The Mordarski Daughters

Chapter One - A Matter Of Family

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Author's Note:

This is my first stab at writing something others might read, and so I apologise if it doesn't meet the expectations you may have first thought they would meet. I also am open to ideas, however, I have planned the entire story, but only loosely, so if there are any elements you would like to see, I would love to hear from you. This story is inspired by Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. It is not a BBC Sherlock fan fiction, however, I do plan to write one some time soon. I really ought to stop waffling now... Oh yeah, it's also a work in progress, so if you're looking for a full story - turn back now...

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“How can you be a father? Claude, there is something you are keeping from me, what is it?” I demanded, for I was in a maelstrom of confusion. The very idea of him being a father seemed alien and wrong, and the fact he had a high disregard for women, and no interest in children, made the suggestion outrageously preposterous.

“It is a lie, nothing more, nothing less.” He stated matter-of-factly. Basil was sniffing his smelling salts in the corner while shaking his head, and my diminutive acquaintance, Lawrence, stifled laugher.

“Do not let your pride interfere with your deductions, my dear brother. That has tripped me up and landed me in many a woe. Do not let this mistake plague your ventures!” Lawrence replied tauntingly his grin growing wider.

“Consider the facts Claude, and eliminate the impossible, do not dismiss ideas simply because they come out of the heavens and startle you.” Basil advised.

It was rare to hear Basil speak; he was an extremely wise, intelligent man, his utterances usually mere fragments of riddles, except in the presence of his sons, where he was a less secretive character. His youngest son, Lawrence, was an exceedingly sociable character, blithe and full of spirit, while hiding his immense brainpower away. The eldest of the two sons, my dear friend Claude, was a witty, arrogant, but all the while brilliantly quick and intellectual individual. My musings upon our problem were violently interrupted as my sister Agnes burst in.

“Mr Ranson!” She cried, clutching a telegram, furiously wagging it in Claude’s face, who savagely snatched the paper, glancing over it.

Something was very wrong.

His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed and then froze. The blood drained from his face. “The man, that man Mr Ranson, Mortellaro! He was here, I saw him – he hissed and thrust this in my hand saying: ‘for your brother George’s friend, Mr. Claude Ranson’!” She reported breathlessly.

“What have you done now Claude, tell me!” I demanded; he was perplexed, filled with fear, I had never seen him look this way.

“Detach yourself from all emotion, my dear boy; distance yourself from the situation.” Asserted Basil calmly, reminding Claude of the etiquette of which they clung to so strongly. He appeared to revive.

“May I see?” I asked Claude, but he shook his head, simply saying: ‘it is not for your eyes’.

Claude threw on his outdoor attire, so I did the same and followed him to Bluegate pond, on Wimbledon Common. “Pray tell why we are here?” I inquired, puzzled, as - to my eyes -there was clearly nothing there of note.

“Can you see the house over there, number 43?” I nodded. “Well that is the address of a Margaret Kingfisher. I met her at University, she’s rather bright for a woman, but that’s beside the point; I have reason to believe that her evening stroll shall be disrupted.” He declared. We waited. All of a sudden Claude was on his feet, “Gladstone, look after this telegram. You may read it only if I do not return after one full hour. Wait here for my return.”

And then he was gone.

I watched the house for some time, when a smartly dressed, foreign looking woman emerged from the gates. She scanned the street, crossed and disappeared into the cover of the trees. Then there was nothing, only silence, until an abrupt uproar; two voices shouting, a man and a woman. Ignoring my instructions, I dashed to investigate. From behind a bush I saw Ransom and the woman I’d seen earlier.

“I asked to see Gladstone, not you! Where is he? Tell me!” She begged. Was this Margaret Kingfisher? She had a peculiar accent, a twisted thread of Russian, Italian and English. “You don’t understand! Nor will you EVER!” She wailed, more desperate now. “He is my half brother and I must speak with him!”

“Why?” Claude demanded. “Because your real name is Iría Mordarski?” She looked down, and collapsed in a snivelling mess.

“My daughters, you, your family, and I are in danger, but only George can help. You MUST let him!” At this I left my position of hiding and declared my presence. “Oh George, I am Margaret, come let us speak, away from our friend Mr Ranson. I have so much to tell...”