221b Baker Street Flat Novels & Stories

he was taking his coffee “aux deux collones.> I squeaked a little. 16. Cold Moments I treated myself to a taxi to Hampstead. Dianne collected me at the front door of a splendid Edwardian edifice. We wound up a magnificent staircase to stand in front of her apartment door. There the splendour ended. I’m sure that she and her husband are relatively well paid. Relative to what? Relative to rents in this crazy city they are paupers. The house had been divided into poky flats, with two bedrooms and a living room. One bedroom was too small to call a room.

I have spent the past week trying to scrub the existence of Elias Arden from my brain with an iron sponge and is I have to face him now, I’m not sure if I have enough composure left to stand on his doorstep without it showing, and showing it is not something I am prepared to do right now. I close my eyes for a brief moment, take a deep breath and start walking again. I’ll deal with it if it happens. Crane Street is in the part of the lower east side that sits just past the point where the neighborhood stops pretending to be transitional and settles into what it actually is, narrow buildings close together, the kind of street where the trees are small and the gutters collect things, and every

Muttering under his breath after that. “More money for you.” I called. “Don’t be salty.” He silenced after that, but I continued glaring at him in the mirror. I swear all drivers in this city are crabby bastards. We pulled up-front and I eyed the five-story apartment building askance. It looked a hundred years old with chipped bricks. I looked around, wondering if someone would try to steal my bag. But the only one around was a couple kids riding bikes down the block. I hit a buzzer and someone very formal answered. “What floor, Ma’am.”

Glad I am not related to that man. Taylor Baker’s POV “So, here we are. This will be your chambers for the rest of your employment,” the butler said as I was looking around the room. it was not a fucking room, actually. It was a fucking apartment if you’re asking me honestly. I still did not manage to get to know my current employer as he was out on business right now. But I got the gist of how much loaded he was and how grand his mansion was. My chambers were a small part of his mansion that ran for three stories high and I am on the first level.

His eyes widened in excitement. The first thing that hit us was a wave of dusk, causing me to go have a coughing fit, but curiosity kept me moving inside. Besides the dust, the house looked lived in. There was a big living room with couches, TV, and a piano at the tail end of the room. A shelf on the right side of the wall held random trinkets and a line of pictures. Stephan’s hand guided me towards the pictures. A lot of the pictures were black and white, some of two young boys, some of a family of four, and some of one or the other boys.

" She looked at me to see if I was patronising her. When she saw that I wasn't, she leant over and kissed me, and I felt the coolness of her lips on mine. "What's that for?" I ask. "For just being you." The taxi stops at Blanche's home, and she invites me in, which I dutifully accept. I don't want to be alone. Blanche lives in a listen Georgian terrace converted into the six flats overlooking Pymmes Brook parallel to Crescent Road in East Barnet. Her apartment is on the ground floor and has a walled garden with trellises and a small patio dotted with terracotta pots.

I picked it up. UNKNOWN NUMBER: We know where you are. A chill ran through me. Another message came before I could recover. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your house is the cream bungalow by the edge of St. Andrew’s Crescent, number 14. Brown gate. Three flower pots by the entrance. Two CCTV cameras. One faulty.

I'd rather walk in prepared for either possibility than assume I already know which one we're about to find. The Clapham address turned out to be a narrow block of flats above a shuttered bakery, quiet and unremarkable, the kind of building nobody would look at twice. Ethan parked across the street, and for a moment neither of them moved, both staring up at a single lit window on the second floor. "That's her flat," Ethan said, checking Elena's message again. "Third door on the left, according to the buzzer list." They crossed the street together, climbed the narrow stairwell in silence, and stopped in front of a plain wooden door with a brass number worn nearly smooth from years of hands to

"On it, boss." I waited, watching Alphonso come out of the bathroom. He checked his reflection in the mirror, fondled his biceps, and let out a roar. "Springfield road, sir. Immediately after the post office. The next block of flats. It says here block thirty five. You'll find her there, I think." I nodded, satisfied, sipping my coffee. "Good, very good work Sanchez. Forward your details to Trey." I ended the call, then turned to Alphonso, who was still checking himself out.

Still on the call, he headed back out to the balcony. I was dodging Bernice and Mark as they came at me, and just as I was about to dial behind my back, my phone started ringing. In the middle of dodging them, my thumb slipped and hit the speaker button, and Mr. Hale's gravelly voice blasted out of my phone. "Hello? Is this Mr. Blackwell, the landlord for Farlon Tower, unit 207?" Bernice still hadn't caught up to what was happening and went for my phone, but Mark had already gone still.