"We've got to get to Sherlock's, he'll know how to help us," Enola says.
I pull the collared shirt away from my neck, "That boy was more than happy to switch clothes with us, but I don't blame him, I'd rather wear a dress than this itchy shirt too."
Enola knocks on Sherlock's door, he opens the door, and the two of us rush passed him. Enola begins to look around, and Sherlock scoffs.
"What are you two doing here, and what are you looking for?"
"There's no time to explain, brother. Do you have a place for us to hide?"
Sherlock looks to me but I look away. How am I supposed to explain that we're suspects in a murder case?
"There's a compartment behind my board, it should be big enough to hold the both of you."
Enola lifts the board up and climbs inside, I climb in beside her and tip my hat. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."
He rolls his eyes and Enola drops the board. A loud knock from outside causes Enola and I to jump. I can hear the door open and muffled voices.
I put my ear against the board to try to hear what's being said.
"Lestrade of Scotland Yard. You remember me, I hope."
There's an awkward silence, I bite my hand to stop myself from laughing.
"Right..... You haven't happen to see your sister and that (L/n) girl recently, have you?"
"No, but what is it that you think they've done?"
"I wish I was at liberty to say, sir."
The muffled footsteps get closer, "Oh, your new case. Is it another Brixton Strangler? Or a Periwinkle? Don't tell me it's a Clerkenwell."
"What evidence do they have against my sister and her friend?"
"Perhaps, you tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."
The man is so socially awkward it makes me physically cringe.
"Government case, some missing money. Now you."
"Super wants to talk to them."
"Why?"
"Just following orders, Mr. Holmes."
"Or may I call you, Sherlock?"
There's another awkward silence.
"Graydon Lestrade. My father thought it distinguished, and it is rather."
The footsteps fade away, "Well, anyway, if you ever wish to call me that."
"Right," Sherlock says sharply.
The door closes and it's silent for a few seconds. I can hear a loud sigh, and I can only imagine the annoyed look on Sherlock's face.
The board is suddenly opened, Enola and I fall out, and I land on my face.
"My mistake, I should've warned you two that I was opening it."
Sherlock holds his hands out to us, Enola smacks his hand away and stands up on her own. I allow Sherlock to pull me to my feet, and once I'm standing I 'accidentally' stomp on his foot.
"Oops, my mistake."
I step away from him and look around his apartment.
Enola points to the board, "A government case?"
Sherlock shakes his head no and Enola sighs.
"You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," she mocks.
"He's a ninny. I needed to know what he had on you two," Sherlock says.
Enola stares at Sherlock, causing him to sigh. "Money. Unaccounted transfers going in and out of government offices. My theory is either bribery, extortion, or blackmail."
"And what have you found?" Enola asks.
"Separate filings from five different accounts going via the Treasury into one private bank."
Well now I'm interested.
I stand beside Sherlock, analyzing the board in front of us. "So someone's making money from this?"
His eyes meet mine, "Yes, and lots of it."
"Have you gotten a name?" I ask.
"No, just a number."
He steps away from me, breaking our eye contact. I watch as he paces around the room.
"I visited the bank and inquired. The money disappeared, arriving at another bank, and then another, and another, and another, and another, and another. Every one of them hidden using different account numbers."
He turns back to Enola and I, "Twenty-seven in total."
"Well, what can you deduce from that?"
"Three things," he pauses, "Firstly, the man's a game player, perhaps a genius in mathematics, capable of covering his traces at every turn."
"Secondly, the sources are varied. Five banks, south of the river, but no clear link between them. All anonymous. All going into one pocket."
"And the third?" Enola asks.
Sherlock turns to us, "He knows I'm onto him."
"Every time I pull a thread, it loosens, vanishes, reappears somewhere else. He's leading me a merry dance. It's... It's infuriating."
He runs his hand through his hair, messing up his curls. It's obvious that he's stressed about the case, which is surprising.
"And you have no leads?" I ask.
He shakes his head, "One. A week before the first transfer, there was a break-in at the Treasury office by a man in a taper crown hat."
"A taper crown hat? That doesn't narrow it down much," I say.
"What was taken?" Enola asks.
"They won't talk about it. Sensitive information presumably. But how it connects to all of this has so far eluded me."
"Your turn, I hope the blood's not yours," he says.
"We're looking for a girl, Sarah Chapman. Her little sister, Bessie, employed us. Sarah worked at the Lyons match factory by day, and the music hall by night."
"She has a lover, whose house we visited," I add.
Enola pulls the poem out of her bag that she had gotten back, "He gave her this."
Sherlock reads over the poem, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. "28 Bell Place?"
Enola and I share a look. How on Earth did he figure it out so fast?
"Whitechapel. And there we found Sarah's friend, Mae murdered."
"And who killed her? This Poppy fellow?"
"We suppose so, but we didn't get much time to look around the crime scene," I reply.
"Perhaps, he kidnapped Sarah and her friend found out."
He shakes his head and scoffs, "Love.... The things it makes people do."
I guess Sherlock despises the idea of love as well.
"What was she killed with?" he asks.
"A kitchen knife."
He turns to look at us, "Did either of you touch it?"
"Of course not," Enola answers.
"Then why did you both run away?"
Enola looks to me, eyeballing my sleeve. I pull the paper out and hand it to him, "I found this in Mae's pocket. This policeman tried to take it from me."
Sherlock looks over the paper, it's a music sheet, but I absolutely know nothing about music.
"The man had a walk-"
Sherlock interrupts Enola, "Grail. We have a history."
His voice is tense as he speaks of the Superintendent.
Sherlock plays the song on his fiddle, but it's nothing but a bunch of painfully annoying squeaks.
He sets his fiddle down, "This is as bad as the poem."
"Are you sure it's not you?" I say, smirking.
He stares me straight in the eyes, "Leave the sheet with me, I'll figure it out when I can."
He begins gathering his stuff and Enola and I scoff.
"No. It's ours, and it's important."
"Grail said she had stolen something and that she was blackmailing them. Though Sarah wouldn't do that."
Sherlock throws his coat on, "You don't even know the girl."
"I feel I do."
"You both came here running from the police. Someone is already dead, and you are both now suspects in a murder case. You've let your emotions get the better of you, Enola."
He fixes his hair and opens the door, "Stay here. Don't leave. I will look into this."
"Sarah Chapman is our responsibility! We promised her sister, Sherlock!"
"The first mistake a detective makes is to make it about themselves and not the case."
"Yes, but being an emotionless asshole doesn't help either," I say.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at me before turning to Enola, "Enola, I know you're not a fan of unnecessary advice, but please... don't turn into me."
He closes the door and leaves. Enola lifts her head up sadly, "I should probably write that down."