into a chair and picked up his violin. He held the bow loosely in one hand, looking thoughtful.

I watched him as I filled the electric kettle.

"Will you, ah," Sherlock cleared his throat, "come with me?"

I don't know why he continued to ask for my presence after so many cases together. For all his deductive reasoning, he should have picked up on the fact there's nowhere else I'd rather be when the game is on.

"Of course."

I slid my laptop across the desk and tapped a few keys. "I have the National Railway site up," I told him, checking the available departure times. "There's a train at 9:15 due to arrive in Winchester at 11:30."

"Perfect," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and began to play my favorite Beethoven sonata.

* * *

By 11:00 the next morning we were only minutes from Winchester. I spent most of the ride trying to read A Thousand Splendid Suns, but my gaze kept sliding back to the single sun outside the window. It was a bright day, the sky clear, flowers bloomed in back gardens as the train sped by.

Houses lined the countryside like little boxes. Telephone wires strung them together like paper lanterns and I smiled to myself. I love the city, but at times like this, I could see the appeal of fresh air and quiet roads.

A barn flew by, surrounded by a white cloud of sheep.

"It's beautiful out here," I commented.

Sherlock had been typing on his Blackberry. Now he lowered it to observe my face, and then the countryside.

He shook his head. "What is that saying? Beauty is only skin deep? It's also only paint deep, John. These houses are all false fronts, isolated from the city. You see these houses and find them quaint and charming. I see nothing but isolation and an opportunity to commit crime."

I stared at Sherlock. "You're telling me you associate crime with fresh air and country houses?"

"I can't help the way my mind works. I see the world through the prism of criminal detection." He leaned towards the window. "These houses fill me with suspicion and unease. I've learned through experience that this picturesque countryside holds more evil than the darkest alleys and crack houses of London."

I gaped at my friend in astonishment. "You're exaggerating."

His kept his gaze on the window; a bitter smile curved his lips. "I wish I were. Is it not obvious?" His voice dropped and he spoke urgently, with conviction. "In the city you have the law, a court of your peers, a court of public opinion. If a child goes missing, it is usually reported. If someone is assaulted, they are brought to A&E. Someone investigates, whether it's New Scotland Yard, me, or a nosy neighbor." Sherlock pressed a palm lightly against the glass.

"But it's different out here, isn't it? Each of these lonely houses has its own garden, its own veil of privacy. The distance between neighbors does not promote independence, John, it fosters oppression. Apprehension. Think of all the secret cruelties that go on, year after year, the suffering behind closed doors while we walk blithely down city streets. Think of the misery, the malevolence, hidden in bedrooms and basements and attics, and no one knows." He turned his gaze from the window to me, eyes burning. "Think of Helen Stoner and her sister."

I was stunned by Sherlock's speech. I knew he was cynical, but this went far beyond that. How could he stand to open his eyes each morning if he really presumed sorrow, pain, or depravity behind every smile, in every handshake?

"If Violet Hunter lived in Winchester I wouldn't be half as worried. But she lives at Copper Beeches, off in the middle nowhere."

"At least she's able to get away long enough to meet us. That must be a good sign."

Sherlock's face shuttered. "Yes. She still has her freedom." He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of a troubling memory. "For now."

"Do you have any idea what could be wrong?"

"I have formulated eight distinct explanations so far, but I have no way of judging which is correct until I speak with our client. Ah, and there's the Black Swan. I expect we'll hear what Violet has to say shortly."

The Black Swan Inn was a popular pub within walking distance from the station. The pub catered to travelers and featured a large menu and vintage atmosphere.

Violet was waiting for us at a corner table in the back. Her ginger hair was cut short and held back from her face with a hairband. She looked pale and worn, as if there were somehow less of her since our last visit. At the sight of us, she smiled, relief plain on her face.

"I'm so happy you're here," she said, "thank you for coming. I'm just--" she laughed without humor. "I'm at the end my rope and I don't know what to do." Sandwiches, chips, and coffee were laid upon the table. "I don't have much time so I ordered lunch for us, I hope that's okay."
"It's perfect." Sherlock dropped two sugar cubes into his coffee. "Now tell us what happened."

Violet's eyes flicked to the door, then back to Sherlock. "First of all, I want to say up front that the Rucastles haven't hurt me. They haven't threatened me. But there's something very wrong in that house, and the longer I stay there, the more I feel it."

Sherlock folded his hands, rested them on the table. "Explain."

Violet picked listlessly at the crust of her sandwich. Sherlock didn't even bother to feign interest in his food. I alone tucked into the plate before me.

"Jephro met me at the station just like he promised. The land around Copper Beeches is lovely, there are trees and wild flowers, but the house itself looks like a big white block. The paint is peeling, the front steps sag with age and water damage. The house is surrounded by woods, except for the road out front. Next to the driveway is a clump of copper beeches which give the place its name.

"On the drive to the house, Jephro was just as friendly as usual. He introduced me to Edward and his wife, Virgnia. I can tell you right now, Virginia is many things, but she isn't crazy. She's a quiet blonde woman who's about 20 years younger than her husband. From the things they've said, I gather they've been married for several years. Virginia is Jephro's second wife, his first wife died and their daughter is the one who moved to Philadelphia.

"Jephro told me privately Alice left because she didn't like his new wife. I can hardly blame her, Virginia doesn't exactly exude friendliness. She's the complete opposite of Jephro. She has no sense of humour, she doesn't smile, she barely speaks."

I looked at Sherlock to see if this description sounded familiar, but his attention was on Violet.

"Living with Virginia is like living with a big lump of clay. She just sits there. The only things she shows interest in are Eddie and Jephro. Well, mostly Eddie. And either Jephro doesn't notice Virginia is dull as dishwater or doesn't care, because he acts like she walks on water. Virgnia is much too lazy to walk across the room, much less bother with water."

Violet put a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God, I'm being horrible. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I shouldn't talk that way. Virginia isn't all bad, she really isn't. I know she adores Eddie with all her heart. And sometimes I catch her watching him with the saddest look on her face, as if she knows there's something terrible waiting just around the corner. Twice I came into the sitting room to find her in tears. The way Eddie acts, I don't blame her. I've spent a lot of time around naughty children, but I can confidently say Edward Rucastle is in a class all by himself. I've come upon him killing insects half a dozen times, and once I caught him chasing the neighbor's cat with a stick."

Our client shook her head. "I'm almost afraid of him, or at the very least for him. I think he could benefit from some kind of therapy but I don't know how to bring it up without making things worse." Violet looked embarrassed. "I'm rambling. I'm sorry. I talk too much when I'm nervous."

"There is no such thing as too many details," Sherlock said. "Just because something seems irrelevant doesn't mean it is."

"Okay. I understand. I'm getting to the reason I called you, I promise." She looked at her watch. "Jephro's letter mentioned he had servants. He has an old gardener, and the gardener's wife is a sort of housekeeper. She cooks, buys groceries, things like that. Their names are David and Emma Toller. David is perpetually drunk. He literally reeks of alcohol, but Jephro and Virginia never seem to notice. I'm afraid David's going to drive the lawnmower into a tree or cut off his foot. Emma makes Virginia look like a social butterfly. She speaks in monosyllables and wears a perpetual scowl. I avoid them as much as possible.

"My third day at Copper Beeches Jephro asked me to wear one of his daughter's dresses. The dress was beautiful, long and gauzy, and made from a brilliant peacock blue material. I was surprised to see the dress was hand-sewn and it dawned on me Alice must have sewn it herself. The strange thing was, it fit as if she had made it for me.

"When I came downstairs, Jephro and Virginia smiled so broadly their faces looked like masks. They fawned all over me, as if I'd been upstairs for 10 years rather than 10 minutes. Virginia had a chair set in front of the large sitting room window. I was asked to sit in the chair with my back to the window. While I sat, Jephro told a hilarious story, something he read in an interview about Ricky Gervais. I laughed until my stomach hurt. But Virginia never laughed once. She had an anxious expression on her face, and her gaze kept flicking to the window behind me.

"After about 45 minutes, Jephro said it was time for me to check on Edward, so I changed out of the dress and continued my duties. Two days later we went through the exact same performance, except this time he recited several funny stories about some of his co-workers. After about half an hour he asked me to read to him. He gave me a worn volume of Emily Dickinson poetry and I read for fifteen minutes. I was right in the middle of a verse when he ordered me to stop and get back to work.

"I felt like I was in the middle of some strange performance, and I was desperate to find out what this play acting meant. Virginia and Jephro were always adamant I keep my face from the window, so I became obsessed with discovering what they didn't want me to see. I didn't think I'd be able to, but I dropped my compact the other day and the mirror broke. I was able to wrap a piece of the glass in a tissue. The next time I sat in front of the window in the blue dress, I pretended to laugh and put the tissue to my eyes. With a little work I could glimpse the road behind me. I was disappointed to see there was nothing there but the trees. I risked a second glance and that's when I saw a man wearing jeans and a red t-shirt standing at the edge of Southampton Road. He just stood there, looking sickly and disheveled, staring in at me. I almost dropped the mirror.

"I looked up to see Virginia watching me. She didn't say anything, but I'm sure she knew what I was doing. 'Jephro,' she said, 'there's a voyeur down the road who keeps staring in at Violet.'"

"Jephro asked if I knew who the man was. I told him I didn't know anyone in the area.

"'Then please turn around and wave at him to leave,' Virginia instructed me.

"'Wouldn't it be better to just ignore him?' I asked.

"'No,' Jephro said, his good humour gone. 'Otherwise he'll be loitering around all afternoon. Wave him away.'

"I waved my hand and Virginia closed the blinds. That was last week, and since then, I haven't sat in the window, worn the blue dress, or seen the man outside the house." Violet paused and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock said nothing.

Violet took the detective's silence as permission to continue. "The rest of my story is a little disjointed," she warned us. "I'm not sure if there's any connection between these incidents or not, but I want to tell you everything, just how it happened. My first day at the house, Jephro took me to a small shed next to the garage. We were still a few yards off when I heard the distinct rattle of a chain, the growl of a dog.

"Mr. Rucastle pointed to a small window on the side of the shed. 'Isn't he beautiful?' he asked, and I saw a large, four-legged shape with glowing eyes. Beautiful is not the word that came to mind. 'Don't worry about him,' Jephro said, 'That's Carlo, my guard dog. He's not allowed in the house. Well, I say he's mine, but he really belongs to David. David's the only one who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day and let him loose each night.' Jephro chuckled. 'God help anyone who steps onto my land after dark. Whatever you do, don't go outside after sunset, or you'll find Carlo snapping at your heels.

"Jephro's warning wasn't an idle one. The next night I looked out my bedroom window, and there, in the moonlight, was a large shadow beneath the beech trees. The shadow moved into a pool of light and saw it was Carlo. The dog was huge, almost as tall as me. I could see the sharp outline of its ribs, and I felt Jephro was as cruel to animals as his son. The dog disappeared into the woods and I sat up half the night waiting for his return, but I fell asleep. The next thing I knew it was morning and Eddie was yelling for breakfast.

"And now," Violet said, taking another glance towards the door, "comes the most bizarre thing of all."

I finished my sandwich and shook my head in wonder. What could be stranger than what Ms. Hunter had already told us?

"As you can see, I cut my hair in London. I saved the braid and packed it in the bottom of my suitcase." She blushed. "I know that's kind of weird but--"

I waved her embarrassment away.

"Please," I said with a smile. "That's nothing compared to the Rucastles."

She laughed. "I guess you're right." She cleared her throat. "Okay then, here goes. One night, after I put Eddie to bed, I thought I'd unpack the rest of my things, make the room a little more my own, you know? An old chest of drawers stood at the foot of the bed. The top two drawers were open, but the bottom drawer was locked. It didn't take long to fill the top drawers with all my stuff, and I was kind of annoyed the third drawer was locked. I looked through the keys the Rucastles had given me, and the first key I tried unlocked the drawer. I pulled it open. There was a single item in the drawer. Can you guess what it was?"

I shrugged. I had no idea. A thumb. An ear. A pink cell phone. Five orange pips. The way this story was going, it could be anything.

"I don't know."

"What?" Sherlock was too impatient to bother guessing.

"A long braid of auburn hair."

Part 2.