Enola Holmes- The Fox In The Henhouse

Chapter 7

I awake and instantly a splitting headache forces me to close my eyes, pressing the palms of my hands against my temples for some relief. The room is freezing, made worse by the fact that I'm only wearing a thin nightgown with only a blanket to curl under. Usually in the winter, I would force myself to keep busy and keep moving, but even if it weren't for my injuries I'd only be able to walk about 2 meters.

The cold gets better as the sunrises, and my aching begins to subside; but my hunger grows worse.

It must've been about 2 pm when I heard someone coming up the stairs, but I lacked the energy or want to even sit up. To my surprise, George walks in. I only lift my head slightly, even in my weakened state the boy holds no threat to me. He's so pale and skinny that one could mistake him for a ghost, if one believed in such things.

'What do you want?' I grumble, laying my head back against the pillow.

He sits down on the edge of my bed. Silence fills the room as he waits, unsure of what to do with himself. 'I came to give you this.' He says in a quiet voice.

Reluctantly, I sit up in a slow and painful process. He placed down today's copy of The Gazette. I take it and nod to him in thanks, but as I do a large hunk of bread and cheese is revealed under it. I quickly snatch it up and I'm about to take a bite out of it when I stop myself. Lord Nigh doesn't seem to be the kind of man to deliver empty threats, so why give me this? It could be drugged, but then why? If he wanted to he could simply inject me, it would be easier. And why send George up with it?

Chances are it's not drugged, but still why give it to me?

'I'm not sure your father would approve of you giving this to me.' I hold the bread up, still resisting the temptation of eating it.

George shifts, clearly uncomfortable by the thought of his father. 'I- I know.' He begins to scratch the back of his left hand, a nervous compulsion I'm assuming. I also noticed yesterday that he has bitten his fingernails down to the nub. 'But I- I- You could- I-' He keeps stuttering, and I can't help but take pity on the boy.

I gently place my hand over his 'Thank you.' As I say this he looks me in the eye and smiles briefly, before his gaze darts back to his lap.

I slowly eat, pacing myself to prevent nausea. Once I'm finished I place down A Study In Scarlet, 'Since you're bringing me things, might I request a new book?'

He picks it up and almost instinctively hugs it to his chest. 'I'm sorry about that. It er- it was my father's idea.' His eyes dart back and forth, as he keeps wanting to look at me but loses his nerve. 'I understand if you don't like them.'

I realise something. The way he holds the book now, and the impressive array of books in the library. Yesterday he didn't bring me dinner himself by ways of "assessing me"; he's a fan of Sherlock! And not just of Sherlock I'm assuming, but of all literature. I can't help but smile to myself, for now I know how to win over an ally.

'That's not correct. I love my brother's books as much as everyone else.' I can't help but trust George. His father is almost certainly unaware of his two visits, and he has tried to help me. So I decide to be honest with him. 'Sherlock had left home when I was very young, and neither he nor Mycroft ever visited or even wrote. Before I was 16, the only thing I knew of Sherlock was stories my mother told me, very distant memories and his books. Just like everybody else in England, I too became enthralled with this work. I only ask for a new book, because I've already read this multiple times.'

George stares back at me, able to hold eye contact with me for the first time. We sit in silence for what feels like a minute. Conversations are a give and take. The reason I told him about my family history is in hopes that he would answer my next question.

'George, how did Albert die?' George almost falls off the bed in shock, and stutters in disbelief as he processes my questions.

'How- How did- Father wouldn't have told you that!' He utters, proving my hunch right. He looks at me, and I can tell he's wondering how I deduced it. I once again gladly take up the opportunity to explain my reasoning, indulging myself in bragging.

'The picture above the fireplace. The pose Albert is in matches that of a photograph I saw in the hallway almost exactly; meaning the painting was done by an artist with only that as a reference. Why have such a grand painting done without using the person as a model, unless they can't. And the placement of the painting. I'm guessing the painting in the hallway used to hang there?' George's face confirms this.

He sits there processing the information, when finally he asks 'How did you know it was Albert?'

'Well, who else's portrait would your father hang above the fireplace? The only other option would be a nephew, but the dust on the old portrait in the hall suggests it's been there for a while and you wouldn't hang a portrait of a late nephew up there for that long. Also... You have the same nose.'

George smiles at this last remark, but the rest of his face remains solemn. He stands up, and walks over to the window and starts scratching his hand again. 'A year ago. Albert was a captain and he was killed on duty. She was-' He pauses, cutting himself off.

She?

I decide that I've gotten enough information for now so I start to change the topic. And besides, I may need him to keep bringing me food so I shouldn't scare him off. 'Charles Dickens.' I say calmly. 'If you have a copy of Oliver Twist to spare, I would love to borrow it. I never had time to read it before.' I smile at him and he smiles back. I have read Oliver Twist, but it's a safe bet to assume he will have too, meaning I can discuss it with him if needs be.

He returns with a copy, and I lay back against the back of my bed and open it up to the start, almost forgetting my pains as my head is filled with thoughts of the story, and of course, the case.