After a small glass of wine with Hannibal, Will announced that he had to visit Freddie for a fresh face towel. Hannibal wished him goodnight, and retired to bed. Will felt no guilt about partly lying as he left to visit Freddie. He was thankful to not run into anyone on his way to her room.
When he arrived, he lightly rapped on her door. She answered it after a second, apparently about to retire herself. Her eccentric hair was tucked underneath a bed cap and she was wearing a white nightgown. Will suppressed the blush out of his cheeks.
"I hope you're not just asking for a fresh face towel?" She asked. Will shook his head.
"I was curious," he said, feigning amicability, "and I thought you could answer my questions."
A smile emerged on Freddie's face that curled up to her cheeks. In combination with her nightgown, it reminded Will of the wolf in disguise from the Fairy Tales he sometimes caught snippets of in his childhood when his father used to read them to his mother.
"I'm always glad to impart knowledge," Freddie said, but instead of opening the door, she only leaned forward and said. "But, as I'm sure you know, knowledge costs."
"A secret for a secret," Will said. "Fair exchange."
Freddie smiled and opened up her door. Will stepped through, glad he wasn't wearing a red hood.
Her room was surprisingly modest. The only thing noteworthy was the installation of a desk in the corner, littered with papers and novels. Will wasn't sure what a head maid would need to write.
"The first thing I want to know is where you came from," Freddie said.
"I was born in London. I came from the destitute district," Will said. "94 Guild Street."
"That's not what I meant," Freddie said. "Where did your family come from? Your father?"
Freddie saw the reluctance in Will's tense jaw line, and tried to soften her features.
"Family history is a powerful weapon in court," she explained. Will frowned as if he'd already known that but her admitting it aloud bothered him.
"My parents were Lord and Lady Graham. I grew up in a castle in West Essex," Will explained, his eyes remaining hard. "When my father was stripped of his title, we were forced into poverty. William Graham became Will Graham."
Freddie's eyes were sharp and concentrating, running through her memories of where she'd heard the name Graham. She adjusted her head when she found the memory.
"Graham. Wasn't he charged with theft?" She asked.
"He angered some nobles when he married my mother. They exacted their revenge by accusing him of stealing their land," Will said. "I don't think they anticipated my mother being dismissed with him."
Will paused, allowed Freddie to absorb this information. He shoved down his resentments, as he always did when confronted with the past.
"If you're satisfied," Will said, "I believe it's my turn."
Freddie nodded.
"How did the previous king die?" Will asked. Freddie seemed taken aback but quickly recovered.
"I wasn't employed then, but I heard he fell down the Grand Stairs. After a painful night of doctors being unable to save him, he died."
"He fell or was pushed?" Will asked. Freddie frowned.
"I haven't heard anything that suggests it was planned," Freddie explained. Frustration slapped Will across the face as he realized that after the risks he took he'd hit a deadend. "But I know the coroner who prepared the body for burial."
Will's eyes quickly focused on her in anticipation.
"Joseph Gardner. 15 Bromdell Lane," she said. "I'm sure he could give you details. If you're feeling very anxious, use the western kitchen stairwell. It's a shortcut, although the stairs can be creaky late at night; built with too much empty space beneath."
"Thank you," Will said, surprised by how genuine his words were.
"No, thank you," Freddie said. "My door's always open if you're in a talkative mood."
Freddie's farewell left an anxious sting on the back of Will's neck, which died down as he put more distance between himself and her room. It died down to little more than an irritating itch, for now.
He headed back to his room, intent on taking his normal route. Then he recalled Freddie's parting comment about the kitchen stairwell. It seemed rather unnecessary. Will took the detour to the stairwell. He lit a small candle to chase away the shadows in the cramped stairwell. He took a cautionary step onto the first stair, testing it. Freddie was telling the truth, it did creak.
Will analyzed the architecture of the room, searching for whatever clue Freddie had dropped. It was strangely organized, there being a small dead-end corner between the wall and the stairwell. Will stepped into it and brushed his hand over the wooden panel that ran under the stairs. It's vast smoothness was suddenly interrupted by some engraving. Will held the candle closer to squint at it in the dark.
It appeared to be an engraving of a crown with stag horns emerging from it. Will pushed against the panel and it slowly swung away from him. Beyond it lay a different stairwell, one of menacing stone leading down into blackness as dark as hell. Will was thankful he'd brought the candle. He closed the door and imagined Theseus must have felt a similar apprehension as he descended into the labyrinth prison of that mythical Minotaur.
The tunnel emptied outside of a small church. After long minutes of only his thoughts and the echo of his footsteps, Will had been beginning to worry if the tunnel would ever end. He was even more surprised to discover that he recognized his location. It was only a few streets away from the Rue Norman. It wasn't far at all to Bromdell Lane.
When Will found the coroner's home, he knocked. He received no reply, as to be expected so late at night. Will added more force and urgency to his next knock, but was stumped by the same outcome. He examined the possibilities. Dr. Gardner may simply be unwilling to open his door at this late hour. He may be unable to open the door. Or he may not be home.
Will decided to pay the nearby tavern a visit. The burly host easily determined Will had a purpose besides buying a drink, and so didn't bother to conjure any hospitality. Will dug a coin from his pocket, aware that the man would be more friendly after making a profit. Once the beer was placed before him and the necessary amicable interactions had been finished, Will asked about his good friend Joseph Gardner. His question elicited a few laughs from the other customers. So Gardner was definitely a regular here.
"Joe's helping a lady companion tonight," the man explained. "And what kind of friend calls on another past midnight?"
"A friend who has a matter of some urgency to discuss," Will said. "Do you know when he might return?"
"I'd get comfy," a man from another table interrupted. A fat cigar hung from the side of his mouth. "Ol'd Joe'll be gone for quite some time."
"Poor boy," another said, shaking his head.
"Poor?" Will asked. The man reached for his stained top hat, the stitchings on it unraveling.
"His lass was murdered," he explained. "Ripper."
A shiver of concern ran down Will's spine. It was as if attempting to accurately view a painting hidden beneath layers of cloth. He'd removed a layer and felt one step closer to seeing the painting.
"You've been of great help," Will said, leaving his half-emptied beer. He left a generous tip, expenses no longer being an issue for him.
He exited the tavern and quickly headed towards the area where the prostitute's body had been found. The Ripper had probably killed her to find information on Gardner, his real target. If he was correct, Gardner would most probably stalk the same area to find a replacement and the Ripper would be close behind.
The most likely reason why Gardner is being targeted is his knowledge of the previous king's passing. The Ripper would be eager to destroy any damning evidence and Will couldn't allow that to happen. The man had said that Gardner would be gone for a while, so Will knew he had plenty of time. And if he was correct, he had a head start on the Ripper.
Gardner's door was too easy to open. The hard part was shuffling through his piles of paper in the darkness. From the few words he could read in the faint light, they were all personal or financial papers. Nothing about working for the king. Finally, Will took a breath and stepped into Gardner's world.
The unorganized papers on the desk before him were unimportant, and neither Will nor Gardner cared for them. The prized possessions were all kept together in a neat stack, Will noticed a cushioned chair with deep depressions from hours of dedicated reading. The small tears where a few feathers were peeking out did not lessen its value. Beside the chair sat a pile of books. Their bindings were loose.
Will picked up the one on the top and let the book naturally fall open. The pages opened up to reveal a diagram of a man with his chest surgically opened up. It detailed the layers of skin and where the correct incisions should be started. Will put the book down and instead picked up the only book without a title.
He sat down on the chair, his body fitting into the depressions. There was a piece of paper sticking out from the book. Even in the darkness, Will recognized the red sigil on the wax seal. He opened the book to where the letter was sticking out. First he read the letter, which was again sent by G.R.D. The letter set a meeting time, that had past at this point, with Gardner to discuss the information Gardner had concerning the previous king's passing.
Will tucked the letter into his coat and started looking through the book, which appeared to be Gardner's journal. The entry was from today. Asking for my personal notes. It appeared he'd gone to the meeting. Good offer. Don't think it went well. The writing sounded worried. Didn't like my answer. Even frantic. I no longer have my report on the death.
Gardner knew he was in danger. Suspected he was being followed. Will suspected he was right.
Maybe I can get the notes back from the Commander.
Commander Crawford? No, he wasn't Commander until after Hannibal was in power. He wouldn't have been in charge of the previous king's examination. But Will couldn't remember who the previous Commander was.
Will replaced what he'd moved and left the house. Gardner had nothing else to offer him. But the Ripper was still interested, so Will headed in his direction. He walked directly in the street, no longer filled with hurrying carriages. He drifted in and out of the circles illuminated by the lamplights as he headed to his destination.
Without the usual noise of the city, Will was left with only his own thoughts. Not especially wanting to think about any of them, he tried to distract himself. He paid close attention to the houses he was passing, but the black wood saturated by London's dense fog made them all look like one long destitute shack that zigzagged and folded in upon itself to fill the city. Will wondered if anything had the power to free itself from those chains of wood, fog and cobblestone. He wondered if a park could actually uproot the sinister disease.
The dog with the black soot over its eye, prancing through the bushes. Holding a stick in its mouth. Dropping it at Will's foot.
A pleasant thought.
Next to him, Hannibal reaches down, picks up the stick with a handkerchief, and hands it to Will so he can toss it again. The dog chases after it.
Not a rational thought. A generous program doesn't revive lives. It only rejuvenates public support and lulls people to complacency.
A shrill cry broke through the night, wrenching Will from his thoughts of ivy-covered fences and dew-covered grass. He felt adrenaline surge from his head to his feet, as he raced through the disorienting fog which twisted the direction of the scream. Will paused for a moment to deduce his location. The cry went out again, shooting up like a flare for Will to follow. Running through puddles, he ignored all his surroundings except the scream.
His heart froze when it abruptly cut off. The patter of footsteps echoed down the streets. Will thought they must be his. He stopped running when he saw a trail of blood slinking into the gutter from an alley.
Will's hand touched his sword as he turned the corner. Joseph Gardner's throat had been ripped out and thrown across the alley. His chest had been torn open and was covered in what appeared to be claw-marks. Gardner was half slumped up on the wall, but his head was tilted back to face the sky. The position would have been most uncomfortable, had he been able to feel anything.
This murder was primal. The Ripper's murders were not. Will's head ached as he tried to figure how this fit. Who else would want Gardner dead? G.R.D.?
Will heard hurried footsteps from a few streets down. He took one last look at the blood-splattered walls of the alley and painted the scene to his memory before he ran back to the secret passage.
If Hannibal had been responsible, he must not have known about the secret passage. There was no light in the distance, and Will couldn't have beaten him to it, so he couldn't be using it. But some thick uneasiness churned in Will's gut. The pieces were not fitting together.
He arrived back in the castle, and snuck back to his room. Before changing, he held his ear to Hannibal's room. There was only silence. Then Will tucked Gardner's letter behind the frame of a painting. He doubted even Freddie would find it there.
With that finished, Will could now only sit on his bed and stare out the glass doors at the city. He could see there was one district more awake than the others. Will watched the small circle with an ever-expanding number of dots of light until sleep found him.