Death's Waltz
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CW: Chapter contains some gore, some explicit descriptions. Not a main thing, just .. murder.
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So much time has passed since the tragedy known as the Professor Killings had shaken London's core and left a gashing wound in people's mentality. The gruesome murders, one more bloody than the next, were talked about with hushed voices among illiterate people and discussed in newspapers every day at lengths for those who sought the thrill of murder or something to distract themselves with or have a topic in the next gathering's conversation. Of course Londoners started blaming Scotland Yard quite early in the story, for the due arrest of a freely roaming serial killer and not being able to guarantee citizens' safety – and thus turned to the uprising star detective by the name Sherlock Holmes in desperate search for help.
Yes, that's me! I am THE great Sherlock Holmes, and I humbly suggest you buy the latest volume of the Strand Magazine to learn about my most recent adventures! Indeed, I already carry one of those most magnificent magazines with myself! Oh, if you wish to have a chat about my glorious deductions you all but need to send a telegram to Iris and she'll fit you in my busy timetable! I think there will be a small time window for an old friend like you available some day.
... Of ..
...
-You
...
I'm getting sidetracked. It's easier this way, to put it bluntly. I can't - can't! - find a fitting beginning for what I need to tell you - how often have I tried to write you, and how often have I begun anew, absolutely dissatisfied with what I had previously written?
If I'm honest it dreads me to bring these words down to paper, dear Reaper, dreads me more than anything else! I swing my feather over parchment and feel as if I'm wielding an ax instead, sentencing people to death through my words – the more I write the more the feeling of guilt gets hold of me.
No, that is not entirely correct. The guilt has been planted into my soul ten years ago and harbored and nourished over the years that I decided to hold my tongue against the injustice I was witnessing. Oh friend, would it have been so hard to stand my ground, to speak up in the mass of mute people, to reach out for your hand while you took the burden all onto yourself, branding yourself as the Reaper of Old Bailey in your pain, lonely, alone and misunderstood? I could excuse myself, could say that I was irresponsible, shaken by what I have deduced from the twirling shadows of London's underground, that I was running from the truth with both eyes firmly shut but no excuse will help me now. No excuse can shut my mouth, and while I was deliberating whether I should tell you the story as I remember it personally or simply write it down despite the danger of somebody else reading it, I decided that this was something that had to be done.
Yes, I have fault and made mistakes but there are things – facts – you need to know. Stories never told to the public. Some of them had reached my ears through sheer coincidence even. It will be painful, that I can promise. This is no story where you can expect a happy ending, not after everything that happened and will happen again through the ink I put down onto paper with every stroke, but it's a story of true love anyways, and who knows how it could have ended if the Hound of Baskervilles hadn't become too strong for two individuals to deal with.
So I'm making you a promise, Barok. This is not going to be a story about the Professor Killings that shook London in the last years of the 19th century. Instead, this is going to be the story of two men who fell in blindingly burning love with each other against the odds, who played the game with highest bets, and who ultimately paid the prize for their mistakes. No human is without fault, and I'm not in the position to judge them.
Neither are you.
All I'm asking of you is to read the story of your brother and the foreign detective until the very end. I'm not asking you to understand their motives, my dearest friend. Keep in mind, even my ability is confined to logic, deductions and stories told to me long years ago, so excuse me if you find me following Iris' path and adding details here and there. Maybe you can somehow find solace in these dreadful words, by reading about your brother's path disregarding how warped it became …
I'm not in the position to judge, I am not, but beware of the public opinion, beware of a deep rooted hatred, beware of whatever opinion I am going to quote. So much of it will have to be familiar to you, Barok and I sincerely wish you won't repeat my cowardly mistake and flinch away from the truth. Because what we once knew might not be the truth after all.
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To my family, my wife and my son
from the bottom of my heart I wish that you are well. The distance between us feels heavier every day and soon will become unbearable. Being separated from you two is like having forgotten a part of my body on home soil. I miss seeing your faces, hearing your voices, having you around me. I wish this exchange program was finished already. I wish I could pack my things and board the next steamship back home. I wish I could close my arms around you two in a thousand hugs and go out for a feast, as much of our favourite food as we can eat.
I forgot how Japan feels like. The British people's ways are still foreign to me, and I can tell they judge me even though they hide their daggers in their smiles and eyes like geishas hide their secret arts. There are little ways to fight against their unvoiced accusations and against their racist whispers. Mikotoba urges Jigoku and me to keep trying to change their mentality with peaceful manners. I can proudly say that I haven't had a misstep for now almost five years of our exchange program despite not being used to the English ways, and I think the people from Scotland Yard have grown fond of me.
I rarely get to talk with higher ranked prosecutors and am busy with solving cases most of the time. I am learning a lot about the judicial system here.
There has been one case of particular interest to me lately. Remember when I told you about how progressive English law is, Hisa? It turns out that the law cannot punish certain criminals, no matter how obviously guilty they are – because they're noblemen and can't be judged. How can this be possible?, I questioned the English guideline this one time and wondered how a criminal can get on the loose so easily.
Is this a way we want to adapt to our Japanese empire?
It came to my attention that I wasn't the only one who felt agitated about this injustice. I told you, I am not working with superiors but I am definitely attending trials in the Old Bailey (their English courthouse) whenever I have time to. The rooms there burst with people, Hisa, you cannot imagine how many fit in such small space! With their wide dresses and walking canes and top hats it's like hanami! Or the sakura festival but in one house instead of open-air. And instead of watching the sakura blooms, everybody wants to watch the chief prosecutor especially.
At first, I did not understand the rumors, prosecutor is prosecutor and what is the talk about? I've been welcomed by him briefly to the Great British Empire, but he was busy and we didn't interact since then. But today I saw the chief prosecutor in trial for the first time.
It was incredible, Hisa. His soul must be on fire, the passion his heart harbours moved me deeply by just watching him fight for his client in order to prove his innocence.
It's the case of the nobleman I mentioned previously, a member of the House of Lords, a dirty criminal who is exploiting his fellow men to get richer himself, as if money is salvation and joy – and the chief prosecutor, his name is Klimt van Zieks, he fought like a samurai on the battlefield until the very end, a truly glorious sight to behold.
The ladies between which I was seated could not stop commenting on Lord van Zieks' postures because it is not a common English thing to slam one's leg onto the prosecutor's bench whenever there is a grave point to make, and no other prosecutor has the audacity to draw his sword in "the holy court".
In the end, Lord van Zieks lost the trial and for a moment, when the jurors declared the member of the House of Lords innocent, I was sure Lord van Zieks would cut the grinning nobleman in two halves by the way he was glaring at him. I wonder, with the sword he carries on his hips in court, would he be able to do so?
He has an elegant swordsmanship, truly English to be honest but still easy on the eye. I wish to ask him to a duel sometime even though I doubt I'll get the opportunity to, considering how he is the chief prosecutor after all.
I hope this page about English law doesn't bore you. I am doing well and am taking care of myself like you requested in your last letter. There can be no remedy for the pain of missing you, though.
Speaking of swordsmanship, are you continuing our lessons devotedly, Kazuma? How is the dojo going under your supervision?
I wish I was there for you, my brave ronin. You will be 14 by the time my letter reaches you. Oh, how I want to see how you grew up, Kazuma, you must be as beautiful as your mother by now! Or do you happen to come after your father, I wonder?
Brave ronin, know that I'm always supporting you and feel the utmost pride to call myself your father even though I may seem to be far away! Oh how I wish I could bring Karuma finally home and gift it to you, so that you can watch over it instead of me! I've always wanted to see you wield that sword once you've grown up, Kazuma. You will treat the blade with pride.
I'm running out of space so let me add a couple of words about Mikotoba and Jigoku as well. They seem happy to me, Mikotoba happier since his wife's death almost six years ago. Honestly, I don't meet them as regularly as I used to because either I'm busy or they are away to work.
Mikotoba hangs out with an university student and hobby detective named Sherlock Holmes and I hear he has fun solving crimes which we discuss together from time to time. Jigoku is busy with his work for a demanding prosecutor and the current Justice Minister, barely catching a break. In the evenings, I often find myself alone in our shared room in these university dorms, between all crime scenes, autopsies, wake-up calls and whatnot.
I sincerely hope to return home soon, my loves. Until then, I'm impatiently waiting for your answer.
With the utmost love and prayers for your well-being,
Asougi Genshin
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Nothing gave away what was going to happen that night in autumn 1889. London was covered in a thick blanket of fog, suffocating every sound that tried stealing away into the darkness, and made the people who could afford to seek shelter in their homes or public bars in search for company or simply food and alcohol. Others, who were not as lucky as to be free of mission, did their best to either hurry to their appointed destination or, in the case of patrolmen of Scotland Yard, to fulfill their duty in the name of London's citizens.
It was easy to distinguish Scotland Yarders amidst the citizens, not only by their shared choice of dark clothing but also for the pride they showed while walking, for the safety they emitted – and how they tried to fight the cold that threatened to settle into their bones for eternity. Most patrolmen for that matter covered their faces with thick woolen scarves, trembling despite their best efforts, and that was the reason the lonely man on the sidewalk did not draw any special attention to himself.
Surely, the way he was placing his steps, determined and straight forward, would have told anyone who could see far enough through the fog and happened to throw a glance at him that he was in quite a hurry. Then again, judging by the enormous hunting dog by his side people must assume he was walking his dog (also an indicator that this lonely man was, in fact, a noble; not just anyone could afford to follow the latest craze). And what a beautiful creature the dog was! Tall and lean, and definitely one of the best of her breed, with lithe muscle and smooth walking.
Nobody could have assumed in what mission owner and dog were on the streets of London. They had no reason to, not yet.
Why do we not join the lonely man's side and listen to his thoughts, muttered under his breath, before they are lost to our ears? I must confess to my shame, I've taken too much liking in telling the story this way, but we will keep it realistic for now: I'm not able to listen to his thoughts (I'm no psychic after all), not yet able to read his facial expressions, and maybe I never will be, who knows - but despite all pretence I knew the street talk already, I have been following London's news and I was well acquainted with nobility, well acquainted with law.
"The trials for naught", the lonely man muttered and his fist closed tighter around the dog's leash. "Balmung, you should have seen that victorious grin. A criminal unscathed by Lady Justice, mocking me for all court to see. He robbed my client of everything. He is guilty. It's proven he is guilty. Does he believe he's safe at night? To have the audacity to show his scorn so openly. Can he sleep in peace?"
The dog howled quietly, a ghostly sound that died away in London's mysterious fog. However, it seemed as if the lonely man understood nevertheless. He tilted his head and smiled, but it was not very different from a cornered animal bearing its teeth. Oh yes, cornered he was, driven by the inexplicable rage of a man wronged in his ideals, though none of those evils done were directed at him, and none of those evils were done in his presence.
It was a pain harbored deep in his soul, driven through his flesh like a thorn, drawing blood and turning it black upon taking in oxygen, and it was eating him up from inside, turning his world black. All of it stirred up by a simple mocking smile. The darkness was heavier than any blackness engulfed in London's fog could ever become. It was more dangerous, too. When driven into a corner a beast could lash out in panic-stricken fury, attack even friends while mistaking them for foes, and this beast was nurtured through weeks, through months, years, and was ready for doing the deed.
Maybe I should waste some breath to remind myself of the things in the shadows in general.
There was a lot creeping around in London's underground back then. Some of it was hunted down by Scotland Yard, illuminated by patrolmen's lanterns and taken into custody – but most of it stayed hidden, seething like a teapot over fire, decaying like an infected wound. Of course it was tempting to believe that it was the thugs, the robbers, the murderers, the black market, the little things to suffocate the Great British Empire's law but I would leave you delusional if I agreed (you should know this well, my dear friend).
London's true criminals were those who were left untouched by law, those who could stand in Lady Justice's full sight without feeling a single shred of remorse and continue their wrong-doings since Lady Justice had to stay blind and had to keep her merciless blade pointed down to earth. Most of this category was taken up by noblemen, as you yourself already deduced from my previous pages.
So, who would I be to judge what happened next? To judge the piled up misery of an idealistic man, who had planned his actions for a long time now, ever since he had tried to put up a just fight and was instead knocked into dirt by a sly derisive smile, kicked and mocked and pressed into the ground by an unforgiving boot until he lacked the air to breathe? He was failed by the methods he firmly believed in once. He saw himself pushed to walk a different path. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a terrible thing but I should not get ahead of myself ...
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The lonely man arrived at his destination and ceased the relentless cursing under his breath to collect himself. The mansion he was standing in front of, the home to a criminal, would be almost empty at this time of night, and he himself would not be expected. What would come now - what had to come now - would require all of the lonely man's attention and self-restraint or else he may back down and fall victim to himself. It was no lie to say that during the first incident fate had decided for one of two to die, and for the man cloaked in night it was kill or get killed. Unnecessary doubts, unnecessary weight on his shoulders ... and London did not yet fear the Professor killings, London's nights were still unshaken by murderous intents other than this hidden one.
The hidden blade proved to be the most painful.
"Who is there?" The servant who opened the door to the mansion following a sharp knock had a hard time recognizing much through fog and light flooding the darkness. He squinted his eyes and leaned out the doorway to see better and gave off a little shriek upon seeing the man who, in his eyes, had been turned from an indistinguishable shape in direct proximity into a person of flesh and blood.
Of course he recognized him. Immediately he beckoned him to enter with urgent small gestures, opening the door wider, and said: "Lord van Zieks, what an unusual time to be honouring us with your presence! Going for a walk with Balmung and deciding to stop by? Please enter, sir, I will-"
"There has been an incident, the victim may need immediate help", Klimt interrupted him and watched the servant's painfully slow reaction, the realisation blooming on the servant's face like blood spreading over the floor, so endlessly torturous to watch … "Get hold of your master and follow me! We need to move at once."
There was no turning back now. What an oddly empty feeling it was when the servant started to finally act and ran back inside the mansion to fetch his master. Oh if only the criminal had opened the door himself ... The thought made Klimt quiver as he turned his head away, allowing himself a second of weakness.
Klimt felt his uneasiness get hold of Balmung, who whimpered and shifted her weight around, moving closer to her owner's leg with little motions. He reached out and put his hand on Balmung's head, turning the corners of his mouth upwards but there was no time to falter anymore because at that moment the mansion's master, still in the process of dressing into more than just a night gown, and the servant appeared on the threshold and Klimt already had to lead the men to the place where he seemingly had witnessed an attack.
How does one play the role of someone who had witnessed a crime that did not exist? Klimt found it extraordinarily hard to follow his plan - and yet, when he saw genuine worry on the criminal's face who had stepped on many lives for own profit without even the splinter of a second thought he suddenly found it a lot easier to assimilate his role, and pretending to be a rotten twisted criminal was like breathing air into his lungs after a long time of holding his breath ...
"It was ahead", he said, pointing into an alleyway, secretly loosening Balmung's collar with the other hand, the action hidden by his cloak. Balmung pricked up her ears and tensed up. The servant with a lantern began running, his master close behind, their minds occupied with the crime van Zieks asseverated to have watched and required help with - they ran around a neighbouring mansion's corner like they were told to, into a tighter alleyway, and Klimt took it as sign of Lady Justice that no soul was out here and that he could keep the crime away from innocent eyes.
"Where was it?", the nobleman exclaimed, still fiddling with the girdle that held together his dressing gown, his eyes searching the darkness, strained. The servant didn't slow down and disappeared further ahead with the lantern in hands, while the noble must have noticed the missing sounds of footsteps behind him. He slowed down in his run, turned around to look, feeling anxious that the nonexistent perpetrator had attacked again.
"Chief prosecutor?", he called out into the darkness. He had not heard any sound of struggle, no indicator when they lost Klimt van Zieks. This was bad.
His hand reached for the holster of his gun, his fingers closing around the protecting weapon, when he thought he heard a sharp whistle through fog -
then the teeth found him.
He did not have the time to scream in surprise or draw his gun to shoot at the big heavy shadow that knocked him off his feet, its razor sharp teeth burying into his throat and filling his trachea with his own blood, choking off any sound apart from rattling that might be heard beyond the fog. The nobleman's hands shot up in death struggle and wrapped around the beast's muscular neck, twitching and desperately trying to drag the teeth away but the beast's jaw only opened momentarily to snap cleanly shut again.
The noble tried to gasp for breath but only breathed blood while the dog, pressing his body down with her weight, worked open his throat bit by bit, spilling little nubs of flesh left and right onto the pavement, colouring the stone ground around them in deep red, bearing flesh and muscle and soaking the dog's maw. The hands up in the air moved aimlessly around the working jaws while all life escaped the nobleman's eyes and finally fell to the sides, body still rocking under the dog's violent bites.
"Balmung. Enough." Klimt had not averted his eyes for even a moment from the gruesome scene as he stood within earshot, watching with blank face. His dog obeyed at once, let off her victim and trotted over to her owner, who put a hand on her head, all while still not looking away from the mangled corpse. He didn't feel happy about the murder. He missed the feeling of deep satisfaction that he thought he might feel after the deed was done. Somehow ... Klimt had imagined it to be different. All of those murderers he had sentenced to life-long prison or death had looked as if their crimes meant something to them.
He felt nothing.
A different man might now have voiced his distaste and hatred for the murdered criminal at his feet, may have spit on the corpse or resorted to even greater violence. Someone twisted might have taken a token from the lifeless body, a trophy to remind him of this night, this hour, and somebody might have knelt next to the victim and sent prayers for the departed soul. Klimt felt it was enough for the image in front of him to burn into his inner eye and mind to stay there for the rest of his life. He had done this in the name of justice, and he swore to himself silently that he'd never forget how he felt the moment when he gave Balmung the order to liberate London's darkness of one of its untouchable shadows for the first time. It was dread. Disgust even. Emptiness. Or maybe he felt nothing at all and that was what unsettled him deeply, made him restless after all.
He inhaled a deep breath to catch his mind, turned around and continued walking down the alley, closing up with the other person he needed to deal with tonight. A low sharp whistle and Balmung repeated the gruesome procedure with the unlucky unsuspecting servant, whose gas lantern shattered into a million shards as the back of his head collided with the sharp edge of an abandoned trunk when he was torn to the ground. He was dead before the back of his head even hit the street and Klimt called Balmung back without letting her desecrate the body this time. The servant's only sin was to have been in the wrong spot at the wrong time and Klimt felt deep regret for having to end this innocent man's life in this manner. Thus, he knelt beside him and pleaded the corpse for forgiveness with breathless voice, his shoulders shaking in disgust of himself, the empty feeling of understanding his action despite knowing it was the right thing devouring him worse than a beast.
Oh Barok ... we should leave it at here, you and I. There was nothing we could have done to prevent this first incident to happen. By then Klimt was a soul in shackles being driven to such drastic measures to uphold his own sense of morality ... it's painful. It's painful to know how much the lonely man felt himself driven into a corner and yet something would strike even harder, would force the bleeding mental wound wide open, the things yet to occur! It dreads me to think of these, to think how much more this story is going to be ...
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The next morning the corpses were discovered by a maid who was carrying milk jugs to the nobleman's mansion and happened to choose her way through that alleyway. Her screams were high pitched and terrible, and together with the metallic sounds of milk jugs falling to the ground it woke up people all around from their early morning slumber. Many of them leaned out the windows and started shouting for silence but broke off once they realized what the ruckus was about. Someone of the neighbors was quick-witted enough to run onto the street and call Scotland Yard and by the time detectives arrived at the crime scene there already was a large group of people gathered at the alleyway's sides, spectators out of curiosity and sensation seeking, and some out of fear. Since it was early in the morning – a rest of fog still lingering in the air, most people asleep but for those who were either standing by the crime scene or trying to calm down the sobbing maid some feet away from the corpses – the patrolmen had little problems to make way for the detectives.
"God save the Queen!", the detective in charge of the initial investigation, a man with majestic mustache and soft eyes, exclaimed when he caught a glimpse at the scene before him and turned his head in shock, fighting the sudden urge to empty the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. He certainly wasn't prepared for this level of desecration despite preceding warnings of fellow Scotland Yarders, and certainly not this early in the day. "The poor fellow. Has the corpse been identified already?"
"Yes, Mister Gregson, sir. Here are the provisional reports." The patrolman of Holborn district handed aforementioned report to his superior with shaking hands, his eyes as if magically drawn to the corpses and the people diligently creeping and working around them. Gregson did his best to hide his scorn upon reading the name on paper and forced himself to take a direct look at the murder victim to ascertain the report's accuracy with his own eyes. Even without the coroner it was not hard for anyone to tell the nobleman, Bruno Olaughlin, died because of a ripped open throat, with whatever that had been done. It wasn't Gregson's job to think of the possibilities anyways. He'd just have to report back to his own superior that there had been an incident and he knew all too well what questions he'd need to be able to answer upon his return to the Prosecutor's Office. However, he did not doubt it'd be standard procedure this time. Not likely they'd have a suspect or even the culprit to put on trial.
"How about the person who discovered them first?", Gregson closed his eyes but he could not erase the sight with his eyelids. Pictures of a bare throat with bones and dried up flesh sticking out would probably haunt him in his dreams tonight. Surely, Gregson had chosen the profession of detective to be able to battle London's darkness and to help English prosecutors to accomplish their tasks of assigning fair punishments to criminals and he never regretted this decision – that was, every time until he was faced with a mentally disturbed killer like at present.
"Nothing. The maid is working at the noble's mansion, just around the corner and down the street", the patrolman was visibly relieved to turn his back on the scene and point in the rough direction of what he was explaining to Gregson, "and was on her way to join breakfast duty. She's one of the kitchen maids, only there if it's about cooking but she did identify their head servant, a Mister Butler. Poor fella, doesn't look as bad as the other one but whoever did that ..." The patrolman sighed, his eyes darting around. He looked tired, like any Scotland Yarder had to be after a long night of shift patrol, but as every dutiful lawman he would stand his ground until the investigation was over. Gregson could feel proud of his fellow men, and straightened up a bit himself to give every support he could.
They exchanged some further information, just for the sake of it, and parted ways – the patrolman went home to get rest for the following night, and Gregson accompanied the men transporting the corpses, mainly because they shared the same way.
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Meanwhile, Klimt van Zieks awoke from his troubled sleep. He sat up with a jolt in his bed, bathed in sweat and breathing heavily, his fingers digging into the fabric of his eiderdown, clawing over the smooth fabric. It was so hard to shake the feeling of dread that held him with deadly grip since yesterday night, to get a clear head and remind himself where he was.
He was home. He was safe.
He had accomplished his mission. Yes, he had served justice.
Why did it still feel so wrong?
Klimt allowed himself to fall back in his bed and close his eyes again. He was far away from relaxing, could not after everything that happened. This night he had slept terribly, jolts of thoughts making him startle from easy sleep, and pictures of flesh and blood haunting his mind - good that he didn't have much to do at work today, Klimt faintly remembered that he'd be spending the afternoon with the Japanese exchange student before having to be off to make last preparations for today evening's banquet: The chief prosecutor of Old Bailey giving a feast, in celebration of working together with the current Justice Minister for five years now. A magnificent event and all of London's legal world (and company) were looking forward to it for weeks.
The nightmare had finally found an ending yesterday night. Why was it so hard to get over it then?
I should get up and check on Balmung.
Klimt rolled around on his bed and swung his legs over the bed's edge, burying his feet in a pair of soft slippers. While he dressed up to go outside his eyes fell upon yesterday's clothing by chance. His hand froze as he tightened a simply ornamented belt around his waist. The images in his head came back uncalled, a corpse with torn open throat on the pavement in the darkness, Balmung covered in his victim's blood trotting at him, the chill that went through Klimt as he gave the signal to kill
I'm a criminal.
Klimt lifted his hands and thought he saw the victim's blood drip off his fingers. Disgust of himself got hold of him - he may not have killed Olaughlin with his hands but it has been his voice to give the order, has it not? At what prize did justice come, and why did Lady Justice torture Klimt's mind when he was working in her name? Did killing the noble make him a criminal as well?
Van Zieks reached for his head and dug his fingernails into his temples, shaking. No. This has been done for a greater cause. He would not fall back into a prosecutor's thinking! No one was blaming him. Guilty conscience was not appropriate at times like these. He had done nothing wrong. It was just the habit of judging people's crimes that made him think like that ...
Nothing wrong.
You murdered.
"Shut up", Klimt hissed. With shaking hand he reached for his dresser, avoiding looking in the mirror, opened one drawer and took out a pair of gloves, hiding his hands in the soft smooth fabric. He felt relieved immediately once his skin was hidden away from plain sight.
So stupidly childish.
If it wasn't a grave situation Klimt might have laughed.
A sharp knock at the door and the smiling face of his younger brother in the opening door chased away the last lingering sense of dread from Klimt's heart with a breath.
"I heard you moving around, Klimt", he said, letting go of the door handle to cross his arms in front of his chest and lean against the doorway. His eyes gave Klimt a full-body inspection and an appreciating nod. "Getting ready to leave for the Prosecutor's Office?" Klimt nodded briefly.
"You don't have lessons today?" Both of the Van Zieks children went after their father, in physique and most facial features but Barok had their mother's hair color. Sometimes Klimt could feel a sting of jealousy, for stupid reasons, because their choice of attire differed color-wise exactly because of this difference between them two. Light colors have never been Barok's preferred spectrum, and it was the same for Klimt, the other way round.
"There's going to be exams soon so no. I will head out to assist Benjamin today, however." Barok's facial expression softened as he said that. "Don't worry, Klimt. I'll be back by the evening, dressed for the occasion."
"Why don't you take your science friend with you? He can be your company." Klimt stepped closer to Barok, locking away the rest of doubts in the back of his mind, and pointed vaguely at his cravat, and Barok straightened up, reached out and helped Klimt center his cravat, answering his brother's question with caution in his undertone: "Benjamin is not a fan of big conventions. He tends to get nervous and feel antisocial while all he needs are people who can understand him. His theories. What he's talking about most of the time."
"Do you?" Klimt tugged Barok into a short but tight hug and hit him on the back, fixing his own facial expression.
"I think so", Barok grumbled, and followed Klimt out of the room and downstairs without having noticed the mental state his brother was in. "You are going to meet with the Japanese exchange student today, isn't that so?"
"Yes." Together they walked along the hallway and into the dining area, to find their breakfast already served. "Thank you, Margareth", he addressed the head maid and seated himself. "Have you met him yet?", he asked. Barok frowned.
"No. I have heard a lot about them however. Mostly about Mister Mikotoba."
"How so?" Klimt wondered about that, happy about a distraction. According to his notes Yujin Mikotoba was a medical student, in contrast to the other two, who were active on law grounds. Surely, since the exchange trip was dedicated to learn more about the law processes Mikotoba mostly did autopsies but Barok was about to take his prosecutor's exam so he shouldn't be active on that field. Was there something Klimt was unaware of?
"Holmes", Barok mumbled and Klimt spluttered on his green tea. With reddening cheeks he reached for a napkin and wiped his face, reaching for his composure. He didn't expect that answer.
"I didn't know you were acquainted with the detective?" He made it sound like a question. Barok flushed and averted his gaze, closing both hands around his own tea cup. Klimt blinked several times in order to rearrange his thoughts and cleared his throat, feeling a heat of embarrassment flood over him. "It's not necessarily a bad thing. I remember reading Holmes' name in my reports from time to time, with high praise. He seems to be good at solving cases even though he does not want to work for us officially. A hobby detective, so to speak."
There wasn't much to say about me when the first Professor murder happened. I have been helping out with some cases, working together with Scotland Yard or only by myself when I liked to, and my name was somewhat popular back then. No wonder it took Klimt off guard that Barok was acquainted with an exceptional detective like me!
"It's not like that." Barok sounded defensive. Klimt raised an eyebrow in silent question but decided against asking out loud, and his brother didn't seem to want and explore the topic deeper, so he cleared his throat yet again and said: "Whatever the case, Barok. Send my greetings to Benjamin. I'll be seeing you in the evening." Barok's head shot up.
"You're leaving already?" He watched his brother stand up from a half-finished breakfast with wide eyes and put down his spoon, reached for a napkin to wipe over his mouth and jump up too but a firm hand on his shoulder held him back. For a second Barok believed to see a dark facial expression on his brother's face when he looked up to him but it must have been his mind playing tricks because Klimt smiled his usual charismatic smile down at him.
"You don't have to hurry, Barok. I'll head to my office and gather some things before the appointed time. Finish up in peace. Take care of Balmung too, will you?"
Then he left.