Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me
Please read & review~
Danke to my editor~
One thing that Alfred learned in the morning was that he'd never let Arthur cook. Never…ever again.
Sure he went against his better knowledge when he smelt the burnt …food in the air and decided to do the…unthinkable. When he saw the Englishman hold a singular plate of burnt (was it possible to even call it food in hindsight?), no scorched (as an understatement) scones (scones?), why had he thought it would be ok. Why had he even dared to take a bite out of the lethal, black, rock-hard poison known as food to Arthur Kirkland? As the American lay in the guest room bed groaning in pain, with his stomach feeling as if it were about to explode, he could only regret in agony.
"Iggy…I-I…I think I can see the light." He murmured from his foetal position.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're fine," scowled Arthur, hurling a scone towards the shrivelling American.
"No…!" Alfred flinched at the approaching scone, "The hero can't die like this!"
"You're not going to die you git."
"Are you sure?" he pleaded groaning again in pain.
"First of all, my cooking is not that bad. And second of all, if people really died from my, perfectly ediblecooking I would be a murderer."
"So other people had to suffer! Wait! Are you a murderer? Are you a British psycho who has previously killed people from planted food poisonings and goes from country to country acting as a detective to avoid suspicion as you continue to murder the innocent?" Alfred's eyes widened into the size of saucers as he rapidly described each crime.
"What has me being British got to do with my cooking?"
"Everything!"
Arthur's eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the conspiring American.
"Fine." He sighed, turning around, "You got me."
Alfred froze, "Wait…What?!"
"I am a murderer, unfortunately an unexpected event left my trail in the previous countries and I am now hiding in Britain, waiting for my previous crimes to slowly wade out before I continue to kill while conspiring with the China Trading Company in their murders to gain leverage in the economy as they help to hide me. Wang Yao was once an old colleague of mine. Once I'm able to return to my planned murders, I will give up this pathetic identity as a detective and go on my merry way. The reason of course is because of the classic excuse for revenge and lust. To redeem the tarnished reputation of my family, I must hunt down every noble who plotted against me. On the way I found this taste for murder and let's just say it rolled on from there. Of course now you know too much and I am sorry to say that, but," Arthur leaned in on the dumbstruck Alfred. "I will have to kill you." He whispered, a disturbing smile cracked on his face.
Alfred stopped speechless as he watched the silent Brit, "That scone was poisoned wasn't it?"
"My God! You are so gullible."
"Wait! So none of that was true…?" Arthur rolled his eyes, "Obviously it wasn't true."
"But I can't be sure. For all I know it could true."
"If it was true, you would already be dead."
On the verge of a passionate refute to the latter statement, it finally registered in Alfred's head that Arthur meant no harm.
"Oh."
"Pfft."
"Well…those scones should still be considered deadly weapons." Ignoring the pointed remark Arthur picked up his coat, "Since you seem to be alright, I'll be going to interrogate some suspects."
"Hey! Wait for me-…since when did you get any suspects?"
"I had my suspicions before Yao consulted us." He explained as he locked the door.
"Arthur! Can we get some real food before we interrogate these 'suspects' of yours? Maybe some hamburgers?"
"My cooking is fine!"
"Sure…"
"Any more on my cooking and I guess I will have to become a murderer."
"Sorry, Sorry!" Alfred smiled brightly as he followed the Brit into the cluttered streets of London stamping happily, slinging his hand over Arthur's shoulder, ignoring the annoyed cries from the shorter man.
Arthur briskly walked down the streets, this time in the common and more populated side of London. They neared the areas where tall, lavishly decorated official buildings loomed over the regulated streets, filled with pompous, self-obsessed, ignorant men, leaching for the short-lived success that was politics. Adjusting the top hat that conveniently covered his eyes yet gave the air that he belonged in the high-class status that occupied the streets; he glanced back to the American. The only thing ruining his practiced disguise was engaged in staring wide-eyed at the buildings and the magnificent carvings that grew from the doorways and roofs of the buildings like a stereotypical tourist.
"You know. If you're so impressed now, I won't be going back to pick you up when we're inside," sneered Arthur.
"I wasn't staring. And America is better anyway."
"Oh well…I'll just leave you here then." Arthur called back, mixing into the crowd effortlessly.
"Hold on Artie!" Alfred yelled, his hand halfway in the air. In his attempt to catch up, shuffling confusedly through the crowd; he bumped into a person. Briefly turning his head to apologise-he was met with childish yet refined violet eyes and platinum blond hair, the person had turned around to the American. Stunned at the unusual appearance in the British country, Alfred could only stammer, "um…sor-", before being dragged by the scowling Brit, "I thought you had eyes."
The tall man watched distantly at the arguing Brit and American his mouth slowing curving into a small smile before he turned away, disappearing back into the flash flood of people, his scarf trailing behind him.
"Hey! Stop dragging me."
"Come on you git."
"Do you know who that was?"
"Who?"
"The person I accidentally bumped in to."
"Oh…"Arthur's eyes glanced behind him, "Well?"
"That was the Russian, Ivan Braginsky." He whispered.
"Why are you whispering?" Alfred whispered back.
"He doesn't have the best reputation."
"Who is he?" Alfred's eyebrows furrowed at the information, nothing about the man looked at all intimidating, maybe except the height. But the Russian heritage would explain the unusual features.
"I'll tell you later, right now we have to meet with a certain suspect."
"Who is this certain suspect? Out of the people I've seen so far, London has some very interesting people."
"Is that sarcasm?"
"No it actually has been interesting." Arthur glared at the cheerful smile Alfred was hosting.
"I'm not too fond of this person but it's necessary to meet him, it's not urgent to interrogate him but if he's innocent we'll be able to get some information, so even if we don't solve this case instantly it'll be quicker anyway."
"So what's so bad about this person?"
"He's French."
Alfred remained silent at the immediate answer, "So?"
Arthur came to a halt at a pair of massive double doors. He banged the majestic doorknocker, the ring of brass gold hung from the small beak of what appeared to be a dove crafted in extreme detail, every feather protruding slightly more than the one under it. Surrounding the dove was a bouquet of roses, leaves and thorns wound up around the detailed flowers. Every line was noticeable; Alfred felt that if he had held the metal flowers in his hands, he would be convinced that gold roses grew from ores of metal and not from seeds.
Watching Alfred completely captivated by the doorknocker was hilarious, but the building was more fancily decorated than most of the manors in England, and Arthur had encountered already quite a few manors, already having been in this certain one a few times. Every time he saw the sheer amount of decoration, detail and the flaunting of people's wealth, Arthur's mind floundered, not that he ever showed it. He himself preferred not to act like a show-off unless it was necessary. There were times when he could genuinely call himself a brat, but those were under totally and completely understandable circumstances. Even so, he gazed approvingly at the limestone walls that contained what Arthur knew to be, the pinnacle of wealth.
Distracted from his train of thought, the door finally opened, revealing a well-kept butler.
"Please excuse the long wait." The french accented butler glanced at the two people waiting at the door, "Mr Kirkland and-?"
"Mr Jones." Answered Arthur quickly.
"-Mr Jones, Master Bonnefoy is waiting in the foyer, he is expecting you." The butler bowed, letting in the guests.
"Thanks for the warning." Arthur murmured briefly, following the over energetic American, "No problem, Arthur."
"Holy Shit! This place is huge! What sort of person is this Bonnefoy?"
The rooms were indeed huge, chandeliers hung extravagantly against the patterned ceiling, tiny crystals of light hid in the teardrops of pearls, glass and gold. Cascading sky blue and caramel orange curtains snuck the light from the arched windows, dust particles glowing in the pale grey light of the sky. Carpets were richly decorated, the furniture composing of classical designs and ornately designed colours. Antique flower vases all accommodated rare assortments of flowers, but most commonly roses. Clashing together were rose buds that hid in the crevices of their closed up petals whilst fully budded ones hogged all the glory. Empty spaces shared between roses that were obviously wilting in the shadows and ones that were captured perfect in timing; just as all the petals had arched out, yet the edges had yet fallen to the slow decay that all would face.
"Really. Who spends so much money on decoration?" Alfred gaped in awe.
"A lot of people, monsieur."
"Hmm?" Alfred turned abruptly to see a man sitting comfortably on a couch, his face framed in long blond hair tied back into a short ponytail with a ribbon, teasing eyes sporting a deep blue, a light stubble coating the bottom of his chin and thin lips smiling seductively.
"Ahh, Bonjour Arthur. I see you have of course have come for my help as usual, a British man like you cannot possibly help himself to my perfect charm." Bonnefoy suddenly spouted of out nowhere, jumping at the Londoner, he whispered "Unless you have come for some other sort of help."
"Shut up. I would have already punched you, but I don't want to get any blood on the furniture." Arthur retorted instantly.
"Mon chéri, can't you ever just admit that you like me?"
"I could never like a frog like you."
"Oh you're so cold, and after all I've done for you. Can't you just spare me one act of kindness in the abyss of cold hatred and badly expressed actions that is you?" Bonnefoy dramatically spouted, a hand brushing his forehead as he feigned the agony of being insulted. His lips in a thin line, Arthur trudged to the Frenchman, flicking his temple painfully, "Shut. Up." The result being the noble wailing exaggeratingly over the pain, "Ah, you're so cruel, Arthur!"
"Tch."
Alfred stared amusedly at the scene showing the two arguing men, chucking at the constant bickering. Arthur's head shot at the American at the sound, having forgotten about Alfred while zealously abusing Francis. "Oh…Alfred um…this is Francis Bonnefoy," Arthur glanced at Francis, "And Francis, this is Alfred Jones."
"Bonjour, Monsieur Alfred."
"Umm…yeah hi."
A pregnant silence followed the brief greeting, filling the air awkwardly, growing longer as the bubble of ineffective replies rushed through the mind of the three men, the bubble being broken abruptly by the sound of pouring tea, the source, the heavily accented french butler.
"So Francis is your source Artie?"
Artie? "Source of what exactly, Mon chéri?" Francis asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
Arthur's mouth dropped in shock but he quickly closed it, glaring at Francis, "He is a source of information and information only."
"So what do you want to ask the magnificent moi?"
"You know exactly why we're here, the case of The Repent, as the newspapers are calling it."
"The redemption of the politicians through their murder. What a cruel thought."
"I do not control the newspapers. It is not my idea what they print, but indeed all the victims were politicians who had a darker background." Arthur took a sip from his tea.
"And all murdered the same way. The people must be rejoicing."
"And the press is taking full wind of it."
"But who would benefit from the massacre of politicians?" Alfred suddenly stated.
"So you're not useless after all." Arthur muttered.
"Well besides their enemy in the people, other politicians in the court, nobles, foreigners. There are many enemies one can have." Francis barely whispered the last sentence, his voice clouded in shadow.
Glancing at the Frenchman, Arthur only bluntly stated, "You." Francis stared stunned at the offending Brit, "Moi?"
Arthur left his seat, his hands gesturing unspoken words, "You have perfect motive, and more than one. There is the possibility that you are under the French government and are set to destroy England from the inside, taking out certain politicians that would give the French a higher position in the world maybe not in war but definitely in the economy. But that theory is unlikely." Arthur considered the faces of Alfred and Francis looking quite taken aback at the unpredictable information before continuing, "There is also the fact that you belong to a well-off French noble family and every noble family has their secrets. In my opinion the fact that a Frenchman like you moving to England is suspicious enough, there are high prospects in conspiring with the China Trading Company."
"But isn't the China trading company under attack of the murderer? How would working with them help?"
"I am well sure that the China Trading Company knows fully well who the murderer is but exposing them would cause the company unwanted attention and opposition."
"What?! But Yao…" Alfred spluttered.
"Don't trust a single word that he says, he is businessman by heart and trust me, fully experienced in deception."
"Alfred's met Yao?" Francis asked, curious.
"Yes." Arthur answered curtly.
"Wang Yao?"
"Yes."
"Francis, you know Yao?"
"Yes, we are both businessmen."
"Back onto topic, everything could be planned from higher up and you could just be a pawn. There is always the underground world and –"
"Arthur you know that I don't work for anyone underground."
"You have worked with them before, like the time that-"
"That was only once and I was desperate."
"Or you could be under the service of them." Arthur emphasised the word, his eyes narrowing at the word, Alfred sensed the change in Arthur's words, "Who's them?"
"Arthur's silly theories of a controlling force in the underground, not only in England but in other countries such as Germany and Italy, even your homeland of America."
Alfred's eyebrows arched at the information. "What do you mean by a controlling force?"
"A single corporation lead by a single man controlling underground operations in powerful countries, able to control the world through the underground, through mafias and the competition of nations. My idea is that he would be able to start and end wars without charge, able to control countries, politicians, the world unconsciously sitting in the palm of his hands. Such a person would be a danger. If he gained enough power, the world as you know it, would crumble."
"A world war," mumbled Alfred.
"Not only that, but the over-throwing of rules. It would be governed by cowards and through fear." Arthur stared.
"No such organization exists, Arthur. And even if they did, I would not work under them. If you want more proof, I would be in France at the moment, away from such disapproved eyes of those who watch me." Francis defended.
"I know it's not you Francis, but I needed to make sure. The worst enemy of solution is doubt."
"Then what was the point of this!" Alfred yelped.
"To gain information." Arthur flung the files onto the table, the pictures leaking out from the manila files.
Long elegant fingers took hold of a single manila folder. Francis looked at the pictures, detailed close ups of the victims loitered the desk. Fingerprints, weapon analysis's, suspects, profiles of the dead and the area of where they were found all unhidden to their eyes. "Now you help us." Francis looked up the Englishman, "You had this all this time?"
"No, only from last night, but you can narrow down the result, from your… how shall I say…. connections."
Sighing Francis, glanced over at the files, "You already know the answer, Arthur."
"I needed to double check."
"So who's the murderer?" Alfred asked eagerly, grimacing at the pale wrinkled face of a victim, puncture holes running across his neck.
"They were all murdered by holes punctured into the nerve points in their necks; it would take someone who is familiar with the body system and have the accuracy to attack from long distance."
"So someone who knows acupuncture." Alfred suggested,
"Not necessarily, but yes that is an option. They would also have to be familiar with the city of London and the politicians themselves. All of these victims," Arthur fingered the pictures, "They were killed instantly and in the places that they were found in, which is odd since some of the places lie near sewers and under the river Thames."
"Politicians would never go willingly to such places, especially these people; they are high class and would never be seen in the average areas of London."
"They'd have to lure them out…But how?" Alfred sighed, this was difficult.
"So the murderer would have to know the nerve points of the human body, so possibly an acupuncturist or doctor. They would have to familiar with London and politicians, suggesting someone who has lived here for a long time and someone who works in the government and knows most of the victims." Alfred summarised, "So who is it?" looking over the list of suspects.
"None of them."
"What?!"
"None of these suspects fit the criteria, but there is a way to bait him out."
"And how is that?" the American sceptically asked.
Arthur held a single card, decorated in gold and cursive writing. Francis smiled, "Do you have one for me, Mon ami? You know you can't navigate nobility without moi."
"Sure I can." But he handed an invitation to him anyway.
"So…" Alfred looked at the invitation handed to him, "We're going to a ball."
"And that is where we will find our murderer." Arthur concluded.
Arthur exited the richly decorated house, the American following him, back out into the streets. "So where to now detective?"
"To the scene of the crime."
"And that is?"
"We're going to the one at the River Thames, then we'll see if there's any evidence at the one in the sewers."
"You sure that there aren't any other…well better places to see where they died?"
"Yeah, but they've been cleaned out, fortunately the crimes scenes which are less…attractive still have most of the uncontaminated evidence."
"Do we still have to go to the sewers?"
"Yes."
Walking out of the bustle, Arthur remerged on the riverbanks of the Thames. Pacing on the edge of the street, borderline to the murky water, steamboats and rusted boats that were roughly held together by chains of metal strung together travelled the lapping water. The air was now clear, the howl of the wind was now singing in the sky, occupied briefly by the loud horns of barges. Arthur closed his eyes in the rare peaceful moment, usually he would drift into a subconscious, just sitting and letting the wind wash his face, escaping the pressures and seizures of London. Some days he would just sit there and look at the sky, away from the industrial pollution, in a more peaceful world. He could never leave London forever of course, but it would be nice to take a break. Letting his mind return to reality Arthur continued to follow the waterline, waiting until they reached the dirt and the shadows under a ledge.
Facing the American, Arthur ordered, "Stay here."
"Huh?"
"Actually, can I trust you to find any evidence here?" Arthur observed their surroundings, handing him a pair of gloves and tweezers.
"You want me to help you." Alfred eyes brightened at the Englishman, grabbing the gloves and tweezers, "I hope you don't destroy anything. First of all, don't let your bare hands touch anything, take note of anything interesting or unusual and if there is any hair, fabric or any evidence of human activity that you usually wouldn't find here take samples of it."
"Wow, thanks Iggy!"
"Don't call me Iggy, I have a name and that name is Arthur. Oh and if you destroy any evidence, I'll destroy you."
Alfred watched as Arthur walked up to the walls and unlocked the metal gate, disappearing into the darkness as the gate closed ominously behind him, the rusty creaking dragged before the echoing click of it sounded the locking of the gates. "Ummm…Iggy…" But the Englishman was no longer in view and Alfred could no longer hear the quick footsteps.
He decided upon doing what Arthur told him to the best of his ability, he was the hero after all. Crouching to the ground, he searched for any things that were different. The twilight sky turning the clouds purple, the sounds of the water exaggerated in the silence, under the last rays of the suns which flashed onto the ground, gold sparkling for a moment before all was engulfed into the silence of night(?). Catching the quick flash, Alfred moved over to where the water was lightly sinking into the ground, the soil glittering with moisture. A large grin smiled on his face. There lying in the ground, the water lapping up on its edge was a single lock of blond hair. Excited at the find, Alfred picked up the tweezers, holding the hair in between the two metal fingers, carefully placing it in the fold of his handkerchief. If it was the hair from the murderer, the whole case could stake on his find. Jumping around for any more pieces of evidence, Alfred eagerly checked every corner, spying the muddy water for any possible remnants of the murder.
Arthur walked in the dark, his eyes adjusting to the blackness, lighting an oil lamplight that he had found a while into the tunnel, he was lucky, it would have been difficult to navigate the tunnels in the dark but usually there were torches or lights left over from the people who had built the tunnels or had previously used them. And if this was the place he was looking for there would have definitely been sources of light.
Stepping over the squeaks from rats scurrying hurriedly to escape the dim, yellow light that he was holding in his hands, his feet squelched on the damp ground. Eventually the squelching ended and was replaced by the splashing of ankle deep water. Moving through the dark water, Arthur tried not to think what he was walking through and what had previously been there. The light fading as Arthur walked deeper into the tunnel, thoughts of going back already in his head, calculating the length of time that the lamp would last and the distance that he had travelled. All but ready to turn to return to the gate, Arthur was stopped by the receding depth of water; his feet meeting cold hard stone once again, under the light Arthur could see the imprints of shoes and worn stone. People had been here, and not too long ago.
Putting his lamp on a ledge, Arthur opened an iron door, leading to a dead end, but it was not the end of the tunnel that attracted him, it was the piles of worn, decaying paper. Backtracking a few steps out of the room and back into the tunnel, Arthur walked into one of the other tunnels that breached from the crossroads, picking up a rock and placing it in a precarious position on the ledge that ran the length of the tunnel. Returning to the room, Arthur picked up the papers, most of which were just financials and reports, out-dated and no use at the moment, filing through, Arthur paused. A file under a pile of books had caught his eyes. Delicately pulling out the browning cardboard, he opened the folds; in it were pictures, pictures of the victims. Flicking though the pages, Arthur's eyes recorded the faces, not only were there pictures but notes on where and when they were to be killed. Shoving the file into his coat he looked over the small room, there was other information that could be useful, even scaring to some of the politicians. Curious, Arthur reached up to the latest murder but there were more pictures, well it was expected that they would continue, indifferently turning the page, the proposed victim surprised him, the picture stood out, it wasn't any politician or any Brit. Instead it was the scowling face of a merchant, a trader. It was the face of Wang Yao.
The picture stared through him, personally he had no ties to Yao, they were mutual enemies and welcomed each other's hate, but for some reason he could not let the trader die. He had no idea of Yao's past or what he usually did in his life, but he could not watch an innocent die, well innocent in this case, he was pretty sure the Asian man was capable of first degree murder. There was no way he actually wanted Yao to live; it was only because he was a good source of information, only a good source of information.
Suddenly distracted from his thoughts by the sounds of splashing water, Arthur urgently put out the oil lamp, shoving a few more files into his coat. Before pressing himself up against the wall, in the shadows behind the door, Arthur slowed his breathing, waiting anxiously for the incoming voices. It wasn't too long before Arthur heard the hushed but obviously annoyed voices.
"Someone's been here."
"You sure?"
"They still could be here, check in the secret room." Secret Room?
Suddenly the ruffling of the two men stopped, as they heard the drop and splash of something in one of the outer tunnels. "Heh, we've got him now."
Arthur relaxed after he heard the disintegrating of the footsteps, figuring the time to search the room or to escape, but if he were to escape without trying they would probably destroy the room before he could gain any more information, deciding to take his chances, Arthur searched the room, accidentally knocking over the books, but instead of the crashing, there was a hollow sifting and the wall gave way. Arthur made sure that he couldn't sense any other sound before entering the room. Inside was a single rectangular box, a detailed puzzle engraved into the wood. Picking up the box hurriedly, Arthur shut the door, running out the iron door checking all sides before running into the dark tunnel, slowing down to walk to decrease the sound in the water, sliding rather than walking in the water, opting to walk in darkness.
Finally reaching the stone floors, Arthur turned on the light, taking a right turn instead.
America fiddled, sitting with his back to the cold stones, the moon now high overhead, he was getting worried. There were other pieces of evidence he had found but Arthur still hadn't returned, how long had it been again? Shooting up, he approached the door, insistent on breaking the lock, shanking the chilled iron bars. "Why is London so damn cold?"
"You better get used to it then." Arthur walked out from the shadows closing the door behind him.
"AHHH!" Alfred screamed, his arms flailing in the air.
"Hmm?" Arthur dusted off his clothes, cursing at the ends of his pants that were soiled in sewer water.
"Stop. Doing. That. To. Me."
"No."
"So what were you doing in there? You didn't come out for a while, the doors were locked so I couldn't come and save you if you were in trouble, like the hero that I am." Alfred grinned.
Somewhat annoyed at the arrogant tone in Alfred voice he answered anyway, "Research."
"What sort of research?"
"I found out the future victims." Arthur held out the file, "Did you find anything interesting?"
"I found some hair; it's blond and looks around shoulder length."
"What shade of blond?"
"Light I guess, and it's straight."
"Oh, ok then."
"So, who are the "future victims" as you put it?" Alfred stretched his hands behind his back, the two men already making their way back to Arthur's house.
Handing the American the file, Arthur surveyed the look of Alfred's face as he skimmed through the pages, a studious look taking over his face, one that grearly clashed with his personality.
"It appears the target is closer to us that we think." Arthur muttered as Alfred reached the page with Yao on it.
"Yao?! Why is the target Yao?"
"I suspect it's either because he holds information, or it's because of this." Arthur revealed the puzzle box, "It's an odd puzzle, not a tile puzzle or one that expects someone to figure it out, but it seems that you have to know the answer before you're able to solve it."
"So people who don't know the answer to the puzzle wouldn't be able to open it."
"I expect something like that."
"Why would Yao know such a thing? He practically blackmailed you into this."
"It's only a hunch, I not even sure that Yao knows the answer."
"We should warn him." Alfred said hurriedly.
"Look at the time of murder." Alfred scanned the paper, pulling out the invitation out of his back pocket, "They're going to murder him after the ball, what does that mean?"
"It means we're going to have to go that ball and give our greetings to him and a certain someone."
"It means I will be the hero!"
Chapter Fin