Cw: References to murder (traces of gore); injury in the later half
-x-
Detective Tobias Gregson wished earnestly he had just stayed in bed this morning or thought of pretending to be sick to not have to get up to work today because ever since the repulsive investigation of Holborn district's crime scene he did not have the time of his life. Little things, still highly discomforting, piled up onto each other ever since he woke up from his sleep and fate seemed to try its hardest to prove that there was always a way to make things worse and from there, worst. Detective Gregson was a patient man and he did the job long enough to be prepared for a lot of things. However, his mood scale, comparable with a solid barrel with great capacity filling with little drops of water (his patience meter, if we want to illlustrate it better), was tested heavily all day long.
It started with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, seemingly piffling but a persistent enough remnant of looking at the corpses on the crime scene, a queasy feeling that tried to force his breakfast onto fresh London air. Gregson did his best to fight his own body and mind, trying to get the imagery out of his head – he had been a detective in the Great British Empire's capital long enough to have been faced with multiple corpses, gore, and the scents and other impressions that went with a lot of crime scenes, so what difference did it make in this case? And why? He couldn't understand how Holborn could possibly leave him in the state of shock as it did, so at some point during his carriage ride with the men who were escorting said Holborn corpses to the coroner he tried to distract himself with small talk.
That was the third drop to worsen his mood.
Both in the precinct and Prosecutor's Office Detective Tobias Gregson was not exactly known for his eloquence or being extraordinarily talented in talking about everyday topics casually, and behind his back every officer of Scotland Yard advised with whispers to best keep silent around him because "Gregson didn't like to be disturbed in his thought process". At least that was the somewhat official reason people of Scotland Yard put forward as a pretext to avoid talking to Gregson about unrelated things, but the whole affair was way more simple: Gregson successfully (and without his knowledge) scared away every attempt of small talk by his court grumpy answers or lacking effort of understanding his opposite's feelings, turning normal situations awkward really fast. And, as you yourself may know best as the Reaper of Old Bailey, there are very little Londoners who can deal with awkward situations.
(While I may want to add that this is a common trait Gregson and I shared I still was in advantage because of my ability to add charm to the conversation in other ways – or as you could say, when it comes to small talk and talking in general I'm more persistent, more engaging, more charismatic and world-savvy, and most people give up trying to stop talking to me (or trying to make me stop talking, for a fact) because in the end it's easier to just give up and listen to me instead of using up all energy in trying to get rid off me. Curiously enough, Gregson was in the later category for most of his life and yet I couldn't shake the feeling that we, after all, were friends! Maybe friends with small talk problems and other minor issues but nothing friends couldn't overcome together, isn't it like that?)
So, since Gregson didn't have the skills of a soon-to-be-world-known detective such as myself but was, well, being himself, his efforts to start a conversation with his fellow men left his mood darker than before and it did nothing to better his health condition either, assuming that taking your mind off your aches would lessen the pain or make them even disappear. The queasy feeling in Gregson's stomach grew into cramps by the time they reached the precinct and mind you, my dearest friend, on the nearly empty streets from Holborn to Scotland Yard at Westminster Bridge their travel couldn't have taken much longer than ten minutes to arrive at their destination.
The fourth matter to worsen our dear Gregson's day and overfill his patience meter was the state Scotland Yard itself was in. You may not remember it all that well because for Scotland Yard the situation had drastically changed in the course of 1890 compared to today, namely the overcrowded precinct of Victoria Embankment 4, Whitehall Place had been moved to a more spacious building, designed by Mister Norman Shaw himself – much to the public's heavy criticism by then. New Scotland Yard had started as prestige project in 1888 but when the Professor Killings started and the police weren't able to immediately arrest a culprit to blame, London's mood shifted drastically and suddenly the whole situation of the police force moving into a new building was seen in a different light. November 1889 – the time period we're reviewing at the moment – nothing of that applied yet and the precinct was not only overcrowded with people and papers and files that needed to be packed into boxes and the overwhelmingly stuffy air of an old abandoned attic place devoid of any fresh oxygen brought into the main area –
– but also the toilet was clogged.
That may seem like the minor evil at first but Gregson was in dire need of some privacy to empty the contents of his rebelling stomach, not able to hold it back anymore. That was because of the unfortunate combination of factors, counting in the carriage ride and precinct's attic air but also Gregson's overwhelming desire to go home and rest for the remaining day, so, once he stepped into Scotland Yard he felt himself in an already losing fight against human nature and hurried straight to the lavatory door, paler than London's fog at night. When he came back he looked worse than before (you can imagine the smells and sights of a clogged toilet, absolutely nothing I'd want to share on paper with you), and his mood had reached a new record low.
Do you wonder why I took my time to recount the detective's morning? Let me cut the case close, my dearest friend, it was to let you know the prehistory of an impending heated argument upstairs (something that could have been avoided if not for everything I told you just now), an argument with much greater meaning than it let on at first, for you see, it was about the Holborn incident.
-x-
[There's a short note between the pages. It's written in Japanese but there's a translation added in Sherlock's cursive handwriting]
-x-
Asougi,
I'm already out on medical examination with Professor Watson and will not return to the dorm tonight.
I seem to remember that Seishirou travelled to Dunkirk today and he should return in the early morning tomorrow.
My friend Holmes offered to invite us to the Justice Minister's celebration this evening but neither Seishirou nor I will be able to return in time. Feel free to join him without us.
With best regards,
Yuujin Mikotoba
-x-
-x-
After his unsavory experience in the lavatory Tobias Gregson went straight into his office on the first floor without greeting or even looking at his fellow detectives and workers, and shut the door to his office with more force than usually. He pressed both hands against his palms and closed his eyes for a minute to collect himself, just breathing in and out in order to not put his head back and scream in anger.
His workplace didn't look much different from the general state the police force was in but at least he was able to keep his work desk tidy, so it wasn't much trouble to find and take a blank sheet off the heap of standard reports once he was in a state to do so, sit down in his comfortable chair and start filling out, with the firm intention of doing only that and then going back home. Gregson's neat handwriting was usually a sight to behold because of the way it reflected his court but precise character down to the detail, and since he was using a fountain pen the writing flow was steady and clean, and very readable and easy on the eye. This time, however, you could see how agitated he was by the tremor of his letters and the way he pressed the pen down too hard on the dot above several instances of the letter I …
A sharp knock on his door, with the upper end of a cane, made Gregson look up from his work with an unfriendly response already half spoken before he caught glimpse of his superior entering and caught himself mid-sentence, exclaiming: "Sir Vortex! Sir, what are you doing here?" The fountain pen slipped his hand and fell onto the paper, leaving ink sploshes all over the paper's surface. Gregson noticed and cursed under his breath, reaching for a tissue and trying his best to save the report from wandering right into the trash can.
"It has come to my attention that you have finally returned to your workplace, Detective, with a considerable amount of tardiness. This, to our shared misfortune, has left me waiting for your arrival for quite some time." Hart Vortex was smiling a perfectly neutral smile, but his cold blue eyes, untouched by friendliness, were piercing daggers that made Gregson's guts ruck up harder than they had been kicked by human nature in the lavatory some minutes earlier. Gregson gulped and opened his mouth to explain himself – he had been held up by an investigation, he was sorry for having Vortex wait for him, was there anything he had forgotten to do? – but Vortex shook his head and placed both hands on top of his cane, looking down with disapproving facial expression, making any excuse redundant. "Whatever the matter, Detective. Be done with your report."
"Yes, sir."
-x-
-x-
At the same time another important character to our story arrived at Scotland Yard, the designated meeting place he had agreed upon with the Japanese detective via telegram the day before yesterday. Klimt van Zieks had attended to everything he had wanted to this morning and found himself more relaxed than he thought he'd be able to after tonight's events. Maybe it was the peaceful atmosphere of a regular day in London, seeing citizens go about their daily routine undisturbed, not minding what crimes Klimt had committed. Maybe it was the missing signs of any change in the world despite what world-changing thing he had done some hours ago ...
Klimt shook his head. No, that wasn't right. He had done justice for London, and only this one time - it was no use keeping his mind on the matter and questioning how it may look from the outside because Klimt knew why he killed Olaughlin and he knew the criminal deserved it, and that the world was a better place without nobles like him. And yet, Klimt wished he could indulge in some serious work to get into a state of overworking, to be physically and psychically challenged, to be able to focus on a task at hand and get the satisfaction of solving little problems efficiently, all but free time to allow him to think, to doubt, to crumble.
"Hello, my boy, what a coincidence to meet you here!" The raised voice of an elderly man brought Klimt back to reality and made him pay attention to his surroundings again.
"If every coincidence in life was as pleasant as our chance encounter I would not mind more of them in my life, Detective Gibb." He smiled at the detective who closed up to him as they both entered Scotland Yard's courtyard, while the detective reached for his hat and lifted it in greeting, laughing. Klimt saw with a hint of worry how much the older man had aged since they last met, his hair more white than grey and the wrinkles in his face so deep and the skin over his bones so thin that you could see the blood veins under it.
Who did not love Detective Simeon Gibb, the role model for aristocratic charity, the saint of the poor as beggars and people in the slums used to call him, and the defender of old morals as the citizenry has gotten used to calling him – he was an old friend to your father, wasn't he? If I remember correctly, Barok, you told me once that you regret not spending as much time with him as you could have, mainly because you were occupied with your studies for becoming a prosecutor, and because Klimt was meeting with Gibb often enough and you didn't want to feel like a third wheel. Well, I assure you again, he wouldn't have taken you as a burden, never, even if you weren't a Van Zieks.
Gibb was a truly astounding individual, managing both his work at Scotland Yard as detective and his welfare programs in his free time despite being well over 60 years old, with ease and with friendliness. Throughout his life he had never aspired getting high ranking positions like chief prosecutor or any political function (even though the Queen had given him the honor of a knight title) but instead he had done everything in his might to support an old friend's son so that he could achieve his dream of reaching the top of the Prosecutor's Office – and stay there. You see, Barok, Klimt owed Gibb so much and so much more, but Gibb never wanted to accept any money offerings or gifts - such a humble and good-natured man was he.
"I have no reason to complain about living, Klimt. If you knew how busy I am lately, much to my joy! It only pains me that there is so little time to look after each one and to finish all of my tasks, but I'm there for the people if it helps. There are so many in need for support, I wish I could help them more, if you only knew ... My life has so many 'ifs' lately, it's almost gross." He lifted his hat in greeting to a patrolman who happened to step through the precinct's main entrance door just as they wanted to enter, and held open the door for the two gentlemen. "I'm glad the Yard is able to move soon. Look at all that chaos! Nothing of that sort in the Prosecutor's Office ..." He continued on as they stepped into the entrance hall and Klimt made a face, much to Gibb's openly displayed amusement.
"I second this", Klimt murmured, joining into the laughter. They stepped aside and Gibb leaned his cane against the wall to take off his coat, extended a hand to take Klimt's as well to hang both on a row of hooks fastened at eye height to their right.
"I heard you will be meeting with the Japanese detective today?", he changed the topic. "A nice fellow, pleasant and charming, my dear Klimt, good-looking too. He has a warm aura, seems to be an honest individual and he's smart. A crying shame that I'm not able to spend more time with him but maybe if I was a prosecutor ..." He trailed off in his thoughts while he and Klimt walked past the people in the hallway connecting the entrance area, the main area and a couple of offices - most of these people were carrying heavy boxes, others were filling similar boxes with archive papers, standing around boxes and talking or using them as tables or storage place for whatever they were holding; there were some smaller compact boxes on the staircase leading up to the first floor as well, and Gibb sat down on one, resting both hands on his cane, putting back his head back to look at Klimt, who had kept his smile throughout the whole monologue.
"I must say though, if you have seen as many years as I have then you are bound to notice even little changes. Klimt, you have shadows on your face, sorrow if I'm not mistaken. I know I'm not the nearest person to you, not anymore, but you can always talk to me. I will find the time to listen to you, my boy." Klimt reciprocated the sincere look with a neutral facial expression, keeping his true feelings that were in uproar safely locked away. He knew it was a genuine offer and he owed Sir Gibb more than he could ever repay in a lifetime but there was no way that he'd confide in anyone about what was weighing heavily on his mind. To think, to imagine, sharing the burden on his soul with his brother, with his wife, or with his patron - it only woke feral desires in his heart, and threatened to take over his mind for good.
"I assure you, it's nothing grave." He smiled but he knew that the older man wasn't fooled. At the same time they knew each other long enough that Gibb didn't insist on continuing his questioning.
"You know I'm here for you." Gibb stood up from his box with a puff and put a heavy hand on Klimt's shoulder. "There will never be too much on my schedule for an old friend's son. The same goes for Barok, of course."
"Yes, sir." Klimt reached for his shoulder and gently put the frail hand resting there down, enclosing it with his own two hands, managing a more sincere smile. "It will be well soon enough", he said and meant it (even though he had no way of knowing that fate did not mean it).
Gibb sighed and took a look around, searching the place for seemingly something specific and added: "If I'm not mistaken Sir Vortex has always been one to overstate. Invited me to Scotland Yard out of the blue because of some major case he's pursuing, and then is nowhere to be seen."
"Sir Vortex has a fierce temper, that is sure. You can hear his argument with Detective Gregson even through closed doors." The new voice that joined their conversation made both gentlemen turn their heads to someone who was coming down the flight of stairs, a tall well-dressed man with dark hair that was held together by a flapping white hairband, and he stopped on the foot with a small smile. Gibb made a sound, lifted both hands and put his hands against the man's upper arms left and right, squeezing him delighted.
"Detective Asougi!", he exclaimed, beaming with the joy of two coworkers meeting again after a while. "I could not have hoped to meet you too! My my, Lady Luck is smiling upon me, what is this day full of pleasant coincidences!" He stepped aside and extended a hand toward Klimt, adding: "I take it you have yet to meet personally, my dear boys? Let me introduce you then! Chief Prosecutor Klimt van Zieks, our exchange student detective Genshin Asougi."
"It's a joyful occasion to finally make your acquaintance, Lord Van Zieks." Asougi extended his hand and Klimt shook it, saying that the pleasure was his, noticing how rough the Japanese's hand felt against his. The detective must be into crafting, or maybe he was doing some sort of extreme sports?
It was interesting, even though the Japanese exchange students were here for six years, previous to this day Klimt had not talked to two of the three exchange students, mainly because he had been busy. When they had first arrived to London Klimt had been striving for the position of Chief Prosecutor and was engulfed in work and cases and fulfilling requirements, and then once he had achieved his goal the workload had not simply disappeared, it had just shifted in its nature and kept Klimt busy for a long time. London's darkness never rested and so the Chief Prosecutor wouldn't allow himself to rest either, and hurled himself onto the task, maybe partially also to distance himself from his family's loss ...
"Well then, I will leave you two and go on, if you don't mind. Sir Vortex is waiting for me." Gibb lifted his hat but Asougi held him back another time.
"I must speak a word of warning before you leave, Sir Gibb. The situation upstairs is close to escalating, and maybe it's wise to hold a safety distance for now."
"I appreciate it, Detective. But I think I will join them to see if there's anything I can help with." Gibb lifted his hat one more time and walked past Asougi, up the flight of stairs.
"A heated argument? What is it about?", Klimt asked politely and gestured Asougi to follow him down the cramped hallway, to another staircase that would bring them down to the precinct's archives. He had thought about what to show the detective during their meeting for some time, wondering if there was something that preferably only he as chief prosecutor could do, and decided that going through some old cases that showed English law peculiarities might prove useful. The Japanese exchange students were there for exactly that, to see a functioning law world and also learn about mistakes and holes and how to close them up. There were a couple of cases the Chief Prosecutor had thought of sharing with Asougi today to pass the time efficiently, if not for the fact that those files were still collecting dust in the deepest regions of Scotland Yard, long forgotten and probably not even present in most policemen's minds.
Things proved more difficult than that.
"There has been an incident tonight. Sir Vortex and the detective in charge of the initial investigation are arguing about the incident's nature because Detective Gregson insists it was murder and had the two corpses sent over for autopsy, but there is little evidence to support his claim so Sir Vortex insists that it was a simple incident."
Two corpses. For a second the world shifted in front of Klimt's eyes, his world swimming in fog and darkness, and he was relieved that Asougi was walking behind him so he wouldn't notice the blank horror in Klimt's eyes, and it took him a moment to be able to catch himself and find back to a more collected persona, to stay in the present and calm his racing mind. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand and exhaled silently but his insecurity had been unchained with this simple remark, not even said in malevolicious intent but because he asked, and it was impossible to put it away. All he could do was to pretend that he didn't notice the raging war inside himself, to hold himself together for now.
He reached out and grabbed a lantern from a hook on the wall, fiddling for his lighter in his trousers' pockets simultaneously, opened the glass cap and set the kerosene soaked stripe on fire, lighting up the lantern they would need for the archives. There was no reason to get worked up over a simple argument, was there? The longer he thought about it from a prosecutor's perspective the more he saw, Vortex had a point when he argued it might not have been a murder after all. One of the corpses had a torn open throat, possibly the work of a human but more likely a stray beast (maybe someone thought of domesticated animals too but at that point nobody argued for that possibility). The second dead man wasn't torn up like the first one, died soon after the first but neither by human nor beast as it seemed. No teeth marks. Just death. That was how it must look like to the outside.
And yet, something was bothering Klimt with all that, he just couldn't place a finger on it.
"Well then, Detective Asougi, shall we?" Klimt tried to sound casual but it even sounded tense to his ears, and he did not trust himself to force a smile right now so he started the descend down the staircase into the darkness without so much as looking at the other man, his gaze fixed on the flickering light of his lantern in his right hand. He was fine with silence that followed, no, he was grateful about it, but it also made him feel as if he was moving through quicksand, his mind turning enemy against him yet another time.
"It's Asōgi."
"Excuse me?" Klimt startled from his thoughts and momentarily broke out of the devil's circle that his thoughts were.
"Sir Gibb introduced me as Asougi but it's slightly mispronounced, Lord Van Zieks. It happens all the time." In calm voice Asougi explained the difference in pronunciation as they walked down the staircase, bringing up examples to illustrate his point in both Japanese and English, and listening to it had an immediate effect on Klimt, he clung to the sound of Asougi's words reverberating in the hallway and felt goosebumps creep up his arms to his neck. There was something in his way of talking that made it easier for the chief prosecutor to breathe, maybe the strange beauty of a foreign language or the flow of Asougi's words.
Klimt didn't interrupt and listened without comment, successfully wrestling the feeling of uneasiness that had settled into his chest until it was no longer a raging fire but a couple of sparks vexing him. The deeper they descended the colder the air around them grew and their surroundings immersed in darkness where the light of the lantern didn't reach, the flame dancing and twitching on the walls left and right.
He exhaled through his nose as they reached the stair's base and turned to face the detective, lifting his lantern slightly higher to allow the flame to extend into the archives' depths. He felt a lingering sense of regret that he had to now interrupt Asougi's thorough explanation (and make room for the shadows of his mind again) and maybe there was something in his face because the detective interrupted himself with a cough, averting his gaze, and laughed, an understated friendly and foremost genuine laughter that did not help Klimt's goosebumps in the slightest.
"I'm sorry, this wasn't supposed to turn into a lecture, Lord Van Zieks."
"On the contrary, thank you for enlightening me, Detective Asōgi." He cast down his eyes, unable to bear the his opposite's intense gaze. "I thought of going through some old case files, to show you some peculiarities of English law", he added to come to the point and happened to parenthetically notice that the detective's headband was flapping behind him despite it being completely windless down here. Also if he wasn't mistaken he could feel the warm aura around Asougi that Gibb had previously mentioned - or was it his imagination because of the freezing air around them?
"Peculiarities? I fear I've had my share of English peculiarities by now, Lord Van Zieks."
"You did?" He beckoned Asougi to follow him and walked deeper into the darkness, looking around for the combination of letters that he had in mind. It was an important case and Klimt remembered how much nerves it had cost him back when it had still been fresh, and now he could look back at it and thank it for the lessons it taught him. He found the case files at the very end of the hallway, on one of the higher shelves (one of the few boxes that hadn't been opened and transported yet and thus had a thick layer of dust on it), gave the lantern to Asougi to have both hands free and lifted the box in question onto the ground.
"Defense attorneys are still highly underrepresented in Japanese courts, and I wonder if we are going to have juries in the future ... What is this?" Asougi took the papers Klimt extended toward him and skimmed the first page, while Klimt climbed off the box he'd been standing on to reach the files, sat down and crossed one leg onto the other, closing his hands around his ankle that rested on his knee. He smirked.
The case Klimt decided to discuss first, dear Barok, is important to me too - for you see, your brother had chosen one of my very first cases (back when I didn't know I'd want to be a detective and was still studying, treating police work as hobby in my free time), and one of his decisive victories. You know all about it, I don't doubt it, and still, the whole situation was highly exceptional and thrilling, a true adventure for a student of chemistry like I had been back then ... To think I'd catch passion for the art of deduction through a case like this, what a coincidence, or was it fate that led me to it?
Oh yes, you have guessed it by now, I'm talking about Atmey's crown jewels theft, which ended in a secret trial to spare the Queen from embarrassment. The criminal's name was Pierre Atmey and he might have gotten clean away through a hole in English law if not for one mistake, a character trait of his, because he was an easily irascible individual that didn't come to terms with opposition, very pugnacious, and unfriendly. It just so happened that I can be very irritating, hahahaha!
-x-
"The English law system is an adversarial one, with four instances in a courtroom to find the truth." Klimt watched the detective, who was reading the report in his hands, attentively. It was a standard report: name, residence, employment, age, height, appearance down to the shape of nose, a photograph from two sides and a signature, and then finally the date of conviction and reason for it, the court where the criminal had been convicted and finally, special remarks.
Some things didn't make it onto the papers in the end but were still fresh on Klimt's mind and he was all too eager to shift his attention to familiar grounds instead of occupying himself with his mental health right now (also, and he did not admit it to himself, he wanted to make an impression, he was the chief prosecutor of an incredibly well made law system after all). "Obviously you have seen a standard court, judge, jury, defense, prosecution. The decision of guilt or innocence is based on either the jury or evidence and the judge stays impartial throughout the entirety of a trial. The opposite of our court system would be an inquisitorial one, where the judge is actively involved in the process of finding the truth, interacting with evidence and witnesses."
Asougi looked up from the paper, his dark eyes gleaming in the light of dancing flames. Klimt noted that he had a characteristically sharp jawline, accentuated by the way he held his hand when he was thinking about something. "This was one of your cases, wasn't it, Lord Van Zieks?" Infected by the enthusiasm in his voice Klimt nodded, his smirk deepening. Oh how much he loved the story around Atmey, what thrilling feeling it gave him to have looked over the edge eye in eye with defeat and turned the case around in one last desperate attempt after all, winning!
"Atmey was a cunning criminal and he absolutely knew what he was doing. He almost got away with stealing the Great British Empire's crown jewels! Are you by any chance familiar with the doctrines of autrefois convict, Mister Asōgi?" Klimt leaned in closer with the last question, excited, not noticing the mutual blushes on their both faces in the darkness, and continued his narration without waiting for an answer.
"Two crimes were committed at the exact same time, a robbery and a murder. We arrested two suspects, Atmey and Light, who claimed to be a thief, while it was Atmey who tried to get convicted for the robbery of the crown jewels to induce the autrefois convict so that he couldn't be judged for the crime he actually committed."
"Didn't you say he stole the crown jewels? How did he do it?" Asougi seated himself next to Klimt onto another box and neither of them tried to hide their excitement anymore, and Klimt found himself grinning from ear to ear as he remembered, recounting the events with shining eyes: "It was a case of blackmail. The story began much earlier than the theft of the crown jewels, it was a series of robberies of various treasures all over London. All of it was the work of the thief Light and Atmey acted as the ace detective who would uncover the heists and retrieve some of those stolen treasures - but he was the one who planned the heists in the first place and forced the thief into committing them! And then, on said day, the crown jewels were already stolen, he built up an intrigue to make the thief take the fall for the murder that he, Atmey, committed, while trying to get the conviction for the thievery, thus getting away clean."
"Why murder?"
"He was blackmailed too! What was the chance of that happening, right? The murder and the theft were carefully planned out to appear to have been happening simultaneously. Several witnesses testified so."
"How did you figure it out?"
"We got an anonymous tip by someone from the audience but I never learned who it was. A letter that I read during recess, and it said that if you paid close attention to Atmey's deductions they were too obvious, too clean and too perfect, and the so called ace detective must be a fraud, and it continued with a lengthy explanation that I should try confronting him about it. Whoever wrote that letter was very convincing, details about Atmey's book about himself and newspaper clippings - not exactly new evidence but how helpful it was! So, after recess Atmey had the jury on his side and they were about to announce the guilty verdict for thievery, after he was proved not-guilty for murder because of several witness testimonies before that. I called out to the judge for one more try and confronted Atmey one last time just like the anonymous tip had suggested and it turned out the first verdict was a tainted acquittal and witnesses have been intimidated into testifying incorrectly -"
"-making the not-guilty verdict invalid, allowing another witness testimony that proved your claim and allowed you the great turnabout", Asougi finished Klimt's sentence in a whisper.
"You heard about it?" In the end Klimt was the one who was left impressed by their conversation. Gibb had been right about every word of praise he had used for Asougi, the detective was a truly formidable individual, vivid, sincere, and interesting. Also the chief prosecutor felt there was something different about him, he gave him the feeling of being heard and not just listened to. It was so ... unusual.
"Yes. I used to read back in newspapers earlier in my exchange trip and I must confess it was one of the few cases that caught my interest."
Klimt considered asking for the reason for that and decided not to. "Were there any more cases you still remember?" He took the case files from Asougi's hands, stepped onto the box he was sitting on and put them inside the box, thinking about which case to tackle next. There were so many of them ... and it wasn't a given that the reports would be found in the archives, they might as well be somewhere in the precinct, packed into a different box already.
"Several of your early cases to be honest. The Fawles breakout and the Hawthorne poisoning that ended in the lady's death sentence. The Thames murder that tied into the courtroom shooting six years ago - unbelievable that the defense attorney with the perfect win record was guilty of that ..."
"That makes it almost sound as if most of my trials were up to chance", Klimt smiled amused. However, the next words made his face harden and the laughter disappear from his eyes, because Asougi said: "English law is admirable. There is only one thing I find contradictory, there is no reason to protect noblemen when they're obvious criminals. I have been to your last trial, Lord Van Zieks. He was guilty without question, and fate had seen to his punishment because law did not."
"What do you mean?" Klimt's voice was little more than a whisper. There it was again, the mention of Olaughlin's death, and Klimt turned to look down at Asougi, insecure.
"Have you not been told? I thought the chief prosecutor would know first - the nobleman that was judged not-guilty, Sir Olaughlin, he was found murdered today. I mentioned the argument between Sir Vortex and Detective Gregson when we were with Sir Gibb at-" The realization of what has been nagging him all this time and what he hadn't puzzled together immediately made Klimt's knees weak and he slipped from the box, fell to the ground and hit over the kerosene lantern on the floor as he collided with the cold concrete, kicking over the lantern and breaking the glass with ear shattering noise in the silence, dipping the archives into complete darkness.
"Lord Van Zieks!", Asougi shouted and jumped to his feet, eyes wide but blind in the sudden dark.
You understand it, Barok, don't you? A set of information, tiny details, a contradiction, several statements that support one conclusion and served to fuel Klimt's anxiety - Gibb had said it casually, a minor matter without relevance, and it seemed nugatory to learn that Vortex was pursuing a major case - then the information about a heated argument, but nothing wrong with the line of logic that from a prosecutor's perspective Holborn district's murder was rather an incident than a murder, at least if left uncombined with a lot of other things concerning the matter.
First, if Vortex was looking into a major case, if he met up not only with his own detective (Gibb had said it, he was called out of the blue) but got into a discussion with the detective in charge of an incident's initial investigation, then why did the chief prosecutor not know about this?
Then, secondly, prosecutors would only get involved in cases that were about to be handled in court, in trial, when there was a suspect, when it was confirmed murder, and yet Vortex for some reason insisted there was no evidence to support that claim, that it was a mere incident but the way he acted was contradictory to what he was saying. What did it matter, even it Holborn was put down to paper as murder, in the end there was no suspect to judge and the case report would become an archive corpse, and yet Vortex still insisted to fight about a non-existent case.
And last, the case wasn't older than several hours, and there was no reason to hurry with anything (there was no suspect, it didn't matter if time was wasted by bringing the corpses to autopsy), and to make such a commotion out of it was nonsense ... except ...
Except - Vortex knew. The case couldn't be non-existent in his eyes. And who knew, maybe Klimt had made a mistake, maybe something betrayed him, maybe he had miscalculated a factor, maybe ... maybe ...
And the impact of those thoughts made Klimt lose his balance, and as he kicked over the lantern the shattering glass sounding like the breaking of a neck in his head instead - no, not any neck, it was the accusing eyes of a dead innocent man staring up at him and those sounds were everywhere in the darkness, screaming at him and pressuring him and the deep darkness suffocated him, there were the corpses staring into his soul and the overwhelming guilt of being a criminal, and Klimt's breathing quickened, he crawled away from them with a dry sob until he couldn't escape the corpses who were nearing him through the darkness, their eyes staring but not seeing because they were dead, because he killed them. He felt them creep nearer, and solid wood in his back made it impossible to escape, and he raised his hands to protect himself against teeth that would tear him open like he had watched Balmung tear them open -
Hands caught him by his wrists and Klimt shrieked in panic, resisting, but strong arms tugged him into a tight hug and suddenly the coldness of the archives – it was the archives, shelves, boxes, files, not a foggy night, not a street, not corpses – gave way to warmth that enveloped Klimt like a warm blanket. And maybe it was for the fact of how genuinely right Klimt felt in Asougi's embrace, or it happened in the spur of the moment, or maybe because of the piled up and carefully nurtured anxiety, who knew? but Klimt sank against Asougi and buried his face in his shoulder, reached out and clawed his fingers into the detective's waistcoat with wide eyes, taking in the calming words whispered against his hair like a patient on high fever takes medicine. He let the sound of Asougi's voice calm himself, and the earthy hard smell of herbal alcohol in his nose - Asougi's smell - regulate his breathing, he allowed himself to close his eyes despite the fear in his heart.
Klimt didn't know how long they sat like this - it felt way too short - but anxiety stopped leashing out, didn't exactly let go off him (it never would) but allowed other senses apart from sheer panic to return to the chief prosecutor, and with it came the sensation of immense pain in his palms that were still in Asougi's clothing, and the penetrating smell of spilled kerosene on the floor next to the pleasant smell of Asougi's skin. Klimt let go and moved away slightly and wanted to say something but Asougi was already talking.
"I apologize for my indiscretion, Lord Van Zieks. You shouldn't have learned about the incident this way." There was something in his tone, deep pain and a slight tremor that shook something in Klimt and made Klimt's voice hoarse when he said: "There was nothing you could have done more for me, Asōgi."
"No." The emphasis Asougi put on this word, why did this situation distress him so much? "It wasn't right. I have seen exactly how much the trial wounded you and telling you casually that he has died, that is not how it should be done." He moved away and let a hand slide down Klimt's arm, taking his hand, and suddenly gasped in shock. "Lord Van Zieks, you are hurt! Let's go, we need light."
Asougi helped Klimt onto his feet and held a tight grip around the chief prosecutor's wrist even after Klimt could stand on his own. The detective couldn't see anything in the almost perfect darkness, extended his free hand to feel the shelves instead, and tried to find a way back to the staircase. Once he stepped into the connecting hallway he could make out faint shapes thanks to the light falling from the staircase, and quickened his pace, worried, but before he could reach the steps Klimt stopped and made Asougi turn around, made him face the other man, his eyes asking silent question. It was too dark here to make out Klimt's expression but his body language was honest enough.
"Asōgi." Klimt freed his wrist from the detective's grip but didn't continue talking, and Asougi said: "Nothing happened, Lord Van Zieks."
Maybe it was the right thing to say. Maybe it was terribly wrong. What do you think, my dearest friend? Would it have been better if Asougi said nothing at all? Klimt only walked ahead, keeping his injured hands close to himself and blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto his pants, left small stains visible to anyone who might pay attention.
Nobody paid attention but the Japanese detective.
-x-
-x-
Sometimes I wonder how much you prosecutors care for your detectives, Barok. Do you know what we do if there is no crime to investigate and no paperwork to be done, where we like to go in our free time and what we like to do? Do you know what hobbies we have, if we have a family to return to, what our favourite food is? How much do you even know about me, the most unique detective London has ever seen, after we know each for more than ten years now?
Do you care about things like that?
There is no law that prosecutors and detectives have to be friends. Nothing will stop them from spending time together outside their work too, if they want to. You are bound to share some sort of bond through extensive contact no matter what, and let me tell you, Barok, after what happened in the darkness of a certain precinct's archives the relationship between Klimt van Zieks and Genshin Asougi changed. You may say, "But nothing happened", and it would be a misleading thought and simply wrong. They didn't understand it themselves yet, that something had happened. Do you know what strong bond can develop between two people sharing pain, when one sees the other's anxiety and is there to help them, not wanting or expecting anything in return for being there for them, how healing that turns out, especially for a highly desperate person like Klimt was and would become even more so– and how much a secret shared between strangers can bring them together?
Didn't you feel the same at some point after this story's ending, with your brother's legacy, with your friend Benjamin Dobinbough, maybe with me? Think about it. Try to understand. But please, for the love of everything that's worth, don't blame yourself, or Genshin, because I told you, didn't I, we are not here to assign blame to people, history is doing that on it's own! It's already happened after all ...
-x-
The sight of the small group of people gathered at Detective Gregson's door listening to the argument inside the office (much calmer now than in the beginning but still in full swing) drove a thorn through Klimt's aching heart. He could make out Gibb's calm and joyful voice settling the dispute and didn't even notice how he'd slowed down until he felt Asougi's soft touch against his hand and walked on. He allowed Asougi to guide him to Gibb's currently empty office, where Asougi gestured Klimt to sit down on the windowsill and sat down next to him, taking his hands into his and turning them palm upwards to see the injury in broad daylight.
Klimt didn't want to look. He could feel the glass splinters from the broken lantern sticking out of his skin and he knew that the blood should already be coagulating around the wounds by now, but the imagery of different wounds was in his mind unasked for, and so he focused on the blood stains on Asougi's waistcoat. It was his blood, no question, left on Asougi's clothing when Klimt had grabbed the detective in his desperation, little angry red dots on taupe fabric.
Asougi stood up, went over to Gibb's working desk and looked through the drawers, in search for something but he obviously knew where to look. Klimt watched him through half closed lids, head leaned against the cold windowpane.
"I'm sorry", he said. Asougi interrupted his search to look up and frowned at Klimt.
"What for?", he asked. He opened the lowest drawer, took out a small bottle, grabbed a glass from the bar and poured some of the brown liquid.
"I felt like saying it out loud." He kept his eyes fixed on Asougi's face when the detective approached him, sat down, dipped the pincers into the glass of alcohol and took Klimt's hand into his. He did not make a sound when Asougi grabbed a glass shard with the pincers and did not flinch once while he removed one splinter after the other, turning Klimt's hands to see if there were remnants left under the skin, while working in complete concentrated silence. Klimt wondered when the last time that somebody had treated him like this was, and realized that he didn't remember. He felt a weak smile lift the corners of his mouth and said: "Thank you."
"I'm not finished yet." Asougi let go off one hand and took the other, frowning. "You might need a doctor for this. It's rather deep."
"We can go see one now." He met Asougi's eyes and his smile deepened. "I'm chief prosecutor, am I not? Nobody will ask where I go with the exchange student. And afterwards we can ... I don't know. Go somewhere." They both knew that things weren't that simple but it was left unsaid. Instead, Asougi laughed his quiet open laugh and picked up his work again.
"Are you free tonight, Detective?", Klimt asked.
"Oh?" Asougi removed another glass shard and this time Klimt hissed. He had not been prepared for the sudden pain and wanted to instinctively clench his hand into a fist but Asougi held his hand open tightly, put away the pincers and took a strip of fabric, ordered Klimt to hold still and fastened it as bandage around the anew bleeding wound. "I doubt people would want me on an official celebration", he said hesitantly, avoiding the chief prosecutor's gaze. Instead, once he was finished, he carefully collected the glass shards into his hand. The smile on his face had died away. "Most people think that I don't fit into the masses because I'm an exchange student from the Japanese Empire, Lord Van Zieks. Mikotoba offered to join someone who will go there but I wasn't invited personally."
"Now you are. I insist, Detective Asōgi. Your company is the most welcome and pleasant to me." Asougi looked up and opened his mouth but at right this moment the office's door opened and a surprised looking Simeon Gibb entered and stopped at the doorstep, hand on the handle, and looked from one man to the other.
"Am I interrupting something?", he asked bewildered, closed the office's door and noticed the pincers and glass of alcohol on the windowsill. "Is one of you injured?", he asked worried but Klimt smiled reassuringly, swung his legs to the side over the windowsill's edge and stood up, placing a fist on Asougi's knee for a splitsecond to help him, and held up his bandaged hand (the bandage pink from the blood that kept seeping out the wound). He explained that he had cut himself on a lantern down in the archives and should go see a doctor and ended on the question what the result of Vortex's and Gregson's dispute was, changing subjects cleverly, and once he learned the answer he knew why Vortex had insisted on the classification of the Holborn case as incident and not as murder -
-x
- while English law didn't allow autopsies on noblemen, one of the corpses of Holborn district was in fact a servant. By forcing Detective Gregson to put it down as incident it made an autopsy redundant, leaving open the exact cause of death or time of death.
And there was only one explanation Klimt could think of why Prosecutor Hart Vortex would want that.