General Disclaimer

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Kind of a filler dealie. I'm hoping to get the plot moving along at a nice snail's crawl in the next few chapters. Enjoy!

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Chapter Six: Butler and Butler

SC Morrison meandered along the sidewalk enjoying the sunlight. For a change, there was no one needing help today. No old ladies with shopping, no kids with dropped ice cream...it was kind of boring, actually.

As she walked farther, however, she noticed a hover-lorry with the logo "Butler and Butler Movers" plastered on it in dark green. Seems the old DeVille place had finally been sold. Ghastly old birdcage of a thing. If it weren’t for the movers she’d have thought it an investment, stock and bonds sale, or whatever.

Two people got out of the van: a bald man the size of a bleeding house and a Britney Spears look-alike. Morrison blinked. Odd choice for movers. The couple, however appeared to be completely competent, giving her a glance out of the corner of their eyes every once in a while.

Eventually Morrison got bored, shrugged and walked on. She made a mental note to drop by and introduce herself to the new neighbours later.

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Watson met up with an oddly cheerful Holmes and a waffling Inspector -- and by waffling he meant quite volatile -- for dinner at the hotel.

"So! How was your first day?" Watson seated himself, careful not to get in anyone’s view of the door. Subconsciously his companions thanked him.

"Je returnerais jamais! C’etait terrible! Ben, c’etait plus mauvais que seulement terrible. Cette femme est une menace de societe! Et ca fais pas de difference comment she shoves herself at you ella no es mucha bonita! Y l’auto!" In her frustration, Lestrade changed languages as one would change gears.

Holmes gave Lestrade a dry look. "Could you please confine yourself to only one language per sentence, my dear Inspector? And which woman are you calling a menace to society, Dallaway or ‘Instructor Judy’? "

"Both! Dallaway and her incessant gossip nearly drove me insane." Lestrade visibly bristled at the memory of her partner for the day’s ‘cultural event’ (i.e. cooking). It didn’t help that the kitchen had never been one of Lestrade’s more favoured environments.

Watson tsked. "I’d say Holmes has already beat her to it, Inspector." He smiled at her withering glare. "But what car were you talking about?"

"A red hover-lorry that tried to run us down, twice, outside of Talleyrand Hall." Lestrade’s expression brightened somewhat as a waiter brought their food.

"It would appear, my dear Watson, that the game is afoot, albeit messily. Someone is trying to kill us." Holmes said between mouthfuls of roasted duck. "Last night someone through a brick at Lestrade through her room’s French doors and this morning someone tried to run me down with a cleaning trolley outside my room.

"And you know what I think of coincidences," he added when he saw Watson’s dubious expression.

Watson nodded. "True, but if their trying to kill you, there are much faster, and cleaner, ways..."

Holmes was silent for a second. "Well yes, but maybe the objective isn’t to actually kill us."

Lestrade frowned, looking up from her soup. "If they’re not actually trying to kill us then why bother. For publicity? General dislike, us being law, them being criminals? Is it Moriarty, maybe?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, nothing is less Moriarty’s style then this. He is an artist and therefore glories in his audience. If this was Moriarty, we would know. And just killing us because we work for the Yard doesn’t hold any water because any criminal with half a brain would just blow up the entire hall while the seminar was underway. Many more birds with only one stone. Publicity, however... there could be something in that. We shall have to wait and see."

"Lovely," Lestrade replied, not bothering to control her sarcasm.

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French/Spanish translation:

"I’m never returning! It was terrible! No, it was worse than terrible! That woman is a menace to society! And it doesn’t make a difference how she shoves herself at you, she’s still not pretty! And the car!"

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Yeah, I like messing with languages... my poor, poor French teacher.