Picture this
We sat there a long time listening to the waves pound at the rocks below. Finally I could bare the strain no longer. I gave the letter I had found in the house to Holmes.
After a moment, he gave it back to me. Said not a word but got up returning to the house.
As I shut the door behind me, he called my name. I found him in the master bedroom. He drew my attention to a painting over the fireplace. It was breath taking. There stood a lady with bright red hair flowing past her shoulders in gentle waves. Her eyes were the colour of an impending storm. Everything about her was alive, alert, and breeding mischief. It was quiet an amazing portrait. After what seemed like hours of studying the painting, Holmes turned to me, “the Lady we seek.”
“Holmes,” I gasped. “She’s breath taking.”
“You are much better in this arena than I.” He brushed past me out of the room.
The next morning Holmes told me, “Watson, since this will be our last night here, we need to search everything.”
“It would be helpful to know what we are looking for.”
“Indeed.” Holmes walked into the kitchen. He was frequently disconnected and indifferent; however, something about this case was causing him to be more morose than ever. Was this indeed the woman he used to love? I was sure it was; however, in this case the last thing I wanted to draw was false conclusions.
I decided to go to the charming little room where I had been sleeping. I had been so exhausted from the trials of the past couple days that I had not yet to stopped to look around; which, was unlike me. The room itself was small but comfortable. The bed was in the center of the room. It was most unusual. Though, it was easy to tell that it was made of wood; though a craftsman such as this would be hard press to come by. The detail work was incredible. On each side of the bed was a night stand. On the night stands were lamps. At the foot of the bed was a fireplace. Above the fireplace were portraits, one of a little girl and one of a little boy. I was captivated by the one of the little girl. Her eyes were alive and alert. Though she could have been no more than a child of five, there were years of knowledge behind her smile. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders like a waterfall of fire. It looked as if it would be hot to the touch. The little boy was solemn and somewhat distracted in his appearance. It was obvious to me that they were painted in the same room but not the same place in the room. For some reason, the little boy looked vaguely familiar to me. It was something in his eyes. Then I became full aware that this little girl was the same girl in the master bedroom, only older.
The more I studied the portrait of the little girl, the more something about it struck me as odd. It looked different somehow from the little boy. Though they were the same in shape, frame, and size, she was different. “Holmes,” I called, “if you are not engaged, I would like your opinion on something.”
Holmes appeared at the door. I noticed the bed was the first thing that drew his attention.
“Handmade?” I questioned.
“Surely the bed was not why you called for me?” Holmes was dry in his question.
“No, indeed. These portraits are troubling. There is something singular about the girl.”
Holmes studied them for a long moment. As he studied them, I looked them over some more. Then it hit me, I knew why the little boy looked familiar to me, he was standing beside me. “Holmes!” I cried.
“The girl has been moved.” He took the portrait down from its hanging place. And I was unable perhaps unwilling to draw this attention to the little boys portrait again.
Upon closer inspection, there was no name of the artist on the front. However on the back was written, E’mile Jean Horace Vernet, 1860, for my darling Lizzie. Holmes pointed out that the bottom of the matting has been taken loose from the frame. Upon doing so, he found three envelopes: two considerably older than the third.
On last walk through the house, found me in the large front room. Over the impressive fire place there was a drawing in a most handsome frame. Four children were playing by a stream. One child was running toward the group. He seemed older than the others. One little boy was chasing a little girl and the other small boy was laying on his back laughing. It filled me with a sense of playfulness.
“The bliss of youth.”
Holmes was standing behind me. I jumped for I had not heard him enter the room. “Holmes, you devil.”
“My apologies, dear Watson. I meant not to startle you.”
On the train ride back to Bakers Street, Holmes was, I could only deduce, lost in thought. “Holmes?” I asked. I received no response. “I think the little girl and the grown woman in the paintings is The Lady we are trying to find. Lizzie. She was a most captivating child and a most seductive woman. I wonder who the boy was; a brother perhaps?”
Holmes only scoffed at my remarks. Could he be aware that I thought the little boy was he?
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