No Shit, Sherlock

The Musical Map

We walk through the office, and into the small room that branches off of it. There's a fire crackling in the fireplace, and an arm hangs from the arm rest of one of the chairs in front of it. Sherlock holds his arm out in front of Enola and I, the two of us glare at him before walking ahead to examine the chair.

"William Lyon, Sarah's love." Enola whispers.

I stare at the body, examining the cuts on his neck. Enola lets out a shaky sigh and I turn to see Sherlock shaking his head.

"Stay unemotional, there's nothing we can do for him now. It's best to keep our minds fresh, and our eyes sharp."

Enola looks to me, and I sigh as well. "It absolutely pains me to say this, but Sherlock's right."

"I'm sorry, could you say that again?" Sherlock asks.

The two of us glare at each other, but we're interrupted by Enola's voice.

"He was seized," she says, pulling at the rip in his jacket.

Sherlock points to the loose change and pocket watch on the floor. "Yes, and searched."

"For the document he took?" Enola asks.

She turns William's head and looks at the cut on his neck. "A knife?"

"No, it'd have to be something bigger," I say.

She stands back up and looks to me, "A cutlass."

"There's heavy boot scuffs," I say, pointing to the floor.

"And scratch marks from a cane that has a metal ferrule."

"Grail," we both say in unison.

"But at whose behest? There was another in this room," Sherlock says.

Enola picks up a cigar from the table next to the empty chair. "This cigar had a holder."

She sets it down and walks to the back of the empty chair, her eyes narrowed in on something. "There's traces of wool."

"Astrakhan, the finest," says Sherlock, staring at the chair as well.

I stand next to Sherlock, squinting my eyes as I try to find the wool. Enola paces around the room in thought, while Sherlock stares at me.

"You both just reminded me of my terrible need for glasses," I say, standing back up straight.

"Perhaps, you should-"

"Write that down? What is up with the two of you and that saying?" I interrupt.

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but Enola cuts him off.

"Where did William steal from? The Treasury Office?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers.

"The office of Lord McIntyre, Treasury Minister," she adds.

Sherlock gives me a confused look before turning back to her, "How did you come to that?"

"I think what William stole was proof that Lyon and McIntyre were conspiring together."

"Corruption," I say.

She nods, "Yes, fueled by greed. McIntyre has been secretly profiting from the factory. They changed the match formula to a cheaper phosphorus...."

"And it's deadly," I finish.

Enola and I nod to each other but then Tewkesbury comes walking in.

"Enola? I was worried about you."

Of course he was.

He walks to us, "You left me out there in the dark, and I nearly tore my... Sherlock Holmes? How do you do?"

"Not the time," Enola says, gesturing towards the dead body.

Tewkesbury looks to the chair and lets out a loud gasp, "Oh my God... is he..."

"Stay unemotional," Enola snaps.

Sherlock and I look to each other in annoyance.

"Who did this?"

"Lord McIntyre."

"No," says Sherlock.

"But it all fits!" Enola says.

"No one has sat in this chair. No marks on the carpet, no indentation. The cigar has been smoked, but cold."

He opens the ashtray, "And look, no ash."

I bend down and look at the glass of whiskey. "No lips have touched this glass."

I stand back up and Sherlock nods at me, "Exactly. These clues have been planted for us to find, to mislead us from the true villain."

"It was all staged. But by who?" I ask.

Sherlock walks to the other side of the room, "Not McIntyre, but by someone who had a lot to lose without that document. Someone who knew what they were up to and was blackmailing them."

"My opponent. Someone who likes a game," he adds.

"Did they get what they wanted?" Tewkesbury asks.

"I don't think so," I answer.

Enola grabs William's hand, "Poor William."

She touches his hand for a second, then suddenly begins to open it, and pulls out a piece of paper. "They did get something."

Sherlock walks over to us, "Mae's terrible music?"

"The Truth Of The Gods," Enola reads.

"Could be biblical or mythical."

"Theatrical?" Tewkesbury asks.

Sherlock and I look at him in confusion, to which he just shakes his head. "The Gods is the top row of the theater. The balcony."

He scoffs, "Doesn't everyone know that?"

I roll my eyes, "You're talking to a poet, a wanted criminal, and a moody detective. Of course we don't know that."

"This isn't music, it's a map," says Enola.