Chapter 18- Delay, destruction and devestation.

Erik sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Christine fumbling around in the adjoining room. He had offered to use that room so that she could change in the main room, which had far more space. She had declined his offer politely and formally and carried herself off to put the dress he had collected for her on.

Thud.

He winced and glanced at the door which was firmly shut and he didn't doubt that she had used the lock on the inside. Christine hadn't reacted quite the way he had expected to his presence and eventually, with much thought, he had put it down to the fact that she was worried for her husband. And who wouldn't be? She had grumbled part of the story to him, through tears, after he had handed her the dress. Apparently the men she had seen had tied Raoul's hands behind his back and the last thing she saw of him was with a knife to his throat, coated in blood.

Bang.

'Christine, are you alright?' He called and waited. Less than a minute later she came walking out, dressed and slightly red from the experience.

'I'm fine.' She replied and brushed her dress down at the front, she had pinned her hair up away from her face and her features shone at him. She was still so beautiful. 'When are we leaving?'

'Not until later.' He said and watched her face crease into a frown.

'Erik, we can't waste time!' She cried and he shook his head slowly as if begging her to use her brain and see that there was method in his madness, as there had always been.

'We need the cover of night, it's no use us going yet. We'll be killed.' He stated simply.

'No.' She said. 'You just don't want anyone to see you. You haven't changed at all Erik. Your face, your ego is stopping you from helping me.' Her eyes glowed in his direction. 'Or is it that you know the longer we leave him the more chance there is that he will be dead?'

Erik shot to his feet and grabbed Christine's arm, glaring at her face, his eyes locking onto hers. His temper growled to him as he moved her aside and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the dressing table. He looked at the bottle in his hand readying himself to feel its painful pleasure burn his throat but the sight of Christine in the background stopped him. He raised his face from the bottle to look at her properly, she was staring at him and he allowed a wry smile to form on his lips.

'I would happily kill him, Christine.' He said, still holding the bottle in his right hand, his grip intensified. She looked back at him and fear spread across her features.

'Would you though?' She asked and his smile faded as the anger re-established itself in his pulse. He strangled the bottle with his fingers and with a burst of fury threw it past Christine. It hit the opposite wall with such force that a shard of glass hit hand which was now at his side.

'Would I?' He said, stepping closer to Christine. 'Would I kill your precious husband?' His face was hot with rage. 'Would I see him and slit his throat?'

He was standing in front of her, his blue eyes burning gold and his hand balling to a fist. She mustered a timid nod and he shook his head.

'Would I, Christine?' He growled at her. 'The question is, Christine, why wouldn't I?'

Detective Sanders stood at the entrance of the tall building, in front of him were beautifully sculpted stone steps leading up to a double door, engraved with the letters RDC. His partner, Detective Fellows, stood at the top of the steps shaking his head as the uniformed officer in front of him relayed some details. A minute later and Paul Sanders was jogging up the steps to meet his friend, who obviously had the facts by now.

'So Thomas, what have we got?' He asked his partner who shot a glance as if to say you don't want to know.

'It's bad.' Said Thomas Fellows, 'It's… it's bad.'

The two detectives walked into the entrance way which opened out into a magnificent lobby covered in marble and decorated with expensive paintings. The whole house gave off the stench of wealth and Sanders soon felt suffocated by it's falseness. It was obvious that somebody had tried to make the house a home but somehow had failed, he was rarely wrong about this. He was rarely wrong about anything.

'There's blood in that room over there,' Fellows said, pointing at the room to their left and then aiming his finger at the door ahead. 'And in there, there's a body.'

Sanders poked his head around the first door to see a uniformed officer trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The uninformed officer look at the detective and shrugged his shoulders with sadness. He'd obviously seen the body already. Fellows had made it to the other door and Sanders caught him up so that they walked through together. By the far winder was a knife and lying next to it the body of a young woman, pale and cold.

They walked over and Sanders knelt by her side, looking at her and judging her age. He estimated that she was around thirty years old and he noted that she was in her night wear and that she had one wound in the chest. The blood was pooled around her body and it was obvious that this was where she had been stabbed and left to die. He glanced up at Fellows who was no doubt making the same mental notes as he.

'Done?' asked his partner and Sanders stood and nodded. He got the attention of a young officer and told him to take the knife as evidence and to help with the body. He then stepped out of the room to catch up with his partner who was on his way up the staircase.

'Where are you going?' He asked Fellows.

'There's more upstairs.' He said and closed his eyes. 'I told you it was bad.'

Four hours later and the sun was beginning to set on London, Paul Sanders was sitting on the bottom step at the front of the house they had spent the best part of the day in. He was still amazed and disgusted. He ran his hand over his bald head and rested his elbows on his knees. His tie was hanging from his neck loosely now and fatigue was beginning to wash over his bones.

His partners words were still ringing in his mind and he stared up at the sky, thanking God that at least the weather had improved.

It's bad.

And it was bad. Very bad. There had been one body downstairs and three bodies upstairs. A neighbour had bravely confirmed that all of the deceased were servants in the house and that the master of the house wasn't among the dead. Neither was his wife.

When Thomas Fellows had heard the names he had let out an uncharacteristic gasp and shot his eyes in Paul's direction. Paul had simply stared at the neighbour with disbelief and asked him to repeat it several times before it actually sank in.

The names were not important on their own not even with the murders which hid behind the walls of the house. The names were not important out of context. The names were Raoul and Christine De Chagney of France.

It wasn't even that they were important people in France, practically royalty, no.

But the importance of these names meant that Paul knew that this case had just gotten a whole lot bigger.