Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter Eight - Siril

"Off they go." Mr D.I Lestrade stated, peering past the women, "Excuse me ladies, as plain-clothes tangents of the police force these three have the right to search this residence for any evidence of your mother's actions. Good luck team." He motioned for us to go inside. As me and Xavier made our way up the stairs I heard him take the sisters to the kitchen for an interview. Mr Watson went into a room to the left of the kitchen, Xav to the bedroom and me to the bathroom. Like the exterior, the bathroom was so incredibly normal I couldn't help but be suspicious. It would be a good place to hide weapons. I stood on my tiptoes and opened the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I looked between the towels piled by the bath, I knelt by the sink and checked underneath, I shook the bulk bottles of bleach. No guns, no drugs. Nothing suspicious.

Exiting the room, I noticed a locked door with a peace symbol painted on it. I entered, curious. The walls were pale blue with a few posters and hippie ephemera tacked on. One had a window facing the garden, underneath was a wooden desk with a matching chair. On the desk were piles and piles of paper, each page written on and signed 'Norton.' I gingerly sat down as the same desk of a suspected murderer and sifted through the top pages. Gagging at a report on the success of David Cameron, I came to the conclusion that even in the unlikely case that this woman wasn't the murderer, I certainly hated her. I came to a poem entitled "Shrike lover."

My love is a shrike,
With me on his thorn of his betrayal,
My love is shrike,
With the ring of his promise exhausted,
My love is a shrike,
With three nests to indulge,
My love is truly an animal.

This poetry, though so cringey that I could hardly bear to read it, confirmed our theory that her husband had cheated on her. 'Three nests to indulge.' She couldn't make it  more obvious. A second poem caught my eye; "Heart."

To have a heart put in your hand is the most painful experience known,
I would know,
I have put many hearts in many hands.

Now this was so bad that I truly felt like returning to the bathroom. Of course, there was a sliver of a chance that these poems could be completely unrelated to the murder, but it truly wasn't plausible. I was reminded of Mr Holmes Two's methods, and trusted in my discovery. I bounded down the stairs with the two poems in hand, to the living room where Xavier was sitting on the sofa clutching a bloody pillow. That one was obvious; it had been used to muffle the sound of the gun shot. Mr Watson sat beside them empty handed, and Mr D.I Lestrade was still conversing with the sisters.

"Siril! Come sit!" Exclaimed Xav.
"What do you have there?" Mr D.I Lestrade asked.
I handed him the poems and let the trio read them. "Now we're all together I'll call a forensics officer to collect these artefacts. Good work."
"We've established that the sisters are unrelated to the murder." Mr Watson informed, "We're just waiting for a call from the others."
As he finished his sentence Mr D.I Lestrade's phone went off, the man opened the call and ensured that they were still at the house.

The next moments passed in a blur. Writing it out it'll sound rather slow but it all happened so fast. First, Zander, Mr Holmes Two, Emily, Peggy and Mrs Norton came to the house. Mr D.I Lestrade took the woman into custody and we explained our evidence to the others. The forensics officer turned up and took the objects, but we kept them behind because we were yet to find the gun. After a quick discussion, we realised the only place we hadn't looked was the garden. Mr Watson found a gun in a plant pot, of all places. (no stone left unturned, no tern left unstoned) Zander identified it as a Browning, and Mr Holmes Two specified that it was a Browning BDA. After that we handed it in and took to the streets to explain the happenings to the families of the victim. Me and Xavier were picked up in a cab by Mr Holmes One and taken home.
This concluded my memory of the story.