Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 6

The rest of the day drags on. Once the sun sets I'm rendered unable to read, so I merely sit and sort through the endless stream of questions I have. I also make an origami hat out of one of the newspapers.

How did he know who I was? George knew I was Sherlock Holmes' sister, but how? It could have been that in seeing my face, they found me from there, but I have refused to have my picture taken. Even if they found me by chance they wouldn't know my name, and they caught me too close to my home to be a coincidence. And I have a series of Pseudonyms. I bought my house under the name of Violet Eversau, the three businesses I run (a carriage company, a series of apartment rentals and the business of finding missing peoples) are under the name of Dr Raogostine, and as "his assistant" I go by the name of Ivy Meshle. The job I took as secretary at the "Woman's Journal" while pursuing the very men who have now captured me was under the name Hannah Gruen. There would be no way for them to track me down using any of those leads. Sherlock couldn't! None of it makes any sense.

I flop down onto the bed, wallowing in self-pity as I grow increasingly frustrated at my desperate situation.

However, my thoughts are halted when I hear a set of heavy footprints begin to climb the steps to my cage. After a few seconds of fiddling with the lock, the door swings open and two large men appear before me. They are both rather heavyset and rough looking men. The taller one has a cluster of small scars on his face, and I vaguely recognise them both from what I now realise was two nights ago, when I was apprehended.

'His Lordship would like a chat.' growled the taller one, as the smaller man begins to approach me and undoes the shackle on my left ankle.

'I'm not going anywhere with you.' I protest, but the taller one pays little attention to my words and begins to scoop me up. 'Put me down. Put me down this instant.' I exclaim. He does so, stepping back.

'The doctor said you got a broken foot, so I'm gonna have ta carry you down.'

'Absolutely not! Bring me some crutches and I will walk down there myself.' I say as I cross my arms in defiance. Still, he continues on without much regard to my protesting, and as soon as he tries to lift me again, I elbow him in the rips before landing a powerful blow on his chin. He recoils, before stepping towards me and slapping me across the face. The two men sigh before leaving the room and locking the door.

When they return, the taller goon, who I dub as tweedle dumb hands me a pair of wooden crutches and the smaller one, who I dub as tweedle dee, holds the door open for me.

It takes me a while to shuffle slowly through the house, letting me focus on my surroundings. After going through a narrow, creaky stairway, another door opens up onto the second landing; a large hall lined with large armour stands and tiny tables only there to display expensive pots and vases. I'd been down this hallway when I snuck into the mansion days ago, but in the dark I didn't notice the framed photographs hanging on the walls of grainy men in captains uniforms. Given the quality of pictures I'd say they must have been taken fairly recently, but contain no one I recognise (then again, the only people I might recognise is Lord Michael Nigh and George Nigh).

When we descend down the grand staircases I once had to sprint up, we pass by the door to the dining room, where hushed voices are talking about me. Well, I can't actually make out any of the words they were saying, so I simply assumed they are talking about me. And while it may seem self-absorbed to assume they are discussing me, when one has been kidnapped by someone one would hope that was the most pressing matter on that person's mind.

An oil portrait of a man and woman, who I presume used to live here, hangs awkwardly between the dining room door and the room I'm being taken into, a small library (well, small compared to the rest of the house). After stepping into the threshold of the library, the tweedle dumb grabs me by my waist and puts me down in a large, square wooden chair. Tweedle dee, begins to strap my hands onto arm rests. Once he has secured the buckles, both of them leave the room. The fire to my left roars with bright flames, casting my shadow across the dusty bookcase covering the walls. I must admire their vast book collection. Most lords have libraries just for show, keeping political dissertations on the shelves with much the same function as the vases and suits of armours in the hallway; for display. But here I see the works of Shakespeare and Dickens. And the works of Dr Watson, with a gap left for the book that currently presides in my cage.

My attention is next drawn to the daunting oil painting mounted above the fireplace. The man in the portrait gives me a withering stare as he sits parading his medals on his captain's uniform from within the elegant golden frame.

My thoughts are disturbed as the door in front of me opens, and Lord Nigh himself strides in. He's a tall man, with a thin face and his dark hair slicked back. He takes his jacket off, and rolls up his shirt's sleeve. He's fairly muscular, given his age and stature.

He walks up to me, leans down and takes my chin in his hand, turning my head side to side as he examines me. A sense of helplessness washes over me, a feeling I haven't felt in a long time. I have nowhere to hide. I admit, I have gotten used to the luxury of my pseudonyms and disguises; but here I don't know how much he already knows about me. I simply sit, waiting for him to talk first.

'Well miss Holmes, I do hope we've made you comfortable here.' he says, while sitting in a large armchair across from me. The gloating doesn't surprise me, not after I received my brother's book, but immediately the feeling of helplessness is replaced with irritation and anger.

'You injected me with too much sedative. I'm assuming you forgot to mention to the doctor that you intended to use it on women, which is a fairly common mistake.' I explain. 'Now. I'd like to know why you're keeping me here.' His mouth twists into a crooked smile.

'You are a strange woman, you know. A week ago I was only vaguely aware of the fact that Mycroft had a sister, then the next day I find her breaking into my home ready to ruin all my plans.'

'Breaking into your house? I assure you I did no such thing. You must have me confused with someone else.' His anger bleeds through his disguise of contempt as I say this, sending chills through my spine.

He gets up and walks over to a desk with a large sheet covering the surface. 'We found a number of interesting things on your person.' He pulls the sheet away, revealing various things I keep in my enhancers and corsets.

In fashion, the object seems to be for women to look as naturally unnatural as possible. The perfect hourglass figure is impossible to achieve without a corset, waist and bust enhancers; however these things severely limit a person's ability to- well- move. I was once told that these ridiculous items would free me, allowing me to fit into society. I, however, found a much better use for them.

On the table, I see the lock-picking set, the notebook and the spare money I keep in my corset at all times. While I don't see it on the table I also keep a dagger concealed in my bosom, with a rather ugly brooch attached to the handle to disguise it.

There is also the tin of candies, match box, bandages and a small flask of brandy. I also keep a small tine of clay for key copying, but I don't see that on the table so perhaps they didn't find it. They also didn't seem to find the penknife I keep in the sole of my left shoe, and the set of tablets gifted to me by Sherlock that I keep in the right. The tablets contain a strong poison, a sedative and a capsule of fake blood, concealed in a rather ingenious hiding spot in the heel of the shoe that you have to twist to reveal.

'Some very intriguing items. But the most interesting thing was what you left behind on your last little visit.' From within his trouser pocket, he produces an envelope and I feel my heart drop. It's the envelope from the letter Lord Tewksbury sent me.

My throat tightens and eyes start to sting. How could I be so- so... careless! So stupid. No wonder they found me. 'Well... That could mean anything.'

His eyes narrow as anger now engulfs his entire person. He walks over and leaning down and looming over me. 'Enough with the games Enola. How did you find out about us?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.' He sighs, and swiftly punches me in the stomach, leaving me doubled over in pain. 'I assure you, whoever you're looking for it-' This time I receive a sharp blow across the face, splitting my lip. 'I have no idea why anyone-' Another blow to my face. I stop replying to his questions.

After 10 minutes he steps back, whipping his hands clean; except my face is so swollen he merely appears as a black silhouette against the orange light from the fire. My whole body aches and the smell of blood fills my nostrils. 'Let's see if hunger makes you more cooperative shall we.' He taunts, before calling his goons back in. I'm in too much pain to resist them, and they carry me back to my cage over their shoulders.

After they put me back in my bed, with my chain on, my heart aches and tears flood down my cheeks.

I miss home. I miss Tewksbury. I miss my brothers.