Chapter the Fifth: In Which Enola Climbs Several Trees and Earns Herself a Reputation

I started to tune out the scammer. I couldn't believe my luck of something like this happening to me.

"—takes care of almost any need! Just take this—" She practically shoved a withered down business card into my hands.

Culhane's Used Clothing

Saint Tookings Lane

SELL/BUY—Faire Prices

"Just clothing?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No, dearie, the business is expanding!"

"Ah. Thank you."

With that, our conversation ended and soon I could only hear the bustling of the train.

MISSING CHILD

Uh—

SON KIDNAPPED

Oh stars and garters, thank the maker if she exists—

MOTHER BEGS TO ANYONE FOR HELP

Wait—

POLICE HAVE NO LEADS

I stared at the headlines on the various newspapers that littered the stand. Apparently, it was breaking news that there was a recent kidnapping in the area. Someone's child was missing.

Would my own mother miss me if I had been kidnapped?

Mum had never been the most present in her parenting. Often, she would leave me to my own devices, allowing me to embrace freedom outside or in the library. She had homeschooled me for most of my entire life after a brief patch of bad luck at the local elementary school.

Perhaps she would have sent me to boarding school eventually—

Enola, you will do just fine on your own.

Once again, Mum's words wash over me and soothed my nerves and I suddenly knew what I had to do.

I wanted, almost more than anything, to help this mother find her child.

But who was I to do such thing?

Sure, I had solved a mere handful of ciphers and riddles left behind from Mum, but I wasn't a Consulting Detective like Sherlock nor did I have the resources like Mycroft.

I glanced around the train station to see if anyone had taken notice to the oddly dressed woman standing still next to the newspapers. (Perhaps my disguise was not as useful as I had thought.) I had gotten off at the second stop and was planning on taking another train or two before finally heading to London. I needed to keep on schedule and be reasonably and logical in my decisions. I couldn't waste time dilly-dallying around some crime scene.

Still, my feet wouldn't let me move from my spot. This case, I felt drawn to it for some reason. Just imagining the stress this poor mother must be feeling—

My hand reached out and I grabbed a copy of one of the many papers.

One look couldn't possibly hurt anyone, could it?

EH

Perhaps I had made a mistake.

I watched, silently panicking on the inside, as several policemen roamed around the outside of this grand old house. Their cars littered the street and the huge driveway. They were everywhere—like cockroaches. I tried not to act like a runaway (although I kept having to reassure myself that there was almost no way that they knew who I was and what I had done and that no, Mycroft was certainly not behind every tree) as I strolled towards the large group of people gathered around the main entrance of the mansion. Soon I was in eavesdropping distance and managed to get bits of conversations.

"I heard that there was no ransom—"

"No ransom? Poor Marlene, I can't believe that this is happening right as her re-election—"

"She must be out of her mind—"

"Did you see that woman? Her hair!"

"This is what she gets for not—"

"I heard they brought Scotland Yard into this—"

I stayed around the edges of the crowd and listened to the gossip. I managed to get enough base information to begin a hypothesis. This woman was in politics, up for re-election or something, and right as her campaign is starting her son, her only son, had disappeared mysteriously and the police have practically no leads.

And there has been no ransom.

He disappeared three days ago.

I had to get into the house—but how to get past the police? I eyed the line of journalists, reporters, and bystanders who were clustered around the gate. Various police officers were walking around them, making sure that no one came in who wasn't supposed to.

As I stared at the property, with its large house and iron-wrought fence, I was reminded of Ferndell Hall.

What else did this place have in common with my home?

I walked away from the property before I began to circle around carefully; making sure no one was taking notice of me. Eventually, I came to a back corner of the fenced-in house and found what I was looking for. A magnificent tree was growing closely by the fence; its limbs were growing strongly and proudly upwardly towards the sky and outwardly over the fence.

I headed over to the tree and was about to ascend when I heard voices coming towards me. Immediately I panicked and quickly looked around for a place to hide. I saw some bushes nearby and dove into them, hiding myself between the plants and the fence.

A pair of policemen strolled around the corner—no doubt patrolling or perhaps even searching? I couldn't make out what they were saying as they passed me but soon enough they were gone and I stood up from my hiding spot. I had to be quick in climbing because who knows when the next patrol would come around.

I dug my hands and feet into the trunk of the tree and started to climb. The branches were low enough that I was able to latch onto one quickly enough and pull myself up. The most dangerous part would come next—I had to crawl along the branch until I was over the fence and then drop down to the ground. During my childhood, I often climbed trees, so I was confident in this task. (In hindsight, I may have been too confident.)

I managed to crawl far enough along a branch that I was over the fence. I was looking for a safe way to fall to the ground, but something in the trees caught my eyes. I was too preoccupied with looking at the strange sight to realize that I had missed stepped and put too much of my weight on the wrong part of the branch.

There was a loud crack and I slipped off the branch and fell in the dirt.

Suffice to say, it bloody hurt.

I didn't yell as I fell, fortunately, but I did let out a groan of pain from the ground. I had fallen on my side so my shoulder took the brunt of the pain. The fall wasn't terrible—I hadn't been too high above the ground—but I knew my body would ache for a good couple of days.

I stood up slowly while I rubbed my shoulder and looked around the property to see if my fall had been seen. I breathed easy when no one came running out to confront the stranger who had just sneaked into their yard. Not even a full day of freedom and I was already breaking the law and trespassing.

What would Mycroft think of me now? Or Mum? I'm sure Sherlock could have just walked straight into the house.

Time was of the essence and I needed to get started. First things first, I would find what had caused me to become distracted and fall in the first place. You see, dear readers, I had seen an oddly familiar structure from my elevated position. Through the tree limbs and the leaves, I had spotted a square-ish shape that appeared to be a part of another tree on the property. I had seen a treehouse.

I made the assumption that this treehouse belonged to the son and not the mother. There were no other children who lived here and I'm sure being an only child he was somewhat spoiled. The well-kept garden and nice cars in front of the house prompted me to believe that this family was well-off. If the mother was indeed involved in politics, it was probable that she wasn't always at home and to make up for missed time she would have spoiled the son; perhaps he had asked for a treehouse.

I wondered briefly if I could be considered spoiled in my upbringing. Although, I'm sure any rottenness would be forgiven given as my own mother abandoned me on my birthday. I shook my head to get rid of my negative thoughts. I needed to stay focus on the problem at hand. I carefully snuck around the back of the yard, keeping an eye out for any witnesses and for the treehouse.

The reason why I was focused on the treehouses so intensely, in case you were curious readers, is because they are a universal symbol of childhood and a representation of imagination and freedom. I cannot count the days I spent in my own hideaway. I figured that my fondness towards mine was not an outlier. There were bound to be something in there, I was sure of it.

I stumbled upon the treehouse soon after. There were a couple of odd pieces of wood planks that were nailed into the tree. They were painted a dark color in order to blend into the trunk—obviously, this was supposed to be a more private hideaway.

I began to climb up and up and up until I finally reached the underside of the platform. Carefully, as to not fall again, I raised my hand and pushed on the wood. It lifted quite easily and I opened the trap door wide open. I pulled myself up and grinned. I had been successful so far; I wasn't completely hopeless.

Perhaps it will set a precedent for more adventures?

I carefully closed the trap door and started to have a look around. It was a pretty simple square box, about just enough room for me to lie down and have an inch or so of room at both ends. It was well-built and with actual shelves in the corners to hold various toys. There were two small windows cut out on opposite ends. The aesthetic was very pleasing and I ached a little for my own hideaway.

"I would come up, but that platform doesn't look entirely sturdy. And one day this tree will give out, and tumble right into the water. I do hope you're not in it when that happens. It'd be a pity for you to drown."

"You're not invited anyway."

It had seemed like years ago since I had last seen Sherlock when in reality it was barely more than a month. I wondered if he would drop the cases he had to look for me. Would he find me? Would he care enough to even look?

On to more important matters, I started to carefully search the shelves. The most interesting booklet filled with chicken-scratch writing (I managed to make out what I believed to be some poetry. I have read numerous poetry books so I was familiar with the subject but I was not knowledgeable in the judging of quality,) and a small jewelry box.

I grabbed the box and settled down on the floor to examine its contents. Once I was comfortable, I gingerly opened the box. The box had the strangest combination of items inside it. Exactly what the hell was I looking at?

There was a bag filled with what appeared to be red string but when I opened it I saw that it was actually hair.

Please don't let this be a serial killer trophy thing, please don't let this be a serial killer trophy thing, please don't let this be a serial killer trophy thing.

I pulled a lock out of the bag. There was a curl to it and it felt soft, indicating that before it had been shorn, it had been well-taken care of. Another thing I noted was how long the pieces were, however, some pieces were many different lengths, like the person had a hard time to cutting their hair. Most pieces were long enough that it made me wonder if they had come from a boy or a girl. I tucked away the bag for later.

The next item was a small ceramic boat. It was hand painted with delicate details. Compared to the other toys that littered the shelves, this one was more expensive and well-cared for. I guessed it was in the box to protect it from the elements. Gingerly, I placed the boat back into the box.

The final item was even more mysterious than the first two combined. It was a letter of some sort, I couldn't quite make out what exactly it said because it appeared to have something spilled on it. The few words that hadn't been washed away gave me enough hints to conclude that the letter had been addressed to this son, it was about some sort of contest, and finally, I made out a name at the bottom of the page, Terry J. Mosmai.

I placed all the things back into the box very carefully, but not before taking a lock of the red hair. I held it in my hand gently and then pocketed it.

While I had studied the items of the box I had also started to piece together some pieces of this puzzle. The next step was to climb down and see if I could make my way into the house. I'd like to visit the bedroom, where supposedly the lock had been broken and the room messed.

Just as I landed on the ground and began to brush off the dirt on my dress, I heard a loud shout. I looked behind me immediately and noticed someone marching towards me across the lawn. My first instinct was to run, but, my logical side reminded me how the home was surrounded by police and that it was doubtful I would get very far. I had not, of course, put in all of this effect to be caught trespassing. So, instead of turning tail and running away, I strode towards the person. As I got closer, I saw that it was a man with gray hints in his hair, a determined set to his shoulders, and a badge. Definitely police, then.

Calm down, Enola, just act like you belong here.

"Hello officer!" I greeted. We soon met in the middle of the yard and I gave him a bright smile.

He paused, obviously thrown off, "Yeah, hello to you to," He said, "But actually, it's Detective Inspector."

OH MY STARS AND GARTERS

"Even better!" I replied cheerfully. I stuck out my hand and smiled again, "Lovely to meet you Detective Inspector…?" I trailed off, waiting for name.

"Lestrade." After looking me up and down and deeming me not a threat, he shook my hand. "Nice to meet you too, Mrs.…?"

Say something, Enola, say anything, and make a name—

"It's Miss, now, actually."

The detective looked at my funeral garb. There was an awkward pause before he said, "Er, sorry for your loss, then, uh, Ms.…?"

Again, he grappled for a name. He was stubborn.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade, you're very kind for saying that," I started to walk towards the house and continued the conversation, "However, we've got more pressuring issues currently going on. A boy has gone missing and you have no leads."

Lestrade began to follow me, "Now wait a minute, you're not even supposed to be here—"

I didn't stop walking to the house. I needed to check out that bedroom and in order to do that I had to act like I belonged. Sherlock worked with the police all the time and he could be a right prick; there was no reason why I couldn't do the same right now.

Without looking back and with an air of confidence, I responded, "He wasn't kidnapped, he ran away."

I couldn't hear footsteps behind me anymore, so I looked back to see that Lestrade had stopped.

"Come on now," I said, motioning him forward, "We should inform the mother, should we not?"

Lestrade stared at me. "No." He said.

"No?"

"No!" Lestrade huffed, "Now listen, ma'am, I don't know who the bloody hell you think you are or how the hell you know that it wasn't a kidnapping or even how you got in here, but I'm not going to let some civilian order me around. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises, otherwise I will have to have you arrested—"

"Holmes." I blurted out.

A pause, and then—

"Holmes? Like Sherlock Holmes? The detective?"

We both turned to see a young woman leaning out of the open doorway. She was wearing a uniform and was looking at me for an answer.

"Um." I wasn't sure on what to do. Sherlock would have already gotten into the house, but here I was stuck explaining myself. This whole adventure was a mistake. "Yes."

The maid didn't need further prompting. "Oh my God! Do you work with him? I thought he hadn't gotten out messages but Mrs. Marlene kept insisting that we keep sending them even after he declined the first one!"

"Yes!" I replied eagerly. Here was a way out of this mess! "We're actually related," I added. I strode towards her, "He was unfortunately busy with another case, but sent me in his place. Can I meet the mother now? I have important news regarding her son, and I need to see his bedroom as well."

The girl grabbed my hand eagerly and proceeded to drag me into the house. I didn't hear Lestrade putting up any protests, but I had to assume he was still dumbfounded at my information. I needed to act fast.

I had no idea if Lestrade had Sherlock's number, I could only assume he did and if that was true I needed to act as fast as possible. Who knows if Lestrade would inform Sherlock of a strange woman dressed in black, claiming to be related to him, and barging in on his crime scene?

Also, my disguise was ruined! I mourned the thought of having to get rid of the lovely black dress I was wearing. It was elegant and simple. I would need a new disguise immediately.

Back to the matter at hand, I followed the girl—whom I had now deduced to be a maid working for this household—into the living room, past the kitchen, past the dining room, and into another living room.

"Mrs. Basilweather!" The maid called out, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. An older woman with auburn hair was slumping on the couch while several people were gathered around her. "Sherlock Holmes changed his mind!" With that, she thrust me in front of her and into the spotlight.

I straightened my spine. I could absolutely do this.

"My name is Enola Holmes, Mrs. Basilweather. I'm here to help."

I don't even know man, I just wanna finish this story before I die.