#Bart Rathbone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seanpultz · 2 months

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As a film buff, I have such an imagination and somewhere in an alternate timeline or a parallel universe there is a story that could've been a great idea for a movie or you imagined a cast of actors who would look great together on screen. For years, I always imagined what it would be like if Bud Abbott and Lou Costello teaming with Judy Garland would look like. It's such a shame that it never came to fruition. But then again they were under contract to different studios. Judy was under contract to MGM and Abbott and Costello were with Universal Pictures. However MGM signed a three-film contract with Bud and Lou to take advantage of a clause in their Universal contract that allowed them to do one film a year for another company. In reality, Bud and Lou did Rio Rita, Lost in a Harem and Abbott and Costello in Hollywood for MGM. But thanks with a little AI and a little bit of tweaking of my own, I did manage to scribble out a possible story that I thought would be kind of beneficial for both Judy Garland and Bud and Lou. After many different attempts at a plot that would incorporate both Judy and Bud and Lou and taking into consideration the types of film Bud and Lou had done in their careers I thought the one type of film Bud and Lou never got the opportunity to tackle is a medieval set story. So I manage to concoct a story that would've been set in the medieval times. Now I know some of the aspects of the story I'm about to share with you may seem cliché by modern audiences but I'm writing this from the perspective of what 1940's audiences would've found unique at the time.

A Jester's Serenade

Bud Abbott as Bartholomew "Bart" Montague

Lou Costello as Lancelot "Lance" Finnegan

Judy Garland as Melody

Basil Rathbone as King Malachi Blackthorn

Dick Foran as Garret

and

Arthur Treacher as Goodheart

Once upon a time, in the kingdom called Veridion, there live two jesters. Bart Montague, a lanky fellow with a mischievous glint in his eye, leaned against the dusty wooden frame of the castle gate, watching the bustle of the town square below. The annual festival of Veridion was in full swing, and the air was thick with the sweet aroma of roasting meats and the laughter of townsfolk. His partner in jest, Lance Finnegan, a shorter, rounder man with a wild mop of hair, approached with a spring in his step that was unusual for someone so often the butt of their own jokes.

"Bart, I've had it with this foolishness," Lance announced, a rare seriousness etched on his jolly face. "I want more from life than making fools laugh at my expense. I want to be a knight!"

Bart couldn't help but chuckle at his friend's earnestness. "A knight, you say?" he responded, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you think you've got what it takes, Lance? You can barely keep your pants from falling down during our act."

Lance's cheeks flushed with a mix of excitement and determination. "Look at me, I'm quick on my feet, and I've got a sharp mind. Plus, I've been secretly training with Sir Percival's squire when he thinks no one's watching!"

Bart's laughter subsided into a warm smile. He knew Lance's heart was in the right place, but the idea of his clumsy friend in shining armor was almost too much to handle. "Alright, Lance," he said, slapping him on the back. "If it's a knight you wish to be, then it's a knight you shall become—after we put on the show of our lives tonight!"

The two jesters made their way through the colorful throngs of the festival, their capes fluttering behind them. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets as they headed towards the grand stage where their fate, and perhaps the fate of the kingdom, was about to take an unexpected turn.

As they approached the stage, a commotion caught their attention. Goodheart, an old beggar known for his kindness and gentle spirit, was being harassed by a pair of the King's soldiers. The soldiers, burly men with scornful grins, jeered and poked at him, sending his meager belongings scattering across the ground. Lance's protective instincts flared, and he took a step forward, but Bart held him back with a firm grip.

"Hold on, Lance," he whispered. "Let's not cause a scene before our performance."

Just then, Garret, the Captain of the Guards, emerged from the castle, his expression darkening as he took in the scene. He was a man of honor, and the sight of his men bullying a defenseless old man was not a sight he tolerated. He strode over, his boots echoing through the square.

"What's the meaning of this?" he barked at the soldiers. They snapped to attention, their smiles vanishing.

Goodheart looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. "They took my meager coins, sir," he said, his voice trembling.

Garret's gaze shifted to the soldiers, his voice icy. "Collect yourselves and leave this man in peace. And remember," he added, his voice carrying a hint of menace, "a knight's strength is not in his armor, but in his compassion."

The soldiers muttered apologies and slunk away, leaving Goodheart to gather his things. Garret offered the old man a hand, which he gratefully took, and helped him to his feet.

"Thank you, kind sir," Goodheart said, his eyes brimming with gratitude.

Garret nodded, his gaze lingering on Lance for a moment before he turned to address the crowd. "Let this be a lesson to us all," he called out. "Bullies may hide behind their power, but true strength lies in the heart!"

The townsfolk murmured in agreement, and the square fell silent, the only sound the distant strains of music from the festival. Lance felt a strange stirring within him, as if the captain's words had struck a chord that resonated deep within his soul. Perhaps, he thought, there was more to knighthood than he had ever imagined.

King Malachi Blackthorn, once a revered sorcerer, now ruled the kingdom of Veridion with an iron fist, his sharp eyes and severe demeanor casting a shadow over the usually festive air. Despite his disdain for the common folk's revelries, he understood the value of allowing such occasions to take place. It was a strategic move, a way to maintain a semblance of peace while he pursued his own dark ambitions from the confines of his castle. His presence was a stark contrast to the jovial spirit of the festival, yet the people of Veridion knew better than to let his tyrannical rule dampen their spirits. They danced and sang with a fierce defiance, whispering prayers for a hero to rise and free them from his oppressive reign. Little did they know, that hero might just be hidden among the jesters' capes and the jovial laughter of the very festival that served as a beacon of hope amidst the gloom.

The stage lights dimmed, and the townspeople took their seats, eager for the evening's entertainment. The festival's grand finale was about to begin, and Bart and Lance were ready to dazzle the crowd with their well-rehearsed antics. They took their places under the elaborate backdrop. The crowd roared with laughter as Lance attempted to recount the biblical tale of Jonah and the Whale , only to be continuously cut off by Bart's questions. Their chemistry was undeniable, the timing of their jokes impeccable, and the townsfolk were in stitches. The audience erupted into thunderous applause. The two friends took their bows, grinning from ear to ear, basking in the warm glow of approval that washed over them. Yet, as the cheers died down and the curtains closed, Lance couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to life than the fleeting adoration of a jest.

As the applause faded, a new sound began to rise from the festival's periphery—a hauntingly beautiful melody that seemed to weave its way through the very fabric of the night. The crowd's chatter hushed as the ethereal notes grew louder, and all eyes turned to the source: a young woman with a voice that seemed to hold the power of a thousand angels. Melody, a name that suited her as perfectly as the golden locks that fell around her shoulders, stood on a makeshift stage at the edge of the square, her eyes closed as she poured her soul into the song. Her voice, a poignant blend of innocence and wisdom, captivated everyone present, including Bart and Lance, who watched from the shadows of the grand stage's wings. They had never heard anything quite so mesmerizing, and for a moment, even their lifelong friendship was forgotten as they were both drawn to her like moths to a flame. It was a moment of pure magic, one that hinted at destinies intertwining and the possibility of dreams coming true in the most unexpected of ways.

As the final note of Melody's song lingered in the air, the crowd remained eerily silent, until King Blackthorn's cold laughter rang out from his throne-like chair at the royal viewing box. "What sorcery is this?" he sneered, his eyes narrowing on the trembling girl. "This is an outrage, using black magic to manipulate my subjects!"

The soldiers and townspeople, fueled by the king's accusation, turned on Melody with a fervor that matched their earlier mirth. They jeered and booed, hurling eggs and rotten vegetables at the trembling girl. Her eyes, once filled with passionate light, now brimmed with tears of humiliation and pain. Without a second thought, She fled off the stage in tears.

Bart and Lance exchanged a horrified look, the joy of their performance now a distant memory. They couldn't stand idly by while a fellow performer, especially one so gifted and pure, was vilified for her art. With quickened steps, they followed her. "Melody, wait!" Lance called out.

Melody stumbled into the dimly lit tent, her sobs echoing off the canvas walls. The smell of incense and candle wax filled the air, hinting at the various performers who had found refuge within its folds. She collapsed onto a wooden chair, her shoulders heaving with the weight of the world's cruelty. The flap of the tent opened, and in slipped Bart and Lance, their faces etched with concern. "Melody, are you okay?" Bart whispered, as they approached her cautiously.

Her eyes, red and swollen from crying, looked up to meet theirs.

At first, Melody shrank away, expecting more taunts and ridicule. But the genuine concern in Lance's eyes melted the icy grip of fear around her heart. "Please," she choked out, "don't mock me too."

"Mock you?" Lance gaped, his own eyes wide with shock. "We're jesters, not monsters." He offered her a handkerchief, which she took with a trembling hand. "You've got a voice that could charm the stars from the sky," he said gently. "Don't let that sour old man spoil it for you."

Lance stepped closer, his eyes soft with empathy. "Don't cry, Melody," he said, reaching into his pocket. "Here, take this." He pulled out a handkerchief, but in his haste, he didn't realize it was attached to a hidden string of cloth. As he handed it to her, the fabric stretched on and on. Melody's eyes widened, and through her tears, she managed a small, surprised smile. The tension in the tent broke as she watched in amazement as the handkerchief grew longer and longer, until it was clear that it would never end. The jesters' classic gag had inadvertently turned the tide of her sorrow into something lighter. "Whoops," Lance exclaimed, his cheeks reddening as he tried to reel in the runaway fabric. "I guess I'm not just a knight in training," he quipped, "but a magician of sorts too!"

Melody's smile grew, the tears slowing to a halt. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the seemingly endless handkerchief. It was a simple act of kindness, but it was enough to remind her of the joy she found in music, and the friends she had made in the most unlikely of places.

"Your voice, Melody, it's not just music," Bart said, his voice filled with awe. "It's a gift from the heavens above. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Her smile grew, and with newfound courage, she began to sing again, her voice soaring through the tent. The words of the song spoke of dreams and destiny, of hearts that dare to soar despite the cages they are placed in. The melody was a balm to their spirits, and as she sang, the anger and pain in their hearts began to dissipate. The tent, once a place of solace, now resonated with hope and camaraderie. The two jesters listened, transfixed, as the girl's words wove a tapestry of aspirations and the pursuit of happiness.

Lance felt a lump form in his throat, and he glanced over to see that Bart's eyes were glistening with unshed tears. They had spent their lives bringing laughter to others, but in that moment, they were the ones being healed by the power of music. Melody's song was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and it was clear to both of them that she was more than just a simple street performer—she was a beacon of hope in a world that desperately needed it. And as the final notes of her ballad faded into the night, the three of them knew that their lives had been irrevocably changed. They had found a new purpose, a quest that went beyond the confines of jests and giggles. They would stand together, united by their shared dreams, and face whatever the future held for them in the kingdom of Veridion.

The power of Melody's song had seeped into Lance's very core, fanning the embers of his dream into a roaring flame. He looked at his friends, their faces aglow with the magic of her music, and knew that he could not let fear or doubt hold him back any longer. "Bart," he said, his voice resolute, "you were right earlier. It's time for us to do more than just entertain. I'm going to become a knight, and with your help, I know I can make a difference in this kingdom."

Bart's smile grew as he nodded in support. "I'll be right there with you, Lance," he said, slapping his friend on the back. "We'll turn your fool's dream into a knight's quest!"

Goodheart, the old beggar they had encountered earlier, peeked into the tent. His eyes widened at the sight of the two jesters, now standing tall with newfound resolve. He had overheard their conversation and knew that he had something valuable to contribute. "Excuse me, young sirs," he coughed politely, his voice raspy from a lifetime of hardship. "If it's knighthood you seek, I may have a word or two of advice for you." His eyes twinkled with the wisdom of ages, hinting at secrets untold.

Goodheart, with a knowing smile, stepped into the tent, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of the ages. He had once been a squire to a great knight, and his tales of valor and honor had captured the hearts of the town's children for years. Now, he saw in Lance and Bart the same spark that had once burned within him. "Let us begin your training," he declared. Over the next several weeks, the trio met in secret, hidden from the watchful eyes of the castle. The square that had once rung with laughter now echoed with the clang of swords and the clatter of hooves as the two jesters stumbled through their lessons. Lance, ever eager, threw himself into his training with a passion that surprised even himself, while Bart's mischievous streak led to more than a few comical mishaps. Melody watched from the sidelines, her melodious laughter pealing out as Lance tumbled from his horse or Bart's sword swipes went wildly off-target. Despite their initial struggles, Goodheart's patience and guidance began to show results. The men grew stronger, more disciplined, and their camaraderie deepened as they shared in the triumphs and tribulations of their newfound pursuit. Meanwhile, Melody's music continued to be their beacon, inspiring them to reach for greatness beyond the confines of their jester's attire.

Months passed, and under Goodheart's tutelage, Lance and Bart transformed from jesters to skilled warriors. Their friendship with Melody had blossomed into a bond of protection and camaraderie, and Lance, now more than ever, felt the weight of his newfound knightly ambition. His dream was no longer just a whimsical notion; it was a fiery determination that burned in his core. As they strolled through the quiet streets of Veridion one evening, Lance swaggered with newfound confidence, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of trouble.

"Melody," he announced, with the pomp of a royal decree, "henceforth, let it be known that any who wish to harm thee shall have to answer to Sir Lancelot Finnegan!" He playfully swung his wooden practice sword at an invisible foe, causing a few passersby to giggle.

Bart rolled his eyes but couldn't help the proud smile that tugged at his lips. "And what makes you think you can protect her, Sir Lancelot?" he teased.

Melody looked at Lance with a mix of amusement and affection. "Your valor is touching, Sir Lancelot," she said, her voice as sweet as the melodies she sang. "But I fear I am quite capable of handling myself."

Lance's face fell, but only for a moment. "Of course, Lady Melody," he replied with a dramatic bow. "But should you ever need it, my sword and shield are yours to command."

As the moon cast a silvery glow over the quiet streets, Captain Garret's imposing figure emerged from the shadows. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bart and Lance prepared to defend Melody with their makeshift weapons. But to their surprise, Garret raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Fear not," he said, his voice steady. "I am not here to fight, but to offer an opportunity." His eyes, usually stern and assessing, held a glint of curiosity and respect. "I have watched your secret trainings, and I believe you both hold the potential to be more than jesters. If you wish to prove your worth, I can arrange for you to stand before the king and request knighthood." Lance's chest swelled with hope, while Bart's mischievous smirk grew into a genuine smile. They had found an unexpected ally in their quest.

"But why?" Lance asked, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. "Why would you help us?"

Garret's gaze grew serious. "Because the kingdom needs heroes, not just jesters. And perhaps, with your unique blend of courage and jest, you can be the light that pierces the darkness that has enveloped us for too long." He paused, studying them both. "But know this, the path to knighthood is fraught with danger and deception. Are you ready to walk it?"

The two friends looked at each other, their eyes shining with excitement and trepidation. They had come so far together, and now, the opportunity they had dreamed of was within their grasp. "We are ready," they declared in unison, and with Melody's melodious laughter as their battle cry, they set forth on a journey that would test their friendship, their hearts, and their very souls.

With the protection of her newfound friends, Melody's music took on a new purpose. Her voice, once used to soothe the spirits of the townspeople, now resonated with a call to arms—a gentle yet powerful demand for freedom. The trio strategically performed at the edge of the town square, their acts interwoven with Melody's stirring ballads that whispered of rebellion and the promise of a better tomorrow. Her words became anthems of hope, echoing through the cobblestone streets and seeping into the hearts of the downtrodden. The townsfolk, who had once only dared to dream of a world free from King Blackthorn's tyranny, began to murmur of change. A quiet revolution was brewing, and Melody's songs were its fuel. The air grew thick with anticipation, and even the most cautious among them could feel the tremors of a future where jesters might become knights, and a girl with a heavenly voice could lead them to victory.

King Blackthorn's spies, ever vigilant, soon brought news of the trio's blossoming rebellion to his ears. His face darkened with rage as he listened to the whispers of a jester with a dream, a musician with a message, and a guardian with a conscience. He knew that such unity could threaten the foundations of his power. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a squadron of his most ruthless soldiers to apprehend Melody and bring her before him, her enchanting voice silenced once and for all.

Later that night, the square was alive with laughter and music as Melody's sweet voice filled the air once more. The townsfolk danced and sang along, their spirits soaring higher than the flaming torches that lit the night. Unseen by the revelers, a shadow fell over the festival as King Blackthorn's soldiers, armed and menacing, crept through the alleyways, their eyes searching for the source of the sedition. Just as Melody reached the crescendo of her most rousing ballad, the sound of clashing steel pierced the night. The music faltered, and the dancers froze. The soldiers descended upon the gathering, their faces twisted with malice. In the chaos, Bart and Lance managed to fight alongside Captain Garret, their newfound skills surprisingly effective against the invaders. But it was Melody's voice that truly became their weapon, as she sang a haunting tune that seemed to tug at the very fabric of their hearts. Despite their efforts, the soldiers were too many, and in a heart-wrenching moment, Melody was ripped from their grasp, her cries for help lost in the cacophony of battle. Garret, ever the protector, was captured as well, leaving the two jesters to watch in horror as the village they had sworn to shield went up in flames, a twisted smile on the face of the retreating soldiers. As the inferno raged, Bart and Lance knew that their quest had just become much more than a jest; it was now a battle for the very soul of Veridion.

As the flames of the village square danced in their eyes, Bart and Lance stared in disbelief at the smoldering remains of their shattered dreams. Defeated and desolate, they slumped against the charred stones, their makeshift weapons useless at their sides. Goodheart, his eyes glistening with a mix of pride and sorrow, placed a gnarled hand on Lance's shoulder. "You can't let this be the end, my boy," he said, his voice crackling like the fire that surrounded them. "Melody's light is not yet extinguished, and neither should your spirit be." He turned to Bart, whose shoulders were slumped in despair. "Your hearts are pure, and your friendship unbreakable. Use it as your shield and your sword." The old man's gaze grew steely. "Go, find Melody. Show King Blackthorn that the power of laughter and song cannot be so easily silenced. Prove that jesters can indeed become knights in the most unexpected of battles." With newfound resolve, the two friends nodded, gripping their steel swords given to them by Goodheart firmly. They would not rest until Melody was safe and the tyranny of Veridion was brought to its knees. Together, they vowed to bring joy and justice back to the kingdom, one jest and one battle at a time.

In the cold, stone chamber of King Blackthorn's fortress, Melody stood defiantly, her eyes flashing with the fire of her convictions. The king sneered, his thin lips curling into a cruel smile. "Your little performance was quite enchanting, Melody," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "But it seems your dear Captain Garret had other intentions."

Garret, his hands bound and his expression a mask of fury, glared at the king. "You lie!" he bellowed. "I stand for the people, not for your twisted games!"

Melody's heart was a tumult of emotions—shock, anger, and betrayal all fighting for dominance. Yet, she refused to let the king's words shake her. She knew the man before her was not the honorable knight she had come to admire. Instead, she turned to Garret, her voice strong and clear. "Your actions have spoken louder than any words, Captain," she said. "You've shown us the true meaning of courage and compassion."

The chamber grew tense as Blackthorn leaned back in his throne, his eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure as he watched Garret struggle against his bindings. "Ah, the valor of a traitor," he taunted. "But fear not, my dear Melody. Your dear captain's betrayal is but a small price to pay for the greater good of the kingdom." His smile grew colder, and Melody's heart sank as she realized the depth of the captain's sacrifice. Garret's eyes, filled with pain and regret, met hers briefly before he lunged at the king, his bound hands striking Blackthorn's face with a resounding crack. The guards, their loyalty to their monarch unwavering, descended upon Garret like a pack of wolves, their blows raining down upon him. The sound of flesh meeting metal and bone snapping echoed through the chamber, and Melody's horror grew as she watched the man who had offered her friendship and protection be torn apart before her very eyes.

With a flick of his wrist, King Blackthorn signaled to his guards. "Take him away," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let him rot in the dungeons until the morrow, when his treachery shall be made an example of." The guards dragged the defeated Garret from the chamber, his eyes never leaving Melody's as he was taken away to face his grim fate.

Turning his attention back to Melody, King Blackthorn's smile grew sinister. "Now, my dear," he said, "you have a choice to make. Use your enchanting voice to sing my praises, to turn the hearts of the people against this ridiculous rebellion, and I shall grant you a life of comfort and luxury beyond your wildest dreams. Or," he leaned in, his breath foul with the stench of power, "you shall join your traitorous friend in the dungeon, where your sweet melodies will be lost to the world forever."

Melody's voice did not waver as she stared back at the king. "I will never sing for a tyrant," she declared, her eyes shining with the unyielding spirit of a true heroine. The color drained from Blackthorn's face, his fists clenching in rage. "Very well," he spat. "Take her to the dungeons! Let her think on her decision as she shares a cell with the man who foolishly tried to protect her." With a wave of his hand, the guards closed in, their rough hands grabbing her. As she was led away, she could hear Blackthorn's maniacal laughter echoing through the halls of the castle, a chilling reminder of the darkness they faced.

In the bowels of the castle, the dungeon was a stark contrast to the opulence above. The air was thick with the scent of despair, and the walls echoed with the faint whispers of past agonies. Melody was thrown into a cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind her with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine. Her thoughts raced, her mind a whirlwind of fear and determination. Despite the cold, damp embrace of the stone, she felt the warmth of her friends' belief in her, fueling her resolve to stand firm against the king's demands. Meanwhile, Blackthorn plotted in his chambers, his thoughts twisted with rage and cunning. He knew that breaking a spirit like Melody's would not be easy, but he was more than willing to use any means necessary to bend her to his will. As the candles flickered, casting eerie shadows on the wall, he ordered his most feared interrogator to prepare for a long night of 'persuasion'. The sound of his sinister laughter sent a chill through the very stones of the castle, for he knew that the jesters' hearts would soon be tested in the crucible of pain and fear, and he was eager to see if their friendship could truly withstand the fires of adversity.

In the cold, damp dungeon, the only light came from a solitary torch flickering on the wall. Garret and Melody sat on the stone floor, their wrists bound with heavy chains that rattled as they moved. Despite his pain, Garret's eyes searched Melody's face, which was a map of bruises and determination. "I never told you this," he began, his voice low and earnest, "but I was there that night at the festival when you sang. I watched from the shadows, moved by the beauty of your voice and the courage in your eyes. That's when I knew, deep down, that the kingdom needed more than jesters to survive. It needed heroes like you."

Melody looked at him, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.

"I wanted to," he replied, his voice strained with the effort of speaking through his bruised jaw. "But I didn't want to burden you with the weight of my hope. You had enough to bear already."

Garret's confession filled Melody with a warmth that countered the chill of the dungeon. "You truly believe in me?" she asked, her voice shaking.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "More than anyone, Melody. Your voice has the power to unite and heal. That's why I tried to shield you from this fate."

Melody's eyes searched his, understanding the depth of his sacrifice. "And what of your dreams, Captain?"

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. "My dream is to see you safe, your voice free to change the world."

Their hearts resonating with a bond forged in adversity, they began to sing a duet, their voices intertwining in a poignant melody of love and hope. The song grew in power, filling the dank dungeon with a warmth that seemed to chase away the shadows. As their voices reached a crescendo, their hearts aligned, and in a moment of pure emotion, they kissed, a silent promise to stand together against the tyranny that sought to silence them. The sound of their voices grew stronger, echoing through the castle's corridors like a battle cry, a testament to the enduring strength of friendship and love in the face of darkness. And as their lips parted, they knew that no matter what fate had in store for them, they would face it side by side, their spirits unbroken and their voices unbowed.

Back in the bustling town, Bart and Lance had not wasted a moment after Melody's capture. Their minds raced with plans of rescue and rebellion, their spirits fueled by the memory of her hauntingly beautiful song. With the help of Goodheart and some of the more adventurous townsfolk, they managed to procure a map of the castle's hidden entrances. The journey to the fortress was fraught with danger, but their determination was unshakeable. As they tiptoed through the shadowy corridors of Blackthorn's stronghold, their jesters' instincts served them well, turning potential disasters into comedic escapades. A misstep triggered a trap door, sending Lance plummeting into a pit of straw, only to emerge sneezing and covered in hay. Another close call had them accidentally setting off a cascade of rolling boulders, which they barely dodged with a perfectly timed pratfall. Despite the gravity of their mission, they couldn't help but laugh at their own misfortune, their friendship providing a beacon of light in the gloom. Yet, with each mishap, they grew more adept at navigating the treacherous labyrinth, their bond tightening with every shared look of relief and every whispered strategy.

As they ventured deeper into the castle, the laughter and camaraderie of their earlier escapades fell away, replaced by a solemn silence that hung heavy in the air. They stumbled into a dusty chamber, filled with shelves groaning under the weight of forgotten scrolls and parchments. The light from their makeshift torches danced across the pages, revealing a trove of secrets long hidden from the public eye. With trembling hands, they began to sift through the documents. The discovery they made was so stunning, so utterly unexpected, that it took a moment for the gravity of it to sink in. There, in the dusty annals of the castle, they found the truth: King Blackthorn was not the rightful ruler of Veridion. Goodheart, the very man they had watched being bullied in the town square, was the true heir to the throne. The revelation hit them like a thunderclap, and they stared at each other, their expressions a mix of disbelief and dawning understanding.

20 years ago, Goodheart ruled the kingdom of Veridion with his wife The Queen. By that point, the Queen had died giving birth to a daughter so he had to rule the kingdom alone following the death of The Queen. Eventually, a sorcerer Malachi Blackthorn mounted a treacherous coup and deposed Goodheart. Goodheart believed his daughter to be have been killed in the coup and he is forced to live his life as a beggar. Eventually, they piece together that Melody is Goodheart's long-lost daughter and the rightful heir to the throne.

As the weight of their discovery settled upon them, a soft, familiar cough echoed through the chamber. They whirled around to find Goodheart standing in the doorway, his eyes gleaming with a mix of hope and regret. "I've been watching you two," he said, his voice filled with quiet pride. "You've come so far from the jesters I knew. You've become true heroes of Veridion." Lance and Bart stared at him, their mouths agape, as he continued. "You see, I am not just a simple beggar. I am the rightful king of this land, and Melody," his voice grew hoarse with emotion, "is my daughter. For twenty years, I've lived with the guilt of failing to protect her and my queen. But now, with your help, I can set things right." The revelation shook them to their core, but it also brought a newfound purpose to their mission. They had not just been fighting for a jester's whimsical dream or a musician's voice; they were fighting for the very future of their kingdom. Goodheart's vow to reclaim his throne resonated within them, and together, the trio steeled themselves for the battle ahead. They had to rescue Melody, reveal the truth, and overthrow the tyrant who had stolen their destiny. The fate of Veridion rested in their hands, and as they moved with renewed vigor through the castle's shadowy corridors, their hearts swelled with the promise of redemption and the sweet taste of justice.

Bart and Lance tells Goodheart to gather the townspeople to in an attempt to storm the fortress. Goodheart nodded solemnly, the gravity of their mission etched on his weary face. "I will not fail you," he said, before slipping away into the night to gather the townspeople. With newfound urgency, Bart and Lance continued their clandestine search for Melody and Garret. The castle's labyrinthine corridors seemed to close in around them, each step echoing like a declaration of war. Their hearts pounded in their chests, not just from the exertion of their quest, but from the knowledge that the fate of Veridion rested upon their shoulders. They had to be swift, silent, and precise, like shadows dancing in the moonlight. They had to be more than jesters; they had to be the knights they had always dreamed of becoming.

King Blackthorn's eyes narrowed as he heard the distant murmur of a growing mob, the sound of their fury rushing towards the castle like a tidal wave. His gaze fell upon the map on his desk, the hidden entrances they had discovered earlier now marked with a snarl of rage. "Guards!" he bellowed. "Jesters have infiltrated the fortress, searching for the girl. Find them and silence them permanently!" The castle's alarms sounded, sending soldiers scurrying like ants to protect their malevolent queen. Meanwhile, Goodheart had rallied the townspeople, their faces a mix of anger and hope as they marched towards the castle with makeshift weapons and unshakeable resolve. As the king's grip on the throne grew more precarious, he knew he had to act swiftly. "Sound the battle horns," he ordered. "We shall meet this rebellion with fire and steel." The air grew thick with tension as the clank of armor and the stomping of booted feet echoed through the fortress. Blackthorn knew that the night ahead would be a bloody one, but he had no intention of letting his ill-gotten power slip away without a fight. As the two forces converged—the jesters navigating the treacherous halls and the townspeople charging the castle gates—the fate of Veridion hung in the balance, poised on the edge of a knife that gleamed with the promise of a new dawn or the finality of despair.

The night air was torn apart by the fierce cacophony of battle as the townspeople of Veridion clashed with King Blackthorn's soldiers. Arrows rained down from the castle's ramparts, piercing the darkness with their deadly intent. The ground was slick with the spilled blood of the brave souls who had dared to challenge the tyrant's rule. Flaming torches cast hellish shadows across the faces of the combatants, while the stench of burning oil filled the air as the jesters' cleverly placed traps turned the castle's own defenses against its corrupt ruler. Despite their valor, the tide of battle began to turn in Blackthorn's favor.

Back inside the fortress, the echoes of distant battles grew louder as Bart and Lance navigated the torchlit dungeons. The scent of damp stone and despair was almost palpable, but it was the sight of Melody and Garret, their faces etched with hope and fear, that spurred them on. When they reached the cell, they found the pair leaning against the bars, their eyes glued to the chaos unfolding beyond the castle walls. Lance stepped forward, his voice a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Melody," he began, "there's something you need to know." She turned to him, her eyes wide with anticipation. "You're not just a street performer," he said. "You're the daughter of the true king of Veridion." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implication. Garret's eyes widened in shock, and he fell to one knee before her, his bound hands clasped in a gesture of reverence. "My lady," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "I am unworthy to stand before you."

Melody, stunned by this revelation, searched the faces of her friends for any sign of deceit, but found only earnestness and hope. Her mind raced with the implications of this truth. "But what does this mean?" she whispered. "What do we do now?"

Bart, ever the pragmatist, took charge. "We get you out of here, first," he said, fumbling with the lock. "And then we deal with that madman Blackthorn."

As the lock clicked open, the sound seemed to resonate through the very stones of the castle, a declaration of intent that could not be silenced. The three of them stepped out into the flickering torchlight, the warmth of their friendship and newfound kinship a stark contrast to the cold embrace of their surroundings. They had a battle to win, a throne to claim, and a kingdom to save.

As they sprinted through the dungeon's narrow corridors, the roar of the battle above grew louder, the vibrations of clashing steel and the cries of the townspeople echoing in their ears. Suddenly, a squad of guards rounded the corner, and in the ensuing confusion, Lance stumbled into a side passage, his heart racing. He watched in despair as Bart, Garret, and Melody were swallowed by the shadows, their muffled calls for him fading into the cacophony of the castle's chaos. Alone and afraid, Lance knew he had to find a way out, not just for himself, but for his friends and the future of Veridion. Summoning his courage, he forged ahead, his dream of knighthood now a stark reality. Every step was fraught with danger, every shadow a potential enemy. Yet, the thought of Melody's voice, her song of hope, propelled him forward. He had to believe that together, they could still change the course of the kingdom's destiny.

But as he ventured deeper into the bowels of the fortress, Lance stumbled upon something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined. The air grew colder, the walls adorned with ancient runes that seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy.

Lance's heart skipped a beat as he emerged into a chamber, the air thick with dark magic. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the source of the malicious aura: King Malachi Blackthorn, his eyes glowing with a sickly green light, standing before an ancient tome bound in human skin. The king's twisted smile grew wider as he looked up from his arcane studies and spotted the jester. "Ah, the little mouse has found its way into the lion's den," he sneered, raising a sword that crackled with eldritch energy. "But fear not, for I shall give you the battle you seek, Lance Finnegan. A knight you wish to be, a knight you shall face."

With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle, Blackthorn launched himself at Lance, the blade of his sword slicing through the air like a bolt of lightning. Lance, with nothing but his wits and the steel sword given to him by Goodheart, had no choice but to defend himself. The clang of steel on steel reverberated through the chamber as the two men danced a deadly waltz, their every move a testament to the power of ambition and the lengths one would go to achieve it. The tyrant's blows were swift and precise, each one aimed to cut Lance down, while Lance's own strikes were clumsy yet driven by a fierce determination to protect his friends and claim Melody's birthright.

Their duel was a spectacle of light and shadow, the flaming torches casting dramatic flickers across their sweat-soaked faces. The very air around them seemed to crackle with the tension of their clashing wills. Each parry and thrust brought them closer to the truth of their destinies, the very fabric of Veridion's future hanging in the balance with every strike. And as the battle raged on, it became clear that this was no ordinary fight, but a clash of ideals and dreams, of good against evil, of hope against despair.

Bart, Garret, and Melody emerged from the castle into the chaos of battle, their hearts heavy with the weight of their mission. The townspeople were outmatched and outnumbered, their makeshift weapons no match for the king's seasoned soldiers. Desperation painted the faces of the rebels as the castle's gate creaked under the relentless onslaught. In that moment, Melody's eyes searched the battlefield and fell upon the terrified faces of the townsfolk. Raising her voice, she began to sing once more, a song of unity and valor that seemed to pierce the very night itself. The tune, a melody of hope and defiance soared.

As Melody's powerful voice resonated across the battlefield, the townspeople's spirits soared, bolstering their courage. Garret, standing tall beside her, shouted the revelation to the heavens, "Behold, Melody, daughter of the true King Goodheart, the rightful heir to the throne of Veridion!" The stunned soldiers faltered, their morale wavering as the truth echoed through the night. The crowd's gaze shifted from the fiery battle to the girl who stood with a regal poise that belied her street performer's garb. Goodheart, tears streaming down his face, pushed through the throng, reaching for his lost daughter. The moment their hands touched, a palpable surge of energy rippled through the air, a silent promise of justice and redemption. The townspeople fell to their knees, pledging their allegiance to their rightful ruler. With her father at her side, Melody's song grew stronger, her voice a beacon that cut through the din of war, rallying the weary rebels. Together, they stood as a symbol of hope, a testament to the enduring power of love and truth in the face of tyranny. The tide of battle began to turn, and the walls of the castle trembled with the collective roar of the people's determination to reclaim their stolen destiny.

With Garret's valorous cries joining the fray, the townspeople of Veridion surged forward with renewed vigor, their makeshift weapons now wielded with the strength of a thousand knights. The castle's gates, once a bastion of Blackthorn's tyranny, now trembled with the force of their collective will. As the final barricade fell, the castle's once-mighty defenders dropped their arms, recognizing the true power that had been unleashed.

Above the tumult of the battle, Lance and Blackthorn's duel raged on, a dizzying display of steel and shadow on the castle walls. Their silhouettes danced against the backdrop of the fiery night sky, a macabre ballet of fate. Each blow was a clash of light and dark, echoing the deeper struggle within Lance's soul. His eyes never left the king's, a silent promise of the justice that was to come. On the ground below, Bart, Garret, Goodheart, and Melody watched with bated breath, their hearts wound tight with hope and fear.

In a twist of fate that seemed as if it had been scripted by the gods themselves, Lance saw an opportunity in Blackthorn's overconfident grin. Drawing on his years of jesting experience, he feigned a clumsy misstep, mimicking one of their old comedy routines. The king, caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver, stumbled and lost his footing. His eyes widened in shock as he realized the deadly mistake he had made, and with a final, desperate cry, he plummeted from the castle's ramparts into the abyss below. The ground trembled as his body hit the unforgiving earth, and his malevolent reign over Veridion ended in a moment of poetic justice. Lance stood at the edge, panting and trembling, his sword still raised. He had become the hero he always dreamed of, not through knightly valor, but through the cleverness and wit that had once been the hallmark of his jests. Looking down at the shattered body of the tyrant, Lance felt a strange mix of relief and grief. He had slain a monster, but in doing so, he had also taken a life. The realization weighed heavily on his shoulders, a stark reminder of the gravity of the path he had chosen.

The townsfolk below, witnessing the tyrant's fall, erupted into cheers that echoed through the night, their voices a symphony of liberation. The castle's remaining defenders dropped their weapons, recognizing the futility of their cause. The battlefield transformed into a scene of jubilation as the people of Veridion embraced one another, their laughter and tears mingling in the cool evening air. The kingdom stood on the precipice of a new dawn, one where the chains of fear and oppression would be shattered by the light of hope and freedom.

The four companions, their hearts pounding with the excitement of victory, descended the castle's stairs to be met by an adoring crowd. Goodheart stepped forward, his eyes shining with pride as he addressed the people. "Veridion," he called out, his voice strong and clear, "I present to you, Melody, your true queen!" The townsfolk fell silent, awestruck by the beauty and poise of the girl before them, and then they roared with approval. Melody looked out at her subjects, her eyes filled with the same fiery determination that had fueled her father's reign. "Together," she said, her voice resonant with the power of her lineage, "we will rebuild this kingdom and restore its former glory!"

The crowd's cheers grew louder, a crescendo of hope that seemed to shake the very stars above. The jesters had become heroes, the lost princess had been found, and the dark night of tyranny had been vanquished by the light of their collective spirit. As they walked among the people, basking in their newfound respect and admiration, Lance couldn't help but think of the long road that had led them here, filled with laughter, tears, and the unshakeable bond of friendship. They had faced their fears and conquered them, not with brute strength, but with the power of love, humor, and the unyielding belief in a better tomorrow.

Goodheart, now a beacon of justice, swiftly addressed the cowed soldiers of Blackthorn. "You who have served under a tyrant," he said, his voice firm yet tinged with sorrow, "are no longer knights of Veridion. You will be stripped of your ranks and confined to the very dungeons you once guarded. May your days of darkness lead you to the light of redemption." The soldiers, once feared, now cowed, offered no resistance as they were led away. The square was ablaze with the light of new beginnings, and in its center stood Garret, his heart swelling with love and valor. He knelt before Melody, his eyes brimming with hope. "My lady," he said, his voice trembling, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife and ruling by my side?" Melody, overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, placed her hand in his. "Yes," she whispered, her voice carrying the sweetness of a thousand melodies. "I will stand with you, Sir Garret, and together we shall restore Veridion to its former glory." The crowd erupted in cheers, their hearts alight with joy and hope. Goodheart, witnessing this union, turned to the two jesters who had become so much more. "Bart, Lance," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "you have shown the valor of true knights. As a token of my eternal gratitude, I hereby dub thee Sir Lancelot Finnegan and Sir Bartholomew Montague, guardians of the realm and loyal protectors of our future king and queen." The jesters knelt before the man they had once called a beggar, their hearts swelling with pride. They had found a purpose beyond laughter, a destiny they could not have foreseen. As they rose, their capes fell away, replaced with the gleaming armor of knighthood. The kingdom of Veridion had been saved not by might alone, but by the power of friendship, courage, and the unyielding belief in a world where even the smallest voice could change the course of history.

The square transformed into a sea of celebration, the townspeople's cheers reverberating off the castle walls as they hailed the return of their rightful king and the revelation of his heir. Amidst the jovial chaos, Sir Lancelot and Sir Bartholomew emerged, gleaming in their newfound knightly attire. Lance, still unaccustomed to the weight of the armor, took an overly dramatic bow, his legs wobbling beneath him. With a clatter and a thud, he toppled over, sending a ripple of laughter through the crowd.

THE END

#bud abbott and lou costello #judy garland #basil rathbone #Dick Foran #Arthur Treacher

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resowrites · 2 years

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Sherlock Holmes: The Winding Sheet Part 3 (finale)

Summary: Amelia Bainbridge is urgently seeking the assistance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so that she might finally understand what caused her brothers mysterious death six months ago. At first the facts are scant and Mr. Holmes dismisses the case as unworthy of his time. But then Amelia mentions a curious detail and suddenly, the game is afoot…

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (I envisioned Henry’s version but the story could apply to Rathbone right through to Cumberbatch), OC!Amelia Bainbridge, Mrs. Hudson, OC characters.

Warnings: adult/dark themes such as murder, occasional threat of violence/danger, some period misogyny, angsty, mentions of sickness and death, lightly beta’d.

WC: 2394

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! No copyright infringement intended, gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Part 3:

Mr. Holmes strode back into the bedroom with renewed purpose. Having already examined it from top to toe, he was sure that if there was an external cause of Mr. Bainbridge's death, it would now be visible. The curtains were tied back, the bed had been made and the washstand fitted out with a pitcher and bowl. But Mr. Holmes was more concerned with the desk. He pulled back its chair, almost knocking over the bedclothes laid over its back for Miss Bainbridge, and quickly scanned its surface. Some paper and a pot of ink were carefully positioned in the middle but otherwise, the desk was bare. He hastily opened each draw, his hope for what he wished to discover rapidly fading. And then he saw them. Quickly, he lifted one up to his nose and sniffed. The scent was faint but unmistakable. He hurriedly packed them away in his suit pocket, and took one final look at the ceiling just to be sure. He then turned to smile at Amelia.

"Well Miss Bainbridge, I believe we have done all we can for the moment... if you'll escort me out..." they then quickly headed back downstairs, taking care not to slam any doors or tread too heavily. When they'd finally reached the front door, Mr. Holmes did his best to provide reassurance. "Fear not Miss Bainbridge... I believe you will be quite safe. A word of warning, however... if you are offered more light sometime this evening, in whatever form, accept but do not use it. Stay in your room if possible and go straight to bed. If you care to visit me one final time tomorrow... I believe I can explain everything. Good day to you." He smiled at her briefly before departing, feeling no small amount of relief that his presence seemed to have gone unnoticed. This however was far from the case, Mr. Thomas peered carefully from the edge of the curtain he'd pulled aside, immediately recognising the silhouette of the man who was fleeing from his house.

Later that day.

Mr. Holmes contemplated his next steps carefully. Of course, he could conduct the experiment back at Baker Street, but it would likely produce a lot of smoke and that would most certainly annoy Mrs. Hudson. Then again if he headed to St. Barts, he may not get the answers he needed quickly enough. He gambled on being able to convince Dr. Michael Stamford to allow him the use of some equipment for a couple of hours or more. Dr. Stamford, an old and dear friend of Dr. Watson's, similarly held Mr. Holmes in high regard and was usually happy to help in any way he could with his cases. Fortunately, Mr. Holmes found him hunched over several textbooks in an otherwise deserted lab. "Ah... Stamford, I am sorry to drop by unannounced but I have an urgent matter to investigate. Would you permit me the use of some of your equipment?" Dr. Stamford almost jumped at the sound of his voice but soon laughed heartily and scurried his way to the far less jovial detective.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes! How wonderful to see you, sir! I trust you are well? Is Dr. Watson not with you?" While Mr. Holmes appreciated that there were always going to be those who went through life in a jolly and otherwise unfazed manner, he couldn't quite bring himself to mimic such behaviour.

"Sadly not, the good doctor is away on sabbatical though he will return to Baker Street soon. Tell me Stamford, do you have any sulphuric ether?" The doctor's face became confused, not quite understanding why such a chemical would be needed.

"I can certainly attempt to round some up, why on earth do you need such a substance?" Mr. Holmes simply smiled and led the doctor over to a table piled high with various tubes and scientific apparatus.

Sometime that evening.

Miss Bainbridge had elected to spend the rest of the day outdoors, the events of that afternoon had left her nerves rattled though she was grateful Mr. Holmes had managed to get into the house twice without being seen. She felt unusually apprehensive about the oncoming night, though she tried to reassure herself that as long as she followed his advice, she would be safe from whatever dirty tricks she was sure her stepfather had in mind. Eventually, she gave up the struggle of trying to read while her mind was otherwise preoccupied and decided to retire to bed. Chills ran up her spine as she entered her brother's old bedroom, though there was nothing that singled it out from any other room in the house, he'd still died there and Amelia was dreadfully afraid of the same fate befalling her.

Although she was loathe to send her mind racing any further by dwelling on Mr. Holmes, she couldn't stop herself from walking over to the desk to see what had him so transfixed. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, the drawers were still empty and all that remained on top was the paper and ink. She decided she may as well catch up on some correspondence, her friend Fanny would want to hear all about her meeting with Mr. Holmes - especially how handsome he was. Amelia smiled as she sank into the chair and began scribbling away, aware that the light was fading and she'd soon have to go to sleep. About ten minutes into her task, she heard a faint knock at the door. "Come..." she remained focused on the letter, smiling from ear to ear at how she'd managed to describe Mr. Holmes’s thick brown curls. That smile quickly disappeared from her face when she turned to see her stepfather standing in the doorway. "Ah... father, what is it?" He smiled an evil little smile and took the liberty of stepping into the room.

"My dear, I'm glad to see your headache is better. I believe the maid neglected to bring you some candles. Here, you'll be able to write much more easily..." Amelia tried to keep her expression neutral.

"Yes it is getting rather dark in here, thank you, Father." He left the candles and matches on her bedside table before smiling once again and departing. Once she was sure he'd gone, Amelia got up and turned them over in her hands. They were just regular candles, she didn't know why Mr. Holmes had warned her not to use any but she simply shrugged and decided to finish her letter the following morning. She stretched, went over to lock the bedroom door, and got changed into her bedclothes.

The following morning.

Amelia almost missed her stop she was so tired. She quickly excused herself after having fallen asleep on some random gentleman's shoulder and hurried onto the platform. She'd only got a few hours' sleep she was so anxious about surviving the night. Nothing unusual seemed to have happened barring another visit from stepfather near midnight. He'd let himself into the room to make sure she hadn't fallen asleep with the candles burning - or so he said. But he was surprised to look over and find none had even been lit. She'd groggily dismissed him and Mr. Thomas fled the room, his picture a face of anger. At least now she knew he had another key and would probably attempt to enter her room again. Such thoughts filled her with dread and she could only hope Mr. Holmes had good news for her.

The sun was high in the sky that morning and it promised to be a particularly hot day. Fortunately Baker Street seemed much cooler. The morning room had all the curtains drawn and though the air was thick with pipe smoke, she'd rather be there than in the scorching streets. "Ah, Miss Bainbridge... how good of you to join me. Please, sit." She followed his command, eager for him to reveal the cause of her months long nightmare. "Well, it seems I have managed to clear this little mess up." He then threw the same candles that had been in her room, onto the coffee table between them. Amelia stared at him confused.

"The candles? They caused my brother's death?" Although Mr. Holmes often felt impatient at such moments, he could see why the young woman would be confused.

"In a manner of speaking... yes. You see your case struck me as particularly unremarkable at first. But when you mentioned the locked windows, it seemed to me that there must have been something placed in your brother's room that depended on them being kept shut." Amelia still didn't quite follow him but she continued to listen carefully. "When you mentioned your stepfather was an importer, my first port of call was the dockyards. I have a contact there who keeps an eye on any strange or unusual imports for me..." Again, she was confused.

"Forgive me Mr. Holmes, but how would candles qualify as an unusual import?" He smiled at her briefly.

"They wouldn't... except these are not regular candles as you have no doubt realised. And had I not been looking for them, they most likely would have escaped everyone's attention altogether." She had to admit she felt defeated. The situation was no clearer to her now than it had been before she even visited Mr. Holmes. "Some decades ago Miss Bainbridge, an inventor in France stumbled upon a way to make candles cheaper and more effective. It involved the mixing of arsenious acid into stearine wax..." Amelia's expression turned horrified.

"Arsenic! Good lord, it can't be... how on earth did my stepfather get his hands on that?" It was a perfectly fair question though one Mr. Holmes could only surmise.

"Given that he is an importer, one would imagine your stepfather has an array of contacts who could source for him any item he requires. However, given that 'corpse candles' are now banned throughout France and elsewhere, it would seem your stepfather had these specially made. I am still tracing the precise manufacturer though I have already alerted my colleagues in France." Amelia felt her sense of indignation rise, only her stepfather could be capable of something so dreadful.

"But Mr. Holmes... they look like ordinary candles, are you sure they're what killed my brother?" He hated being questioned in such a way. He was always economical with words and wouldn't have confirmed his suspicions unless they were correct.

"I am quite sure Miss Bainbridge. Another colleague of mine was able to help me conduct the necessary experiments yesterday afternoon. As soon as the fatty portion of the candle dissolved in sulphuric ether, the arsenious acid was precipitated for collection. We estimated about four grains of arsenic per candle, about the usual amount." Amelia could hardly believe what she was hearing. It was a horrendously insidious and ugly way to murder someone. For a while, she was lost for words. Mr. Holmes had to proceed cautiously, taking into consideration her obvious grief. "I am sorry Miss Bainbridge, it was a wicked act and I will help you to seek justice as best I can. I have already contacted the local police and they are seeking Mr. Thomas as we speak. He may try and feign ignorance of such a purchase but once his bespoke order from France is confirmed, he will have little choice but to confess. It will then be down to the jury whether he is committed to prison indefinitely... or hung.” Amelia looked up steadily and he could see the fire in her eyes.

"Mr. Holmes I hardly know what to say... I'm stunned that you would even think to examine something as innocuous as a candle. Tell me, was there any way we could have known?" For a moment he felt sympathy for this troubled young woman.

"Miss Bainbridge, you must not seek to blame yourself. I knew a substance was the cause of your brother's death as otherwise, the autopsy would likely have been far more conclusive. Our means of testing is not perfect and the results are often inaccurate. As murder is also my line of enquiry, I have made it my business to acquaint myself with all manners of killing - from the brutish to the subtle. I have come across few arsenic deaths in recent years as fortunately, the substance has largely fallen out of use. However, it has a peculiar garlic like odour when used in candles... as soon as I held one in my hands I knew that it was likely the cause of your brother's death. I have also taken the liberty of ordering another toxicity report, it does not surprise me that the last autopsy performed was inadequate. Given the large spate of scarlet fever deaths, it was most likely rushed, or only trace elements of the poison were found. That is sometimes the case with sufferers and it makes the job of determining any malicious intent much harder. Fear not though Miss Bainbridge, Mr. Thomas will get his comeuppance. Tell me, did your brother notice any symptoms before his death... any at all?" Amelia had to cast her mind back.

"Well, he complained of headaches... though his eyesight was poor and he regularly suffered with them. He was also drinking far more... but again that could have had any cause. Oh if only he hadn't insisted on reading before bed! This whole nightmare could have been avoided..." tears began to fill her eyes and Mr. Holmes didn't quite know what to do.

"That is doubtful Miss Bainbridge, your stepfather was determined to remove you both from the picture, and had you not contacted me when you did, you would likely have succumbed to the same fate. But you must take heart... your troubles are now over. Mr. Thomas will not darken your doorway again.” And Mr. Holmes was true to his word. Another autopsy confirmed Mr. Bainbridge had been gradually poisoned. Mr. Thomas was swiftly arrested as were his counterparts in France. All the men involved were eventually tried and hung and Miss Bainbridge finally had the peace of mind she'd so longed for. However, she wasn’t quite so carefree again and ordered the sole use of gas from then on, never again was a candle to be bought into her house.

A/N: Hi guys, as a huge Sherlock Holmes fan of both the original stories and the many series/films, it’s my pleasure to present this new short series. This is the final part! I hope you all enjoyed the ending and felt I captured something of the spirit of the original stories. Any feedback is appreciated and I hope you’ll continue to stick around and enjoy stories in the future!

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#henry cavill #henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #sherlock fandom #henry cavill fics

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