Royalty

Chapter 26: Do You Mind If I Fire This, Just To Clean It Out?

 (A/N: Yay, another chapter! Apologies for the longer wait, I'm getting my rhythm down with school starting, and early marching band throws a bit of a wrench in things, but I hope that's okay with all of you!

Also, I went from 600~ reads to almost 900, and passed 100 votes, so a tremendous thank you, again, it means a lot to me.

I hope you enjoy!)

Sherlock's POV:

I didn't actually go get breakfast. I wasn't ever really all that hungry, anyway. I ended up wandering aimlessly, trying to think, trying to think about the Rucastles.

The maid. Orderly at least, if unhelpful in the end.

The butler. I'd already forgotten about him. He wasn't useful, and I don't even think he realized the young girl was missing anyway.

The wife. Distraught, confused, but somehow ... somehow careful. Worried, almost, about messing up, telling me the wrong thing.

The husband. Short, concise, worried, hopeful, all business.

What an uninformative bunch. For all the police could find, you'd think Miss Rucastle had disappeared into thin air.

I bumped into someone, who mumbled an apology. I didn't bother returning it, remembering something from the girl's room. Astra had taken a sketchbook from the bedroom, hadn't she? The one the girl had been drawing in the night before she was taken.

Astra had said the girl was good. Usually good artists put a little of themselves into their work. They draw on their own experiences, their own feelings. And the girl was smart ...

If she was going to the police with information (which is the most likely explanation), and she was smart, she must have known she was in danger. Just like Jennifer Wilson, she would have a plan. She, unlike Mrs. Wilson, even had time to plan in advance. She must have left some trace.

She has to have left a trail, because if she didn't, then I've run out of ideas ...

But that sketchbook, if she left a clue in her drawing, then I should get back to Baker Street to look through it. The most recent drawing. That's something I can do now, at least. I should return to the flat.

When I get back, John's sitting in his chair, reading ... What is he reading? The newspaper? Ah, the crossword. Trying to be cleverer. Should I find that flattering? I'm not sure.

I don't speak out a greeting, just look on the table by the couch for the sketchbook Astra took.

"What're you doing?"

"The sketchbook."

"What, Astra's? She always has it with her."

I sighed. "I know that. I'm looking for the one she took from the Rucastle's house."

"I think I saw it fall out of her coat pocket, just over there on the floor," John said, motioning vaguely over to where Astra hangs her coat. I moved from the sidetable, with one suspicious glance at the package Moriarty sent her.

But I digress.

I picked up the small leather sketchbook from the floor. It's not pocket-size like Astra's, but smaller, then average anyway.

I leaf through the book. I'd hoped the girl would go through the book in a linear fashion, but it seemed that she picked random pages and just drew. I suppose the disorderly state should have been obvious from the condition of her room.

And none of the drawings are dated. Perfect. I'll have to go through every drawing to figure out which one is most recent ... Unless she left some sort of clue for that, too?