#gds

Planting evidence during the autopsy of Klint van Zieks had been a practical thing to do, for one. Gregson hadn’t liked it, but in the end he had to agree with the Chief Justice: the Japanese student was responsible for the murder of the Baron, plain and simple. Witnesses had seen him flee from the scene; letting him get away with it and perhaps kill again because they couldn’t find a shred of physical evidence was unthinkable. It had been a difficult decision, but Gregson now believed it to have been the right one; he’d truly realized as much when Stronghart had asked him an equally difficult question just the previous day, on the afternoon before the execution of the man known to the public as the Professor.

“Would you do this again if the situation called for it, Inspector?” he’d asked. His piercing gaze was what usually made anyone he spoke to feel thoroughly intimidated, but that time he had not been looking at him. He’d been giving him his back, gaze fixed outside the massive window behind his desk, at the bustling city below.

London. Britain. The people in it. Everything we are sworn to protect.

“Would you, Lord Stronghart?”

“I wouldn’t ask of you or anyone else anything I would not be prepared to do myself,” Stronghart had replied, and Gregson found he believed him wholeheartedly.

“… Do you not fear where it may lead?”

A pause, the slightest turn of his head towards him. “Regrets, Inspector?”

“Mph. Hardly.” Gregson had looked away, pulling the hat down over his forehead. “The situation did call for it, as you said. But it looks like one damn slippery slope to me, is what I’m saying.”

“Ah, yes. Are you thinking something along the lines of the road to Hell being paved with good intentions?”

“Something like it, yes.”

Stronghart had turned to look back at him at that point, his expression unreadable as always. “I do appreciate your concern, Inspector,” he’d said. “I am hardly a particularly spiritual person, but neither do I dismiss such thoughts entirely. I will do my best to use good judgment and not slip, as you say. But you could say that my soul has already been factored in as part of the price I may pay for my vision of a better Britain.”

“A high price, that.”

“Is it? For me, perhaps, but in the great scheme of things? I am but one man,” he added, and turned to face the window again, spreading his arms as though to encircle the entire city beneath them. “The good we can do for this country goes far beyond us.”

And Gregson had believed him, because it was impossible not to; that had settled things for him too. He’d made his way into Scotland Yard with blood and sweat – fine, more sweat than blood – to keep the public safe. He’d made a mission of it, so what if his conscience bothered him enough to keep him awake at night? 

Public safety came first, and letting criminals slip through his fingers by affording himself the luxury of being a shrinking violet was not an option. His conscience would settle in time. If not, well, it’d be his problem and no one else’s. He could deal with a few sleepless nights.

… As long as one of said sleepless nights was not followed by a full hour standing in an empty office, with the constant mechanical sounds of the huge cogwheels high above. That really made it hard for Gregson to keep his eyes open. Why had Lord Stronghart summoned at that time in the morning? The message told him nothing other than that it was urgent, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t even stopped for his morning fish and chips in his rush to get there, and now Gregson sorely wished he had. Maybe he could pop out--

“I apologize for my tardiness,” a voice boomed not far from his left ear, and Gregson nearly leaped several feet straight up in the air.

“Gah! L-Lord Stronghart!” he gasped. He was so taken aback it didn’t occur to him for a single moment that the Lord Chief Justice may have decided to spook him on purpose.

“I believe I am about an hour and thirteen minutes late,” Stronghart muttered, glancing at his pocket watch. He looked unflappable as always, although up close Gregson could see a few signs of a sleepless night on him too – slightly reddened eyes, the barest hint of bags underneath them. “Rather unforgivable. My apologies.”

“It’s fine! I-- enjoy-- standing here. Doing nothing. Catching up on sleep,” Gregson blabbed before he cleared his throat, finally catching himself. “I mean-- I understand there is an urgent matter you need to brief me about, Lord Stronghart?”

The pocket watch was snapped shut. “We had a situation at Lowgate Cemetery last night,” he said. “The Professor’s execution was botched.”

Gregson opened his mouth, but no sound came out for several moments, some sputtering aside. “Botched-- what-- how!”

“Regrettably, the noose failed to snap his neck. He was left hanging for several minutes, but it seems it was not enough to kill him.”

Gregson shook his head. It couldn’t be, had he fallen asleep? This was a nightmare, right?

The nightmare was supposed to be over.

“But how? I met with Dr. Stevens outside the prison, we were on the carriage back. She said she certified his death!”

Lord Stronghart nodded. “Yes, she informed me of your conversation. It seems the man was near enough death, even our esteemed coroner was mistaken. She could not detect a heartbeat, and what are the odds a man can survive several minutes hanging by the neck?”

Few, if we’re talking of men. But this sounds more and more like a monster refusing to die.

“He-- she-- what now, Lord Stronghart?” he asked, still reeling. It was not unheard of for a hanging to fail, but it was certainly rare. The few times it had happened, the criminal’s sentence was commuted, usually to life in prison or transportation.

Stronghart crossed his arms, his voice grave. “The man was buried alive, and it was by sheer chance that we realized the mistake. He is now once again in prison and shall never leave it. His sentence has already been commuted. He shall rot in prison, as he deserves.”

“He deserves to hang.”

“That he does, but it seems things were not meant to go that way. I assure you, the Professor will never again be a threat to anybody in Britain anymore.”

Had he been less exhausted, less stunned, Gregson may have thought over the wording Stronghart chose. But he did not; in the end he sighed and pulled down the brim of his hat. “The press is going to have a field day with this,” he muttered, and felt rather sorry for Dr. Stevens. A mistake like that… he could see how it may happen, but it would be a blow to her reputation. Maybe even to her career, which had so far defied all odds, broken all boundaries usually imposed on women - let alone an unmarried one with a child. 

“The press will be informed on time for the evening edition of the papers and no earlier, so kindly say nothing until then, but they do not need to know precisely what happened. All I will say is that the criminal failed to die on the gallows, and that he will therefore be locked away for life. We need not make ourselves a laughing stock by letting anybody know the man was buried alive.”

Gregson himself didn’t feel the slightest compulsion to laugh at such a morbid thought, but he had little doubt the public might. It was no wonder Stronghart didn’t wish all of Britain to know their coroner had made such a mistake. And why should they know? What would it accomplish, other than exposing Dr. Stevens to ridicule?

“I… understand. And, the young Baron van Zieks?”

“This tragedy has dragged on long enough, no need to turn it into a farce for him either. He’ll know what the public will know, although he will be informed of the situation before the news break. Few of us are privy to the details, Inspector. I ask you to keep it this way.”

Gregson stood a little more straight and nodded. “Of course, Lord Stronghart. I will,” he promised. That was not a difficult choice, either.

He doubted there was anybody out there who would benefit from the full truth.

*** 

“I am really sorry to have come in at such a bad time, Mr. Sholmes.”

“Nonsense, nonsense! All is perfectly well!” Sholmes declared, with the wild-eyed look of someone who is not at all perfectly well. Mikotoba chose to say nothing as Iris finished her formula, finally quiet. He held her upright with her head on his shoulder and began gently patting her back.

“You have come at an unusual moment, Mr. Stangerson, but we hardly get to choose when we find ourselves in situations in which we need help,” he said. “Sholmes, if you could perhaps brew some tea…?”

Be it in Britain or in Japan, there was hardly any uncomfortable or unusual situation that could not be smoothed over with a good cup of tea - and that one was no exception. Sitting in the living room, each of them with some tea and Iris blissfully asleep in her makeshift cot, they were finally able to speak like normal people instead of having to yell.

“Now,” Sholmes said, sitting on the sofa and leaning forward, elbows on his knees and taut as though ready to pounce. “You said a friend of yours is missing?”

Stangerson nodded. He had taken off his coat at the entrance, and on his clothes there was some clear evidence of chemical burns. Mikotoba found himself thinking that the young man may not live to graduate unless he learned some basic safety, but he would breach the subject later.

“Yes. A fellow student - he didn’t return to our student lodgings, and he has missed a very important lecture. It’s not like him at all,” Stangerson added, and reached in his breast pocket to pull out something - a photograph. He held it out, and Mikotoba reached to take it while Sholmes peered at it. 

It showed a young man on some kind of stage, hair tied back and a peculiar monocle of dark-tinted glass over his right eye. He was smiling brightly, a trophy in his hands. At the back of the photo, there was a date - just the previous week, Mikotoba noted - and a brief note. 

“Enoch J. Drebber receives the Royal Science Award trophy for excellence, and promptly proceeds to never shut up about it ever again,” he read aloud. Stangerson gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. The still smoldering strand of hair on his head seemed to give out just a few more puffs of smoke.

“I, er, wrote that last part. In jest,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “That trophy is about the highest award for an aspiring scientist, you see. Drebber was very proud, took it to bed that night and all.” A pause. “Uh, when you find him, you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Not a word shall pass our lips. I certainly cannot blame him; I myself sleep with several of my awards,” Sholmes declared. 

Mikotoba was rather grateful the detective had the good grace not to bring any awards to his bed when they both happened to be in it. He said nothing, not in front of their guest, and let Sholmes take the photo from his hands to observe the smiling young man closely. 

“So, this is our missing student. Enoch Drebber. And how long has he been missing?”

Stangerson shifted a little, and took a sip from his cup of tea. “He went out last night, and failed to return to our students’ lodgings this morning.” 

Mikotoba’s eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. He didn’t need to turn to see that Sholmes’ had done precisely the same. 

“... So. You’re saying that Mr. Drebber has only been unaccounted for since last night?”

Stangerson shifted again, his discomfort suddenly more obvious. “Well… yes.”

“Surely, it’s not uncommon for students to be out an entire night - perhaps sleep somewhere else, and return at a later time than they’d normally awaken?”

“Not Drebber,” Stangerson blurted out. More puffs of smoke rose from his hair. “It’s not like him at all. As I said, there was a really important lecture this morning. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. When Hope said he did not attend, I knew something was wrong.”

“Hope?”

“A fellow student. He and Drebber were supposed to meet up at the lecture.”

“Mmh.” Sholmes put his still unlit pipe in his mouth, observing the photo. “And is it not possible he had a change of plans? Perhaps some kind of situation arose, with his family or--”

“Absolutely not,” Stangerson cut him off, with a tone of absolute certainty. “Drebber is not on speaking terms with anyone in his family.”

Ah, that may be an important part of the story, Mikotoba thought. “Some sort of family feud?” he asked. The young man made a face. 

“They cut him off when he came to study at London University. They’re… well. Peculiar. His father is one of those Mormons,” he added, entirely unaware of the fact Mikotoba didn’t have the slightest inkling of what that meant. Sholmes nodded, though, so either he knew or he was pretending to while making a mental note to find out later. 

“Came from across the pond to do proselytism, married… some English women who fell for it - none of them legally, I don’t think, it’s not allowed,” Stangerson added. “I don’t know how many children he had, but Enoch is his eldest and I guess he had plans for him. He never told me all the details, but the long and the short of it is that he was told he’d be disowned if he came to study in London, and I’m pretty sure he took it as an incentive to do just that.”

“Ah, I see. An unfortunate state of affairs. And they haven’t spoken since?”

“That’s correct.”

“Mmh. One has to admire a family willing to follow through with their threats,” Sholmes mused. “My own brother often says he will never speak to me again, and yet he regularly shows up to prattle on about whatever I may have done to annoy him, or Scotland Yard, or both. Certainly a sign of his brotherly affection, but grating nonetheless.” He handed the photograph back to Stangerson. “So an unplanned visit to his family is not a possibility.”

“Not at all.”

“Mmh.” Sholmes lit the pipe at long last, and took a long drag, leaning back on the cushions. His cup of tea remained on the table, cooling and untouched. “What time did Mr. Drebber leave the dormitories?”

“I am not certain, I was having an evening out myself. He was already gone when I returned, not long past midnight.”

“I am rather surprised you’re allowed to come and go that late.”

“Well, we’re not, but… we still do.”

“I see. And do you have any inkling as to where Mr. Drebber may have gone?”

“Ah… well…” Stangerson stammered a moment, obviously flustered, and took a quick sip of tea. “If I were to guess, I would say he went to… a cemetery, maybe?”

Mikotoba raised an eyebrow. “That is… a peculiar guess, I must say.”

“Yes, well…” Stangerson’s hair smoldered like a small chimney now. “Drebber has peculiar tastes.”

“Tastes?”

“For… for walks. He enjoys walking through cemeteries. At night.” 

“Oh?” Sholmes tilted his head. “A dangerous choice as well as peculiar, given the unsavory activity that often goes on in cemeteries after dusk. Don’t you agree, Mikotoba? Certainly, the byproduct of those particular activities frequently wind up on your colleagues’ dissection tables.”

Mikotoba was, of course, perfectly aware of the way many surgeons across the capital were provided with cadavers for dissection. It was a sad trade, he found, and a horrible lack of respect for the dead. However, he could also see why the business was booming: students needed to be able to see those dissections, if they were to someday make good surgeons and save lives. And beneath the gilded veneer of the British Empire, countless people struggled to put food on the table day after day. When he had read of men in Scotland who’d downright murdered to get their hands on fresh corpses, he had been saddened but unsurprised. 

“They have,” he confirmed, and it didn’t escape him how Stangerson avoided his gaze. 

The young man went to bring the cup of tea to his mouth again, but recoiled and spilled some of it on his trousers when Sholmes spoke suddenly. “My dear fellow. Discretion is a virtue, but a greatly overrated one. Especially when that gets in the way of aiding a man you believe may be in peril,” he said, and Stangerson chewed on his lower lip, finally looking up. The look on his face was that of a man caught between hammer and anvil.

“I… I am not at liberty to tell…” he murmured, and Sholmes sighed, leaning back.

“Well then, how about this - say nothing. I will tell you what I deduced, and you will only shake your head no, or nod if I am correct.” He lifted a hand, and a finger went up. “Firstly, you wouldn’t have looked for help locating your friend so quickly - not a full day, in fact, since you last saw him - unless you had reason to believe he may be in danger. Secondly, if the state of your clothing is anything to go by, you are not precisely a man with free access to good sums of money. Employing my services was not a decision taken lightly. Am I correct?”

Stangerson swallowed, and finally sighed, dropping his shoulders. A weary nod, and Sholmes smiled, turning to Mikotoba. 

“Your turn, my dear doctor,” he said. Mikotoba nodded, and rubbed his chin.

“Thirdly,” he said, “most concerned people would be turning to the police first thing and only then, should police fail, think of turning to a private detective. This means you’re hoping for discretion, as well as help finding Mr. Drebber. There is something you do not wish the police to know about your missing friend. Isn’t there?”

A pause and, finally, another tense nod. Sholmes leaned forward once again, hands intertwined. “Finally, what you mentioned about Mr. Drebber’s background told me another thing - that the brilliant student is putting himself through an expensive university without any sort of financial support from his estranged family. He needs money, but ah, where to find it?” Sholmes smiled brightly and stood, pacing back and forth, pipe in mouth. “A difficult problem that must weigh heavily on that award-winning mind of his. So, am I correct in assuming that he ponders possible solutions during his nightly walks across cemeteries? Digging for a solution, if you get my drift?”

Joseph Stangerson swallowed, and nodded. “You are every bit as good as they say,” he murmured, staring down into his cup of tea. “... You are correct. Drebber… I don’t really like what he does, but he says it’s the only way. And I promised to keep quiet. If word came out--”

“Of course,” Sholmes exclaimed, planting himself before the young man with a wide, satisfied smile. “What a story it would be, a student digging in cemeteries looking for hidden treasures!”

Stangerson blinked. “... Huh?”

Ah. All things considered, Mikotoba should have seen this coming. “Um, Sholmes. A word, if I may.”

“Certainly, good doctor! All the words you wish, as long as none of them is ‘rent’ or ‘money’!”

… Of course. Mikotoba cleared his throat. “Certainly we are in agreement that by treasure you mean the bodies of the recently deceased to sell for money?”

Sholmes blinked. Mikotoba raised an eyebrow, willing the gears in that amazing and amazingly dense head of his to turn just a little faster. Finally, he could see something click and Sholmes smiled again, dazzlingly bright. “Quite right, quite right! That is precisely what I meant, clearly.”

“Clearly,” Mikotoba repeated, just a little deadpanned.

“So! Your friend, Enoch Drebber, is what some call a Repurposer,” Sholmes declared, looking back at Stangerson. “You know he planned to dig up a corpse from a cemetery last night, and now that he has not returned from his escapade you fear he may have been met with foul play from far more hardened criminals in this line of work - and you wish me to investigate without alerting the police of Mr. Drebber’s activities, which may see him expelled from London University and endanger his bright future as a scientist. Am I correct?”

A long sigh, and Stangerson nodded again. “Yes, that’s exactly it. I know there are ruthless people doing what he does, and he’s not… he’s not a career criminal. He’s just a student who needs money. He doesn’t even own a weapon, and if something happened to him--” he trailed off, and swallowed. The smoke coming out of his hair was barely a thin wisp now. “I keep thinking that if only I’d tried to talk him out of it instead of acting like I didn’t know anything, he’d be safe now. I didn’t want to argue with him and now it may have had… consequences. I could have tried to avoid-- ah. Some friend I was.”

Never noticed a thing, Mikotoba had thought that night, trying not to think of Genshin swinging lifelessly from the gallows. Some friend I am.

“This was not your fault,” he spoke up, not quite knowing who he was trying to convince. “And… and your friend is not lost yet. We will find him, won’t we, Sholmes?”

Still standing by the armchair Stangerson was slumped on, Sholmes nodded. “Absolutely, my good fellow. There is no time to waste. Now, Mr. Stangerson - do you happen to know in what cemetery, precisely, Mr. Drebber planned to operate last night?

A sigh, and the student shook his head. “No, sir. Unfortunately he never told me the details. He just went with a spade, a lantern, and a camera.”

“A camera?”

“Yes. He documents all of the graves he opens up, to make sure he doesn’t dig in the same spot twice. He keeps the photos, but he never showed them to me nor have I asked to see them. But they’re in his trunk in the room, along with--” a pause, and Stangerson’s eyes widened. “Oh! The map! He has a map of London cemeteries, and notes! Maybe…?”

“It may be the key to tracing his steps last night!” Sholmes exclaimed, a triumphant note to his voice. “Very well, all we need to do then is to open the trunk!”

“Ah.” The hope in Stangerson’s voice seemed to fade. “It won’t be easy to open. It’s very sturdy and always locked.”

Sholmes waved a dismissive hand. “Not to worry, my good fellow. As the doctor here can testify, there is no lock that can withstand me longer than five seconds!”

“There isn’t a… a lock, precisely,” Stangerson replied, frowning. “No keyhole, I mean.”

“Oh.” The enthusiasm on Sholmes’ face faded just a little, too. “Is it a combination lock?”

“Yes. And it’s a very odd one, no numbers or anything. It’s full of symbols I don’t understand. I asked Enoch what they were once and he just kind of grinned and said I could try and figure it out if I wanted, but I’d fail.” Stangerson gave a shrug that seemed to hold all the exasperated fondness in the world, which Mikotoba could relate to. “He gets smug like that.”

“Fascinating!” The thrill of a challenge returned the smile to Sholmes’ face. “But your smug friend did not predict a world-class detective would take it upon himself to burglarize him!”

“You’re not doing that, Sholmes,” Mikotoba reminded him. With rent due, one could never be sure how much of his wording was simply an unfortunate choice and how much was a glaring red flag. “You’re looking to solve a case, remember, not to pocket spare change.”

Sholmes waved a hand, seemingly unconcerned with the semantics. “Of course, of course, it is just as the good doctor says. Let us go see this trunk and unlock its secrets!”

Mikotoba found himself smiling, welcoming the rush that came with yet another case to solve. Except that this time… they couldn’t precisely take off as always, could they?

“What of Iris? We cannot leave her alone here for hours, and taking her with us to London University’s dormitories seems… impractical.”

“Ah. Fair enough. Still a bit too young for higher education,” Sholmes muttered, tapping his chin. “Perhaps we ought to ask Mrs. Hughson if she could play nanny every once in a while, in exchange for a reduction in rent.”

“... Giving services as a nanny is usually the sort of thing people are paid for, Sholmes, rather than pay themselves for the privilege.”

“What! Is it!” Sholmes reared back, flabbergasted. “But she is such a delight of a child, who wouldn’t pay for the pleasure?”

“You first and foremost,” Mikotoba joked, smiling a little. “I will ask Mrs. Hughson for this favor in exchange for a fee as soon as I see her. But for now, I will remain behind to tend to Iris. You go investigate without delay, Sholmes. The missing man may be in dire need of help.”

A nod. “Very well. I shall report my findings to you when I return, so we can have our usual dance together, good doctor,” he said, and put on his hat, ignoring Stangerson’s confused glances over the mentions of a dance. He patted the student’s shoulder. “Now, Mr. Stangerson, no time to lose. Take me to see this mystery trunk at once!”

***

“Hey, careful with that trunk! The contents are-- delicate!”

Jigoku’s protest gained him a raised brow from the dock worker who’d unloaded it from Stronghart’s carriage. He seemed about to say something, but either a look at Stronghart himself or a quick assessment of Jigoku’s size was enough for him to decide against it. He left the trunk on the ground, and Jigoku had to hold back the urge to knock on it and ask Genshin if all was well in there.

A few more minutes. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be safe, on our way home.

“Must have put rocks in here,” the dock worker muttered to another as he went to help unload another carriage, but Jigoku barely heard him, tense as he was, stomach knotted. 

“Let me walk you to the ship, my friend,” Stronghart spoke, his voice perfectly collected.

Friend, as if. There had been moments Jigoku had considered himself one, in the six years he had spent studying under the man, but he saw now that the likes of Mael Stronghart could never have friends: they looked at others, and only ever saw pawns. 

I am a practical man, but not like him. No. Never like him.

Without uttering a word, Jigoku walked with him towards the boarding spot, carrying the trunk Genshin had hid into and another smaller piece of luggage. It was only by the ship that Stronghart spoke again. 

“As you can see, I have held up my part of the bargain.” He fished in his pocket for the watch, and gave it a long look. “Twenty minutes to spare before departure. Well then, all I need to see now is your ticket.”

“... Of course.” Jigoku clenched his jaw and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the folded piece of paper covered in red ink. He knew that the second he handed it over he would lose most of his leverage, that Stronghart would hold most of the cards, but he had no choice. He had to hope that the wish to avoid any trouble, and the desire to have someone he could influence in a position of power in Japan, would keep him from turning on them. 

A brief bout of emotion - relief? - flashed over Stronghart’s impassable face, there one moment and gone the next. He took the document and, after a quick glance to ensure they were not being watched, he opened it. His eyes briefly scanned the page, pausing at the stamp at the very bottom, and he finally nodded. 

“It is his handwriting and seal,” he confirmed, and folded the will again, slipping it in his pocket. “Thank you for your cooperation. It will be disposed of accordingly.” A pause, a polite nod. “I wish you a safe journey back to your home country,” he added, with no trace of sarcasm in his voice. He sounded startlingly sincere, and Jigoku was oddly certain he meant every word. “I will be in touch.”

“I know you will.” Jigoku spoke stiffly, wanting nothing more than locking himself in his cabin and letting Genshin out of the trunk. To his relief, Stronghart did not keep him further. A nod, and it was all the leave he needed to turn and quickly board the ship. 

Just as he turned the first corner, hurrying to his cabin, he heard a powerful whistle calling for any last passengers to board. If he means to turn on us, he thought, it will be now.

But no one came for them. He reached the cabin, locked the door, and let Genshin out of the trunk. His friend breathed deeply once out and sat on the bed, silent, bowing his head.

“Forgive me, Klint,” he murmured, and Jigoku looked away, letting him have that moment of renewed mourning on his own. He did not leave the cabin to watch the ship pull out of port, into the open sea. He had no wish to lay eyes on British shores again. 

At the docks, however, Mael Stronghart kept his eyes fixed on the steam ship well after she left port, right on schedule… and hours before the evening papers could break the news that the man known as the Professor had survived his execution, and would remain imprisoned for life for his crimes.

***

May you feel the jaws of the beast at your throat every time you swallow, Klint van Zieks had written. Dramatic as always, and needlessly so, yet those words may very well have damned him if the will ever became public. For a time, Mael Stronghart had really feared it would - destroying everything he hoped to achieve for the justice system along with him, making each and every death van Zieks so regretted utterly pointless in the first place.

For all of his intelligence, Klint van Zieks had been sorely lacking in practicality; a common flaw among men who suffer from a marked excess of honor.

Well, it didn’t matter now. The beast van Zieks had thought of unleashing against him had been rendered toothless: pen may be mightier than sword, but paper was quite the frail material for one’s last words. A candle would see to it, as soon as he returned to his office. Then, perhaps, he would sleep - and sleep well, for the first time since he’d been made aware of that accursed will’s existence. With one last glance at the ship, which was now well on its way out at sea, Mael Stronghart turned on his heel and walked back towards the spot where his carriage waited for him. The docks were still full of passengers loading and unloading as well as sailors and dock workers, and he weaved his way through them all.

Looking back, he would realize he shouldn’t have been so careless. He was far more tired than he’d let himself show, and allowed relief to cloud his judgment. So, when he felt a sudden bump against him, he was not alarmed: only mildly annoyed as he looked down at the offending party.

“Sorry, sir, didn’t see you there,” the child said, not even looking up. No older than perhaps seven or eight, and Stronghart didn’t even bother to gauge whether it was a girl or a boy: he only saw a few strands of blonde hair beneath a green hat far too large for the head it was perched on, hiding the face beneath. 

“Mph. It would serve you well to pay attention to where you’re going,” he muttered, and just shooed the child with a hand before he resumed walking to his carriage. He climbed in, calling for the driver to take him back to his office, and let himself sink on the seat.

The Professor in prison, the meddlesome Japanese at sea, the will in his hands. It was over.

A long breath, and he closed the curtains at the window before he let himself lean his head back, and close his eyes. His hand reached into his pocket, to pull out the will and give it a proper read rather than skimming it… and all his relief faded into something else entirely - something dark that seemed to grab his heart and squeeze, leaving him breathless and frozen in place, a pit opening up where his stomach should be.

His pocket was empty. 

“No.”

The word wasn’t a cry of outrage as much as one of desperate denial. He searched his other pockets, increasingly frantic, but he already knew no will would be found. He already knew what pocket he’d slipped it in, where it had been until minutes earlier, when… when…

Sorry, sir, didn’t see you there.

But of course the child had seen him there. The child had been watching, waiting for the first damn idiot to walk by looking distracted enough… and he had been that damn idiot. 

“No!”

“Agh-- Lord Stronghart…?” The driver let out a gasp when the door was thrown open and the normally unflappable Chief Justice of London burst out of the moving carriage, landing on the cobblestones and barely catching himself before he fell. He looked around like a wild animal, searching for that green hat again in the bustling crowd, but he didn’t see it. 

Of course not; criminals do not loiter on the scene of a crime. Mael Stronghart swallowed, still reeling, and for the first time he felt them just as Klint van Zieks had wished.

The jaws of the beast at his throat.

***

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