A/N: Well hello, hello, hello! Welcome to my third Professor Layton fanfiction. It may be a bit different than others you've read. You see, this fic is set in the late 1800's (like 1880 or so). I'll be trying to keep it as true to this as possible, but please bear with me when I inevitably make stupid mistakes. Also, I'll be trying to fit in as many characters as possible, so they may be in completely random spots... sorry about that, too. Okay then, now that that's out of the way, let's begin!

I do not claim to own the Professor Layton franchise in any way, shape, or form.

—s—t—a—r—t—f—i—c—t—i —o—n—

A middle-aged man leaned back into a worn wooden chair, inhaling the aroma of freshly baked biscuits and warm gravy with a hint of tea thrown in. He wore an orange button up shirt and brown slacks, with a trench coat of matching color hanging on the back of his chair. On top of his head sat a large brown top hat, something that he never, ever went anywhere without, and it hid all except the hair on the back of his head, which was also—you guessed it—brown. His face was rather plain, but the man looked content with his eyes closed and his hands intertwined across his lap. This man went by the name of Professor Hershel Layton.

Layton wasn't a man of considerable wealth, just a professor of history and nothing more, and he lived in a small, two-story building that he rented by the month. He was in this building right now, sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for his breakfast to cool down a little bit. The entirety of the room was either brown or a dull gray color, and it was a fairly large kitchen. A gas stove sat in the back corner with a small, currently open window above it, and wooden cabinets lined the two walls connecting to it. The sink and ice box were located on the other wall, currently being used.

A small, older lady in her early fifties was cleaning up the mess she had made fixing the morning meal. She had long, wavy brown hair tied back and covered with a white headscarf. Finished up with the dishes, she dried her hands on the white apron that covered her olive-green dress. She hummed a little tune while she stacked the clean dishes in a particular cabinet, smiling and showing off her dimples. This was Layton's maid, good friend, and neighbor, Mrs. Rosa Grims.

There sat a small boy at the other end of the table Layton was situated at, no more aged than twelve or thirteen years old. He donned a long-sleeved white shirt covered by a periwinkle buttoned vest and dull blue trousers a bit darker in color. His thick brown hair was topped by a small blue cap, matching his vest nicely. He currently stared at the food in front of him hungrily, the smell of it all making his mouth water. This boy was Luke Triton.

Yes, Triton. Luke was not Layton's son. Luke's father, Clark Triton, had been good friends with Layton during their childhood and had kept in contact for a long time. When Luke's mother died a little over four years ago, Clark had to obtain another job on top of his labor at the downtown textile factory just to support the both of them. That being so, he didn't really have the money to hire someone to look after Luke at the time, so the professor offered to do so once. Layton found that the boy was curious and highly intelligent, able to solve many of the puzzles he gave him for fun. He'd had such a good time of it that he often took care of Luke after that, the latter having taken a peculiar liking to the professor as well. After a while, the two became near inseparable, and a couple of years back, Luke had dubbed himself Layton's apprentice.

At last, the boy could take the temptation no longer. Sleeves carefully pulled up, knife and fork in hand, Luke went at his biscuits and gravy ravenously, slicing a piece off the first biscuit and stuffing it into his mouth. Unfortunately, it was still pretty hot, and his tongue seared with pain as the gravy-covered chunk hit it, causing him to yelp. He put the utensils down as fast as possible and reached for his glass of milk and took a few cooling gulps. He haaah'd as he took it away from his mouth, dabbing at it with his napkin to get rid of his milk mustache.

Layton shook his head at him, trying to replace his amused smile with a reprimanding frown and failing miserably. "It would be best if you gave your food time to cool off, Luke," he suggested, his voice mellow and deep.

The aforementioned boy looked a little sheepish. "Sorry, Professor," he said, his voice high and squeaky and his accent morphing 'professor' into 'professah''. "I'm just so hungry, an' these biscuits stay hot forever," he whined, slumping over with his head in his hand and staring at said biscuits forlornly.

Rosa walked past him then, patting his back softly along the way. "That's how you know they're quality, lad," she giggled with her slightly gravelly voice, walking toward the front door. "I'm going to get the day's paper, Professor," she called behind her, a small shining coin in hand.

The professor nodded. "Alright," was his response, taking a small sip of tea. Mmm, Rosa had brewed chamomile today.

It was quiet for a minute. Well, as quiet as it could get in the morning. One could hear voices of vendors and passerby as they headed to work and sold things when the window was open for fresh air, bustling about early. There was also the rattle and clacking of the horses and their carriages, heard whether the window was open or not. Noisy? Maybe. But living in London, you got used to it fairly quickly, and both Layton and Luke had lived there their whole lives.

A thought struck the younger of the two. "Professor, don't you have to tutor the Duke's daughter today?"

Layton sat forward, picking up his own fork and knife. "An excellent question. Actually, Duke Reinhold has suggested that we hold off the lessons for a time, as Lady Flora has come down with a rather severe sickness," he said, cutting part of the biscuit in front of him off and blowing on it, the important step Luke had skipped, before placing it in his mouth and chewing appreciatively.

Deeming it okay to try and eat again since the professor had started to as well, Luke busied himself with the cutting. "Oh. That's a shame," he replied before taking a carefully blown on bite. Thankfully, it did not scald his tongue this time.

The front door squeaked as Rosa came back inside, holding a newspaper in her hands. She entered the kitchen, her usual tranquil smile noticeably absent from her wrinkled face. Both males noticed and knew immediately that something wasn't right. "Look at this," she said simply, her voice a little shaky.

She handed the paper to Layton, who took it with a quick "Thank you," and scanned the big, bold black headline quickly. Luke rose from his spot at the table and darted behind the professor, reading it as fast as he could. They both looked relieved and puzzled at the same time.

"Eyewitness claims that house fire was the work of witchcraft," Luke read aloud, scratching his head. "Witchcraft? There's no such thing," he stated, moving on to read the rest of the article. Rosa said nothing, instead just staring at the big black-and-white photo of a large, elaborate home in flames with a dark look.

Layton finished his skimming. "Well, nothing is impossible," he said, adjusting his hat a bit. "But I sincerely doubt that anything supernatural went on last night."

Rosa shivered slightly, holding her sides as if to try and comfort herself. You see, Rosa's father had believed in and practiced sorcery. Though he never successfully performed any of the things he tried, at least in front of her, the man craved knowledge and power. No matter how hard she and her mother tried to convince him to stop, he wouldn't, and pursued what he called the Devil's Will, power that would allow him to right the in-his-opinion-corrupted government by force. After one night, the night his preparations were finally completed and he attempted the ritual to summon such power, Rosa and her mother had left, sensing danger was to come if they stayed. The next day, when they returned, they found his body just lying there on the ground in the middle of his chalk pentacle, dead as a doornail. Ever since, she'd always been very sensitive on the topic of witchcraft.

"I don't know what's out there, Professor," she started, her tone grim, "but I know it's there, and I know it's malevolent."

The professor merely hmm'd in response, deep in thought himself.

Luke scoffed. "Rosa, that sounds like something out of a children's ghost storybook," he said, returning to his chair and beginning to eat once again. "The paper says the only people there to see it were a couple of homeless drunks, anyway."

Layton returned from his pensive mode. "Luke has a point, Rosa," he agreed, setting the paper down as he took a swig of his tea. "It is possible that this may be some type of sorcery, but I sincerely doubt it. There's simply no concrete evidence or trustworthy eyewitness testimony to support such a notion, and you know how much this city likes to gossip."

The maid sighed and shook her head, returning to her cleaning of the rest of the home. "You never know," was all she said, departing for the living room.

Luke watched her go. "Huh. I'd have never thought Rosa to be the superstitious type," he noted once the woman was out of earshot.

Layton was back to reading the paper, a continuation of the front page's story. "She had a rather traumatic experience when she was younger," he said, his eyes moving back and forth rapidly.

Luke gulped down the last of his milk to wash down his now-finished biscuits. "Oh." He wiped his mouth with his napkin once again before getting up and placing his plate and glass in the sink. "But there's something I don't understand, Professor," he said, returning to the table. "Why that specific house? You don't just randomly burn down houses as a criminal... Do you?"

Layton chuckled, lowering the paper so he could see the boy's face. "Who knows, my boy? The mind is a strange thing," he said cryptically, with a smile. "But I'm certain this was no accident. You see, this was the home of Dimitri Allen, the famous engineer."

Luke still looked confused. "What does that have to do with it?" he asked.

"I'm getting to that," he continued, looking back at the paper as a reference. "It says here that the two eyewitnesses claimed the perpetrator identified himself as Don Paolo. That was also the alias of another engineer who was suspected to have worked with Allen on his very successful project, the one that made him so wealthy. Unfortunately for him, he was denied all rights, Allen taking it all for himself."

Luke was silent for a moment. "A grudge, then. That would explain it," he said, chin resting on his hand as he leaned forward in his chair. "But that still doesn't make it right to burn down a man's house while he's still in it. Did anyone make it out?"

Layton folded the paper closed once more, sighing. "Sadly, no. He and his wife, Claire Allen, their sole son and all seven of their maids perished."

They both lapsed into silence, Luke's face now sorrowful. The professor finished off his plate of food before getting up and setting it in the sink, on top of Luke's. He finished his tea standing up, grabbing his brown coat from the back of his chair and pushing it in. "It really is a pity. Now then, Luke, shall we make our way to the university's library? There are a few books I need to reference for some research I'm working on."

Luke's expression brightened instantly. Whenever they went to the library, the professor allowed Luke to borrow a book of his own choice as well. Along with their shared hobby of puzzles, Luke also loved to read almost as much as the older man did. "Of course, Professor!" he exclaimed, jumping up and pushing his chair in in a hurry. Layton just chuckled as they exited the premises, pulling his brown coat on and Luke adjusting the strap on the worn satchel he took with him everywhere.

After he closed the door behind him, they walked northward, soon blending in with the bustling townspeople altogether.

-asdfjkl;-

A couple of days later, Luke and Layton were strolling back to the professor's abode from Luke's home, rather early in the morning. Layton always went to pick him up before breakfast so he could actually have something cooked for him (he honestly doubted the boy's cooking skill) since his father had to leave in the wee hours of the morning to make it to his first job. They were chatting about nothing in particular, enjoying the early morning air and the calmness about the streets, for there were few people out and about before seven o'clock.

"Excuse me, Professor," a voice came from behind them. They both turned around, wondering who it could be.

The boy behind them was tall, almost as tall as Layton, looking sixteen or seventeen years old, He looked a lot like Luke, same-shaped face and messy brown hair topped by a gray paperboy hat. He wore a slightly tattered brown vest over a darker gray long-sleeve shirt and dirty black slacks that were a few inches too short for his long legs. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, full to the brim with newspapers. It was the paperboy who frequented their part of the city, Clive Dove. He was the Layton household's regular visitor, never missing a single day.

"Good morning, Clive," the professor greeted him with a tip of his hat.

Clive did the same. He might not have looked like it, but he was quite a polite person. "G'mornin'," he replied, reaching into his bag and pulling out a newspaper and handing it to Layton. "Sorry if I was interruptin' anything, but I thought you might want to have a look at this," he said, motioning to the paper's bold headline. "Remember that other paper, a couple of days ago?"

Layton held it down slightly so Luke could read it too. The professor's brows furrowed as Luke read it aloud. "'Local bank victim of the flames of witchcraft.' Oh, more of this witchcraft stuff, ay?" the boy sighed and shook his head, not even bothering to read the rest of the article. "I can't believe people actually think it's true."

Clive smiled down at Luke. "So you don't believe in witches an' wizards, d'ya?"

Luke puffed out his chest. "Of course not. All of it is rubbish, silly stuff that only children should believe," he stated, nose up high in the air as if he was ashamed he was even talking about it at all.

Layton flipped the paper open to read the rest of the article. "Well, it seems that this time there are more reliable witness testimonies. Apparently, this Don Paolo robbed the bank before he set it on fire, and a few constables arrived on the scene just in time to see him 'shoot fire from his bare palms' and ignite the entire building."

Luke's eyes widened. "The Scotland Yard, too? Heavens alive, what has the world come to?" he gasped. "They of all people should know the difference between folklore and reality!"

Clive grinned, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth. "You'd think so, eh? It's blasphemy, that's what it is. I'd wager five pounds that the Paolo guy bribed them somehow, probably with the money he stole," he said darkly, folding his arms across his chest.

Layton lowered the paper, he himself looking thoughtful. "It's certainly possible," he agreed, folding it back to the front page, a photo of the bank not too far away from Layton's home on the front, engulfed in flames. "But if it was some kind of sorcery..." he trailed off, gazing at the gray-scale picture intently.

Luke turned to face the older man, his stare incredulous. "Professor!" he cried, quite shocked at his mentor. "Don't tell me you're starting to believe all this nonsense!"

Layton met his self-proclaimed apprentice's gaze. "There's always an answer out there, Luke," he said, his tone serious. "But that answer may not always be the logical one. One must have an open mind, but not to such an extent as to believe everything you read in a newspaper."

Clive nodded. "Truer words have never been spoken, Professor," he said, tipping his hat again. "But just between you an' me, I like to think it's a fraud. Now then, I'll be seeing you two around," he adjusted the strap on his shoulder before waving to them, beginning to walk the way he'd came from.

Layton held the paper back out to the teen. "Here, Clive. Terribly sorry, but I don't have any money on me at the moment, else wise I'd buy it," he said apologetically.

Clive waved it off dismissively. "Don't worry about it. It's on me today," he called back to them, already a few meters away. Luke yelled a goodbye to him as well before the duo turned back around and resumed their journey back to Layton's place. The sun had risen a bit, and there were a few more people out now, but other than that everything was the same as before.

After a few moments, Layton inhaled deeply. "Well, there's at least some good news," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"What's that?" Luke asked, not bothering to look at the man.

"There weren't any fatalities this time around."

"Oh. Brilliant."

Layton looked down at the paper he held in his hand again, the gears and cogs in his brain turning. "Hmm."

Luke looked up at him. "What is it?"

The professor hesitated a moment before shaking his head. "Oh, nothing."

Luke's eyes narrowed. "Professor, I know that hmm. That's the hmm you hmm whenever you come up with an idea or a plan," he pointed out. "C'mon then, you can tell me about it!"

Layton laughed, a merry, hearty sound that resonated from deep within his throat. "I'm sure I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're going on about," he chuckled, watching amusedly as the boy walking beside him puffed his cheeks out and looked away childishly, grumbling hypocritically about how he was old enough to know these things.

But inside his head, Layton knew Luke had him figured out better than anyone else. He had indeed come up with a plan, but it wasn't as much a plan as it was an idea, merely to visit the scene of the fire and see if there was any additional information or clues as to this whole witchcraft claim and it's authenticity. The professor was always one for a good puzzle, and his inquisitive side's interest had been piqued. Though this case lacked much evidence and was more than most likely fraud, his usually entirely logical couldn't help but wonder. He put one hand in his trench coat's pocket, the other arm holding the newspaper diligently as he looked to the sky, looking forward to the progression of this mystery.

Little did he know, though, that this might be one of the most dangerous villains he would ever have the pleasure of crossing paths with.

—e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—

A/N: Mhmm. This chapter was mainly expository, so you can kind of get the feel of their lives as well as somewhat of a backstory. Sorry it's so short, next chapter will be longer!

Reviews are much appreciated! Until next time~