𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 ❀ ᴛᴇᴡᴋᴇꜱʙᴜʀʏ₁

❀𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧❀

I always thought Ferndell was quite a lovely home.  But now I realize I haven't got the faintest idea of what a truly beautiful home looks like.

As we pass through the iron gates with a pure gold sign overhead, I can't help but stare out the window of the carriage.  A pure white building with cautiously trimmed gardens awaits us.  This is Basilwether Hall, home of the Tewkesbury's.  Lord Alexander Tewkesbury (obviously we know him), Sir Whimbrel Tewkesbury (his uncle, we met him before),  Lady Tewkesbury (his mother, if you couldn't guess), and the Dowager (his grandmother).  And about eighty thousand servants.  They range from gardeners, to cooks, to cleaners, to general servants waiting hand and foot on these four, incredibly rich, people.

Sitting across from me is my sister, dressed all in black.  We decided together that by disguising ourselves as a widow and her handmaiden, we would be safer than just barging in.  How did she get the part as the widow? You'll never guess- she took it.  She's always been more of a drama queen though, so I suppose it fits.

Widows scare people, according to Enola.  Nobody wants to talk about death.  So- Miss May Beatrice Posy and her maid Miss Cecilia Webster make their way into Basilwether Hall. 

A butler ushers us forward, down a long, tiled hallway.  I stand slightly behind my sister, to make her the star of our little show.

"What is your business here?" asks Sir Whimbrel.  We have rehearsed this several hundred times, so it is no surprise when Enola replies, "I'm a private detective.  I have come to offer my services."

We get our response quickly.  "My sister-in-law has all the help she needs. Show her out."

"I believe I can help you," Enola tries.  

"You are a reporter for one of those dirty newspapers," spits the Lady Tewkesbury.  I cannot tell if she is upset by us, or generally on edge because of her son's mysterious disappearance.  Her face looks pale and it appears she hasn't slept in a few days.

"I am a lady detective," states Enola indignantly.  The Lady asks her to leave, and the butler comes and grabs my and Enola's arms.  In a last ditch attempt, I declare, "She works for Sherlock Holmes."

The mood immediately shifts.  The look of disgust on all three of the Tewkesbury's faces is replaced by piqued interest.

"She is his assistant.  He sends her ahead of time to prepare the ground," I attempt to keep their attention and make them believe that my brother might have some interest in their case.

"Sherlock Holmes is interested in our case?" I knew that would get her.  It doesn't matter if she truly cares about her son or not, she clearly wants the reporters off her back.  Enola nods to the woman's statement.  "And he... sent along a widow to fleece his path?"

"Widowhood doesn't impact on my ability to do my job," Enola recovers.  Maybe the whole widow idea wasn't the best, but even if I had any doubts in the first place they would have been ignored.  "Sherlock trusts me to-"

"Poppycock!" shouts a voice from one of the doors.  "I'm sorry, but I've heard enough.  You do not know Sherlock Holmes."

This man better not ruin our entire plan.  

"Oh, Lestrade.  So pleased you could make this young lady's acquaintance," speaks Sir Whimbrel for the first time in quite a bit.

This new man, Lestrade, makes his introduction. "I am Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and I'm a close personal friend of Sherlock Holmes."

"So you claim.  He's never mentioned you," Enola attempts to recover whatever authority she had, but this accusation has thrown it out the window.

"And you are not his assistant.  He doesn't have an assistant.  Sherlock Holmes always works alone."  He isn't exactly wrong there.  Our brother does prefer to work on his own.