Author's note: To my reviewers thanks so much for the reviews! I apologize that this took some time to be put up, for I was forced to revise my story due to a plot hole. And to Koji: I am really honored that you took time to come up with your own interpretation of the woman's identity, but I'm keeping mum about this issue!
Chapter 8
Ryuk gave a dry chuckle at the newspaper's bold headlines.
"Hey, so what are you going to do now, Raito? You don't have the internet, and it seems like the newspapers are too scared to print any more articles about criminals…" Ryuk took a bite from the apple Raito had bought him. "How are you going to continue?"
The young man paused for a while, thinking. "The police must be putting their foot down upon these newspapers…"
"But, on the other hand," Raito said thoughtfully. "Holmes, if he is anything like L, would never condone such an action. And judging by his fame, it is likely that the police are extremely jealous… especially… now what was that man's name?" Raito thought hard. "Ah yes, Lestrade, as Watson called him in the memoirs."
He smirked.
"Holmes definitely would have told the police to not make such a move. But unlike L, Sherlock Holmes does not have the power to override the actions of Scotland Yard. I can definitely make use of this, Ryuk."
"But now…" Raito just smiled, and slowly took out one of the press clippings he had saved for emergencies. Flipping open the death note to a fresh page, he got out his pen. "Don't underestimate me."
And he began to write.
"Are you Mr. John Franklin?"
"Yes," said the editor of London's most prominent newspaper, with a bite of impatience. "My clerk told me you have something important for me. Well what is it? I am a busy man."
"A letter for you, sir. Of great importance," said the messenger, with an odd, emotionless voice as he handed over the note. He was a young man, very well-built, with a tiny clipped moustache over his thin pale lips.
The editor blanched as he flipped open the letter addressed to him. Written in large bold caps, were the following words.
I AM JUSTICE. AS PROOF, I WILL KILL THE MAN WHO GAVE YOU THIS. HE WAS CONVICTED OF ROBBERY, BUT WAS RELEASED DUE TO LACK OF EVIDENCE.
IF YOU DO NOT DO AS I SAY, I WILL KILL YOU, YOUR SUBORDINATES, AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY, FOR YOU WILL BE IN THE WAY OF JUSTICE. I WANT YOU TO REQUEST READERS TO SEND IN PHOTOS AND NAMES OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE WRONGED THEM, AND PRINT THEM.
IF YOU DO NOT DO THIS, I WILL START KILLING YOUR FAMILY MEMBERS ONE BY ONE, BEFORE I KILL YOU. THAT IS MY FINAL WARNING.
Before he could question the man who had handed him the paper, the latter suddenly gave a small cry, turned pale and fell to the floor clutching his heart. Full of horror, the editor instinctively ran to get some brandy, hoping that it might help before he called for medical aid. However, it was too late. The young man gave one last shudder, and fell back, clearly dead.
The editor, shaken and drained, picked up his phone with trembling hands and dialed.
Holmes studied the note intently. "Come Watson," he suddenly said, handing me the letter. "What do you make of it?"
"Well…" I said, eyeing the paper and trying to use the same deductive process as my friend's. "The man seems to be of a remarkable character- the writing is forceful, and emphatic. However, the paper is of quite flimsy quality, of a common sort, usually used by the lower classes…"
"Precisely so, Watson. As you can see, the ink has seeped through the paper as well. And judging by the shape of the ink blots, the writer used a pen, not a quill. But look at this!" He brought the letter closely to his eyes, and said, "This man used no ordinary pen."
"What do you mean, Holmes?"
"Look at the way the words were written. The letters are almost perfectly printed, and smooth throughout every line. Indeed, this letter was written with a Waterman pen!"
I gasped. "You mean to say those luxury pens boasted by the upper class and the aristocracy?"
"Quite right, my dear Watson. Those pens are only found in America, and precious few have trickled over to us- they cost a king's ransom. Now, would you not expect that someone using such flimsy and low-quality paper, would in turn have used, say, perhaps those scratchy, and easily broken nibs used by children in our common schools? That would have pointed us in the direction of the lower class... but then, on the contrary, I am sure the writer would have known his language and actions points otherwise. It is almost as though the criminal did this deliberately, but for what purpose?"
"Perhaps the man is not comfortable with using a nib?" I tried.
"Maybe so… but if that's the case, where did he get the money?" Holmes started to pace, his eyebrows deeply furrowed.
"And besides," he continued, "the killer probably might have made use of the pen in order to throw us off track."
Holmes took a deep breath. "We are treading in very dangerous waters. The man we are dealing with is exceedingly dangerous, ruthless… and worse still, every instinct in my body is pointing to the idea that we may be dealing with someone as cruel and ingenious, or even worse, than Moriaty himself."
There was a silence, in which Holmes looked ghastly pale in the tiny light of the room.
Holmes frowned, staring at the scrap of paper.
"I only have the quality of the pen to work on… and it seems as though the writer is extremely sure we cannot track him through this." He started to pace, eyes flashing and face increasingly flushed. "If he really is of the upper class, then that narrows our search considerably. Precious few people even have that sort of money to spend on pens. But then, if he is not… where else did he get the money?"
Closing his eyes, Holmes stood rigidly against the table.
"The only other possibilities I have is that he is threatening one of them with death, and hence black-mailing that unfortunate person to get what he wants. But then, judging by the way in which the killer operates, he seems very individualistic- not likely include another in his plans, even at the point of blackmail. Someone might talk, or find out and expose him- I doubt the killer would be willing to take such a risk."
Suddenly, Holmes gave a tiny cry. "My God! What a fool I've been! Of course!" He turned to my confused self, talking quickly. "Don't you remember that newspaper article? Of Sir George Endel who died of a heart attack? I had put little thought to it at that point in time, for although he is a fit and robust man, I knew such tragedies could strike without reason. I thought he was merely a victim of that; now I think he is a victim of much sinister causes. And as I told you before, he is immensely wealthy- one of the few who had the fortune to purchase over twenty Waterman pens. Remember it was reported that he left the house for a rather long period of time? And it was just as he stepped over the threshold of his house that he was seized by that heart attack? Doesn't that strike you as similar to the messenger who fell down dead in the editor's office? Why didn't I see it before?"
"And now I have to make some inquires." He grabbed his overcoat and hat. "There are cigars on the table, and the spirit case is over there. Just sit and wait for me, Watson! I ought not to be long."
It was a few hours later before he returned, and from his haggard clothes and overcast features, I knew his expedition had not gone well. "Damn and blast!" He muttered. "I was too late. No one at the house knew of what Sir Endel did before he died, or where he went. Apparently he did those kinds of isolated expeditions all the time. I asked around the neighborhood, but found no trail. However, I do know that he left the house with a bulky bag, but when he returned it had gone."
"So you are saying that that bag contained money?" I asked, thunderstruck.
"I'm sure of it. There's no other possibility. That and the fact that the squabbling inheritors of Endel's wealth all noticed a sizeable amount missing from his accounts… they are right now blaming each other for it." Holmes turned away to get his pipe.
"I think the killer can control both the manner and timing of death. And out of all the wealthy people in London he was the only one reported for a crime at that time period. So why did the killer choose him? That means that either he only had his power at that time, or he must have only entered England during that time. But then," said Holmes, pacing. "There were many other disgraced aristocrats before George Endel- so why was he chosen and not others? Could the perpetuator have a personal grudge against him? If that is so, then it narrows the possibilities too. Sir George Endel was relatively unknown except among his own privileged circle… until that newspaper article appeared. "
Damn!" cursed Holmes. "I wish I didn't have to go through this case with so little facts- I dislike it when we are only working with assumptions."