"This is it!"
Victorique ran through the rooms, barely containing her glee. It was a beautiful house, not too large and not too small, located a few streets away from the city center. It had a slightly wild garden and a wrought iron fence, and two floors, which meant she could set up her office downstairs apart from their living quarters.
"This is our house!" she said, leaning out a window excitedly, watching several horse-drawn carriages pass in the street below.
"There is no way we can afford something like this," Kazuya said, aghast. He glanced at the handsome wooden panels and the polished floors. "This place must be worth a fortune!"
"It isn't," Victorique said matter-of-factly. "Isn't that right, Mr... Whatever your name was?" she said, addressing the agent who had come to show them the house. The man gave her a rather offended look but nevertheless doffed his hat.
"Mr. Richards, if you please, Madam," he said. He had dark hair and a splendid handlebar mustache. "And you are correct. This property is currently being offered at a much lower price than usual."
"What? Why?" Kazuya asked suspiciously. Victorique sighed.
"Must I always spell everything out for you, Kujo?" she asked, smoothing her petticoat. "This is clearly a property very few people would be interested in. The owner must be struggling to find a buyer."
"Why would they be struggling? It's a beautiful house close to the heart of the city," Kazuya noted, frowning. "There must be something wrong with it if no one wants it."
"Not wrong, precisely," Victorique continued, interrupting the agent before he could speak. "But certainly unfortunate." She walked over to one of the rooms and pointed at a dark stain barely visible against the color of the floorboard. "That's blood, you see. The fountain of wisdom is telling me that at least three people died just in this room."
"Wh- WHAT?!"
"Yes, murdered, by the look of it," she said, not particularly bothered by her husband's horrified reaction. "This is the type of pattern you'd only get if someone was shot at point blank; note the large round stain and the splatter marks over here, above it. That would be the spurt from the creation of the gunshot wound." She walked to the other extreme, by the window. "And over here, there are stab marks on the wall," she continued, crouching down to inspect them. "Someone has painted over them, but I suspect if you were to scratch it off, you'd find more blood. Ah, yes, see?" She held up a chip of dried paint, and true to her word, there was a brownish stain underneath.
"How did you know, Madam?!" the agent asked, shocked. Kazuya still seemed to be coming to terms with her deductions, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"Simple," she said, shrugging. "Whoever cleaned this place up did a very poor job at hiding the truth. Assuming potential buyers did their research, they'd know a serial killer used to live here."
"A serial killer?!" Kazuya cried, clutching his hat tightly between his hands. "No way, we can't live here!"
"Don't be so spineless, Kujo," said Victorique scathingly. "There's nothing to fear from a room, even if people died there. You know that as well as I do." She turned to the agent. "I imagine if I were to look at the other rooms, I'd find evidence of more victims, correct?"
"W-well... yes... but..."
"Most people only know about the the first, most obvious one, don't they?" she continued, gesturing at the floor. "Otherwise the price would be much, much lower."
Mr. Richards seemed to have gone white. "H-how...?!"
"There is no chaos I can't reconstruct," she said, pulling her pipe and a match from her sleeve. She lit it and took a deep breath, giving the agent a calculating look. "Well, Mr. Richards, I am prepared to negotiate the price."
"No, absolutely not!" said Kazuya, suddenly back to his senses. "This is a murder house, Victorique! A MURDER HOUSE!"
"Yes? Your point being?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
He spluttered, caught off guard. "You- you can't seriously- people died here-"
"A house is a house, Kujo," she said, blowing smoke calmly. "Most homes have had deaths occur in them, natural or otherwise. There is nothing wrong with this house that a bit of cleaning and work won't fix. The evil that lived here is gone, it is just an empty building now."
"I don't like it," he insisted. "Please, let's try somewhere else."
"You," Victorique said abruptly, turning to the agent again. "How likely are we to find another house of this size in our price range?"
"Highly unlikely," Mr. Richards said unhappily. "But you must understand, I can't possibly lower the price any-"
"Of course you can," Victorique said, taking a few steps toward the fireplace and looking up at the ceiling. "Because someone was certainly burned to death in this spot, and I'm sure the newspapers would love to hear all about it. I doubt the authorities were eager to disclose the true scale of the crimes committed here, not when we're so close to so many influential households."
"Are you threatening me, Madam?!"
"Do I need to threaten you?" she asked, looking as composed as if she'd just asked him to tea.
"Victorique, please!"
"Kujo, be quiet," she snapped.
Mr. Richards seemed to be deliberating furiously. At last, with a defeated expression, he sighed. "Very well, I can offer you half the current listed price."
Kazuya was struck dumb. "H-half?!" Even an apartment cost far more than that.
"We'll take it," said Victorique. "When can we sign the papers?"
"Th-This afternoon, if you wish it..."
"Perfect, let's go, Kujo," she ordered, taking several purposeful steps out of the room. When Kazuya didn't follow, she went back and took his hand. "Kujo, we're leaving," she tugged, but he seemed to be frozen in place. "Kujo!"
"But it's a murder house," he said in a pained whisper, staring at the stain on the floor.
"Kujo, really," she said, exasperated. "There are no spirits or curses here, just a house. If you want, we can demolish and rebuild it once we've settled in and saved some money. In fact, everything we're going to save from buying this place can go towards that goal."
He grimaced. "You really want this house so badly?"
"I do, it's the perfect place for the agency."
He chewed the inside of his cheek for a minute. "Can we please sleep in the least murder-y room, at least?"
"If you must," she said, amused. He was going to give in; he always did, after all.
"Alright," he said weakly. "We'll buy this house... but we're not moving in until it's been properly cleaned up. And after we've changed the floorboards."
"I knew you'd see sense, Kujo," said Victorique brightly.
"Sense, right," he muttered as she steered him toward the front door, still crushing his hat between his fingers.
It was ironic, after everything he and Victorique had been though, that they would end up living in a house that once belonged to a killer.
Almost fitting, even, Kazuya admitted two weeks later, carrying a trunk of Victorique's clothes upstairs. A detective agency, situated in a serial murderer's front room. I just wish the rest of the house wasn't following that theme.
"Kujo!" his wife called over the sound of the movers coming in and out of the house.
"Yes?" he replied loudly, his voice echoing unnervingly in the emptiness. He tried very hard not to think about what may or may not have happened in this hall, and was glad he had insisted on at least changing the floors.
There was a loud thud and a high pitched cry of rage.
"Victorique?! Are you alright?"
"Obviously not! Get down here already!" she shouted back irritably. Kazuya sighed; as intelligent as Victorique was, she was rather helpless at everything else.
"Coming!"
He deposited the trunk in their new bedroom and hurried downstairs. Several men were carrying pieces of furniture inside, pausing only to wish Kazuya a good day.
"Where d'you want this, kid?" a particularly burly man asked, setting down a small, brand new dinner table.
"Oh, that can go in the room in the back," said Kazuya, pointing down the hall. "The chairs should be there already."
"Not a problem," the man said, whistling to himself as he picked the table up and carried it away. Kazuya stopped to watch for a second.
"Kujo!" Victorique shouted.
"Coming!" called Kazuya, hurrying into the sitting room. Victorique was on the floor, her frilly dress splayed out around her, stacking what looked like half a library's worth of books into messy piles with a surly expression on her small, round face.
"You certainly took your time," she said accusingly, slamming a book down.
"It's been maybe three minutes, at most," Kazuya said, kneeling down to help. "How did all of these get on the floor?"
"They fell," she said grumpily.
"Uh huh," he said, straightening a pile. "I don't suppose you were trying to carry too many at once?"
"No," she said stiffly. "They fell on their own."
"If you insist." He picked up several books and carried them to the new shelves, where he began shelving them in alphabetical order.
"It's better by topic," Victorique said, suddenly standing at his shoulder as if she had been there all along. Kazuya gave a start and almost dropped the books.
"You know I hate it when you do that!" he cried, trying to calm his heart.
"All I did was stop you from ordering the library inefficiently," said Victorique, her mouth set in a petulant pout. Kazuya relaxed at the all too familiar gesture.
"Speaking of libraries," he said, remembering something from a long time ago. "You don't hide anymore, do you?"
"Pardon?"
"When we were at Saint Marguerite's," he said, swapping one book for another. "If someone you didn't recognize came up to the botanical garden in the library, you always hid in the cabinet."
"That was a long time ago," she muttered, not catching his eye. "Why are you bringing up such an old story?"
"Well, you're fine with the movers," said Kazuya gesturing at the busy hallway. "You didn't go hide upstairs or anything."
"Like I said, it was a long time ago!" she said fiercely, obviously offended. Kazuya tried not to smile, but it was hard to keep his face straight.
"Yet you still decided to work in the room that the movers finished furnishing first," he added, picking up another pile of books and bringing them back to the shelf.
"And what is that supposed to mean?!" growled Victorique.
"Nothing at all," he said lightly. He shot her a sidelong glance and knew he'd gone a bit too far. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, I'm just a lowly peasant after all. There, there," he said, ruffling her hair even though he knew she hated it. Just as he predicted, she made an indignant noise and pushed his hand away.
"I am not a cat!" she cried, her miniature fists clenched tightly at her sides. "I will not be coddled by the foolish third son of an imperial soldier!"
"Hey! I am not a fool!"
"Vous êtes un imbécile si je dis que vous êtes!" She glared at him from her magnificent height of 145 centimeters. Kazuya returned the look with a tired grimace.
"Yes, dear, you're right, dear," he said flatly. She kicked him in the shin with her pointed, doll-like boots.
"You know I hate that," she seethed. "I am no one's dear, Kujo."
Wincing and rubbing his leg, he nodded glumly. "Yes, Victorique," he said dully.
Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway, and they both turned to find the large, burly mover leaning against the door, watching. His hair was bright red beneath his cap, his eyes brown and intelligent.
"Clearly the little miss is in charge here," he noted in flawless French, grinning. Kazuya stared at him.
"You- You understand French?" he asked, confused. Everyone they had met in America until now had spoken English to one another, the brusque, crude accent like a bludgeon compared to the prim, fluid British accent spoken in Saubure. In fact, most people had trouble understanding whenever he or Victorique spoke, unless they were familiar with the British mannerisms hidden under the liquid French lilt.
"Oui, obviously," the man chuckled, back to English. "My mother's French, made sure I spoke it as well as any proper little native before she died. I'm more surprised you can speak it, kid. You don't look like no Frenchman I've ever met."
"Ah, I'm not," Kazuya said, vaguely aware of Victorique stepping behind his much larger frame. She was glaring at the newcomer with ill-disguised suspicion. "Neither of us are, actually. I'm from Japan, and Victorique here is from Saubure." He tried to steer her forward but she resisted with all her might and gave him a dirty look that clearly said he would pay for the transgression later. "Come on, at least try to be polite," he muttered, but she made a hissing noise and he desisted.
"Japan I know, because of the war, but Saubure? Never heard of it."
"It's a tiny country, really," Kazuya explained, continuing to shelve as he spoke. "Squeezed between France, Switzerland, and Italy. I went to school there, which is why I can speak both French and English."
"Ah, that explains it. And you, little missy?"
Victorique bristled, seeming to physically puff up in her indignation.
"I am neither little nor a missy-"
"You are very little," the man interrupted, clearly amused. "You barely reach your husband's upper arm." Both Kazuya and Victorique gave a start of surprise. "Not a lot of folks notice that detail, I'm guessin," the man laughed. "Well, normally I'd think you were his daughter, or his ward, but you look nothing alike, and I see a ring on each of your hands, so either you're much older than you look, or people marry very young in this Saubure of yours."
Victorique's eyes narrowed, clearly reevaluating her first impression of this large intruder. "You are more astute than I initially assumed," she finally said, stepping forward out of Kazuya's shadow and holding out her palm toward him expectantly.
"What?"
"Hmm," she grunted, the pout back on her lips.
"Oh, right..." Kazuya rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out her ceramic pipe, white and decorated with blue flowers. He lit it for her and settled it in her hand. She gave a brief jerk of the head as thanks and puffed thoughtfully, her eyes still on the mover. For his part, the red-haired man merely looked entertained at the sight of a small girl smoking a pipe.
"Well, you are correct," she said after a minute of silent smoking. "I may look young, but I am the same age as Kujo, and we are, indeed, husband and wife. Your rudeness aside, I am impressed that you noticed, when so many people in this country have jumped to far more ridiculous conclusions in the short time we have been here."
"Can't help bein rude," the man shrugged. "I may speak French, but I ain't no nobleman. Just a simple mover with a habit of stickin my nose where it don't belong. I heard you speaking a language I don't hear often and couldn't help lookin in. You, on the other hand, miss, you're a blue blood if I ever seen one. Why'd you move into a house like this, when you must be rolling in it?"
"I don't believe I'm under any obligation to explain myself to you," she sneered. "If I were, as you so eloquently put it, a blue blood, then you have no more right to question me in my own home than you have the right to lick my shoes. You are nothing but a servant, and an impudent one at that!"
"Victorique!" Kazuya scolded, but she gave him no notice. But instead of getting angry, the man laughed again.
"Feisty!" he guffawed. "Haughty and proud, just like a proper princess; I can see why you married her," he grinned wolfishly, nodding at Kazuya. "Even if the money didn't do it, there's somethin magnetic 'bout a girl like that."
Kazuya frowned; he didn't particularly like people assuming he married Victorique for her wealth (which, in any case, was mostly nonexistent now), and he certainly didn't appreciate the look in the man's eyes as he raked them up and down Victorique's height.
"I'm sorry, but we still don't know your name," Kazuya said, rather stiffly.
"Ah, right. Always forget all my manners when somethin catches my eye. Name's Fredrick Wellert. Well, Frédéric, if you go by my mum's pronunciation. Pleased to meet you." He swept the cap off his head and gave a low bow. The polite gesture made Kazuya feel more at ease.
"Kazuya Kujo," Kazuya said, stepping forward to shake the man's hand. "And of course, my wife, Victorique." She shot him an angry look but said nothing.
"I thought your given name was Kujo, the way the miss said it."
"I am not a miss!" Victorique insisted, pointing her pipe at Fredrick imperiously. "You will address me by my surname, or by madame, or not at all!"
"Victorique, please." Kazuya sighed. "No, Kujo is my - our - surname. Old habits die hard, I'm afraid," Kazuya said mildly. "We were often called by surname while at school and it's never quite worn off."
"Right, so Mr. and Mrs. Kujo then."
Victorique looked as if something foul had been forced under her nose.
"I have changed my mind," she scoffed, turning her back to both men. "The next person to call me 'Mrs.' anything will meet my sincere displeasure."
"Yes, well, that is my wife," Kazuya said sheepishly as she marched away to the other side of the library and began shoving books onto their shelves. "Please forgive her temper, Mr. Wellert."
Frederick chuckled, clearly quite enjoying the conversation. "No problem, sorry to eavesdrop on you and all. Not every day I meet such interestin folk, 'specially not when they're movin into a house like this."
Kazuya grimaced. "So you know about it."
"Everyone does, round these parts. Nasty, what happened. You know they never caught the guy?"
"They didn't?" asked Kazuya, rapt.
"Oh no. People went missin for years, but wasn't til two years ago that the police wised up and got a tip somethin weren't right in this house. Folks'd been hearin odd noises in the middle of the night, nothin too obvious, but enough for rumors to start floatin around. The guy who lived 'ere was a bit of a weirdo, kept to himself. He inherited the place from some wealthy relatives, and never bothered with the upkeep. No one ever saw him come out, most didn't even know what he looked like. It was easy for folks to believe somethin unnatural was goin on."
"They thought the building was haunted, I'm sure." Kazuya jumped; Victorique was back, listening to the story intently next to him. Fredrick nodded. "Even in the new world, humans can't help looking to the occult for answers," she sighed, shaking her head slightly.
"It's natural, ain't it?" Fredrick shrugged. "Creepy place with a creepy owner and all."
"So what happened with the police?"
"Ah, right, so one night, the police show up with a tip sayin that someone saw one of the victims tryin to open a window before bein dragged away. No one answered the door, so they raided the place, and found-"
"A butchery," Victorique interrupted.
"That's what the stories say, though the Times only ever reported one death, the most recent one. Young Wall Street banker, found strung over a doorway with his organs spillin out of him onto the floor."
Kazuya felt a distinct wave of nausea rise up in his throat.
"Some folks say they heard over twenty bodies were found, all torn up and hung from the ceilins and walls, but that the police department ordered a hushup. Wouldn't look great, you see, finding a pile of bodies so close to headquarters."
"Naturally," Victorique said, looking no more perturbed at the idea of corpses than ever. "And the perpetrator?"
"Gone, never even caught a glimpse of 'im. Curious though, one of the bodies they found, a relatively recent one, belonged to the owner of the place."
"He wasn't the killer?" Kazuya asked, confused.
"Nah, just some poor sod who'd probably gotten caught up in a madman's sick little game," Fredrick said, shrugging. "Police searched for weeks but they never found anythin that led 'em to the real culprit. He just vanished. The house went to the next closest relative of the dead owner, some niece twice removed or somethin, who tried to hastily clean it up and get rid of it, but she ain't had much luck until you two."
Kazuya groaned. "I think I preferred not knowing the details."
"On the contrary, this is very interesting," Victorique said, chewing on the end of her pipe. "I surmise no motive was ever found?"
"Not that I know. All the bodies are s'posed to have been cut up and killed in different ways. No common ground when they was alive either."
"You know a great deal for a mover," Victorique noted shrewdly. Fredrick laughed.
"Like I said, I'm nosy. Movin people from house to house, you pick up stories on the way. Lot of neighbors went packing from this street after the raid. Most of the residents now are recent arrivals."
"Victorique, you have that look," Kazuya said, knowing that beneath her piercing green eyes and seemingly blank expression, her mind was working at full speed.
"Mm," she said, but in the end she shook her head. "I don't have enough fragments," she said, looking mildly irritated. "There are too many possibilities, too many open ends."
Fredrick raised an eyebrow, clearly confused by the conversation, but did not press for an explanation.
"Well, this was a fun chat, Mr. Kujo, Madame Kujo. But I do 'ave to get back to work, I'm 'fraid," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the other movers. A couple of them shot him a dirty look. "It was a pleasure, hope you have better luck 'ere than the last owner did." He gave them a mischievous grin and waved. Kazuya watched as he hurried to help the others carry in the bed frame.
"I really wish I had stopped you buying this place," he moaned, nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Victorique rolled her eyes.
"Relax, it is highly unlikely that the murderer is going to return here."
"What makes you say that?!"
"Because, whatever his goal, I think he had already accomplished it."
He must have been looking particularly nonplussed because Victorique gave a deep sigh of impatience.
"They searched the place from top to bottom, Kujo. Even hidden rooms or the like would have been found after a massacre of this scale. And yet, they found nothing, not a single thread that might explain the murderer's intentions or identity. Which means...?"
"Er... he cleaned the place out?"
"Exactly," she said, satisfied. "A feat he couldn't have managed if he were caught off guard by the police raiding him. So either he knew the police were on to him, or he had just about finished what he had set out to do."
"How are you so sure he had a purpose, though?" Kazuya asked, thinking hard. "Why couldn't he have been an insane, bloodthirsty killer who simply liked to kill? Or a psychopath?"
"If he were insane, he would have left behind evidence," she explained. "And if he were a psychopath, then he would not have conducted his work in secrecy. Psychopaths leave trails, proofs. They want everyone to know what they've done. But all the victims were left here, in the house of a recluse where no one was ever seen leaving or entering. The murderer was after something, but whatever it was, it's long gone now." Her face fell slightly. "And now I'm bored again," she whined.
Kazuya, whose head was full of unpleasant and graphic thoughts, didn't quite hear her.
"What?" he asked, shaking himself back to reality. Victorique looked so petulant she could have been a child who had been denied sweets.
"I'm bored, Kujo! Bored, bored, boreeeeed!"
"What are you talking about?! We've got a whole house to organize!"
"No, that's dull," she insisted, crossing her arms. "I want to go out!"
"Well, we can't," he said firmly, returning to the shelves. "Until the movers leave, we have to stay home. Do you really want all our new furniture stolen? It wasn't cheap, you know."
"No, but well within our means, since we paid so little for the house," snapped Victorique.
"Yes, the extraordinarily cheap murder house," Kazuya muttered, feeling rather sick to his stomach.
"I heard that."
"I wasn't particularly trying to hide it."
Victorique skulked over to the window, staring out at the street with barely concealed longing. Kazuya watched her out of the corner of his eye, his resolve softening. She looked so small, a little Victorian doll in lace and frills, eyes wide and curious...
"When the movers leave," he said, determinedly keeping his gaze on the books in his hands. He cleared his throat slightly. "We'll go out for dinner."
She turned her head toward him, obviously excited.
"Really?!"
"It's not as if we have a useable kitchen yet," he grinned. "And since we did save a fair bit of money..."
She paused for a moment, then hurried toward him and stared up into his face seriously.
"What is it?" he asked, confused.
"... down," she muttered, a pink tinge appearing on her cheeks.
"What?"
"I said, kneel down! How do you expect me to kiss you when you're all the way up there?!" she shouted, blushing scarlet.
Kazuya's face burned; he thought he heard someone stifling a laugh in the hallway behind them.