Ships In The Night

Prologue - Sunday Morning

        It was a fine Sunday morning, one quite like no other. The sky was bright, the birds started chirping merrily in earnest and the sounds of the streets blended in together like music. The morning breeze was fresh, blowing with it a hundred sweet scents, caressing one's whole presence. The rarity of it made it all the more special. Ah, what a pleasant morning it was, for Sherlock had wanted to step out so early.
        Now, 9 o'clock wasn't so early but for someone who usually stayed up late and rose as late as Sherlock did, to all but want to step out for a morning walk, was somewhat astonishing. After a good night's sleep, he woke up and looked out the window at the lively summer streets. He freshened himself up, wore neat clothes and hopped out of 221 B, breathing in the chilly air carrying the smell of mint and newly bloomed flowers Miss Hudson had planted near the door. It tingled in his nose, filling his lungs, making his heart swell at the overwhelming allure before he breathed out in satisfaction.
'Were mornings always this good?' He thought as he rhythmically walked down the street.
        He didn't know where he was going, just letting his feet take him anywhere. He walked that way for a while before stopping in front of a small newspaper shop. He bought one and carried it in his skull-ringed hand as he continued walking until another stop; this time in front of a café.
    It was a familiar place but it was odd why he stopped there. 'Lapis Tea House' wasn't somewhere Sherlock would normally go, mostly because it was always full of busy morning people, having their tea before leaving for work or having their afternoon tea before heading for work again; clearly, somewhere he didn't fit in. But he had a newspaper in his hand and nowhere to sit; not to mention, a grumbling stomach. Besides, today being Sunday, the situation could be different.
        So, with a step forward, hand on the handle and a slight push, he entered. The door closed behind him with a light tingle of the doorbell and he was instantly hit with even more pleasant aromas of tea and bread. The warmth embraced him as looked around for a table. There were only a few customers here and there, giving him many options as to where to sit. He immediately walked over to a seat in the corner next to the huge window that on-looked the street.
        The boy serving the tables wasted no time and walked towards him to take his order.
"What would you like today, sir?" He gave a cheery smile.
"A cup of milk tea," Sherlock replied.
     He paid the boy, who then scurried off to the kitchen. His tea arrived precisely after two minutes, the exact time he had predicted it would. He took a sip of the tea as he read the newspaper, feeling a small smile creep its way to his lips as he felt his insides becoming warm.
         A few minutes passed as he scanned through the news and finished his tea but stayed there as he came across the article about Enders: The aristocrat who was caught in the act of violently murdering a commoner aboard the Noatic ship and then climbing up the mast when chased but falling into the sea due to slipping. The details were all there, how the audience was enjoying the ballet performance when Blitz Enders along with a corpse rose up from beneath the stage.
His mouth formed into a thin line as he recalled what he saw. His mind raced at the thought of the mastermind behind the stage.
"Interesting, isn't it?" He heard a soft yet assertive voice say, followed by the click of a teacup being set on its saucer.
        Sherlock looked up to see a woman, seemingly around twenty-three years old, sitting at the table in front of him facing his way. Her coal-black hair was tied back in a simple but elegant bun while a few stray locks decorated her pale face. Her spectacles did little to hide the darkness under her eyes, that were glued to a hardback book in her hand before she looked up to meet his gaze.
        He scanned her up and down, reading her and registering every detail in his brain. She wore a white dress. A golden pocket watch chain dangled between the button of the blouse ending at the skirt pocket. Her sleeves were pulled up slightly as if habitually, revealing her wrists, which had marks on them: a telltale sign of working with a typewriter. Her shoes weren't visible to him but he guessed they were either white or black with a slight heel. What truly caught his attention was the Sapphire necklace she wore. He stayed silent as he took it all in, waiting for her to continue.
"The article states that the murder happened right in front of everyone on the stage, which means that the victim and the perpetrator were backstage, right below it, and when the stage deck was pulled up, Enders was caught stabbing the victim. What I don't understand is: what must have caused him to excuse himself from watching the performance and wander backstage when he had been present in the audience for the first act of the ballet?" She took a sip of her tea and quickly set it back down with her pinky extended to silence the cup.
"Even if we simply take it as it is, it is strange that they somehow ended up right below the stage but then, if they were causing all this commotion, someone from the crew must have seen them. And I wonder why they had to pull the deck up right at that time when no dancer was supposed to be on it. There was no reason for it and yet, someone did it, even after seeing what was happening there." She continued, her gaze fixed on Sherlock's.
"It's a little too convenient to think it was a coincidence. Almost too perfect, almost as if it was...intentional," she added, closing the book in her hand and setting it on the table.
"Except, something in the article is exaggerated as it usually is or I am overthinking it." She gave an embarrassed smile, her ears got a little red now that Sherlock's full attention was on her.
"No, you're on the right track." Sherlock finally spoke, making her raise a brow.
"I was on the ship, you see. And I had a look at the victim's body and from my deduction, it had been at least 10 to 15 hours after the man died. But for Enders to try to kill him again means that someone made it look as if he was alive and set everything up."
There was silence between them as the lady took all of this in.
"It is hard to believe but it makes sense for it to be true. I wonder who it was though, and what their reason was for it," she said, clearly invested in the case.
        A grin painted Sherlock's face as he stood up from his seat and walked towards her table and sat down across from her. She stiffened up a little bit but tried not to show it. It was clear she wasn't expecting him to want to talk to her further.
"So, you seem quite adjusted to this lifestyle," he said.
"Pardon?"
"You were a noble but not anymore, I can't imagine the transition being easy."
She narrowed her eyes.
"How exactly can you say that?"
"It's rather obvious. Everything from the way you talk, sit and set your cup down, everything says you're not one of the common folk. But those are simply minor details. What really gives it away is that sapphire necklace." He pointed to her neck.
"But you're here in this café, wearing rather plain clothes. You have dark circles under your eyes, showing you were up late, probably working. Today is your day off so you could've rested but you want leisure. This leisure of sitting with a book, sipping tea, the kind of leisure you used to have before, is what you miss. You work, meaning you're no longer nobility, which leads me to think you were either abandoned, your family is no longer or you lost all your money."
She was stunned, both at how quick he was to learn so much about her at a single glance and how straightforward he was with his words, but chose not to dwell on the latter part.
"That was...impressive. I suppose you could say I missed this leisure, as you put it. I didn't realize that myself." She stared at her empty cup in a newfound meekness.
There was a pause before some kind of realization dawned on her. She looked up again before speaking.
"Forgive my rudeness, I haven't even introduced myself–"
"Oh, there is no need for that, I already know who you are, Ms Lambert." Sherlock nonchalantly waved his hand.
The question was written all over her face so he didn't give her the chance to ask 'how'.
"It's that pendant again: the 'L' crest of the Lambert family carved into the frame. It also aligns with my theory from earlier. The Lamberts were all murdered one night and their property was destroyed. The only survivor was their daughter who was away in France, and that happens to be you, Elise Lambert," Sherlock said.
There was another pause as Elise processed it all with parted lips before uttering compliments for his brilliance in a daze. It ended in a few seconds of awkward silence before she spoke once again.
"So, I am guessing you are a...detective?"
"Would you mind explaining how you got to that conclusion?" he asked.
"Well, to be honest, it just occurred to me. But if I put it into words, you said you had a look at the corpse on the ship and could tell how many hours it had been since his death but you don't seem like a doctor. If everything you just told me was your thought process, then you must be someone experienced in piecing together little hints and details. That way, the scope is reduced to either an investigator or a detective."
Sherlock laughed out loud, a little too loud for the other customers in the café.
"Not bad!"
She seemed to relax a bit now, giving a gentle smile.
"Thank you," she said.
Not knowing what to do next, she habitually pulled out her pocket watch to look at the time.
"Well, I've been here for a while now. I should take my leave." She stood up, gathering her book.
"Hopefully we'll meet again, Mr..."
"Holmes, my name's Sherlock Holmes," he said.
"It was nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Now, excuse me," she said, giving a smile once again before turning away.
        Sherlock placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm as he watched her walk out the door. He could tell she wouldn't normally start a conversation with a complete stranger like him, but she did and only due to the shared liking for a mystery. He wasn't one to enjoy sitting in a Café and chatting either but still, here they were, both left not displeased over this unusual meeting.

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       Elise unlocked the door to her home before stepping in and closing the door behind her. She placed the book down on the small glass table in the living room before plopping down on the sofa. She absent-mindedly let out a sigh.
'I really need to get used to socializing,' she said to herself, thinking back to how her heart was hammering inside her chest the whole time. She placed a hand over her chest and her fingers grazed against her necklace. She looked down at it as she held the sapphire pendant, recalling his words. 'When was the last time I talked about my family with someone?' It took her a while to recall. The last person she talked to about them was Charlotte, her only friend; the time, probably years ago.
'My reaction to him mentioning them was surprisingly nonchalant though.' She admired the beautiful blue stone shining in the light from the window for a few minutes. It was not always that she wore it out for everyone to see like that, she'd usually tuck it under her garments. She wouldn't want it stolen after all.
        She took it off and held it up to her eyes. It reminded Elise of her parents as it was the last gift she'd gotten from them. It took her back to the time when she received it on her sixteenth birthday before she left for France. It was the biggest party they'd ever thrown in her favour, though it could barely compare to the parties that they'd throw for her brother's birthdays. Despite laughing and cheering at the party for her departure, the day she took her leave was mellow.
       They all had breakfast together in the morning before she set off to the port with her brother. Her father was his usual stoic self, giving her advice about how to live on her own in a different country and how she had to study well. Her mother, on the other hand, had been silent and when seeing her off at the gate, embraced her with tears in her eyes. But her warm smile never once faltered. Back then, Elise laughed it off, saying she was being too emotional and that it was only for three years and she'd be back. Sure, three years was a long time but 16-year-old Elise was simply excited to go to France and didn't mind being away from family.
        Elliot, her brother, patiently waited while she said goodbye to her parents and got in the carriage. They chatted along the way, mostly about what Elise should and shouldn't do and how to take care of herself. He was a lot like their father in the sense of lecturing her but he was way softer than their father. He actually showed that he cared about her, though it was rare as he was also shy, much like herself. When Elise was about to board the ship, he hugged her tightly and said "You'd better not get in trouble."
        Those weren't the sweetest words but coming from Elliot, they meant a lot. He waved and sniffled when she was aboard the ship and when she returned three years later, all she saw were three graves. If she had known what was to come, she would have cried with them before leaving, or maybe she wouldn't have left at all.
She sighed, yet again before wearing the necklace and resting her head on the backrest.
"You got me all emotional over this again, Mr Holmes."

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