I'm sorry this took so long. I swear, I'll be getting around to finishing all these off at some point. If my laptop behaves itself...

I let myself into the apartment and surveyed the mess. With a sigh, I made my way upstairs to the bedrooms. Opening the first door, I found Arthur's dressing-gown laying discarded on his bed. A wardrobe crouched in the corner. The bed faced a chest-of-drawers and a small vase stood there, a single red rose standing in it. I was surprised: the harsh way Arthur spoke did not give room for one to imagine him with flowers. Gently, I closed the door and walked on.

My room seemed brighter than Arthur's – the window let in sunlight as there were no curtains. The bedsheets were white with a floral pattern. I suspected Mr Wang had been responsible for this neatly made bed. A simple wooden wardrobe sat in a corner and a chest-of-drawers made it difficult to squeeze by. A small picture of some English countryside was at the head of the bed.

I began to unpack. I put away my clothes and shifted the furniture so that the storage spaces were along one wall and the bed was under the window. This gave me more room to move. I placed some of my cooking books on the chest-of-drawers, using two ornaments I had brought from France to hold them up. One was a small monument to Joan of Arc, my favourite historical figure. She held her sword aloft and the weight of it helped hold the books up at one side. At the other end was a snow globe with the Eiffel Tower within it. My first romantic partner had given it to me and I kept it with me to remind me that love was out there – I just had to look for it. Finally, a picture of my mother, father and I was placed so that I could see it on entering the room. They may have disowned me but I still loved them.

Returning to the living room, I gazed at the mess. With a sigh I began to tidy up, neatly placing the papers on the table. The laptop still seemed to be running and I carefully placed it beside the endless piles. Once I had finished in the living room, I began to tidy the kitchen, throwing endless burnt food – if that's what it was – into the bin. The piles of dishes I washed, scrubbing at them till they sparkled.

The opening of the door alerted me to the arrival of Arthur. I glanced towards the living room but returned to my task of putting everything away. There was a silence. I wondered what he was doing briefly but a shout from Arthur caused me to jolt and drop the pot I was holding. I turned to find him in the doorway, staring at me in shock. "What did you do?!" he yelled.

Astonished, I gaped at him for a moment before speaking. "What do you mean?"

"My papers! What did you do to them?!"

"I... I tidied them, mon ami."

"I had a system! You've ruined it! How am I going to find the one I need?!"

"Oh..." I couldn't think of anything else to say and could only watch as he spun round and rushed to the table. Papers began to float over his shoulders as he threw them out of the way. "Can you do that without making such a mess?!" I exclaimed, annoyed that my hard work was going to waste.

"Shut up! I'm thinking!" snapped Arthur.

My eyes narrowed. "I may have made a mistake moving in," I said. Not that Arthur appeared to be listening.

"Aha!" Arthur declared. He gazed at the paper for a moment before smiling. "This is it! This is the connection!"

"Quoi? What is it?" I asked, forgetting the mess for the moment.

"Two of the victims were part of a secret society. One of the victims created it after being refused entry to one of the other ones. And look here! So was the first victim. The society only lasted a year and had twelve members. They called themselves the Clock Makers and met in a room with an old grandfather clock. Don't you see? This is all about them! The university will have a list of names. One of them would know who everyone is. They'll be the one killing everyone." He paused. "Unless..."

"'Unless' what, Arthur?" I asked, frowning. What other explanation for these events could there be?

"Brilliant," he said, smiling. "Simply fantastic."

"Arthur!" I wailed, not understanding.

He didn't pay any attention to me. Instead he hopped onto his armchair and settled down, the laptop open. He began tapping at it. "Jones told me he'd e-mail the list of the members and their last known addresses," he explained, not looking at me. But I was gazing at him and I could see his eyes shining with excitement. It was rather attractive. I sat down on the cleared chair opposite him and watched, waiting with him. "Finally," he muttered after a moment. I watched him skim the contents of the e-mail before smiling. When he rose from his seat, I was surprised.

"Where are you going?" I asked him.

"To Swan Road. There's a person I'd like to talk to." He hurried to the door.

"Attendez! Should I not come with you?" I hurriedly asked.

Arthur stopped and looked at me, appraising me. "Why?"

"Well, I thought..." I trailed off. What had I been thinking? I was a chef, not a detective. I was not even a doctor or anything of the like.

"You should stay here. It could be dangerous. And there would be a lot of running. Though, being French, you could probably run away very fast."

I frowned. "I am not afraid, Arthur! I will come with you today et make sure you are not hurt."

For a moment neither of us moved or spoke. Then Arthur nodded. "Fine. Just don't get in my way."

Smiling, I tugged on a jacket, grabbed a scarf and rushed after him.

We paused outside the address and gazed at the small brick house. It was the same as the rest of the row. The doors were a dark wood and the building was clearly labelled with large brass numbers. Arthur marched up to it and knocked.

"Who are we going to see?" I asked.

"The vice-president of the club," Arthur said.

"Ah, oui. That makes sense."

He knocked the door again, tapping his foot impatiently. There was still no answer. Annoyed, Arthur looked through the glass in the door, peering into the darkness. "Why won't he answer?" he muttered.

"Perhaps they are at work?" I suggested.

"He works as a postman. His rounds are done for the day."

"Then perhaps he is out somewhere else?"

"If you had read that three members of your secret society had been killed, would you go out?"

"Non," I admitted.

Lifting the letterbox, Arthur called out to the man. "Daniel Weir? Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland. Open the door. This is important. I have to talk to you about the Clo-" He broke off, staring through the slit in the door. Looking through the window, I could see the silhouette of a person. "Mr Weir?" Arthur said. The shadow turned and ran. "Hey!" shouted Arthur. He dropped the flap and stood up, kicking at the door. Alarmed, I watched him kick it down.

"Arthur?" I asked.

"Stay here!" he demanded. With that he ran uninvited into the house.

For a moment I could just stare after him, taking in the plain hallway. A table with a trophy stood against a wall and a hat-stand stood by the door. Pictures of family lined the walls, beaming parents and smiling siblings. Then, suddenly, I found myself rushing after him. What if the person moving was the murderer? They could hurt Arthur. I felt a need to find them.

The detective had run towards the back of the house and through a door there. I hurried through – and froze. The door had led to the kitchen and dining area. The large table had been upturned to leave more room for the gruesome scene on the floor. A black haired man was staring at the ceiling, his green eyes dull and lifeless. His stomach was caved in and one of his arms had been cut off. However, instead of pointing to a number, it lay discarded beside him. The clock was by the number four that had been painted on the ground with blood. No-one else was present.

Making sure not to step on the already smeared blood, I hurried to the door on the opposite wall. It seemed to lead to the back garden. As I paused to open the white door, I noticed a frying pan hanging above the cooker. Without hesitating, I grabbed it to use as a weapon. Although I deplored using any cooking utensil as a weapon, I noticed that it did not seem to be a very good pan and so my aversions were abated.

Bursting out of the door, I found Arthur and a hooded figure at the other end of the garden. They were in a flowerbed, struggling, trampling some neatly planted lilies. I frowned and hurried forward, avoiding the plants and destruction as best I could. By the time I reached them, the mystery person had Arthur by the throat.

"Hé!" I shouted as I swung the pan. That got the person's attention and they paused. This meant that the pan connected with the side of their head. There was a dull clang and whoever it was dropped Arthur. They both fell to the ground: Arthur was wheezing, clutching at his throat; the other clutched at his head even as he tried to crawl away. I froze – should I help Arthur or go after the man. Glancing at the person to see him disoriented, I decided to help my room-mate to his feet. "Arthur? Arthur, are you okay?" I asked him, panic and worry in my voice. He waved his hand at me, even as he stumbled. I pulled him upright but kept a firm grip on his arm. Then I tried to look him in the eye, to make sure he was fine, even as he attempted to push me out of the way.

"Move!" he gasped. Startled, I stepped backwards. He spun round, looking for something. Glancing round, I realised that the person I had attacked was in the process of vaulting over the back fence. Without so much as a word to me, Arthur ran towards it. My eyes widened and I leapt towards him, catching him round the waist. "What are you doing?!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Let me go!"

"Non, imbécile! You could be hurt again!" I struggled to keep him back – I was not used to dealing with struggling people – until, after a few minutes, he relaxed and stopped moving. He coughed a few times, a hand to his throat.

"Let me go," he said quietly. I did so but kept a hand on his arm to steady him. "You let him escape, you idiot." He was glaring at me, his green eyes narrowed to slits.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay..." I said hesitantly.

"If someone else is killed because you let him go... Let that be held on your conscience." He walked round me, ignoring my shocked expression. I had not thought of the consequences of not securing the attacker. I glanced at the fence before following Arthur.

We returned to the flat a few hours later as we had waited for Jones and Matthew to turn up at the scene. The American looked worried. Matthew kept watching Arthur. It was obvious that his blushing was nothing to do with people and everything to do with a certain detective. The young man clearly looked up to him and listened carefully to what he said.

I was relieved to smell food when we entered and to find a few boxes of Mr. Wang's delectable cuisine. I served it whilst Arthur stared at his phone. He was waiting for Jones to call him with information on the whereabouts of one of the members of the Clock Makers. As we ate, I tried several times to make conversation but the detective only ignored me. He picked at his food, often stopping to stare into space, thinking. This explained why he was so thin.

"Cher, perhaps you should eat..." I said, trying to bring his attention back to the room.

Before he could respond or do as I asked, the phone rang. It was a simple ringtone and he snatched it up straight away to flick it open. "Yes?" he said. "Right." The phone clicked shut. "Hm. Mr. Craigson does not live in the fifth section."

"Craigson?" I asked, recognising the surname. "Is that Peter Craigson?"

Arthur looked up at me, a slight frown on his face. "Yes, why?"

"He is my head chef," I explained. Blinking, I looked down at the map. My eyes widened. "Et... our restaurant... is in the fifth section..." I looked round at the detective and he gazed back at me. For a moment, neither of us moved – then Arthur's eyes widened slightly.

"Of course," he muttered. He scrambled to his feet. "Come on. We have to stop him."

"Who, Monsieur Craigson? I do not think he is the killer, cher."

Arthur didn't answer. He pulled at a drawer in the desk and, once he had finally opened it, drew out a box. Unlocking it with a code, I watched as he produced a gun. "Here. Take this," he told me, handing it over.

"Quoi?!" I asked in surprise.

"I've never used it. I prefer to use my brains."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Whether or not Peter Cragison is the murderer, there will still be a killer there tonight. Use this to protect yourself." He shook the gun and I gingerly took it.

"Is this... legal?" I looked at him dubiously as he pulled on his jacket and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"You have a firearms licence," said Arthur, heading for the door.

"Quoi?! I have no such thing!"

"Yes you do," he replied, looking at me. "You got one right after you saw your first body." And with that he left me to blink in surprise at his audacity and foresight.

At the restaurant, I let Arthur in. I felt uncomfortable with the gun stuck in the back of my trousers. There weren't many people around – only Ludwig, Feli and Peter were there. They looked up when I entered.

"Ciao-!" began Feli but his smile slipped when he spotted Arthur. The stern Brit stared back, surveying the trio.

"Bonsoir, Feli," I replied. "This is my new room-mate, Arthur Kirkland. He is a detective. Et he would like to talk with-"

"Me," said Peter, resignedly. "Why don't you come in the back?" The head chef led the way and Arthur followed wordlessly. I decided to go as well, glancing apologetically at Ludwig who was frowning with worry and puzzlement. In the kitchen, Peter shut the door and locked it, taking off his hat. He ran his hand through black hair and his dark eyes gazed at us dully as though he had already given up. "You're here about the Clock Makers, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes. What can you tell us about them?"

"Andrew formed the club. You see, there was a system to get inducted into the secret clubs and societies at Oxford and we all failed. But it wasn't just his idea. Roger was his best friend and they both worked hard to get into Oxford. They tried to get into the same clubs but when they didn't, they came up with the idea to take someone from each of the different departments and form a society with them. However... When Andrew got all of us together, he had to think of a reason to be submitted to the Union and, when he realised there was eleven others, beside himself, he thought of the clocks. He claimed the society was all his idea and pushed Roger aside. Roger... He-"

There was a sudden thud from the pantry and we all glanced round. For a moment, we all stood still, listening. Then another thud followed by a clatter rang out. I frowned. "I'll go look," I offered.

Arthur nodded. "Do not forget about your protection I gave you," he told me pointedly. With a nod, I grabbed hold of the butt of the gun, ready to bring it out to defend myself if necessary. I took hold of the handle a little nervously. Opening the door, I entered, reaching out to turn on the light. With a small click, it turned on the fluorescent bulbs in the long room. On the floor at the other end was two bags of flour and the tray they had been sitting in. One had burst, the flour caking the floor.

"Some things fell over, that is all," I called over my shoulder. "I shall tidy it up and come straight back." With that, I closed the door and made my way over to the mess. I righted the tray and placed the full bag on it. Then I turned the other bag round and set it on the tray, hoping to catch any other spillages. Glancing at the mess, I was about to rise and find a brush and pan when I noticed the footprints. Someone had already been here.

With a gasp, I rose and turned in one swift motion. But the door was already closing. I rushed towards it – as I did so, I heard the click of the lock. I was separated from the others and the murderer was with them. Neither had a way to defend themselves. Panicking, I grabbed the handle and tried to open the door, regardless. After a couple of times, I tried ramming my shoulder into it as well. This still didn't work. I sighed and paced, thinking. Finally, I remembered the gun. I whipped it out and pointed it at the lock. Pulling the trigger, I squeezed my eyes shut in preparation for the noise and shrapnel. However, it didn't come.

"Quoi?!" I exclaimed. I looked down at the gun. Were there no bullets? Was there something wrong? Was it just a fake gun? On examination, however, I found a small switch. "La sécurité?" I muttered, and flicked it over. Once again I pointed the gun at the lock. Once again I squeezed the trigger. This time there was a bang and a clinking noise. My arms jerked from the recoil and I squinted at the lock. There was a hole in the door now. In a rush, I jerked it open and rushed through.

The scene I walked into seemed rather calm compared to the carnage I had expected. Arthur was standing in front of who I assumed to be Roger. The man was holding a knife but his grip seemed loose. Peter had backed off to the other side of the room. They glanced round at me and for a split second no-one moved. Then Roger launched himself at Arthur and grabbed him, the knife at his throat.

"Put the gun down or I'll kill him!" he shrieked, his voice high pitched and quivering. His dark eyes seemed to be constantly darting. His hair seemed to be a dirty blonde but that may have been from not washing. The clothes he was wearing were stained and ragged: blood could be seen on his white shirt. I noticed that his hand was shaking. "I-I swear! It's not in the plan but I'll do it!"

"Francis. Put it down," Arthur said quietly, his voice levelled.

I shook my head. "Put the knife down, Monsieur Roger. I-" Before I could finish, we all heard a door unlocking. Peter was making a break for it.

"No!" screamed Roger. He pushed Arthur away and spun. He threw the knife and I could only watch as it arced through the air and pierced Peter's back. With a gasp and a grunt, he fell forward, landing on his face and lying still. "No, no! Everything's messed up! He won't like this. It was a perfect plan. My revenge. Perfect. Ruined. Not allowed to be ruined!"

"Roger..." I said, hesitantly, gaining his attention. The gun in my hands was levelled at him. This man was clearly dangerous and he was in an environment where several things could be used to hurt Arthur or I. "S'il vous plait, calm down. Why don't we sit et talk about this...?"

"You!" he yelled, pointing a finger at me. "You ruined it!"

"I-"

"Roger. Who won't like this? Who do you mean?" Arthur interrupted me. He got to his feet but didn't move from his spot – which was dangerously close to Roger.

"He told me not to tell anyone. I have to kill them. They ruined my life."

"How did they ruin your life?" I asked, interested despite the situation.

"They mocked me. They ruined my confidence. No jobs – can't- It's their fault!"

"I do not understand..." I said.

"How could Andrew do this to me? I was his friend. He told me I was useless. But I showed him! I brought the great Arthur Kirkland to a kitchen and I can kill him now! Braginski will be pleased!" He grinned widely and stepped towards Arthur.

It happened quickly. I saw him reach for a knife left lying on the unit. I saw him grab Arthur's arm. I saw Arthur brace himself. In my mind's eye I saw Roger grab that knife and stick in Arthur's stomach, I saw Arthur bleeding to death. Raising my arms a little, I refused to let that happen. I pointed the gun in the general direction of Roger's shoulder and squeezed the trigger, bracing myself for the recoil. My eyes closed involuntarily at the crack from the gun. When I opened them again, Roger was staring wide-eyed into space. He raised a hand to his neck before looking at it. There was blood there, more spurting from the wound. Finally, he keeled over, face first. He lay there, the blood still flowing.

I had misjudged my aim and hit his artery.

"Oh, non..." I breathed, feeling myself pale. "I did not mean-!"

"Put that gun away!" hissed Arthur.

"Ou-Oui..." I muttered, hurriedly placing the gun back in my trousers. "Are you all right?" I asked, hurrying over. Arthur ignored me and knelt down by the dying man.

"Braginski? I have heard that name before but now you will tell me what he does exactly. You can redeem yourself in this last act." He leaned closer and listened as the poor man whispered something. Then he stilled and I watched his eyes dull. Shocked, I backed up, my eyes filling with tears. I had killed a man. This was awful. How could Roger have dealt with this? I reminded myself that he clearly hadn't handled it well.

"What happened here?!" exclaimed a German voice. I glanced over to see Ludwig standing before Peter. Feli was hovering behind him, peering round his bulk. He cried out when he saw poor Peter and hurried to his side.

"Signore Craigson! Signore Craigson!" he exclaimed, shaking the man by the shoulder. We all heard a groan.

"He is alive!" I gasped. "Vite, call an ambulance!" Ludwig nodded and disappeared whilst I hurried round to Feli and Peter.

"I think he will be all right," said Feli quietly. Even so, he looked rather worried and there were tears in his eyes. "What happened?" he asked.

"We were attacked," I explained. "Do not worry. It will not happen again." I glanced at Arthur who looked back at me blankly. Finding no reassurance there, I turned back to Feli and Peter, worried.

When we finally got back to our apartment, Arthur collapsed into his armchair. He stared at the chair opposite from him until I sat in it. When I did, he looked up at me. "Why did you shoot him?"

I answered as I pulled the gun from underneath me. "I thought he was going to kill you, Arthur."

"I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you," he said with an indignant sniff.

Chuckling, I shook my head. "Et that is why I had to use a frying pan to dispatch Roger in that garden."

He rolled his eyes. "I was absolutely fine, thank you."

"So, next time, I should just leave you to it?"

"Next time?"

There was a pause as I realised how much I had gotten caught up in this case. "Perhaps there will not be a next time. I will have to concentrate on my career."

"Hm."

"Well, I shall start cooking."

"What?"

I stood. "For dinner," I explained as I made my way to the kitchen.

"It had better not be any of those frogs' legs," he grumbled, settling into his armchair.

I know you probably can't get handguns like that in the UK just by filling out a form and whatever. Frankly, I just wanted one of them to have a gun. But not Arthur. (Who I keep writing in as Sherlock Holmes instead of Arthur.) So I wanted Francis to have one. But I didn't think he'd go out of his way to get one. So I had Arthur force it on him, more or less.

Francis didn't mean to kill him. At all. He's just got a bad aim/the recoil muddles things/whatever.

Roger's a little crazy because "Braginski" has been manipulating him a little and he's had his nerves stretched too much with the murders and almost getting caught.

Peter may or may not be fine.

This chapter was supposed to focus on the flat more, hence the title. Didn't work out, huh?

I think that's all. But if there's any questions, let me know. :)