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Chapter Text

Dylan Rosenthal sat in his office. His attention was on the stack of papers before him. He wrote away on them, one after another, his hand neat and legible.

The due inauguration ceremony was taking a lot of his time, time he had not planned on wasting away on deciding which flowers stayed and which did not, which banners were fitting, and who should be where. And now that all major preparations were being done and loose ends were being picked and tied close, he had been more than glad to finally catch up with the documents that had been piling up in his office.

Well, not glad, per se, but he definitely was the kind of person who did not like incomplete tasks lying around, when he could very well finish it, and be done with and rid of.

It was already about nine at night. Winter was still around, even in February. A curt glance out of his window told him it was mildly snowing. A thin layer of white covered roofs and roads and everything that lay open out there.

After a few minutes of shuffling around, his hands paused at a stamped sheet. The wax was dry, the symbol of a purple hyacinth rising just a bit to be recognizable. His eyes caught familiar words: ‘The National Railway Corporation of Ardhalis’. He next sought his own name among the mass of formal words and phrases.

Dylan had had his position as a director for only two years now. The work was tiring, but worth it. The first day he had come at work with the claim of employment in that post had been rather unprofessional on his part. But he went on, and he found his underlings warming upto him. Maybe it related to the fact that he was about the same age as them. Whatever it was, it had made his days better, still did every day without fail when he smiled and guided instead of whining and scolding.

Now, his door whining a creak brought him to attention to the knock on the wood.

“Enter,” he said, after hastily arranging all the files as to make it look somewhat organized. A man, clad in black, came in with a folded paper in his hand.

He bowed shortly, and held it out to the director, “A telegram just arrived for you, Sir.”

Out of curiosity, the director raised his brows. A telegram arriving this late into the night seldom was usual or harmless. Besides, they were expensive. It must be urgent. A look at the black dressed man, Edgar, told Dylan that he was curious too. He did not give him the favor.

He unfolded it as to read, but not before dismissing the messenger. The words presented themselves to his tired eyes. The communication was short, as telegrams usually used to be. But this certain one alarmed him.

After he did some mental tallies regarding the implications of the message, he put the paper down, where it blended in with the other several stacks. He ran the words repeatedly in his mind, almost in disbelief. He looked down at the sheet again, and breathed out shallowly.

This was going to be a long night. And tomorrow, even longer.

He ringed for his secretary.

“Do you intend to stay in the city any longer, Detective?” A smile accompanied the question, along with a look of expectation.

The detective in question found herself nodding in mirth and agreement. “Yes, I do. I have heard a lot of this place. And I think it will do me no harm to sample some pleasures while I am here.” Here, Lauren paused, “You know, like a little holiday of sorts, until Hermann starts breathing down my neck again.” She handed him the last file in her hands, sighing at the end.

This got Lieutenant Maxwell giggling along. He put the file on one of the shelves before them, and then rubbed his hands as if feeling the joy that came with putting the final jigsaw piece of a huge puzzle. The shift was already over for them. Overtime was such a hassle.

They left the spot and went to the door. With a flick, Lauren switched the lamps of the room off. Darkness spread out, and they exited.

“So what exactly are your plans?” He asked, while locking the archives’ door. With his hands, he then tried to get rid of the creases on his uniform as he stood, patient for the answer before the doorway. His brown hair too, was tousled at precarious angles.

Detective Sinclair said, “Not much really. I do not think I will be able to stall my departure any more than the next two or three days.” An idea seemed to strike her. “Why do not you give me some suggestions? I think I’ll find good use of some of them.”

Smiling, the Lieutenant directed them down the main foyer of the building. “I might. If only I had enough free time for myself to explore.” He exhaled, and his shoulders bunched before he relaxed.

Lauren put a hand on his shoulder, as if to say she understood the feeling. It was one thing to be busy working. It was another to be extremely busy to the point one came to refuse the needs of one’s own body. And when it caught up, it was impossible to function. Sometimes, when it was already shitty feeling exhausted, guilt for slacking came in the package.

Then, he halted in his steps before the Administration Unit’s general office, making his companion stop as well. Holding up a finger, he announced, “But, I have heard some whispers here and there. And besides,” his smile widened into a grin as he turned to Lauren, “we are already at your favorite tourists’ place. You cannot say I am a bad guide.”

“What?” Lauren Sinclair asked with an air of suspicion, her hand already getting retracted in hesitation.

Lieutenant Victor Maxwell said, matter-of-factly, “The police station, of course.”

The same hand smacked his shoulder at the same spot. The cop fell into a pot of giggles.

Detective Sinclair found it hard to remain indifferent. Her workaholic nature, it seemed, used to get obvious after just a day of acquaintance. And her new good natured Lieutenant friend had been making jokes for the whole week now, since they had bonded over their similar feelings for a certain Captain Hermann, feelings of abhorrence.

It turned out, the Captain was previously stationed here in the Northern Province of Rudwards, and Victor had served a few years under him. How relieved he must have felt when he was promoted! The Lieutenant said he had prayed to every single shooting star he was fortunate enough to witness, either for the captain to get a transfer, or he himself. Now Lauren did not know if he was kidding or not, but she might do this too since she was in the same situation as he used to be.

Maybe.

She did not feel ashamed of considering the idea. The man’s presence was enough to make someone desperate.

After the next quarter of an hour was spent in finishing off the last tasks for the day, and they had submitted all keys to the guards, the detective and the Lieutenant parted their ways at the gates after a word of farewell.

The cold was biting, and unlike her precinct, the 11th in the capital, it was the bitter kind and chillier. Yet, Detective Sinclair went on, clutching her blazer closer to herself, and bunching her scarf in her fist to fend off the winter. Soon enough, with steady steps, she was nearing the bridge that connected the two halves of the district together.

The bridge was old. It was stone and concrete under, but also rope and wood. The balustrade was made of cable, with several ribbons and threads and locks knotted around for the safe travel of ships and sailors that used to venture out from the harbor. The waterway below – now dead and dry – used to be a glorious landmark back in its time. River Archeron was the name, nonetheless that it was a canal sanctioned by the late King Edward.

A chill ran down Lauren’s spine, with every step she took on the cobbles. She had heard the stories connected with this place, sometimes nicknamed to be the bane of hope.

There was this myth, a horrific one, that the river was actually an emblem of misfortune. And that every hope that was tied to its strings would actually make the wisher bleed. Its own situation now did not do anything but feed this monstrous lore.

One could even call it a tourists’ spot when, in the day, people used to come and witness the wreck, unfurl the hopes and aspirations of ghosts tied to the very reason of their ruin. All in all, it was bitter symbolism.

Subconsciously unnerved, Lauren’s steps hastened. The buildings all around, the scenery and the background all blurred in the hurry. She flurried through markets and streets and roads and highways all without any care but direction.

When the danger had subsided, and the lights of the province’s railway station were visible, her steps slowed and went to a stable pace. A few turns later, a huge building adorned with bright lights met her sight.

The Silver Bend was a restaurant and hotel owned by Sir Wilkins, a businessman, among many other establishments. The building was high-rise, with seventeen floors. The gates were silver, and a board held up near the entrance bore its name. Even the gardens and the walkways outside made its silver obvious, but even without all the glitter, it was glorious. And shiny. Bright and shiny.

A doorman greeted Lauren as she walked in. Glittering white light slapped her in the face. Despite what the name suggested, gold was abundant in it. Even at night, sometimes she lost track of time within the building’s premises.

Around her, in the lobby, some people walked about in hasty strides. Waiters, servers, members of the staff went pass by her.

The whole hall was bright, with chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. The floor with its alternate coloured tiles was a unique imitation of a chess board. Curtains draped over columns in the corners. The walls were off white. It looked like the inside of the estate of a member of nobility. Sir Edward Wilkins, his name had been printed in bold in the newspapers the day he had announced he was venturing into the industry of hospitality. And evidently, he had invested good money just to make his name up there. It worked, obviously.

Nodding at the receptionist, she went straight for the stairs. Fourth floor seemed too far away.

Lauren had booked a room there for a week, the night she arrived in the province. And, the thing was that the hotel was rather close to the station. She had been exhausted after running about hopping trains since a direct line was yet to be started. So fortune or not, she had found herself with a room booking before she had let herself breathe in the hotel. And if she had slept in, been late the next day, and embarrassed herself, then that was just a matter of chance.

At the flights of stairs, she met no one. And even the main lobby and all in all, the entire hotel seemed not much full in the patron count, given people do not like to travel much during winter. It being February was not enough reason. But even still, the chatter was full and the some people present were busy.

The case she was working on had been lagging. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the police got news: a Lieutenant Maxwell of the Province of Rudwards invited them with the bait that they had found a lead for the case. The man they wanted had been found. The initial plan was that Sergeant Acker was to go to inspect. But then, his wife was down with cholera. It was no surprise he was still on leave even now. Lauren had wanted to substitute, and it was only successful that she was able to when she went missing and the captain discovered a semi-offensive letter in his desk.

319/4.

Lauren inserted her key into the hole, then turning the knob, opened the door to her room. She entered with no fanfare.

Her steps were heavy and dragged on the floor in between strides. Her shoulders felt heavy. And, she also felt scraps of a headache at the back of her skull. She had to admit, she looked like a ghost when she passed by the bathroom mirror. She had eye bags, deep enough to bury a cadaver in. Her skin was deathly pale, and nearly matched the pearly white of her bedsheets.

After hanging up her blazer, she entered the shower. Slowly, with no hurry lacing her movements, she rid herself of her clothes. Her shirt hit the floor, and afterwards, did the rest of her articles of clothing. She was in no haste, but faintly in a daze with her mind jumbled. The sound of her belt hitting the tile made her flinch slightly.

Her hands automatically found metal, and turning it, soon enough she was wet. The next half hour flew away just staring at the wall before her as she tried to line up her thoughts on the ongoing case. Somewhat convincing herself that her hunger was not going to go away on its own, and that she might catch a cold lying there, Lauren stumbled out.

She saw her change of clothes hanging on the nearest hooks. She snatched them off, and got dressed.

She was starving after the whole day was spent in the interrogation room. And she doubted she would get any sleep now without getting something shoved in her stomach. Dinner was supposed to be fulfilling, and be good.

Spoiler: It did not go well.

Chapter Text

When Lauren Sinclair sat at one of the tables in the restaurant of The Silver Bend, it was soon enough when a waiter approached. A pleasant conversation and an order later, all that was required of her was to wait.

“Lauren? Is that really you?”

A masculine voice, but familiar in a way she decided she did not like, made her look up. Lauren was greeted with a blinding smile. The man was smiling, yes, very much so. He had a mass of golden curls, which seemed luminescent under the warm light of the lamps lit in the room. Yes, he was handsome. But Lauren had long ago lost the part of hers that helped her give a care for that. This one specifically, was a totally different species anyways.

She gave a tight smile back, along with a curt nod. “Mr. Evans.” Lauren did not even stand up to welcome him properly like ladies of her station were expected and supposed to do when a gentleman wanted to give one company. She did not deem him worthy much anyway; and he, to a certain degree, in her eyes was a facsimile of a dog that was brought to guard the house but took over all the pampering instead.

The way he blinked, it seemed he was expecting her to invite him to be seated. He looked down at her, still eager, when she did not direct him to sit and stir a pleasant conversation.

“Please, be seated.”

He was dressed in a brown suit, crisp and neat all over. But somehow, it looked like a costume on him. Even an actor, Lauren mused, would perhaps pull the outfit off better than he did. It fit like a homemade dress fit a doll made of rags, made for it but weirdly unfitting when taking all things in consideration to the eye.

Lauren knew he was the heir to his parents’ company. She met him the first time when one of his employees lost a company stapler. Her only record of him at that time was that he was moody, petty and self-entitled, unlike what his face used to convey, or he wanted it to convey. She suspected his face had always played in his advantage. Women would swoon easily enough. But he just had to open his mouth, which he did, to drive them using his discomfiting and displeasing personality. She did not know if he had not realized he should stop doing that if he wanted to actually make a relationship or acquaintanceship last.

Oh and also, her uncle, unlike her, was quite intent on having an exclusive association with his family. That led to several meetings starting the New Year’s party that year. Awkward was an understatement, since it seemed to her he’d realized the very officer he had screamed at for not writing a report turned out to be the niece of his next possible breakthrough in his station and position. It always helped to be in the Chief of Police’s good books.

But in a bid to save his face, and much to Lauren’s surprise when she doubted he had the ability of it, he kept silent. He said nothing about it, and actually behaved as if meeting her for the first time and treated her like a lady was. But Lauren knew that he knew. That night, she had seen desperation in his eyes along with his lies. He had looked at her. This was to go with them to their graves, he meant.

“What coincidence to meet you here of all places, Lauren!”

Somehow, he had dared to take the liberty upon himself to call her by her first name recently when she had not for his. It made her angry beyond comprehension. Her mental report of him – moody, petty and self-entitled – had still not changed much. Only, an addition of ‘fake’ was done to the list.

It was hard to keep her lips in that– position? What was it called again? When you stretch your lips to express that you were really happy and not at all internally desire to shove that butter knife before you down their throat? Smile? Ah yes, smile. She managed to let out, her lips pressed in a thin line with a miserable curve, “What coincidence, indeed.”

Mr. Evans ventured as to speak again about the chances they met, and ask the reason of her presence here in the Province of Rudwards, so away from home and whatever. But Lauren’s waiter, bless his heart and timing, came as to serve her order. She muttered thanks and dove in, with no regard of the man sitting before her. She half intended to drive him away with how unladylike she acted.

“You were saying, Mr. Evans?” Lauren asked when she saw him staring at her with what seemed like a reflection of disgust. His thoughts were distorted, but no matter how many mirrors reflected an image, it would still be the same, and she would still be able to pick up its details. She would know whether to appreciate it or scoff at it.

His face schooled to indifference, then glee. At least a convincing façade of it, but not to her. Too bad she could not scoff in genteel company, as Lucy had put it.

He queried, “I asked for the reason you are here, Lauren. Is this official work?” His eyebrows raised, which despite his attempts to look friendly and inviting and non-judging, made this conversation feel one-sided and very much an interrogation. He knew of her work, and seemed very keen over the matter.

“Yes, it is.” She said. If he was waiting for her to disclose a chest of all the details, this was going to be a long night.

He threw himself back in his chair. “Ah, I see. Me too, actually.”

Apparently not.

“You see, there was a report from the branch of my company here, about certain losses counted during this time of the year.” His hands made gestures with what he was saying. Over time, Lauren had learned that the man loved to talk about himself. As in, Lauren should know a lot about him, but this was only averted by her indifference to his situation.

Her uncle had told her a few years ago, that their company was that of textiles. Evans and Co. was famous for its fine textures, comfort fits, and expert needlework. It was one of the first companies in the Ardhalian industry sector to start mass production using machinery.

It was another thing it had been going down a bit recently.

“And this year, it had increased to a significant amount and expense for the company. After my branch manager sent me a letter, actually it was a report, but you get the idea, and it was alarming. I left the capital just a few days ago and arrived this morning. Honestly, this place has gotten much better since the last time I visited. But then I forget I have never been here. My parents say a lot about it; they had actually come here for their twentieth anniversary. So anyways, they sent me here to settle the manner, but I feel like it was unnecessary. It could easily have been solved by them. But now that I met you here, blah blah blah…”

May god grant every wish of that chef who made that dinner.

The meal was fulfilling enough as to drive out Mr. Evans’ voice to white noise, all the while as she came to know weird, miscellaneous pieces of information about his life in one of his ‘Keeping up with Mr. Evans’ episodes yet again. She had lost count of how many he had pitched on her. For example:

His mother was left-handed. His assistant had a dog. Its name was Barb. Who the hell names their pet ‘Barb’? His choice of body wash was horrendous. He frequented this small café on Allen Street, which Lauren knew the police was internally 68% sure it being a terrorist front, and it being obvious from the fact it was unusually empty even though ‘its coffee was delicious’. Or so he said. Lauren did not know how coffees in illegal businesses tasted like. She had never tried.

Through all he said, it was easy enough deduction that his wife had married him for his money and station, but she, and by extension her in-laws and his parents themselves, had instead got a disappointment. He was loose with both his lips and wealth.

Some other things he mentioned that are worth mentioning:

He once saved the life of an old lady in a store when a burglar held her at knife point in an attempt to collect money.

He really respected policemen and the sacrifices they made for the betterment of Ardhalis.

He was awarded when, as a teenager of fourteen, he jumped into a pool when a little kid was drowning. He ended up saving him.

Such a liar.

Lauren did not need a lie detecting machine by her side. Even without her own ability to discern the lies from the truth, she could tell. There was no need of her ability to buzz in her ear, scream red at her on hearing the falsities that fell so easily off his lips. He spun stories, and told them like a century old fairy tale with morals, in the stead of an actual firsthand account of situations.

After an agonizing half an hour, eased only by the food on the table, Lauren suddenly stood up, the sound of her wooden chair sliding on the marble tile making him stop in the middle of his speech about how he once caught a housebreaker in the middle of the night. She could only wonder how foolish that robber was who had actually come in through the vents. The vents. Was he serious?

With a pathetic attempt to look sorry on Lauren’s side, she tried, “I am sorry, Mr. Evans, but it’s quite late. The day has been exhausting for me and–”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Do not worry, Lauren. It is okay. What you do, I know, is quite the job. You work too much.”

Lauren refrained from saying anything about that lie. He could not have gone any lower, and somehow he did. Always undermining what she worked as, he did. “I am still sorry, Mr. Evans. I would have loved to talk with you more.” More like, she would have hated to see him give her a speech. With internal horror, she realized her words had given him hope. His next words proved it.

“Why not? See you at breakfast tomorrow morning, yes?”

“I am not sure. My work here starts at seven.” It started at nine.

“Oh. Uhh… at dinner then?”

“I sure hope.” –Not.

With that and a short farewell wishing a good night, Lauren left him, not before seeing realization dawn on Mr. Evans that he had just spent more than a solid half-hour at dinner watching someone else have the meal while he sat, lip-serving. He turned to a waiter for his order.

Lauren ascended the stairs once again, somewhat energized now that her stomach was full.

She entered her room once more. The lamps were lit, and a small, yet cozy sitting room came in sight. Two loveseats in grey stood before a glass table with wooden legs and embellishments. The wide windows behind them were closed, but the foggy glass, once wiped by her hand, gave a clear scene of the street before it. The room was not high enough to give a city view, but the hustle-bustle beyond was enough for her.

The elevators were reserved only for floor eight and higher. Nonetheless, the thing was scary with its non-stop movement. Either you refined your instinct to get in and off at the perfect time, or you risk dying an awful and bloody death by getting squeezed by machinery.

Nightmarish.

On the left was the bedroom. Upon coming in, she took her time to get her shoes off and change to lighter clothes while the lights glowed. The next day, she might sleep in and report only in the afternoon at the station. It sounded like a good plan. And she might even elude the possibility of running into Mr. Evans. As for the dinner, she will think of something eventually.

Presently, her actions were a bit muddled and confused. Not a single bit of fatigue from the last week seemed to wear off no matter how many hours she stayed in bed, which was not a lot already. This case was something else entirely.

She ran a hand over her face, stopping momentarily to rub the bridge of her nose.

It had been reported two weeks ago. The whole affair started with a call to a doctor that had a dreaded message. Disbelief, fear, shock, and at the end, it was murder.

The sight had been a thing of nightmares. A supposed lost letter, self-isolation, poisoning, footsteps, and a stranger at the gates, these had presented themselves as clues. The stranger was reportedly seen in this province. It was spoilt when the alibi was found rock solid. But with the fact that nothing still had come out of this even after a week now, the suspect’s innocence was proven. If not by law, then by common, unspoken consensus it was. The captain had been particularly annoyed at her when Detective Sinclair had voiced her stubborn doubt of the suspect's involvement.

Regardless, all that was left for Detective Sinclair now, was to sleep. The week had taken a toll on her.

So, the next thing she knew, she was face first drowning in the bed. The only thing good about this hotel, she found, was the bed. The lights were out and so were hers.

Chapter Text

The one thing Dylan Rosenthal could make use of the most, currently, was appreciation.

The whole day, he had worked his butt off getting things in line as he desired. After an urgent telegram had arrived the last day, everything changed. The telegram let him know that the Aevasthers, the monarchial family, had at last minute decided to take up his offer.

It had been snowing like the artic. In the morning, he’d been agitated for the day ahead. He woke earlier than usual. He gave more attention to his appearance that he had ever done in the last twenty seven years that had constituted his life till then. His valet had met more criticism in that one hour, than he had the last three years he had been in his employment. It had went so far to the point that even the servants of his house acted strange and behaved as if they themselves had a performance to give on a stage as a child of ten. He had tried to tell them it was okay. They had just been supportive. All that had happened a month ago.

A month ago he had delivered the letter himself in the capital, stating he wanted them on board the first journey of The Ashenford Express. The castle had welcomed him, and he had remembered to hold his head high and have some dignity for himself. Sometimes, it was painfully obvious he was still not used to getting all this attention and services ready for him. He’d left the documents, saying it would be his honor to host them on his prized train. The Ashenford was a transport rumored to be humble yet luxurious. It was even branded as a palace environment suited to the space of a modest train coach.

Or something along these lines. Dylan never bothered much with that department, except making sure they did not claim anything ridiculous. However this one advertising statement, he had deemed, was not ludicrous enough to get cut out of the form that was finalized.

Nonetheless, the royal family had respectfully declined. Dylan had sent a letter saying it was a pity, but hoped them well on the meeting they had with a foreign guest.

It changed.

They wanted to be travelling The Ashenford. And what was more was that the foreign guest was also to accompany. Hell, they moved to Fordshire just to board it. Their schedules had somehow matched. Having them with him made it a lot more of a sensitive situation. His nerves were not going to survive this, he had decided.

But alas! They somehow were doing a fantastic job of survival.

The Verlicean Train Station in the Province of Fordshire was properly decorated, and readied for the departure. He had been running all about trying to guide workers for their best since four in the morning. By evening, he was drained. He had had less than five hours of sleep the previous night. Hurry and panic made him work on sheer adrenaline for the event. It was all exhausted by the time of the actual affair.

The king arrived at five, nearing sunset. The train departed at seven, nearing night.

How heavy of a sigh he had let out, and how deep of an inhale he had breathed in was a clear evidence of his relief. The sound of steam chuffing on the roof to him was one and the same as angels singing to him.

Now, he was in his cabin aboard The Ashenford, on the berth. The train was at a halt at some station. In his hands, he had a journal of today’s happenings. His eyes scanned the pages, and his own neat scrawl. Once again, he was tired. After a few moments went away just staring at it and zoning out, he snapped the notebook shut. Dylan decided to leave the miserable quarter altogether.

Out of the window, he saw people walking around, every single person wearing jackets and coats and sweaters. He stood up, and taking out his bag, flipped it open. He dug through it, before pulling out a coat and other winter wear. He put them on and made himself ready to face the chill outside. He was muffled up to the nose when he wrapped a scarf in the end, but it was comfortable, and so, left the compartment.

On his way, he greeted Mrs. Murphy. The woman was middle aged, but her enthusiasm made up for whatever weariness her age forced on her. He also spared a glance inside the restaurant car.

The moment he was on the platform, he decided he had miscalculated the temperature outside. It wasn’t much cold compared to what he had fared earlier that day. So, a few minutes later, he found himself once again on the ground with a few lesser layers to drown in.

The board on the entrance cleared all doubts of his. It was the Raystein Train Station in Rudwards. Dylan mentally went through the chart that he had been presented for the train’s route. It was to go from the Province of Fordshire eastward. Then, a whole volte-face in this province came next, from where it would go westward. The Ashenford was the first of its kind that tracked all prefectures of Ardhalis together in a six day journey, starting Verlicean to Allendale.

As he looked around, his eyes landed on a Wagon Lit conductor. The man was dressed in the Ardhalian official blue hue of the department, and was helping some passengers load into the sleeper car behind him. Without much thought, Dylan approached him with questions bubbling in him.

On reaching, the man seemed to pause in his work for a moment. Then, helping up the last passenger with directions to his cabin aboard the coach, the conductor turned to Dylan and bowed slightly. “Is there anything I can do to help you, Monsieur?”

“Rosenthal.” Dylan waved a hand and filled in his name despite not being asked, and then queried for his. “What is your name?”

Realization was quick. “My apologies, Director,” he spoke hastily, “The name is Watson.” He bowed shortly once again, but his hurry did not still cover his regard for his senior, and hurriedly straightened a few non-existent wrinkles on his uniform to look somewhat presentable to his director’s eyes.

Dylan found it unnecessary yet amusing to a certain extent. Sometimes, he still failed to get used to people treating him like high authority as his position usually got. It certainly felt weird when you come from a low class and carve your name on the class above.

“Do you know how long the train is to remain here?” Dylan had noticed. It had already been stagnant for the past fifteen minutes or so. There must have been something going on. The only thing that had aroused this doubt in him – since trains usually stopped for about half hours already – was that some workers he had suspected were rushing in urgency in intervals from his window.

His eyes darkened. “Yes, Director. The locomotive driver says the train is to remain here for the next half hour or so.”

“Have anyone waiting for you at the end, Watson?” Dylan smiled. The way the conductor frowned at the topic was enough to consider the possibility.

He laughed it off. Any hint of longing was cut short as he spoke next, “The conductor stationed at the ordinary second class informed a few minutes earlier that there has been a minor problem under their car. Something has caught fire.”

“Nothing big?” Dylan wondered why no one had informed him of this. Surely, a director of the corporation that paid your salaries deserved to know.

“No. As far as I have been told it is not.”

He breathed slowly, and he let the matter slide. “Do you know of a place to eat, Watson?” Dylan asked. He felt empty, and hoped there was a place nearby. He could have just gone to the galley and maybe ask for the chef, and he had, but he had not found him there. God knew where he was, since he had searched for him for quite some time earlier.

The conductor answered, puzzled why he was opting to eat out, “But yes, as soon as you leave the station premises, you shall see a building. I have heard it’s a hotel.” He stroked his chin with a finger, seemingly lost in thought and pensive. “The Silver Bend, I think, is the name. It is not much far.”

The director nodded, and tipped his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Watson.” He turned to leave, and then stopped. He said at last, “Oh, Watson! Do remember to tell the driver not to forget me and leave me behind, yes?”

Dylan had laughed, but the conductor acquiesced and bowed once again.

Dylan did as he was told. He quickly found the gates. And indeed, the building was visible from there.

It was a bright place, and had quite a huge presence. The gardens spread all around it. Silver ribbons tied to posts marked all entrances and exits. Lights lit all around. The whole place looked like a palace of sorts stacked like blocks.

He entered the restaurant, unfazed. The hall was huge. Tables were placed all around. People, however small the amount of them, chatted away lively. The whole place was lit with activity. There was a small orchestra situated at one of the sides, playing a piece Dylan was too young and unknowledgeable to recognize or understand. He saw some couples dancing.

The chandeliers of the ceilings were high. The engraved designs of the walls, the marble of the floor, and the draping fabrics gave the feeling of history. It was beautiful, and the light was striking.

Dylan took a seat at one of the tables at the right. A waiter came for his order the next moment. He gave his order. The waiter noted it and went away.

Dylan checked his watch. 09:48.

It was pretty late for having dinner. But it was a given. It was a universal truth that the second most important thing a train ride resulted in – aside from the actual travelling aside – was that it disturbed one’s eating schedule.

Sleeping was an entirely another matter. No one was to judge if a person’s passed out at noon, or enjoyed sightseeing at two in the middle of the night. The ride might be for just a day, but it wrecked up routine for the next ten days included.

Dylan watched the people about him. No one seemed to be particularly interesting. And soon enough, his order arrived. The waiter wished him a good meal and went about his way.

Minutes went away just like that. Dylan dug through all the courses that came and went. From the soup to the meats to the desserts, there was not a single thing that kept his attention in the room long enough.

He called for a waiter, finished all that came after a dinner at a restaurant, paid the bills and retired from the hall.

When he was in the lobby, his eyes landed on a certain redhead who stood anxiously near the concierge’s desk. His feet guided him to her. It was definitely a surprise to see her. He though she was still in the capital, chasing crooks, and catching thieves and murderers, and uncovering conspiracies, as she always used to want to.

“Ren?” He asked tentatively.

He thought he almost saw her cringe, as if expecting someone else. Dylan guessed that her exchange with that person had not exactly been a good experience for her. She turned with an awkward face, but relaxed on seeing him. Then, she grinned with recognition, eyes wide with surprise. “Dylan, what are you doing here?”

He pulled her in for a hug. “I can ask the same. But, I think it is obvious in my case.” He encased her in his arms. The hug was short, and not a bit uncomfortable. Dylan thought she still had a shred of her tendency to dig her nails and hold tight.

On retreating, he saw she was still smiling, but there was mild confusion. “Obvious? I do not know.”

“The Ashenford. Have you not been reading the newspapers?” Dylan knew it to be impossible. Lauren never not read the newspaper. It was her habit to get her hands on any sheet of paper that had fine print and was sold outside of bookshops. Lauren had a bigger stash of newspapers from the last fifteen years that she did books. Which was a lot, given Dylan knew how much she liked books. They had several memories that fell under this umbrella; ranging from good ones when she used to read to him after school since he did not go, and bad ones when they had accidentally tore their favorite book to shreds after arguing whose character was better.

She blinked. “The Ashenford? I did read about it, but I did not think you would be…” But then, she brightened. “Regardless, it is an amazing coincidence to find you here. God knows my previous one hasn’t been good.” She trailed off at the end.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

Dylan looked at the concierge, and then his eyes were on the sheet of paper in Lauren’s hands. “What is that? A letter? You still have not told why you are here?” He pointed at it.

The detective flipped the paper, frowning at it. “There was a case I had to come here for, nothing else.” She put the paper down on the desk, for him to see, “But the lead was a dead end. And now the police in the 11th want me back.”

“What, another lead, eh?”

The paper, she flattened with a palm for a better view. It said, concisely:

Development is in the Patrick Aniston Case. Ingrid’s alibi no longer stands, and everyone else’s under suspicion. Return immediately.

“Yes, it seems so.” Her golden eyes were pensive, as they always used to be. But, she seemed lost too.

“When are you returning?” Dylan asked. If the telegram demanded she came as soon as possible, or as it said: ‘immediately’, then this must be a problem. Lauren seemed indecisive.

“Tomorrow, it seems. There is no chance for tonight. I had even hoped to stay a few days more.”

“How about just go on The Ashenford?” He had hoped she would say what she did. This chance meeting was barely enough to catch up on what had happened in their respective lives. It was barely enough for childhood friends to have a reunion.

She looked hopeful. “It is possible?”

“Everything is, if you pay.” He winked. “More, when it’s their salary.”

“You do not pay their salaries, Dylan.” She pointed it out. It was true.

“Yes, but we’re paying.” Dylan turned to the concierge, and said, his Ardhalian accent mild yet noticeable, “Je voudrais réserver un billet.”

Chapter Text

Dylan was busy with the concierge for her booking.

At the entrance door of the restaurant, Lauren stood. She was fiddling with the collars of her beige blazer, looking around with half intention to identify people who looked like they were going to board on the train along with her. Not that she actually did.

There were no interesting people, except two people who sat a bit far from her.

Interesting was a bit of a stretch on her part, but somehow they just seemed to stick out to her bizarrely. They sat at a table opposite each other. Both were young men, maybe in their late-twenties or thirties. One, with short brown hair, sat talking animatedly, while the other was more relaxed. Lauren briefly wondered what relationship they shared. Brothers they were, perhaps? But the calmer one – and maybe it was the way he let his eyes roam with an unnatural luster in them, made the hairs at the back of Lauren’s neck stand up.

He, after a moment, stood up and said to the other, “Can you pay the bill, Harvey?” His voice was smooth and toneless.

Harvey stopped in his words and acquiesced. It was clear he was the other’s employee from the way he behaved. His employer retired from the table. His gaze stopped at Lauren for a single instant. Something flashed on his face. It made her shiver at her place. She momentarily doubted if he had even looked her way. What on earth?

Lauren was glad Dylan arrived just at that. He looked relieved, the way he ran a hand on his forehead to push back his hair from his eyes. “Everything is ready. Your luggage is down as well.”

She nodded and thanked him. They went outside.

When they were about to enter the station premises, the man from before passed by them. His employee followed shortly with their porter in tow. It brought her attention to them again.

Lauren stopped and asked Dylan, who was ahead of her, “What do you think of them, Dylan? Did you see them in the restaurant while you were there?” She thought it possible.

He halted in his steps as well. His snowy white hair shined dimly under the moonlight. “Them? I think I did. I did not think much, however. But that man…”

“The employer?” Lauren added in, suggesting the description to fill the space.

“Employer? With the long blond hair, right?” Dylan blinked and hesitated.

“Yes.” They went on.

“Hmm. Well, I am in no position to say, but I did not like him much. He gives me a weird feeling.” He shrugged, non-committedly.

The detective was thankful she was not the only one who felt that way. It definitely felt nice when one had a friend to share such a feeling with, when both could feel weird about a person. But Lauren internally felt the pierce of the possibility of preconception on her part, however small.

“Why do you ask, though?”

“Nothing. It is just– let’s say, I feel the same as you.” She pointed out, and looked at him for his reaction.

“‘Gives you the creeps’?”

“Yes. It’s like he is not what he looks like.”

“What does he look like?”

“Noble and mannerly.” Ironic, it was.

“And that is bad, how?”

“As I said. It just seems his body is a cage, and his soul, the wild animal looks out through the bars.”

“You are fanciful, Lauren.” Dylan laughed, but Lauren did not, and stayed silent. She hit his arm. Now, they were standing outside the coach. Near them, the tin plates proclaimed its destination:

Mayshire Tramean Allendale

The porter that followed them stopped as well.

At the moment, the concierge came running. He was huffing and breathed heavily. On reaching them, he stopped. He looked anxious, the way his eyes strayed frantically.

Only when he stood before them, did he still in civility.

“It is extraordinary, Monsieur Rosenthal.” He looked apologetic and concerned. “All of the first class sleeping berths have been booked. None on the train can be had.” He was almost wary of articulating the words, as if he was the messenger of a kingdom in enemy territory announcing the decision of war. He feared he was to be the first casualty for his kingdom.

Lauren was ready to say it was okay. She could just travel the next day. But her companion beat her to it, but with a different message.

Disbelief was apparent on Dylan’s face. “Comment?” He studied the concierge’s face for a moment. He asked, “There cannot be that many people travelling at this time of the year? Is it a party or something, DuPont?”

“I do not know. I am not sure, directeur. But it seems the whole world elects to travel by The Ashenford tonight!” The concierge claimed, amazed by the situation himself and how things had unfolded.

Dylan said, irritated to a degree and not at all intending to pat his back and agree with a laugh, “Very well. You are off, DuPont.”

Dylan took a moment, before he turned to Lauren and smiled. “It is alright. Do not worry, Lauren. We will arrange something.” He eyed the coach before them, his silver gaze sticking to one end in particular. “There is one compartment – the No. 16 – it should be free. It is not engaged, and all conductors make sure of that.” His smile was assuring, and Lauren thought he must know what he was doing.

He spared a glance to the clock. 10:17 P.M.

“It is time we started.”

He called for the Wagon Lit conductor for their coach. The man, dressed in blue, hurried towards them. He greeted the director and reminded him, “Your compartment, the No. 1, has been kept the same as you left, Director.”

Dylan nodded. Lauren caught him whispering to himself. Seemingly, a director of the company was inwardly glad they had waited for him when this whole project fell under him. This Watson guy seemed to be really favored by Dylan, since he thought him uniquely efficient.

The conductor – named Abel Sandman – was a man of middle age, with pepper hair and snips of a beard. He was rather lofty.

The director, with a gentle gesture towards the train, said, “I heard you are full up tonight?”

“Yes, Director. It is incredible, however unusual.”

“Nonetheless, you must find a room. Miss Sinclair is a friend of mine.” Dylan presented Lauren. “Why do you not prepare the No. 16 for her?”

“But it is taken, Director.”

“Excuse me? The No. 16?” It was unusual, apparently. In most cases, the No. 16 berth was always kept unengaged, and empty.

The director looked incredulous. The conductor, still standing near the steps, tried to smile. “Yes. It is as I said. We are full tonight.” He struggled for an excuse for the anomaly. “Perhaps, people desire an experience of The Ashenford?”

“How wonderful.” He gritted his teeth. Dylan was not pleased. Lauren heard him mumble. “The only reason the inauguration happened in off-season was that it go smooth and with no trouble.”

The conductor tried to say, “It is only chance, Director. It just happens.”

He let out a click of annoyance, and said nothing in answer. Then, something seemed to strike him. “Maybe at Bricston. The train makes a volte-face later on.” Dylan squeezed his eyes shut. “There is the slip coach at Bricston. Also the Ambeir– Hartbourgh coach – but we do not reach Bricston until tomorrow evening.”

Lauren decided to make an input of hers, and turned to the conductor. “Is there no second-class berth free, then?”

Dylan looked hopeful, yet was mildly frustrated.

“There is a second-class berth free, Miss.”

“Which one?”

“No. 5, Director.”

“Well then–”

“But the other berth, No. 4, is occupied by a man.”

Dylan retreated on that. “That is awkward.”

Lauren raised a brow on his comment. He did not see that.

“Has everyone arrived yet? The director now tried. Lauren could almost see the gears in his mind stirring and processing, trying every single key he had in his arsenal in this lock that seemed unfathomable.

The concerned conductor was pensive, and then he said, “Everyone has arrived except one. Berth No. 7 is booked under the name of a Mr. White.”

“But the man has not arrived. Still, this will not do.” Dylan looked down. This was obviously not how he had expected things to go.

Lauren felt almost left out in the conversation concerning her. She looked at the conductor, who looked like he was having the time of his life being stuck under the scrutiny of the director of his employing company. The aforementioned director did not seem intent on letting him free until he put out some kind of solution.

“Is there no other?” The detective finally asked.

The conductor took a moment. Lauren was partly sure the man wondered she was deaf if she did not hear him say previously that they were full. He said, finally, “I will have to see.” With that, and a call to have patience – which Dylan half refused – he vanished inside the coach. After a few minutes spent in silence drowned out by other passengers’ noises, the pepper haired man emerged once again.

“There is the No. 8 berth, Miss.” He had a sheet of paper in his hand that he referred to. He showed it to her, but Lauren did not know where to look. It was all names and lines and graphs. How were the conductors even able to read that thing? What was it supposed to say anyway?

The detective hummed, in an attempt to show she understood what was expected of her. “And who’s my companion for the journey?”

“It is a lady’s berth. There is already a woman in the compartment – one Miss Davenport.”

Lauren smiled, straightening herself, and turned to the director. “Well, that fixes it, does it not, Directeur?”

In return, he just shook his head, mildly amused and comforted. He visibly relaxed. He ordered the conductor, “Put Miss Sinclair’s luggage in Berth 8. Get it done fast.”

The porters were called once more. Lauren’s luggage was taken, and carried into the car before herself. She watched the progress, and made a comment about how things got resolved rather quickly. It was hard to believe she had just been stressing over when she departed to make it quickly back to the 11th, and listen to the captain’s admonishments again.

To which, Dylan could only say she was lucky to have him as a friend.

“That is true.” Lauren agreed.

They climbed the few steps into the coach, and Dylan directed her to the side where her compartment was. “End compartment, but two, towards the restaurant car.”

Dylan followed her, but retired once he reached his own cabin mid-way. He pointed to the end, and Lauren went on.

With every passenger she passed, she muttered an apology. Her ‘pardons’ were frequent within that single minute. It was mildly congested, but she made space for herself as she went through. There were many passengers aboard. Like Dylan said, it was highly unusual for this many people travelling at this time of the year.

At last, she reached the compartment.

It was a tiny space, but enough. There were two berths, just as there always were in a second-class compartment. The conductor from before himself put her bags in place.

It was a surprise. Wagon Lit conductors seldom handled luggage and do the porters’ job when that party had just been there and left the valises near the door.

“There! All is set, Miss. If you should need anything, do not hesitate to call for me.” He said enthusiastically, and pat at the bags a last time in show. With that the conductor left, but not before tipping his imaginary hat. Lauren let out a small smile.

And then, she saw the lady she was to share the space with.

The sight was shocking. Not in an ugly kind of shocking. But more as this young woman was beautiful; definitely was above thirty – probably in her early thirties – but that had hardly made anything of a difference. She had pretty pink curls, reaching down to her shoulders. And her eyes were live ambers, while her complexion was smooth and pale. Lauren wondered what she must have looked like when she had been twenty. She doubted if it was even possible to be prettier than she already was right then.

Her black sleeping gown slightly swept the floor where she sat, on her bed. She was busy taking off her earrings, and once she was finished, her eyes settled on Lauren’s form near the entrance of their shared cabin.

“Do come in.” Her voice was honey sliding down.

The lady – Miss Davenport, Lauren remembered – called her out. Lauren’s face took on a sheepish expression as she entered the space. The pink-haired women’s gaze followed her, and she patted on the berth beside her.

“Sit.”

Lauren complied. She asked after a moment, “You are Miss Davenport?”

She nodded in answer. The way she composed herself, it seemed to Lauren that she would not say anything more. The situation was awkward, with both of them sitting in unnerving silence when just the previous second one of them had offered a seat to the other. It luckily did not remain so, though.

“And you?”

The detective was glad her companion was willing to stir up conversation. Spending the next few days in this tiny space with a person you cannot talk to was equivalent to hell even for an introvert like her. “My name is Lauren. Lauren Sinclair.”

She seemed to understand.

“The train is remarkably full.” Lauren attempted at dialogue once again. Miss Davenport did nothing but nod in agreement.

“En voiture!” A shout resounded outside on the platform. A whistle blew, and the engine cried loudly. People stepped out in the corridor. The two women stayed in their places.

“We’re off.” Lauren spared a glance outside.

“You go all the way to Allendale, I presume?”

The sudden question made her whirl back to face the pink-haired miss. “Yes. And you do too, then?”

Her bright amber eyes looked at her, and her thumb ran over the nails of her fingers. She hummed, and was about to answer, when a jerk shook them.

There were noises outside. People shouted and yelled. Workmen hurried by outside the window. The sound of steam puffing was obvious. The train, as a whole, jolted forward and was put to motion. It started forward to the East of the map.

Lauren felt relieved she was seated when the train started moving, else she would have toppled over. Another whistle was heard.

“Now, we are off.” Miss Davenport smiled, while wholly unaffected by the shudder.

This journey had started, and it already seemed it was to be interesting.

Chapter Text

Lauren had breakfasted alone the next day.

She had woken up early – not that she ever went to sleep responsibly. The morning was spent poring over the case she was handling, the same case that had made her go travelling all about for leads. Miss Davenport, she did not see much of her. The woman had left the cabin as soon as it was around eight in the morning. The sun was lazy that day, and that had made Lauren check the clock just to make sure Miss Davenport had not went at four at dawn.

At lunch, Lauren finally managed to get herself off the bed and organize her notes. She forced herself to be alive once in a while, which she did only to show her face and to assure in case anyone thought she went missing or was dead in her cabin. Then, leaving the compartment, she went to the restaurant car. Dylan was already seated at one of the tables. He called her to the empty seat opposite him.

One of the perquisites of being a director is that you are always in the favored position of everything best in service. The service, yes, was amazing. The food, too, was unusually good.

They were eating dessert, and even then, they did not talk much, except some tidbits of sentences conveying their observations. They were more busy filling their mouths with the cakes they were served.

At that instance, Lauren let her eyes wander. The car was full, and people were seated and talking away. It was lively, commotion all around. The notion of spending time in this small space had brought the people together and broken down their walls. It was a wordless requirement they talk and make some friends, and perhaps find some mutual acquaintances while at it.

There were, in total, fourteen people including the detective and the director. Lauren sipped her glass of water, and let herself relax a bit. She leaned back in her chair, taking in the people she was to spend the next four days with.

On one of the tables at a corner, were seated a couple. The man seemed to be in his late-twenties and had blond hair which he ran his hand through. The way he sat, and scrutinizing his clothes which included a cream coloured dress shirt and dark trousers, he seemed to be of higher standing. Probably a noble, he was. And he behaved as such.

His wife, however, was a much more animated figure. She sat opposite him, dressed in light blue blouse and gown and spoke mirthfully. Tendrils of short dark hair fell on her face which she tucked away. Despite how detached his husband’s posture was like, it was obvious he adored his wife. It was kind of endearing.

“That is Duke Hawkes.” Dylan chimed in, seeing how Lauren’s eyes remained on them. “His father, the late Duke, was involved in the military. I do not know of his son, though. I am not sure if he has anything to do with the forces.”

Lauren looked at him in incredulity. “Duke?” She picked up the word like a puzzle.

“Yes, indeed. The Ashenford may be humble, but not so to weaken one’s pride. Even so, your confusion is justified.”

“Ah, I understand he has been rather quiet these days. The high society gossip has not found much on him and his family. Maybe that is why I did not recognize him.”

He nodded.

“You said the Aevasthers were travelling with. How come I have not met them?”

He shrugged his one shoulder shrug. “Well, they get their meals in their car, if that is what you are asking about.”

Lauren huffed and looked away.

On the other side at a larger table, three men sat. Lauren guessed they must be independent travellers. Even so, the bunch had conversations going on. One of them, with brown hair, suddenly barked out a laugh, much to the annoyance of another. He wore fitting clothes, and from his conduct, – disciplined and systematic in a way – Lauren deduced he must be in the military, perhaps.

His acquaintance, still frowning from his previous outburst, wore simpler but respectable clothes and had black hair. He gritted out, in a low voice, but his threat was clear, “I swear to God, Lawes. Shut up already.” Like a mean, grumpy old cat, with dark eyes.

The former man – Lawes – laughed once again, without any care of all the threats his acquaintance threw at him. The dark haired man did nothing but hiss out another profanity which Lauren did not catch.

“I have heard that man is a colonel.” Lauren did not know how Dylan was able to know what she was thinking about.

“Colonel Lawes is the name, eh?”

“Uh huh, I have heard the man has made quite the name for himself among the ranks. Something with being promoted while he is this young.”

She frowned softly, pensive.

“Appearances can be misleading.” Dylan was right.

Next to them, a woman sat, wearing a dress of faded purple silk. Her long brown hair was tied in a bun at the back, a braid encircling it. A pearl pendant adorned her neck, and seemed to shimmer in a starking contrast against her dark skin. The woman was clearly a lady, and she calmly sipped her wine. Lauren thought her beautiful.

Across her at the same table, a woman with curly ochre hair sat talking. Her voice was mellow and sweet. She wore a cream coloured blouse, and a brown plaid skirt which complimented her own hues.

“I talked with her yesterday. Lady Neyra, I mean.”

For this, Lauren needed no introduction from Dylan. She had heard of the woman, Lady Neyra Elena Darcy. The woman was really well known among peers of the realm. Having her uncle as the Chief of Police helped her keep up with the gossip that went around the high society circles.

“The woman with her is a lady too?”

“No. That’s her lady’s maid.”

“Oh.”

Lauren went on.

At the center of the space, was a large table that served three women seated on the chairs. One of the women, Dylan pointed out was Mrs. Murphy, who had offered him a piece of the pie she had brought from home the previous day after seeing how exhausted he was. He added in a good word for her in his description.

The other two, Lauren recognized only one of them. The woman she shared her cabin with, Miss Davenport, was in their group. She did not talk much, just like she was when she was around Lauren, but Lauren did not miss the momentary curves of her lips which very well could have been smiles, if not for a meaning smirk. She was dressed in black still, but it was not the same article of clothing. Now, she wore a proper blouse, and as she would have it, a pair of dark trousers.

On her right was their company. Lauren had not seen the woman before. She sat, straight in her chair and was also as taciturn as Miss Davenport. With long snow white hair, and dark eyes, she was rather pretty, but simple. She did not seem to indulge much in her appearance as Miss Davenport. But Lauren had to admit, they were both pretty as heck. Her guess, regarding the woman, was that she might be a governess. She sat straight like a teacher.

And at the very end of the car was the duo from yesterday. Lauren was surprised to see the man and his secretary here. It somehow did not occur to her, that, even though she did see them following the same track as them to the station last night.

Harvey, she remembered, was the name of the secretary. They sat and ate their meal silently, a reflection of how they had been at the restaurant.

Lauren did not think much of them once again. She planned on avoiding them without much reason but her own gut feeling.

The sound of chair legs scraping the floor made Lauren look at Dylan who now was standing before her. He asked of her, “How about you come to my compartment? We have much to catch up on.” He gave a bright smile, and to his offer she agreed. He left the luncheon car.

Slowly, as time came to pass, the people in the car started to leave. First went the party of the men. Then, the duke and duchess left too. It all soon spiraled down to only three people in the room, after Mrs. Murphy followed Miss Davenport on her way out with tales of her daughter.

The secretary stood up from his seat on being ordered to leave by his employer.

He did. Now, there were only two people.

Lauren thought the man would leave too. But instead, he approached her table, and flopped down uninvited on the chair that Dylan had previously occupied.

“I have the pleasure of talking to Detective Sinclair, yes?” He asked. Lauren noted his voice was the same as she had heard before the previous night: smooth and toneless.

The detective nodded, and did a mock curtsy without standing up. “Not sure about the ‘pleasure’ part, but yes. That will be me. However, I do not know who I have the honor of talking to. Indulge me, will you?”

The man nodded, unaffected of her disrespect. “The name is Redcliffe. I am a Viscount.”

Viscount Redcliffe? Here?

Lauren had never met the noble before this. And, he spoke his words the way one said, ‘It is raining today.’ Or maybe, when one says, ‘What do you plan for Halloween this year?’

It was casual, it was factual.

Toneless. And no hint of expression of what he intends beneath the general front of his words.

“How may I help you, my lord?” Lauren ventured into imitating the way he spoke. She would be damned if he caught on that she was mocking him.

He did not move a bit, and sat indifferent. Then, he put his hands on the table. He said, voice slightly persuasive and stating, “Through my life, Detective, I have learnt one thing: One should never dance around the topic or deflect it.”

Lauren raised a questioning brow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. You see, Detective, I want you to take on the job I am about to offer.”

Now, Lauren’s brows went up.

A viscount needing her services?

That was a first for sure.

But, what for?

She looked him in the eye, unwavering. “And what if I refuse? Surely your lordship means it in the context that I have the liberty to?”

“Why, yes, of course. But it will not be for nothing, Detective. This job I have for you,” he lowered his head and so did his voice, “is unlike anything. A noble, much less a viscount like me, hiring a detective as young as you? Unheard of, surely. But you have the skills, Detective Sinclair, skills I require for this.” He nodded, as if cementing his words further for her. “And there is also the money. Big money, but that is not of much importance to you, I know.”

Lauren let herself be silent for a moment or two. By every passing second, Viscount Redcliffe looked like he was more and more certain she was not to refuse now. The opportunity was huge. The detective would prove to be a fool if she let the chance go.

She hesitated, but resolved to ask of the matter. “What exactly is the job, Mist– I mean, my lord?”

The viscount leaned back in his chair. “I was not born rich, Detective. This wealth, success, my name – I have earned it myself. But, it has its own bad side. This position of mine is like a personal invitation to enemies. I have an enemy myself.”

“One enemy?” She cut in.

“What?”

“I am just curious, my lord. Your lordship cannot expect a detective to not sleuth around when they can.” Lauren smiled, but it was not much pleasant.

He huffed, but seemed relieved. “It is not the count of them, but my safety that is important. I know you would agree to that.”

“Have you, perhaps, been threatened, my lord?” Even if Lauren did not intend to take the job on and get hired by the noble, there was nothing wrong with knowing a little about him and a little more. This turn was unexpected. Lauren initially thought he might have just wanted to hire her to snoop around and dig up some dirt about his enemies.

“My life is in danger. It is not like I cannot take care of myself. I can do that very well.” His right hand went lower and stopped near the edge of his coat, right above his belt. The dark metal underneath glinted dimly. “But even still, I do not like loose ends. I like to be sure, Detective. And you, I believe, are the best person for this.”

Lauren’s face, at that moment, was empty. She was considering things, sure, but it certainly was not the line of thought the man expected her to follow. It was clear her thought process, from her expression, was unclear.

“I’m afraid, my lord,” she lowered her eyes, “but I must decline.”

Viscount Redcliffe looked at her in disbelief. He shrewdly went on, hoping to change the reaction. “Is it about the money? But I already told you. Even if you have no use of it, I will give it to you.” He seemed alarmed.

The detective just shook her head.

“How about I let you name your figure?”

The detective was silent, and then shook her head again. “No use, my lord. It will make no difference in my answer.”

“You have got guts, Detective, I must admit,” said he. “Is not even twenty five pounds enough to tempt you?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to give? Increase the number? But that is not happening, Detective. You are not worth that money.”

“I have got a good eye to know what is worth me, too.” Lauren retorted. She did not regret talking back like that. If anything, she was glad; in his face, yes.

“What do you see as wrong in my offer?” He now asked.

Lauren studied his face. She rose from the chair, deciding it was a waste of time to be seated any more. “Why does your lordship not ask yourself, my lord?”

Did he not see? Entitlement was at its finest right here.

“I do not know, Detective. It is a special opportunity for you. Such young age and such jobs do not occur paralleled.”

“How about consider the possibility, that perhaps I do not like you? Have a good day ahead, my lord.” With that, Lauren turned and left the car, leaving behind a noble thoroughly perplexed and seething with vexation.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

The Ashenford Express arrived at the station, in the Northern Province of Bricston at about a quarter to nine in the evening. It was supposed to depart after about half an hour, and this condition made Lauren decide to descend on the platform for a few minutes of fresh air. Without meaning to, the air inside was stuffy.

She did come down, and realized the cold was bitter.

The whole platform was lit with bright lamps all around. Dylan had told her how the whole station was decorated for the inauguration. He had, in fact, told her about everything that had transpired just before the ceremony. He talked of the telegram, especially. The Aevasthers were on board, but they did not sit in the local restaurant car, and had their meals served in their own coach. Lauren had not even seen their faces, nor of their guest.

Presently, from her peripheral vision, she saw a young man run up to her direction. The man had unruly brown hair, and his chest heaved from the exercise. He exclaimed, his hand wildly swinging at his side, “Excuse me? Miss!”

After a second too long, Lauren realized he was talking to her. Now, the man was quite near, conversationally near. Lauren looked around, then pointed at herself and asked, “Me?”

“Yes, Miss!” He took some time to breath. Then straightening himself, he looked at her, his grey eyes, seemingly silver, boring into her and bubbling with what looked like – he looked like he had questions.

Lauren let him take a moment to compose himself.

“May I know your name, Miss…?” He queried first for what to address her as.

She answered, “Sinclair. Yours?”

“Carmichael.”

Lauren nodded.

“Miss Sinclair, do you know where this is?”

He extended his hand, and Lauren saw a piece of paper. It was a train ticket of The Ashenford. But, it was not his. The name printed was ‘Mr. Kieran E. White’. Also, the coach was not hers. It was the new slip coach that was currently being added on. Dylan had told her of this.

“Yes,” Lauren answered, “But the coach is yet to be joined fully. Over there,” she pointed at her right where a few men huddled together near the train. “That is your coach.”

Mr. Carmichael was about to answer, when another man stalked the same steps as he had. He came to them, and threw a dirty look at the other man.

His eyes were blue, but they shone like emeralds in the split moments the distant warm light of the platform would fall on him. His black hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon of white. He hit Mr. Carmichael’s arm, and gave Lauren not even a glance. “I already figured out, Jeremy. This is unnecessary.”

Mr. Carmichael let out a laugh. “Okay, but the coach you are to board has not even been attached yet, White. We will have to wait for some time.” Mr. White nodded in comprehension.

Lauren let out a deliberate shallow cough, just to get their attention. And, it did. The newcomer, obviously the one to travel, seemed to realize her presence, and uttered a short apology for how he did not see her. Lauren just tipped her chin at his direction, not thinking if not seeing a whole person completely was humanly possible.

“What brings you aboard, Miss Sinclair?” Mr. Carmichael asked good-naturedly in an attempt for conversation, to pass the time.

“A case.” The answer came without thought.

“A case? Are you a detective, Miss Sinclair?” Mr. White looked at her, brow raised. He did not have an expression of surprise.

“Yes.” Something occurred to her. “Did you, perhaps, miss The Ashenford in Rudwards, Mr. White? Has that made you board it here, in Bricston?”

She remembered the same name booked for a berth in her coach. The conductor had told her and Dylan about it when they had stood at the steps of the coach and asked for an empty spot. He had said that this ‘Mr. White’ had not arrived yet, then.

He looked puzzled for a moment, before he schooled his features. “No. Why do you ask, Miss?”

So it was not him? He had not lied just now. “It is nothing. I just thought I saw your name on the passenger list for my coach.” Lauren recalled clearly. The conductor had definitely said ‘Mr. White’. Maybe, it was a mistake, or it could be that there were two men with the same name booked on the list. ‘White’ was a common enough last name. Lauren let it slide.

“Hmm. It could be another ‘Mr. White’.” Mr. Carmichael smiled, echoing her thoughts verbally, while the man concerned in this case said nothing.

There was a shout, from the right. Heads on the platform turned. It seemed the Bricston slip coach was ready for boarding. Lauren checked her watch. It was about five minutes past nine. She turned to face the men. “That was your call, I presume.”

She bid them farewell, and expressed the chances of meeting Mr. White again later on the journey, no matter how she actually did not care for that happening.

Lauren did not witness them leave, for she already climbed onto her car and reached her compartment. Her valises were gone, and her cabin companion was nowhere to be seen. She stopped the conductor when she saw him passing by and asked about what she wanted to. Surely, he must know of their location.

“Your bags have been shifted to the Director’s cabin, Miss.” He informed her, as he halted in his way to the other side of the corridor.

The detective asked, “But where is he?”

The conductor, whose name was Sandman, made a gesture. “The Director should be in the wagon that has just been hitched. He said he was to travel in that one.”

Lauren left the car, and making her way through the corridors, soon reached the slip coach that everyone one seemed to want to travel in. The interiors were pretty similar to her own carriage. Red and brown draped around, while gold painted embellishments ornamented the corners and the details. Some workers cleaned and made some final touches to make the place habitable for the travel. With just a few turns, she saw Dylan’s head bobbing in one of the cabins, from outside.

She approached him, but before she could say anything, he caught sight of her. He waved a hand, and grinned, “Did you see your new compartment? It’s nice, right? It is first class, like we always intended yours to be.”

“Why, though?” Lauren asked.

“It is better this way, no? I mean, you get to yourself more space for all those notes of yours.” Dylan reasoned. Lauren looked sheepish. Dylan only laughed. “What? Did you think I did not notice? Your– Miss Davenport was the name, right? I only wonder how troubled she must be when you kept the light on well into the night.”

“That is the reason?”

“No. It is also just because.” He shrugged, and Lauren smiled.

The door to one of the cabins on the other side was opened. Lauren dared to be surprised to see Mr. White come out. She thought he might react to her. He did not make any comment to her, however. He simply passed by with a respectable nod to Dylan, which the director returned with a curve of his lips.

But it just so happened, that they did not in fact know each other.

With night slowly crawling out to envelop the sky in an inkier black that earlier blue, The Ashenford left the station punctually at a quarter past nine. Lauren left the coach and Dylan after a short conversation with him, and went to her own. Her way collided with that of a young man with short brown hair.

Light coffee eyes widened at her. The man let out an apology for the crash. Lauren waved it off.

The man was probably in his early thirties, and even so, had freckles covering his cheeks that made him look quite innocent in a way. Behind him was the colonel Dylan had identified at lunch that day.

“Cannot see from the behind of your skull, Wood?” Colonel Lawes asked, with a chuckle.

Harvey frowned, and swatted his hand away when the colonel tried to act friendly. To this, the colonel only laughed, before he turned to Lauren and introduced himself. “Colonel Andrew Lawes. Nice to make acquaintance of a pretty lady as you, mademoiselle.” He bowed.

Lauren could only smile. “Lauren Sinclair.” She turned to the viscount’s secretary. “And you would be Harvey Wood?”

Harvey Wood seemed to realize he had not introduced himself, and with a shake of his head, it looked like he saw the conversation was beyond that point now. “Yes,” he said, “that is me.”

Colonel Lawes tipped his imaginary hat. “Perhaps you would let us go, Miss Sinclair? It was certainly nice to make introductions with someone else other than him or the personification of death. My god, he looks like he had just awakened from his grave or some…” They went off, and she let them, but not before another civil word of farewell. The two men still talked of politics and current affairs, like men do.

Lauren went on to her new compartment, but on seeing Miss Davenport, she stopped. She was in a conversation with Mrs. Murphy. Lauren, because of a decision she made without much thought, went to them. The duo stood before her previous cabin: Berth No. 8 and 9.

The woman saw her too, and turned to attend to the detective. Her hair was knotted in a short braid, which to Lauren, looked pretty no matter the strands that flew about messily, having slipped out.

“Miss Sinclair, where have you been? I come in the compartment, and you are nowhere to be seen.” She asked.

“Ah well, I have been given another cabin for myself.”

She tipped her head in understanding. “Is that why your luggage is gone as well? It must be so.”

“Yes, it is so.” Lauren confirmed. The only reason for this talk was just to inform the woman that she had shifted compartments. There were no strings attached between them anyways to make any significant effect with this change.

With a short exchange of wishes of each other having a good night’s sleep, Lauren left the two women. They were still chatting when she reached her new cabin: the No. 1. It was a first class berth. Lauren stopped for a short second when Mr. March, the valet of Viscount Redcliffe, left the latter’s compartment.

The noble had his compartment right next to Lauren’s, and in the moment the door was open, the detective suspected she saw him scowling when she met his gaze. Then, the door closed from the push his valet gave, while he was on his merry way to his own cabin.

Lauren entered. The room was dark, and she flipped the switch as to make it lit. The lamp flickered, and then brightness spread out. She ran her gaze around, noting all the things that were. Her luggage too, was organized neatly in their place under.

After the last miscellaneous tasks were completed, Lauren turned the lights off and went to sleep.

Through all her life, one thing that had not changed was the fact that Lauren Sinclair was a light sleeper. Well into the night, she was awakened by a noise that came from outside her cabin. Sitting up in her berth, it took her a moment to realize what she had just heard.

It was a cry, at least it sounded like one.

A bell ringed sharply from somewhere. Lauren thought she heard the cry from the adjacent one. But the one truly on that side was Viscount Redcliffe’s. What was going on?

She also noticed the train was still, motionless. Maybe it was a station. But then again, if it was a station, why were there no noises? It was all weirdly unsettling.

Slowly and noiselessly, she shifted from her position. She grabbed the quilt, and turned it aside, as she stood. The light was switched on. With her movements still laced with weariness, she stood at the door and opened it only to the degree that she be able to see what was happening outside.

It had not even been ten seconds that the noise was heard, but the conductor, a figure in blue, hurried to the origin of it.

Lauren saw the man stop before the cabin of Viscount Redcliffe. The man looked concerned, and lifting a hand, knocked as to enquire. “My lord? Is everything alright?”

There was no answer. Everything was deathly quiet. Lauren took in a breath at the sight before her. She waited, with patience behind her door, and so did the conductor before the noble’s.

An agonizing minute passed away with nothing but silence just the same. The detective heard a bell ring somewhere farther, and a light went on behind another door down the corridor.

The conductor seemed to be hemmed in the situation. He needed to attend to the ringer of the bell too. He looked at the direction of the new sound, but did not move from his current position.

Suddenly, a voice emerged from the viscount’s cabin. Lauren was almost not able to catch the words, but she did.

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.”

The conductor seemed to relax at the words. “Alright. Have a good night, your lordship.” He left for the bell that had ringed previously.

Lauren too, left her spot near the door and went to the bed once again, switching off the light. The matter had been resolved. And, as she lied on the berth, she hoped she might be able to go to sleep successfully again. She cast a last glance at her watch that was hung on the side of the bedhead. She sighed and closed her eyes.

It was only twenty three minutes to one.

Chapter Text

Lauren found it difficult to go to sleep again. This was made obvious when she was on the bed, and her mind had refused to comply with her wish to stop thinking.

First of all things that aided this was that the train was still. Had it been moving and chuffing out some smoke, Lauren knew for sure it would have helped her relax and at least lie with her eyes closed.

But now, everything was quiet and stationary. She missed the motion and the movement, and the small jolts of it that felt like someone was cradling her.

Even if the train was at a station, it was abnormally silent.

In a starking contrast, everything that happened on the train sounded unusually loud. Every single shift, whether it was an object or person, was heard and made the situation even more curious.

There was a sound every now and then. But the one that kept her awake was the sounds that came from Viscount Redcliffe’s compartment. Lauren could clearly hear the man moving about in the small space.

His pulling down the washbasin was clearly audible. Then there were the sounds of water splashing. The tap was running, and the flow of it against the metal surrounding it was perturbing in a way. It was sharp, yet dulled down by the slow speed of the current. A click was heard, as the basin was closed.

Lauren also heard something from the corridor. This time, it sounded like footsteps. But they were soft. It was also not like they were deliberately being stepped in all slow and cautious. The footsteps were fast, instead. Lauren guessed the person wore slippers from the bedroom.

Once again, the whole train was silent. No one even snored!

A flash of change, and Lauren thought she heard some noise from the adjoining compartment. It sounded like a racket, but a dull one that she was not sure if the sound actually was produced or just her imagination. She knew human minds gave illusions of sound to fill in the void of silence. But she was not sure she liked it.

Everyone must be asleep now, Lauren thought. She stared at the ceiling, mind racing, yet there was no thought she could affectively catch on with. Every single notion – logical or not – ran in her head without even as much of a chance for her to spread them out as to have it make sense. Why was the station out there this silent?

Somehow, her throat felt dry.

She sat up in her bed, and extended her hand to look for her watch. Once feeling the cool metal in her hand against her skin, she switched the light on. It was just after a quarter past one.

Deciding her dry throat was not going to let her sleep, her hand went out for the bell to ring. She would summon the conductor to fetch for her a bottle of water.

But then a bell resounded. Its ring was startlingly shrill. Lauren almost flinched at the sound.

She decided to stall her own ringing for the conductor at the moment. The bell ringed again and again. It seemed the person doing this was hell bent on making it sound like an emergency. Maybe it was, Lauren could not tell.

The bell sounded again.

Where was the conductor?

Hasty steps were heard from the corridor. Lauren felt relieved when the ringing stopped.

There were voices outside. The whole conversation was like an argument – if it could be called one. The detective could not hear them clearly, for the compartment in question must be farther from hers. But the exchange being slightly chaotic was obvious to her. One voice was insistent, and loud in volume. The other was calmer. She guessed the conductor was busy trying to make the passenger calm.

The conductor stopped talking, and Lauren heard the other person speaking still. She smiled, as she recognized the voice. It was Mrs. Murphy. But then, why was she distressed?

After a few minutes, both voices died down. The sound of a door closing followed. Lauren pushed the bell.

There were the same footsteps, but this time, they were not hurried.

She went to the door and opened it. She did not expect the conductor to look so worried. Lauren did not speak for a moment, during which the man tried to breathe evenly.

“Can I get a bottle of water, please?” She remembered to let out a small smile.

“Of course, Miss.” The conductor acquiesced. But then, he began, “That lady…”

“Mrs. Murphy, yes?”

Lauren noticed he was sweating a bit.

“Well, it is bizarre!” He said, “The lady just now ringed her bell. I went to her, and she says there is someone who tried to force open the communicating door in her compartment from the other side. I said it is quite impossible, since she herself said that she had seen to it that it was bolted on her side. Besides, no sane person would do that. If anyone had tried to do so, I would have heard.” He waved a hand around, in half an attempt to make Lauren realize the area size of the compartment he referred to. It was not much big.

She almost argued that there was no guarantee the guy was sane. She had seen no medical proof. But Lauren was now doubtful if the sounds she had heard were the same as Mrs. Murphy had described. “Are you sure? I thought I heard something of that sort.”

He looked half astonished. “I assure you, Miss. Perhaps she had a nightmare. I have heard that older people are more prone to having them.”

Lauren had not heard of that. She just hummed, non-committedly.

“Yet, she insists like a child. First, this snow, and then–”

“The snow?” Lauren cut in. Snow was common up in the North. But the conductor said the word like it was a serious nuisance in this moment.

“Why, yes. Have you not noticed, Miss? The train right now is stuck in a snow drift.” The conductor said, half gesturing towards the door of the carriage.

She had to stop herself from exclaiming. “Snow drift?”

“Indeed. I remember that miserable instance when we had been snowed in for twelve days once.” He spoke with distaste, and it slightly made Lauren think of the situation in that light too.

If this trip was going to in any way resemble the one he told of, she wondered how exactly Captain Hermann would react on her prolonged absence for days. He would probably blame her for the snowfall, and say it was her fault the train ran into snow, that she deliberately made it snow on the route so she could stall like the lazy person she was. Too bad blizzards were a type of weather, and not a case she could manipulate.

Lauren huffed, and then asked, “Very well, what can one do? But, do you know where exactly we are?”

The conductor answered simply, “Between Laspin and Aurchers.”

So, it was not so far yet. The detective hummed, and then dismissed the conductor as to bring her the water. After a few minutes, the man came back, with a water bottle in hand. Lauren thanked him for the service.

“Bonne nuit, Miss.”

He left, and Lauren reentered the compartment. She drank some water, and lied down in hopes she would finally get to sleep. Her mind was calmer now, and the possibility of sleep seemed not so distant now.

Her mind drifted to what had just transpired, but it was soon when she was asleep.

“Thud!”

Lauren groaned. Her wish to slumber vanished again. So much for getting a good night’s sleep. It was quiet when she sat up, but she was fairly confident she had heard something crash dully. Had the man been trying to invade in the woman’s room again?

The night was becoming weirder and weirder. She had heard that noise, but there were no any other sounds to prove the conductor had heard it too. If he had, he would have been running about.

Lauren stood and went to the door once again. She opened it a crack, and peered out. It was not her business, so it would only be considered odd if she was so interested in others’.

The corridor was empty. But at the end of it, near the toilettes, Lauren saw a flash of red silk. It was a scarlet nightdress. One of the women on board, she thought, it must be.

Lauren turned her gaze on the other end, where the conductor sat in his chair, widely awake. He had large sheets of paper spread on his lap, and his hands were busy registering figures in them. He was wholly focused on his task. Lauren doubted if he had heard anything.

Finally resigning, Lauren retired to bed. She was now adamant on not getting up from her berth even if a tsunami – however unlikely – struck the train during the course of the night.

After that, she did not get the time for it, but if she did, she would have been surprised by the fact that she was able to sleep till morning next.

When Lauren entered the dining car in the morning the next day, people were just as lively as they had been the last day at lunch. The prevailing situation had broken down the walls that were built around every persons, if not already. Perhaps, the walls were down and people had found a use of the shovels too.

Distress was widespread. Everyone seemed to be discussing the matter. Even the grumpy man from yesterday, who had cursed at the colonel, looked anxious.

But Lauren did not see her friend there. This time, she did not sit at the first table, respecting the fact that Dylan was not there to invite her and let her take advantage of the position.

She took a table at one of the corners. There was no solo seat, and so the chair opposite her remained empty. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to ten.

A waiter came to her on being called, and Lauren gave her order. The breakfast promptly arrived.

While she was busy with the food, Lauren barely noticed Mr. White come into the car. Curiously enough, he took a seat with the Duke and Duchess. This fact alone made the detective turn to watch them, meanwhile as she tried to seem not to. Mentally, she felt like a creep.

The trio were rather chatty, and even the Duke acted more animated than he had been the previous day on the basis that he had another person to converse with other than his wife. And much to Lauren’s surprise, the Duchess, her ladyship – even though her disposition had not much changed since Lauren’s last report of her – she acted livelier than lovelier. In the assumed sense that they knew each other from before, she kept being more… chaotic. Perhaps it was not the right word, but Lauren could not find any other word to define her right now.

Mr. White, too, behaved in a way in contrast to how he had been with her. He was not much detached. On the contrary, he was as active in the exchange as Duchess Hawkes was. It was new to see him like that. He fit his current role better.

At the moment, a waiter arrived at Lauren’s table with the dessert. Lauren took the plate, and busied herself. The pancakes were surprisingly pretty delicious, and it did not occur to Lauren to watch around more.

“Is this seat occupied?"

Lauren looked up, her auburn hair almost blocking her view. She tucked a strand behind her hair and saw Mr. White leaning towards her with a hand on the back of the chair. She smiled in civility.

“Not at all. You may sit if you want to.”

And sit he did. The detective raised a brow at the turn of events. He had just been talking with the nobles. How come he came here at her table? She cut a piece of cake and ate it, all the while as she watched him call a waiter and give an order for the same dessert as her. Pancakes. He had not eaten anything in his time with the nobles.

Once she was done chewing, she put her knife down. “Is there anything you wanted to tell me, Mr. White?”

“Can I not just come for a little chat, Detective?” He smiled. She noted that he remembered her profession.

“Very well, you can.” Lauren paused.

“Of course. It would do you no good if you kept to yourself among these people, since it does not seem you will be rid of them anytime soon. All this snow…” His blue eyes darted towards the window, even though a curtain restricted the view of outside.

“I wonder how long we are going to be stuck here.”

His lips curved up in a smirk. “Already anxious for your escape, Detective? I just advised you to not be.”

Lauren made a face. “Are you not worried if we would be stuck for days on end here?”

“I would, if we are not out of here by the next four days.”

“A deadline?”

He shrugged a one shoulder shrug. “Nothing comes from panicking when you could very well wait or plan how to overcome the situation.”

“Wow.” Lauren rolled her eyes, half mocking. He was right, though. “Are you a philosopher, Mr. White?”

“No, that would mean I wholly do not care nor worry. I do, just not unnecessarily.”

The detective hummed, momentarily distracted by the task of stuffing another piece of cake in her mouth. The waiter from before came with a dish in his hand, and served it before him. He did not waste much time to start.

“I cannot believe this! I was told this is to be the easiest way to go to the capital. And now we’re stuck in this miserable snow.”

The voice made Lauren turn to see Mrs. Murphy. She saw Mr. White turn too. The woman was not seated very far from them. She had an apprehensive face, and was voicing whatever complains she had in her mind over the situation.

Miss Davenport was next to her. She only snuffled quietly, and threw a glance at the nervous woman. The detective briefly wondered what her cause of travel was.

Everyone looked fretful and restless. Whispers went about, and sometimes a louder voice would be heard. People huddled and discussed. Every now and then, a blind would be lifted and someone would look outside, only to sigh in defeat or sniff in annoyance. All in all, it was a tense environment.

The door of the restaurant car was suddenly opened with a loud enough click as to make everyone turn to see who it was. But, they saw that it was only a Wagon Lit conductor, so the gazes passed on from him.

Surprisingly, it approached Lauren’s table. His face was worried. He was also not Sandman. He was someone else from some other coach, perhaps.

“Pardon, Detective Sinclair?”

Lauren nodded, and asked if anything was the matter. Mr. White only watched.

“Yes. The director has asked for you to come meet him.”

She thought the conductor was unusually bothered. “Alright.” She turned to the man that sat before her, who remained silent the whole time. “Mr. White, would you excuse–?”

“Umm… the director asked for Dr. White too…” The conductor hesitated.

Lauren stared. “Doctor?”

The man in question just smiled sweetly. Nothing else was said, and the two of them simply followed the anxious man out of the dining car. The pancakes were left uneaten.

Chapter Text

The two followed the Wagon Lit conductor.

They passed through the corridor, and Lauren was surprised when they crossed the whole car and still did not stop. They walked into the next one, Dylan’s car. Dr. White too, was a bit more curious as they walked into his own coach.

The conductor stopped before a second class compartment, and opened the door as to announce their presence.

It was obvious the cabin had been chosen because of its slightly larger space. However still, with the number of people seated in there, it very much gave the notion of a crowd. Dylan was seated near the window, wrapped in a fur coat because of the cold. On his right was a man in a grey uniform, and with a glance at the conductor that had come to fetch them, it was evident he was the chef de train’s own conductor.

Dylan looked up from where he was, and smiled almost sadly. “Come on in, Ren. There is something we need of you right now.”

Lauren raised her brow, but conceded and entered the space. Dr. White too, followed suit. The chef de train shifted, and then altogether finally stood up to make space.

“Is anything wrong?” Dr. White asked first. Dylan attended to him with a curt nod, which did not seem to answer any question.

The detective asked now, “Has something occurred?”

“Yes.” The director paused. The conductor standing at the entrance tensed up as if he had touched a burning iron but could not scream. Dylan continued, “First of all, all this snow–” He let a sigh escape his lips. “Then the stoppage. And if it could already have not gotten any worse, now…”

“Now?” Lauren probed forward.

“And now a man lies in his compartment – stabbed to death.” He did not speak with any kind of sign of panic, but desperation was definitely there.

Because of the lack of any hyper emotion on his part, the revelation did not give any dramatic reactions on any of the newcomers’ part as well. Lauren just stared at him, partly in stubborn disbelief. But it must have been true. The detective breathed out slowly. “C’est terrible.”

Dr. White, however, was a lot calmer than she would like to admit or even expected. He just sat relaxed, and watched the blank of the snow outside the window. He had just swallowed up whatever words had been thrown at them. After a short minute stretched a bit longer, he finally asked, “Which passenger is it?”

“The noble.”

“Duke– but he’s very much alive. You mean the viscount?” Lauren asked, the reality of the situation finally settling in her.

Dylan nodded. “Yes. Viscount Redcliffe is dead.”

Lauren momentarily looked at the conductor that stood at the entrance. He was jittery, and looked like he would be flinching at even the sound of a pin dropping on a velvet covered floor. “Why do you not let him sit down?” Lauren asked of no one in particular, but Dr. White shifted closer to the window to make some seat for the conductor.

“You know, all this is really serious. Currently, because of the snow, we cannot call police on board for the investigation. Usually, we have police of the province we are crossing on the train. But where we are is a border area. So, you get the point.” Dylan said.

“Where are we exactly, anyways?”

“We left Laspin last,” Dylan answered. Lauren knew that. The conductor of her coach had told her exactly that the previous night. Dylan informed her of more, however, “But as of now, we are near the threshold of the west of Aurchers.”

Aurchers was a safe zone. It was a well-developed industrial area – nicknamed the Capital of the North. But the situation at hand did not help, since the train first needed to get rid of the forsaken snow.

“We have come to a standstill. We might be stuck here for hours; who knows maybe even days! And now a murder! A crime had to occur and it just happened to be murder,” Dylan gritted out, frustrated and frantic. “The circumstances are utmost unusual. Out there is the snow, and in here is a murderer lurking free and eating cake with innocent passengers.”

Dr. White shallowly coughed into the cuff of his shirt. Despite what had happened, Lauren could not help but smile, slightly.

“This is the worst situation to be in,” said the director.

“When was the viscount last seen alive?” The detective asked. Internally, she was slightly amused. Dylan was anxious over this in fear of scandal. No one particularly liked it when a corpse was found in the property of the corporation you were director in. She knew how important his job was to him. This was a brand new train to start with. It went into a snowdrift already. And now this.

Dylan slightly shifted in his seat. “Carlson? Call Sandman and tell him to come here.” He commanded, and the conductor earlier seated now stood and left. Dylan turned to Lauren. “He was last known to be alive at about twenty minutes to one.” He said, and then paused. He continued, “He spoke to the conductor then, I was told.”

“I get it. I heard the whole thing, yes. But, that is the last thing known of him? Nothing transpired in the morning before his dead body was discovered?”

“Yes, that is the last thing known. We found the room locked from the inside, and the window was wide open. It very well suggested the murderer escaped from there, but there were no footsteps on the snow. I am fairly confident it was just a red herring.”

Lauren hummed, taking in all the information.

Dr. White asked, “When was the crime discovered?”

Summoned, but with an incredible skill to match timings, the conductor of Lauren’s coach – Abel Sandman – rushed in. Carlson, the other one, was not too far behind.

Sandman asked of the director, “You called for me, Director?” He did not seem as much affected by the crime as Carlson, but the shock was apparent. His eyes sometimes strayed away from any gazes that fell on him; he did not stand straight, and when asked, spoke somewhat jerkily.

“Yes.” Dylan nodded, and then gestured towards the detective and the doctor. “Tell the gentleman and the lady what exactly you did and what occurred.”

He answered, “The viscount’s valet, Mr. March, knocked on his door several times in the morning. After no answer came, he was worried. The restaurant car attendant came around half an hour ago to make sure if Viscount Redcliffe was having breakfast or not. It was pretty late, see. It was already eleven. Then, when he was not answered as well, I was called.

“I have a key on me to open compartments. I do so, but I was surprised on finding the chain is fastened too. It is highly unusual, for people do not usually lock their doors with the chain.

“It was really cold in there, and we called him again. But there was no answer still. We got the chef de train to come, and he came and we broke into the cabin, only to find him lying there, lifeless.”

“Locked from the inside.” Lauren considered, pensive. “You sure it was not suicide?”

“Unless by suicide you mean a ferocity which entails someone stabbing themselves again and again more than ten times, yes.” Dylan looked grim.

Even Dr. White was mildly surprised at the aggressiveness. He threw Lauren a glance, that said that he found it funny a detective like her would ask such a question when it already had been established the victim was stabbed. Lauren refrained from rolling her eyes.

“C’est une femme,” The chef de train suggested decisively. “Only women stab at someone like that, repeatedly. In rage, they can be quite strong.”

“We do not know for sure, Monsieur Moreau.” Dylan shook his head.

Lauren leaned forward a bit. “I might have something to contribute to this stash of what we know.” Everyone turned to her in attention. She went on. “Yesterday, Viscount Redcliffe spoke to me. His language was kind of cryptic, but as far as I can tell, his life was in danger. Someone had, perhaps, threatened him, I think.”

“A professional gangster it could have been, for all we know,” said Dylan.

Monsieur Moreau frowned. Lauren almost wanted to tell him women could be criminals too, but refrained from doing so. It would not help.

“I almost wonder if that man– that mean and grumpy man was responsible for it. He hurled threats around quite openly. You know who I am talking about, do you not, Lauren?”

Lauren just nodded.

Sandman said, “Yes, Director. But Mr. Randall’s berth is the No. 16. And if he was to move around in the coach, I would easily see him from my end. Also, that man seems to have some kind of physical disability.”

“Anyhow, this is, as I said, serious. And we cannot possibly wait for the day we are able to pass this snow drift. You know what I am going to ask of you, Ren.”

“You want me to take up this case, do you not?”

“Certainly,” Dylan admitted. “It would definitely be convenient if we were to ring up the police, then disclose about the crime and simply present to them the murderer. And besides, the case is just the one for you, Lauren. Do you not always like a good one as this to finally put your mind to use for?”

Lauren hummed, non-committedly.

The director turned to face the doctor. “Dr. White, the body still has not been examined much. We feared we would spoil anything. Would you be so generous as to, well–?”

“Assuredly, Director, do not fret.” The doctor smiled.

Dylan seemed to let out a sigh a breath of partial relief. “Ren?”

“Alright.”

Dylan put his hands on his knees. “Well, then, this is settled.”

The detective asked, after some thought, “What other people are present onboard?”

“There are many, Lauren. But if you’re wondering, it is quite impossible for anyone other than the passengers of your coach to commit this crime. All cars are locked past dinner.”

“Ah, well…”

“Would you like to use the restaurant car for any interrogations?” He suggested, looking at her for her thoughts on the proposition.

“If that can be managed, then please do so.”

“Very well, it will be managed–”

One of the two conductors – Carlson – stumbled into the compartment. Lauren had not seen him leave the space. But now that he had reentered the second time, she noted he looked slightly nervous. Dylan beat her to this, asking first about him.

“Carlson? Is anything the matter?”

“Director.” He spared a glance out the compartment into the corridor, but his gaze was short and not far. “The royal family, their majesties, they desire to see what has come of the matter at hand.”

All the people of the cabin fell silent.

The director exhaled a shallow breath. “It is alright, Carlson. We will be meeting them. Are they in their rooms? We will go right away if they require me or us.” He made a small gesture of dismissal, but the man remained in his position, his place. And he was anxious as ever.

“The thing is that they are currently here, Director. Umm… they want to converse with you here, if you can make it happen.”

The people inside were even more tense. No one dared to speak. It was not their place to. The director was to make any decision.

The said director straightened his posture. He turned to the chef de train in grey. The man promptly left the compartment. He did the same with the conductor of Lauren’s coach, Sandman. He too, was fast in his departure.

Then, he looked at Carlson and tipped his chin. “Tell them they are welcome in here.”

It was not even a minute that had passed, before Lauren found herself standing up so as to curtsy before the royals. Dylan and Dr. White bowed after leaving their seats.

The director waved at Lauren, and introduced her to them, “She, your majesties, is a dear friend of mine.” He looked at the doctor. “And he is Dr. White.”

“Please, be at ease.” His majesty, the king, commanded of them. They obliged.

Dylan gestured to the berth he had been sitting on. Lauren shuffled, and then left her seat altogether to stand beside him. Conveniently, she stood right between the two men. Dylan was kind enough to get to the other side of the compartment as to make her space. The doctor was already too close to the wall with the window for him to get aside any further.

The royals sat, somehow still with a regal air despite being stuffed in a second class compartment in a slip coach.

Lauren looked at Lord Dakan Rhysmel, her godfather and the king’s right hand. It had been quite some time since they last met. He looked worried, and it only confirmed Lauren’s doubts when he wiped a drop of sweat from his brow.

Her majesty, the queen, looked at Lauren. Her gaze then went to Dylan, presumably the only face she recognized among the three of them. She prompted him, “Well?”

“Your majesties, we intend on opening an investigation now that the case has come into my attention. We are sure that the culprit will be tracked down and this crime will be given justice.” Lauren cut in. But, she thought she almost saw Dylan look at her in slight alarm.

“Crime?”

Why did that word sound like it was the first time the speaker had spoken it? Realization was bitter to Lauren.

“Your majesties, please, do not worry. It is not much of a severe case.” Dylan’s attempt of damage control was piteous. It must be that the royals were here to ask of the snowdrift and not of a damnation that had occurred aboard that might just qualify for a cruel crime.

“What has occurred?” The king asked, cutting an invisible tension. Not that this query helped much in actually depleting it completely.

Dylan winced silently, like he did not want to be the one answering.

Dr. White saved him this, as he started narrating the unfortunate events of the morning. “There has been discovered a dead body, your majesty. Fret not, though, for we have a detective on the train with us.” The doctor gestured at Lauren with a hand and a curt nod. “Detective Sinclair is a friend of Director Rosenthal, and quite efficient at her work. We are positive we will be closing this case before the police get on.” He spoke with easy grace.

“You mean a murder? Who was it?” The queen spoke with morbid disgust, but it was laced with intrigue. It was just hidden somewhere that just required some digging to find.

Dylan answered this time, “Yes. It was Viscount Redcliffe.” He spoke like he had thorns in his throat, making it hard to admit what misfortune had occurred. He was hesitant.

“Ah…” The queen just sighed in acknowledgement, somehow with no reaction over losing a member of the nobility to the hands of a brutal murderer. The others just had their eyes wide. Lord Rhysmel was speechless and so was the king.

“However,” Dylan suddenly stood up. “I would have to take my leave, your majesties. I have some preparations to do for the investigation Detective Sinclair intends to do. I hope you do not mind? Detective Sinclair and Dr. White shall clear any doubts you have regarding the matter, but there has not been any progress except the discovery. So I doubt there is much to tell.”

The royals allowed the director’s departure, which just left the doctor and the detective to face them. This impasse of subjects to converse about was ended abruptly when her majesty, the queen, stood up as well.

“I just intend to be informed of all significant occurrences, Detective Sinclair. I know you will do a fantastic job.” With that, the queen left the compartment.

The two people left bowed once again in respect.

His majesty followed her, wordlessly. Dakan, however, did not go before wishing them that they be successful in a much more normal way. He just said simply, “I trust you with this, Lauren. I know your abilities.” He had smiled, and with that was out. The detective guessed the young prince, Arthur, must be with some lady-in-waiting and the guest the family had with them aboard.

The moment they were out, followed by Carlson who went to escort them to their rooms, the compartment felt like a fresh summer breeze had flown through there. Of course that had not actually happened, but the feeling was very much the same that followed a gust of cool wind. Lauren breathed out audibly. She heard the doctor snicker to himself.

She turned to face him, but he was looking out at the snow. His face was expressionless, but in a way dreamy.

“Dr. White?”

He attended to her.

“What do you say about getting right with the job?” She suggested, and saw him smile slightly. That made her smile too.

“Sounds like a plan.”

At the moment, Carlson entered once again. Lauren asked of him, “Mister Carlson, would you bring in every single passenger’s tickets and travel documents? Maybe their passports if they have that? I would also like to have a thorough plan of our wagon with the names of passengers.”

The conductor said he could, and went out for the job. Silence lingered. Neither the detective nor the doctor uttered a word. After a few minutes of comfortable but empty quietness, she gave in, and spoke first. “Dr. White, I think, I would like to interrogate the secretary first, right here. I was wondering if you could examine the body meanwhile. I will meet you there after I am finished with him, then you could tell me any of your discoveries.” She suggested calmly.

Dr. White looked at her and nodded understandingly. “Very well, Detective Sinclair.” He departed. Now, she was alone.

Carlson returned soon, his hands busy with the passports trying not to drop them. He did drop them, however, on Lauren’s side for her inspection.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlson. Did Mr. Sandman say if the dead man’s secretary knew about this affair?”

He seemed to consider it for a few moments, and then he shook his head.

“Alright, Mr. Carlson. Would you be so kind as to summon the secretary for me?”

“Mr. Wood?”

Lauren smiled. “Yes. I would like to talk to him for a moment before I proceed further.”

Chapter Text

“Is anything the matter?” Mr. Wood asked, as he was asked to enter the empty compartment and take a seat. It was empty, except for Lauren who sat with her legs crossed. She was going through the documents Carlson had brought in just a few moments ago.

He took a seat next to her, slightly nervous as he saw her watch his actions keenly.

“Yes, Mr. Wood. Do not worry yourself, however,” Lauren said. She put the papers down, and looked up to face him.

“What has? And what is it that has to do with you, Miss Sinclair?” Mr. Wood seemed to be genuinely confused.

Lauren started, “Well, Mr. Wood, it just so happened that your employer – Viscount Redcliffe – has been found dead in his compartment this morning.”

If she expected any reaction to be present on his face at this disclosure, she did not see it. In fact, he was much calmer than she predicted given his conduct. He just leaned back on the berth, and it would have given the impression he was relaxing had there been no upright wall behind them.

“They got him, then?”

Lauren just raised a brow. He did not explain further what he meant with those words. She had to ask, “I do not quite understand your meaning, Mr. Wood. What do you mean by that?”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He opened his mouth to say something, but his voice caught in his throat. No words could make up anything then.

“Are you assuming that it was a murder? That your employer, that noble, was murdered? What could have led you to this supposition, Mr. Wood?”

He breathed in calmly, and looked at her. “Are you telling me he just died in his sleep? That cannot be. He is quite young, and actually healthy and fit and tough. Well, I thought that is rather unlikely. I mean have you looked at him–?”

“No.” Lauren interrupted and shook her head slightly. “I mean, you are correct, Mr. Wood. Viscount Redcliffe, indeed, was killed last night. But what I want to know is why you are so certain it was murder and not just simple death.”

He huffed, and then revived his earlier question. “May I know what role exactly do you fulfill in this affair?”

“I am a detective, Mr. Wood. The director of the corporation, Director Rosenthal, has appointed me this case. That gives me the right that I shall enquire about you, no?”

Humming in understanding, he nodded too.

“Regardless, let us get to the matter at hand.” Lauren shrugged one shoulder, and put a hand on her knee. “You theorizing of murder must have a reason, Mr. Wood. Was anything going on between you and the viscount?” She looked at him curiously.

Mr. Wood’s light brown eyes shone for an unsuspecting moment. “Huh. There were these letters that arrived for him.”

“You saw them? What was in them?”

He paused, and then looked at Lauren directly. “Threats.”

Lauren’s brows rose a millimeter. “Oh?”

“I did see them. Letters and all kind of correspondence are my responsibility.” He confirmed with a nod of his head.

“They did not get destroyed, did they?” The detective leaned forward in interest over the mystery. If they were not destroyed, they could prove to be a clue in figuring out any motive behind the crime.

“Shall I get them for you? I have got a few with me,” Mr. Wood asked, and added after a second, “He tore one of them in a fit, though.”

She smiled, “Please, if you can.”

He went out of the compartment while Lauren waited. After a minute or so, he reentered the small space and put out three sheets of notepaper for her to read. He laid them just on her side on the berth, and stepped back once for a moment, then went to occupy his seat next to her. He pointed at them with a finger, and said, “Those are the only ones I got with me right now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wood.” Lauren picked up one of the letters, and flipped it open as to read. It ran as follows:

You cannot get away after double crossing us, Redcliffe. No way and we are out to make sure you get what you deserve after deceiving us. We will get to you, understand?

No signature followed. Lauren merely went to the next with no expression on her face as to give away even a hint about what she thought regarding the letter. She read the second one.

You are going to see soon, Redcliffe, the consequences of your actions! Thought you’d escape so easily? You never will!

Lauren put the second letter down. She paused in her actions for a moment, but then picked up the third one.

Redcliffe, you sure are ambitious, but badly so. This is going to take you nowhere, see? We will get you, Redcliffe, we will get you soon! And you will regret ever double crossing us!

“Huh, the style is monotonous.” Lauren raised her eyebrows as she commented.

“Pardon?” Mr. Wood asked, as if having missed what she said.

The detective looked at him. “I said, the way it is written, no way is it written by a single person. More than one person is involved in this whole affair.” She expected handwriting experts to say that the writing style is repeated in cycles with every letter inscribed on the paper. “Also, the letters are printed, so that just complicates it. Whoever did this, I must admit, thought it through.”

He just stared at her.

Lauren crossed her arms, and said pleasantly, “Well, Mr. Wood, I would like you to tell me what you know about the dead man. You were related to him, or were just in his employment?”

“No. I am – was – his secretary.”

“How long has it been since you got the job? And how exactly were you able to get it?” Lauren asked.

“Just over a year it is. At that time, I had a job near the docks.” Mr. Wood actively spoke away, recalling the events that had led to him being employed. “Even though I did not like it much, it was honest work and paid me enough to get by. Viscount Redcliffe, his lordship, had arrived from outside the country. He had had an altercation with his secretary then. He offered me the position, and I took it. It was a well-paid job, more than my previous one. I was kind of hemmed in, then. I was glad for that opportunity.”

“Since then? What do you do for him?” What he did as the dead man’s secretary might not be useful, but Lauren intended on getting anything that could be brought out, be brought out.

“I manage his work accounts. We travel around. He does not know any languages, so I helped him with that. Acting like a translator has actually been quite a good experience.” He slightly smiled. That did not go unmissed by Lauren.

“Tell me about your employer, Mr. Wood.” Lauren prompted.

He shrugged. “That is not so easy.”

She started with simple questions. “He was an Ardhalian citizen?” It was a good way to get information.

“Yes, he was,” he admitted.

“What place was he from, Mr. Wood?” Ardhalis was huge.

Mr. Wood answered with a tone that clearly suggested his obliviousness. “There are things I do not know of him, Detective.”

“Tell me what you do know,” she suggested as an option.

“Well, I do not know how to say this, but Detective, frankly, he never spoke of himself, nor his past or anything about his life for that matter.”

“You stayed, nevertheless, no?” In all honesty, no employee cared about their employer, but did just enough to make sure they were in the state to sign a check of their salary.

“The salary was well.” There it was. That, in Lauren’s opinion, was perfectly reasonable.

She queried next, “Why do you think he never talked about himself?”

“I am unknowledgeable in that matter. Maybe his life was not much good? He has something to hide from his past?” He presented some possibilities. They were logical, and were actually likely.

“Why do you think so?”

“I mean, many men are ashamed of their beginnings. He might be the same case.”

“Does that strike you as convincing?”

“I would not know.” His spine relaxed, and he shifted as to make himself in a posture more comfortable. “It is just speculation on my part.”

“You must have formed some kind of theory.” She looked at him in the eye. “Have you not, Mr. Wood?” It was human nature to fill in the blanks.

“It is hard to say anything about this matter. The thing is, Detective, there is not anything to base a theory on to begin with. I mean,” Mr. Wood paused, then continued, “except those letters, but only recently. Someone was out for revenge on him. As I suggested earlier, maybe he has something to hide from earlier.”

Lauren stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at her lap. She asked, slowly, “Did you know that Viscount Redcliffe had attempted to hire me for help?”

“Did he?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Indeed. He looked slightly apprehensive to me.” She recalled, and then moved on from that particular topic. “Do you remember how he reacted on getting the first letter, when it all started?”

“He had laughed.”

Lauren raised her eyebrows, and spoke nothing. She stayed silent, and it was affective in making him have to explain what he meant.

“As in, that nervous laughter one laughs when they are anxious but try not to be, quietly. It was disturbing in a way. I think there was more to it.” He pointed out, hurriedly speaking and his words a rapid flow, and was wildly gesturing for a few moments in making his point clear.

She cut in, with an unexpected question. “Mr. Wood? Did you like your employer?”

Mr. Wood looked taken aback. He shook his head. “I did not, Detective.” He slightly smiled as to cement the honesty in his words. “I cannot lie about that.”

Lauren was almost relieved on hearing that he did not like him. “Why so?”

“He was pleasant and agreeable, Detective, always was with me.” Mr. Wood made a face which suggested he felt somewhat guilty for thinking in such a way. But then, his eyes narrowed to an extent almost unnoticeable, and his voice was as such to reflect that it was just his opinion, but would not be surprised should it be true. “But I did not like him. I felt like he was faking all the time.” He lifted a finger. “But I do not have solid evidence to prove the factuality of my opinion, Detective. I have nothing to make it make sense.”

“Very well, Mr. Wood.” Lauren let the matter drop. “Would you perhaps tell me when you last saw him alive?”

He seemed to consider for a moment, and his hand stroked his chin. He finalized, “Last evening about ten o’clock, I think. I had gone to his compartment to take some memoranda from him.”

“Memoranda? What was it for?”

“About his circus, the one he sponsors for. Some new members were supposed to join the troupe this year.”

Lauren had heard about the circus, and had gone to visit too. The Circus Royale was a circus that the word did not even do it justice. It was more of a talent show that had its members call themselves an entertainment crew. The number of times she had awed while seated in the audience as a child was uncountable.

She had come to learn they had started as a band of misfits from Greychapel, the precinct in the capital equivalent to misery and poverty. As a child, that had affected her a lot, and made her look at them with respect.

She breathed out. “That was the last time you saw him alive?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“When did he receive the last letter, Mr. Wood?”

He was quiet for a minute before speaking. “Around two weeks ago. It was Tuesday, I think.”

“Were you travelling?” That meant the letter must have reached the hotel or inn they were staying in.

“We were. The letter got to him the day we were leaving Hayatte.”

Lauren nodded, and then decided to wrap up the interview. “I just have one more question for you, Mr. Wood. Were you on good terms with your employer?”

Mr. Wood looked at her. Much to Lauren’s surprise, he broke into a smile. However small, it was there, and it was honest. “Viscount Redcliffe and I were on perfectly good terms.”

The detective looked down, and pulled out the notepad she kept in her pocket. With a hand, she flipped it open. She ran a hand over the lined sheet in a habit of flattening the non-existent curve of the paper. She put out a pen, next up. Presenting them, she gave it to him. “Could you give me your name and address? Write it here.”

He took the items, and wrote while he kept the small notebook on his thigh.

“Thank you, Mr. Wood. Please, do a favor and keep this matter to yourself.” She took the pen and pad back, remembering to smile. With a curt glance downwards, she read what he had written: his name – Harvey Wood – and an address in the 11th precinct of the capital.

“What of his lordship’s valet?”

“What is his name?”

“March. He will have to know.”

Lauren said dryly, “He most likely knows it already. If he does indeed, then please pass the message that he keeps his mouth shut about the affair.” He was the one who called on the Viscount in the first place. That was what had led to the crime being discovered.

Lauren stood up. That prompted him to stand as well, and his hands went to his hips. “Alright, I will do that, Detective.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wood. This has been a fulfilling interview. I appreciate that you spared me your time.”

He left the compartment with one last word of civility.

The detective stood there for a moment, looking down at his handwriting on the paper. She stuffed the pen and notepad down her coat pocket. Rubbing her hands, she spared a glance outside, at the snow. Then, she departed the compartment too. It was time to catch up with the doctor.

Chapter Text

When Lauren entered the dead man’s compartment – the No. 2, right beside her own – she found Dr. White standing near the head of the berth, near the window.

He heard her enter, and he turned to greet her. “Finished with the secretary, Detective Sinclair?”

She stepped nearer to him. Nodding, she answered, “Yes. I am. Are you done with your examination, Doctor?” She looked around briefly, eyes at the end landing on the lifeless body lying on the bunk beside them.

“Pretty much. Did he tell you anything – what was his name?”

“Mr. Harvey Wood. And yes, but I can’t tell if they are important or not, yet. He was pretty calm all throughout, though.” Lauren stepped away mid conversation, towards the window. She looked out, and decided the view did not change no matter the compartment one chose to look out from. “I take it nothing much has been disarranged?”

Dr. White shook his head. “Nothing much. Probably just the body, but that is because I needed to examine the wounds.”

“Very well.” The detective dug out some powder from her coat, and blew it over the window frame, after studying it. The powder flew right away, nothing settled. “There are no fingerprints. I did not think there would be. Criminals are not so stupid nowadays.”

“Many are not for their time.” Dr. White piped in from behind her.

Lauren’s hands clasped over the window’s edge, and swung it as to close it. “Then, we might as well just shut this. It is too cold.” She cheerfully completed the action, and turned to the body and went near it.

The doctor shifted aside, in an attempt to provide her a better view. He slightly bent down at last, to present her what he had found.

“What do we have here?”

Viscount Redcliffe was on his back on the berth. His nightshirt had been unbuttoned and thrown away. As the doctor said, he must have done so to see the wounds. “It is not pretty at all. Quite repulsive, the sight.” Lauren grimaced, seeing the numerous rusty stains spreading all about his clothes. “How many?”

“I make it twelve.”

“Someone stood here and stabbed him repeatedly, perhaps. Anything particular that caught your eye, Doctor?”

Dr. White nodded. He pointed at some of the wounds. “One or two are practically scratches. But quite a few, like three of them inflicted here and here, were fatal, capable of causing death.”

“It is odd, no?”

“Yes.” He did not elucidate further.

Lauren turned to face him. His bun, at the back of his head, was much tighter than she had seen the last time. He must have redone it tauter to not bother him while he was at this job. But, he kept staring at the body. His gaze was strange, and his eyes were narrowed. Lauren felt like he was internally poring over something that was peculiar to him, but had not voiced yet.

“Doctor? Have you got something you would like to share with me? I have heard detectives are quite good at–?”

He looked up at her, and smirked. But he frowned shortly after. His hands went down over the wounds once again. “Do you see this, Detective? These two cuts – they are deep – they have not bled much.”

“Which suggests?” As shocking as it was, Lauren did not have a medical degree for that matter. She refrained from saying that retort.

“That the man was already dead for some time when these were delivered. It is strange!” He breathed slowly, as if feeling the oddness of his own words in every single nerve in his body.

The detective was thoughtful for a moment.

“Your eyes look pensive, Detective.”

The detective in question made a face. “What else do you expect of a person of my profession? Irrespective of that, what I intend to say is that, well, it may be that the murderer perhaps came back. Perhaps, he figured his job was not successful and came back to make sure.” Lauren paused. “That yet again is absurd. What else?”

Dr. White asked if she had a pen or pencil. Lauren took out the same pen she had offered to Mr. Wood. Now, she offered it to Dr. White.

“Keep it. But, are you right-handed, Detective?” The doctor closed his hand over hers, the pen in her palm. Lauren found his hand was unusually warm. But he did not react on touching her unusually cold ones. He directed it in the position he wanted. Lauren let him.

“Yes, I am. But what do you require of me?”

He stood and stepped back, and his hand left its place on hers. “Aim for the spot near my right shoulder. Can you do that?”

Lauren lifted her hand with the pen clasped. She tested it for a moment, but her hand slacked back and fell down. With a sigh, she changed her position. The pen shifted from her right to left hand.

“Stop right there, Detective.” Dr. White came nearer. He faintly smiled. “Do you understand what I mean?”

She looked at him, and nodded.

“The wound here, see–?”

She cut in. “–was almost definitely struck with the left hand?!” Her eyes were wild and bright, as she looked at him. Like a child wanting someone to compliment them, she wanted him to confirm her guess.

He did, and smiled further like extra stars on an already A grade. “Exactly, Detective.”

“So, our murderer is left-handed? But that cannot be all. It is more difficult than that, no?”

His smile vanished. “Yes. Some of these are just as obviously right-handed.”

Lauren asked one of the most important questions she had in her mind, “What would you say was the hour of the victim’s death?”

The doctor held up a finger. “It is just a guess, but I am fairly sure that death occurred somewhere between midnight and two at night.”

“Then maybe the murderer was two people. Like as in two murderers having the same victim.” Lauren murmured, but was audible enough that the doctor heard her. She was pensive for a moment, before blurting out a seemingly irrelevant query. “Do you know if the electric light was on?”

“I am not sure. I was told the conductor switches them all off at ten every morning.” He flicked his hand in a motion undecipherable to her.

The detective walked to where the switches were. She looked at them closely. The one for the top light of the compartment was turned off. The other, as in for the bed-head light, its switch was closed. She hummed, then proposed at last, “It is possible – if we go by the ‘two murderers’ theory – that the first one came in, did their job, and left, turning off the lights. The second one came in, but they did not see that their job had already been accomplished by someone else, and stabbed the man again, at least twice in the dark at a corpse. What do you think of that?”

“As you said, possible.” He said no further.

“It sounds like nonsense to my own ears, though.”

“Do not beat yourself over a hypothesis – your theory, an assumption and a trial – you come up with at the start when you do not even know the variables yet. It is human nature to fill in the blanks.”

Lauren felt weird, hearing her own belief from his mouth.

‘It is human nature to fill in the blanks.’

In a way, she realized the both of them meant the same with the sentence. People hear – or find – one thing, and then they fabricate the rest themselves. What people do not know, they fear. And this was just a bid to make it make sense when one did not know how.

The detective briefly wondered if she had been paired up with a philosopher in the guise of a doctor.

“Besides,” his voice brought her to attention, “there may be at least two murderers involved in this crime. As I showed you, some blows were feeble, and the others, fatal. The strength required for them are highly erratic.”

Lauren asked, “Are you of the opinion they were delivered by a man?”

The doctor nodded. “Most positively.”

“Not a woman?” She looked at him from under furrowed brows.

“Maybe a strong, athletic one, but that is unlikely.” He half pointed at her, as if giving an example of what he judged to be a ‘strong, athletic woman’.

Lauren shook her head. “Huh, and oddly enough, the viscount does not even defend himself?”

A hand went under the pillow that was on the bed, and she pulled out an automatic pistol. She recognized it to be the same one as he had shown her the day he had asked for her aid. “Fully loaded.” She showed it to him, but he did not take it from her to see closely.

The two looked around them. Clothes hung from the hooks. The lid of the basin that formed a table had several things kept on it: an empty glass, a bottle of mineral water, an ashtray that had a cigar butt, some charred fragments of paper and two burnt matches.

Before the detective made a move toward them, the doctor had already taken the glass in his hand. He brought it to his face, and in the moment, his blue eyes seemed to brighten. “Your question has been answered, Detective. The victim was drugged.”

She joined him at the table, and picked up the two burnt matches. She held them up to her eye level, and scrutinized them.

“What have you got with them?”

Lauren pressed the matches between her thumb and index finger, one after the other, before she turned to him. She said quietly, “These two are of different shapes, one flatter than the other. See?” She held them up for him to see.

He looked at them, and blinked. “I saw Jeremy buying one of those. It is the kind you get on a train, in paper covers.”

The detective hastily put them down, and picked up the victim’s clothes. She felt for the pockets of them, and after some searching, pulled out a box of matches from a light blue dress shirt. She opened it, and held them with the burnt ones as to compare. “The viscount owned a box of the rounder matches, but not one of the flatter kind. That suggests the former was struck by him, but not the latter.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor turn away from her and bend down near the berth. She turned to see what he was doing, when he pulled out a piece of fabric. To Lauren, it looked like a handkerchief.

“It is a kerchief. A woman’s,” said he.

Lauren leaned in from behind him. The thing was dainty, and had the letter D embroidered in one corner. The detective raised her brows on this. “So, the chef de train was correct? There is a woman involved in this?” She paused, lost in thought. “But it is just so convenient.”

He nodded. “Very much so. Just like in the movies and books. What is more, there is an initial to guide us.”

The detective looked around the small space once more, dived to the floor and held up, this time, a pipe cleaner.

The doctor narrowed his eyes. “Is it the viscount’s?”

“No pipe in his pockets, and no tobacco pouch.” She shook her head. “Decidedly, so many damn clues! And this time, it is a male one!” Her gaze stuck at the dead body. “What have you done with the weapon? Where is it?”

“Nothing. There was no weapon. The murderer must have taken it away.”

Lauren huffed.

The dark haired doctor just stared at her for a moment, before stuffing his hands into the pockets of the nightshirt that was spread haphazardly away from the corpse. He pulled out an object that shone metallic in the light. He presented it to her, hanging it from his hand by the chain that came with it, and she saw it was a watch. It pointed to a quarter past one. It was not much of an expensive watch, and was dented heavily in one side. “So, are you telling me that this gives us the time of the crime?”

The doctor flicked his wrist and the metal chain jerked, and the watch jumped up in the air and he caught it in the same hand. The timepiece, now in his palm, looked like the object of a magic trick by him. “Yes, and no, I guess?” He kept the watch on the table. “I am not sure if it is accurate, but I wonder why the viscount would damage his own watch.”

“This is just getting more and more absurd.” Lauren shook her head.

He was silent for a moment, before saying, “Do you remember anything else? Are we done here?”

Something occurred to her.

The ashtray that was kept there on the basin lid was not much full, but two pieces of paper laid in there. She picked them out, and ran her fingers over the burnt side of them. She held one of them up. With the other hand, she swept the blind of the window to one side. Bright white light seeped in, seemingly brighter than the top lights of the compartment. The paper was blank, and she put it down. The next piece, she picked up for the same examination.

She saw faint words in the light. Her eyes narrowed so as to pick the words that were written. She read:

‘–member little Hannah Clarke.’

Her eyes widened, and her breaths were reduced to short and quick inhales that felt unfulfilling. She worriedly turned to the doctor that was with her.

“Doctor, does the name Clarke ring a bell to you?”

For a moment, he said nothing, but his expression very much conveyed he was surprised, or maybe even shocked in that instance. “Yes,” he said, slowly.

“Well, I may be wrong, but this is what we get to be closest to now knowing who the viscount really was.” Lauren was partly restless. “Let us quickly search around one last time just to make sure we do not leave anything else behind.”

They went right to the job of a last search, but she noticed the doctor seemed a little disturbed. When they were done, she had to make sure of him, too.

“Are you alright, Doctor?”

He looked at her, and tried to smile. “I am. It is just that… well, when you said Clarke, I remembered the case, that notorious one…”

Lauren's eyes narrowed, but she wordlessly got out of that space. She turned to see the doctor follow her. “That is precisely what I was talking about. I know how much of a horror it is. But, I believe it is going to be a huge aid to us in this case. So, do not worry, Doctor.”

They left the compartment, and the doctor locked it behind them.

“If you say so. But, Detective, what exactly did you find in that paper?” He fiddled with the hiked up sleeves of his dress shirt, pulling them down and buttoning them.

“It is better if I just tell you and Dylan together. He must be in his compartment. Let us join him.”

Chapter Text

They found Dylan finishing a piece of pie.

He was seated in his one berth compartment, and had a few plates before him, one with the aforementioned dessert. The others, with their food, were still fresh and uneaten. When the detective and the doctor entered, the director simply said, “I thought it best to get lunch served in the luncheon car right away. After that it will be cleared. But for now, have some food. I ordered for these to be brought here.”

Lauren nodded, and even though she did not have much appetite, she forced a few bites down. Moreover, the food was really good. She saw the doctor do the same.

When the two newcomers were drinking coffee at the end of their meal, Dylan finally brought up the matter at hand and questioned of the progress so far, “So, how are we doing?”

Lauren breathed a sigh. “Eh bien. We definitely know now a lot more than we did previously. I have discovered the identity of the victim.”

“Identified?” Dylan was perplexed. “What do you mean? His name was not Redcliffe?”

“Oh, sure it was, or maybe not. But that is hardly what I mean to tell you. Identified as in – do you remember The Clarke Case, Dylan? The one from six years ago?”

“Clarke?”

The doctor added in, “Case of kidnapping for ransom, overlapped with a suicide incident.”

The realization hit Dylan like a truck. He sucked in a breath over the mention of the case. “That one? But how does that…? Ah, well, I recall those rumors. There were rumors of him, no? I am not sure if I am correct. I do not even remember much of the case.”

“You are, Director,” The doctor assured. But, his cerulean eyes dimmed in that moment. “However, they were unfounded, absolutely no proof.”

“The whole affair started when little Hannah Clarke of four years of age was kidnapped. Her parents had gone to the police to get the case reported.” Lauren narrated the case like a little story, but she internally recollected all the fuss that had occurred that was public indignation. It was high like a fever.

“The officers searched from hell to back, but they were not able to find the child. There were a hell lot of intricacies that followed. Then, there was a ransom call that demanded an enormous amount of twenty thousand pounds in return for little Hannah. After the rightfully ludicrous amount was paid off, there still was no news. But soon after, the dead body of the child was found, having been rotting for the past two weeks. The child had been killed just after the abduction. What is worse is that the mother was expecting another child, and this shock led to a premature labor and gave birth to a dead baby. She herself died in the process. The husband shot himself right after.”

The detective reached the conclusion of the story, and witnessed – if it was even possible – that Dylan’s eyes had widened with each sentence she had spoken. She finished off, “The culprits had planned on extorting as much money as they could before their cover was blown, it seemed.”

“Such a tragedy!” exclaimed Dylan. But then, he asked as if a thought struck him, “Wait, but there was another death in it, no?”

It was the doctor who answered now. “Yes, it was a nursemaid, actually.” He tilted his head at an angle, his face expressionless. His eyes were not concentrated on anything particular even though he faced Dylan’s direction. It was like he was staring into space. “The police was convinced she had knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her denials. Finally fed up and in a fit of grief, the poor woman threw herself off a window and died. The death only got sadder when it was found and proved she was actually innocent, afterall.”

Dylan scrunched up his nose, and his brows sloped downwards on the outer points, in pity or something similar over the details being given to him. “It is just sad to think about.” He shook his head at last. After a moment, he looked at Lauren. “What of the rumors?”

“Ah yes. Well, the rumors were that Viscount Redcliffe was somehow involved in this. There were whispers that Viscount Redcliffe used to exchange letters with the household and was involved in some business matters. Reportedly, however, the Clarke family had no noble or even high societal connections. So, it was considered odd. Perhaps, that is why the rumors were branded unproven and baseless. No one really knows much of it. The whole issue was covered up soon enough.” The detective rotated her index finger in a repeated circular motion as she spoke. “There were no names as to who ordered it to be done, but the case got closed and got cold too soon.”

The director hummed in understanding.

Lauren knew the case almost by heart. She had read countless newspaper reports on it. She was in academy that time, only twenty in age. But, the crime fascinated her. It was a tragedy, but a puzzle at the same time. A puzzle everyone repeated was unsolvable.

“Well, if – and only if – he was indeed responsible for this series of tragic events, I am glad he is dead. But, I must say there are a lot of places to kill someone at. It is not necessary that he should be killed on The Ashenford.” Dylan half complained.

The detective smiled at that. She realized Dylan was biased.

“Regardless of this case, we know that the viscount was not a man of clean conscience. There have been several litigations against him, reported both by commoners, and nobles in conflict with him. We all know that. So now, the question we ask ourselves is this: Is this murder an act of private vengeance, or a political assassination?”

“What of the other clues we found, Detective?” Dr. White asked.

Lauren pushed a hand in her pocket and brought out the handkerchief, the pipe cleaner, and the dented watch. She presented all of them to Dylan one by one.

“It is a curious case. We are not even sure if it was a single murderer or not. A supposed clue, the kerchief, points to a woman being the culprit of this crime. While, the other one here indicates a male murderer.” She put forward a pipe cleaner with the last sentence.

“And, what of the watch?” Dylan asked.

The detective ran a hand over the dent of the watch, and showed it to him.

His grey eyes shone. “It says a quarter past one. It is a stroke of luck for us. The watch tells us exactly the hour of the crime!”

Just as the doctor and the detective has suspected, it was a normal enough supposition to fall on. So, Lauren just hummed, neither in agreement or opposition. Dylan caught onto this detail, though.

“Do you think that is not the case? Does this not align with the hour given by Dr. White here?”

“It does. It is just that there are so many damned clues,” she echoed her own words from earlier.

Her friend looked at her. “I do not understand what your mean with that sentence, Ren.”

“Do not worry. You are not alone in that. I do not understand myself either.” She gestured with her hand towards him, a slight movement of her fingers like a fan as if to appear she was in common consensus.

Just then, on the door came a knock. Dylan told whoever it was to enter. It was Sandman.

He entered and bowed. He said, “Director, lunch was served, and it has ended. Everyone has retired from the space. It has been emptied, and readied for the interrogations Detective Sinclair intends to carry out. You may start right away if you desire to.”

The director nodded, and thanked him. He turned to his friend. “You would not mind Dr. White assisting us in this?”

“Not at all. It is much appreciated if he helps us with his expertise.”

The party left.

As they entered Lauren’s own coach, she suddenly remembered the pile of passports and travel documents left in the empty second class compartment they had used previously.

“Dylan? There is something I must do. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

He was ahead of her, followed by Dr. White. He turned and suggested instead that Sandman do whatever the errand was. But Lauren was off already, after calling behind her back that she was capable of doing the task on her own.

When Lauren was near the end of the car and looked back, the trio – the director, the doctor, and the conductor – had already vanished into the luncheon car. So, she crossed onto the next coach, the slip coach used by Dylan and Dr. White. She walked through the corridor, and stopped when she reached the second class compartment.

She entered in, and picked up the pile into her arms. Handling them cautiously as to accidentally not crumple or fold up any of the papers, she carefully exited the space, using her elbow to push and close the door behind her.

As she walked through the corridor of her coach, she heard some low voices. Her steps automatically stopped before a first class compartment, the No. 15.

She did not remember who the passenger that was travelling in it was. But currently, she could make out two voices from in there. That was strange. First class compartments do not have two berths.

Without meaning to, the creep of a detective in her tried to get her breathing quieter as to listen what was going on. Something in her just calmly told her to pay attention here. While a different part of her screamed at her to just walk away, and that it was rude to eavesdrop. She had always liked calmer people.

She realized one of the voices was a woman’s, and the other a man’s. They tried to speak not so audibly, but even first class was pretty small for a train cabin, so Lauren could hear them just fine if only added some effort.

The man was saying, “I know, Grace. It is certainly difficult. But it has been done. We do not have anything to fear, darling.”

With slight surprise, Lauren recognized the voice. For however loud he had been the last time they had talked and how much this contrasted that, she still recognized the certain timber that somehow seemed to lace all his words. It was Colonel Lawes.

But who was Grace? Was it the colonel’s compartment? What was a woman doing in there?

Lauren thought the people on board were independent travellers, except the Duke and Duchess, the Lady and her lady’s maid, and the Viscount and his secretary and his valet. Did they know each other from before?

The woman now spoke, and Lauren found her voice was sullen, but was surprised on hearing the amount of conviction that currently tiny voice carried with itself. The few women on the train, the detective had not much given attention to how they spoke. She regretted that.

“I know, Andrew. It is just that, I am not even sure Daena would have wanted this. She was not a woman swayed easily by just the judgment that it is the right thing.”

Perhaps, ‘Daena’ was a mutual acquaintance to them both...

But it was sort of curious. And suspicious. The thought sounded odd to her.

Even if they had found a mutual friend to talk about here, by the way they conversed with one another, it was apparent, and the detective was sure with it, that they knew each other from before this train ride.

“But, what you said is correct. And…”

The woman was speaking again, but seemed to stop mid-way. A shallow fear pooled inside Lauren. She was doubtful if the woman had heard her.

There was an abrupt, sharp noise, most likely metal clanking. The detective standing outside the cabin was now passively panicking.

She started walking away from that spot, and when she heard short footsteps getting nearer and nearer, she only hastened her strides as to cross the walkway as soon as possible and get to the other side.

Lauren did not see if the unknown woman had seen her fleeing.

When she did get to the other side, and opened the door to the luncheon car, she saw the director and the doctor seated and busy in a discussion. But when she entered, the conversation died, and she was welcomed by the both of them. She settled in with them, and as she dropped down all the papers on the desk they had been provided with, Sandman appeared.

He asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Detective Sinclair?”

The detective cast a glance down at the papers, and from the pile, pulled out the plan with the passengers and their compartments. Her eyes lingered only for a second on the diagram of the No. 15, and the name written beside it: Colonel Andrew Lawes.

Lauren did not tell the doctor or the director regarding what she had heard. She was not even certain they had been talking about the murder that had occurred. The news had not yet been revealed to all, save for some whispers that already went underneath all.

She looked at the pepper haired man in front of her. She said, calmly, “First of all, I would like to have a talk with you, Mr. Sandman.”

Chapter Text

In the restaurant car, everything was made ready. The detective had already called the first person to be interrogated.

Currently, the detective and her friend sat at one side of a table. While, the doctor sat across the aisle of the car. Abel Sandman, the conductor now to be interviewed, sat before the detective. He squirmed a little in his seat, obviously nervous on finding a pair of intense gazes on him.

He cautiously asked, “I hope Director Rosenthal does not think there was any kind of negligence on my part?” His face was a little contorted, in an expression that made him look like he was wishing as such internally.

Before any other answer, Dylan said, “Do not worry, Sandman. I do not think anything of such kind. It is not my role to judge here. But even so, I would opt to believe you, unless convinced otherwise.” It was an ambiguous reply, but no one could deny it was necessary. The director had quite an indifferent face while he said so.

The conductor silently nodded in understanding. There was nothing else for him except to just answer whatever question was to be thrown at him.

Lauren, instead of asking the conductor directly, turned to Dylan and in a voice low enough to be heard only between the two of them, asked of him, “What do you think of him? Have you known him long enough that you have some kind of personal assessment of his character? What is he like?”

Dylan was quiet for a bit, and glanced at the concerned man through hooded eyes. He answered candidly, “It has only been two years of my employment in this position. But, if I am to pass my opinion, I would say he is quite efficient at his job. He knows what he is to do. His company profile says he’s been in the corporation for about twenty eight years now. As far as I can tell, he has a clean enough character, respectable and honest.”

“Ardhalian?”

“Of course. From the capital, actually.”

The detective nodded comprehendingly. She straightened herself in her seat and so did her friend. Putting her hands on the desk provided, she looked at the conductor. “Your full name?”

“Abel Sandman.”

“Would you write your address here?” She brought out her notepad once again.

He wrote it down, and what Dylan said was true. He was indeed from the capital.

Lauren ventured next. “How long have you been in service to the NRCA*?”

Sandman seemed to ponder for a moment, before replying. “It has been over twenty eight years now. At that time, I had not much planned how I was to go about. I do not come from a particularly great background.”

Humming, she scratched a spot behind her ear. “Have you travelled this far North before? Ardhalian North, I mean. The routes here?” Lauren rotated her index finger in a gesture.

“Not much. A few years ago, I was stationed on The Trasselle that crosses through all Northern provinces. But my service on it expired just about seven months later.”

The Trasselle was a train that ran through all Northern provinces of the country. It was most usually travelled on as a holiday express that connected hill stations to all other hill stations.

Aside from all that, these routine questions were just a start on the interview. It helped put people at ease when they were faced with queries they were confident in the answer of, since they were well versed in them and had lived them as reality.

Lauren went on, “And now, let us come to the events of last night. When did Viscount Redcliffe retire to bed, Mr. Sandman?”

The answer was a little late at arrival, since the man had to remember correctly. “I am sure it was immediately after dinner. He actually retired to bed before we even arrived at Bricston, so indeed, it was quite early when he did.” He pointed out further. “He did as such on the night previous of yesterday too. He had directed me to make his bed up while he was at dinner. I did so, and he went without any word.”

“Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?”

He said, “His valet, and his secretary.”

"Anyone else?”

The conductor simply shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

He lied, and the lie was sudden. It almost threw Lauren off guard.

Clean enough character, huh?

She had to school her features smooth as to continue. Intimidation came naturally in her voice, but Lauren hoped it was not too obvious. No one, even Dylan, knew of her ability of lie detection. And she intended for it to stay that way. Her eyes narrowed without warning, but he did not seem to take notice of it. “Mr. Sandman, are you sure?”

He was hiding something.

The man actually seemed to be surprised at that question for reevaluation of his knowledge. He had too big of a build to be seen as intimidated by Lauren at that moment, but right at this instance, the possibility was jarring.

“The Director might not, but are you hinting that you think there was some negligence in his part, Detective?” Dr. White suddenly called from the other side.

Lauren looked at him for a moment. “Routine questions, these are.”

“…Right.”

Lauren frowned.

Well, that was rather dodgy.

She turned to the conductor once more. “Regardless of what our doctor thinks, what do you say, Mr. Sandman? Are you sure no one went in?”

“Quite sure.” He nodded his head, as if it would make the lie a truth to her. But, that tactic had never worked on her.

“Huh, good.” The detective suddenly threw her head back on the chair, and she asked with hooded eyes, “And that is the last you saw or heard of him?”

Sandman answered in the negative. “Detective, you forget that I had attended when the bell in his compartment had rung for me.”

The detective found that an odd way of framing the sentence. With the way he had spoken, it felt to Lauren he was hesitant with his words. They sounded as if they were thought out specifically. And, it took a bit of self-control to not grab his collar and just demand the truth. Even if there were no police here, she needed evidence, solid and undeniable, of any of the passengers’ involvement.

She tried to ask around it, “What happened exactly?”

“I knocked at the door, but was told it was a mistake.” That registered as true, and also that Lauren herself heard that made this one partly pass.

“Was it in English or French?”

“French.”

“What were his words? What were they exactly?” Even if she knew the particulars, it did not hurt to know things from his perspective. What was more was that she might find out more regarding the lie he had uttered.

“Ce n’est rien, Je me suis trompé.” He naturally recited the words.

“Quite correct. That is what I heard too. Then, you went away?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you go back to your seat at the end of the coach?” He had, in fact, not gone to his seat at the end of the coach. His seat was at the opposite end of the corridor from the restaurant car. It was just a chair; an attempt to make it comfortable to sit on and be able to sleep on was the cushioning that it came with.

“No. I had to attend to the other bell that had rung.”

Lauren remembered that bell, but she had not been able to see who exactly it was who had asked for the conductor. “That you did. Could you tell me who it was? What did they want?”

“It was Lady Neyra. She had asked me to summon her maid.”

“Her maid?” She had not caught her name before this.

“Yes. Her name is Miss Lila Desroses.”

On being told, Lauren briefly dug through the pile of travelling documents kept at the side. She pulled out the ones for Miss Desroses. Lauren knew what she looked like, but had only known her name now. “And you did? Summon her, I mean.”

For a moment, she just read the details: Lila Desroses, 24 years of age, lady’s maid. She was from the capital, but her family was not much well-to-do. She came from a normal household, it seemed. Lauren put the documents down.

“Yes.”

“Alright,” she paused, then continued, “Now, Mr. Sandman, I am about to ask of you a very important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?”

“Me? Oh, I was just sitting in my seat, facing up the corridor.” Sandman smiled slightly.

“Are you sure?” Lauren repeated her words from before, even though he had not lied just now.

He did not lie again. “Mais oui – at least…”

Lauren leaned forward in her seat. “Yes?”

“I went into the next coach, the Merrison coach, to speak to my colleague there. Cloutier and I talked about the snow. That was some time after one at night. I cannot know for exact, but it was definitely after one.”

“When did you return after talking with…Cloutier?”

Sandman held up a finger. “One of my bells rang. It was that lady, Mrs. Murphy, I told you about, Detective. I had been on the next coach, which is why I had been a little late attending to her.”

That actually made perfect sense to Lauren. “I recall,” she admitted, looking down briefly. “After that – what happened?”

“You rang your bell, then, Detective. I answered to you, and brought you a water bottle that you asked for. I sat in my seat after that, and then about half an hour later, I made up the bed of Viscount Redcliffe’s secretary. Mr. Wood, it was.”

The last of what Lauren had seen of him was when he had been talking with Colonel Andrew Lawes the previous night. She had met them in the corridor. They seemed to be heading somewhere, perhaps one of their own compartments. “He was alone there in his compartment?”

“The Colonel from No. 15 was with him. They had been conversing from some time, I found out.”

Lauren nodded in understanding. It was just as she had suspected. “What did he – the Colonel, I mean – do when he left Mr. Wood?”

“He went to his own compartment.”

The detective threw a curt glance at the berth plan kept on the desk before her. Her eyes narrowed, slightly. “The No. 15? That is rather close to your seat, no?”

“Yes, Detective. It is the last compartment but one.”

“Was his bed already made up when he retired from the secretary’s compartment?”

He gestured around the restaurant car. “I had made it up when he was at dinner.”

“What time was it then, when all this happened?”

“I am not exactly sure, but certainly, it could not have been later two o’clock.” So, it was not after the estimated time the doctor had suggested the death had likely occurred. Lauren was not sure what that could possibly mean, though.

“And after that?”

“I did nothing and sat in my seat till morning.”

Lauren thought that quite impressive internally. Train conductors had some serious patience and strength if they were able to bet seated at a single spot for six hours straight. “Did you not go into the Merrison coach again?’

“No.”

“You slept, then?”

“The train being at standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do. So, I do not think I slept at all.”

It must have been even more torturous then. Next, she asked the question that she had been meaning to for some time now. “Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?”

“One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end, I think.”

“Which lady?” Lauren thought she knew. It was likely the same lady she witnessed going to the washroom.

“I do not know, Detective. It was far down the corridor, and she had her back to me. But, what I do remember is her wearing some scarlet nightdress, or something of that sort.”

She was it, the one and the same. “Then?”

“Nothing until the morning.”

“You are quite certain of that?”

He blinked, and then rubbed his neck for a second. “Ah, pardon me. I think I saw you open your door and look outside for a second.”

“I wondered whether you would remember such a minuscule detail.” Lauren half smiled. “By the way, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Do you have any idea what it could have been?” It was what had made her look out in the first place.

Sandman stared at her. He blinked slowly, and then shook his head in a persuasive manner. “I did not hear it, Detective. I cannot be sure. Who knows if you might have just imagined it?”

“Possible.” She said, but her tone of voice was indecipherable.

Dr. White had been listening attentively, and so was Dylan. At this moment, Dylan commented, “Unless,” he paused in self-realization but soon followed up with what he was about to say initially, “it was something in the compartment next door.”

Lauren promptly ignored that comment. Perhaps, it was just to avoid discussing the subject before the conductor.

Instead, she just stirred up an entirely new theory. “Supposing that an assassin boarded the train yesterday… is it quite certain that he could not have left the train after committing the viscount’s murder?” She bit her lower lip, assessing her own words that had left her mouth.

Sandman shook his head in the negative that this, in fact, was not possible. He made it certain that the murderer could not have left.

Ironic, in a way it was. Now, it was getting more and more apparent, and everyone seemed to be of the opinion that the culprit is one of the passengers.

“And he cannot hide or be concealed somewhere aboard right now?” She suggested next. A sound, what sounded most like a snort, made her look at her friend.

“Abandon that idea, Lauren. The train has been well searched.” Dylan added in again, with a bitter smile. Lauren glared at him, momentarily.

“No one could get on to the sleeping car without me seeing them anyways, Detective.” The conductor made it clear.

But if he himself was dirty? Then what?

“When was the last stop?” She did not voice her thought.

“Laspin.”

“What time was it?”

“We should have left there at 11:58 p.m. But due to the weather, the train was twenty minutes late.”

“Someone might have come along from the ordinary part of the train?” The car she was travelling in and the murder had occurred on was a sleeper coach. Dylan’s and the doctor’s was a slip coach. Beyond them were the ordinary coaches for normal shorter journeys.

“That cannot be. After dinner, the door between ordinary coaches and sleeping cars is locked so that no one crosses them.

With a nod, Lauren went next, “Did you get down on the platform at Laspin?”

“Yes, I did. I descended and stood by the step up of this car. All the other conductors did the same with theirs.”

“What of the forward door? Was that closed? The one in the restaurant car is closed, correct?”

“It is always fastened on the inside.” He entwined his fingers, and kept his hands on his lap.

Lauren raised a brow. “It is not so now.”

Sandman looked genuinely surprised. He seemed to scramble through his thoughts, and then proposed a reason, “One of the passengers must have unfastened it, then, doubtlessly.” He rubbed his hands against his trousers.

“Probably.” Lauren had a way of verbosely agreeing yet disagreeing in the same sentence.

“You do not blame me, Detective?” He looked at her, and then also at the man on her side, “Director?”

This talent of hers went unnoticed here.

“You had the chance, Mr. Sandman.” Lauren smiled. “That is all,” she said, “for the moment.”

“Thank you, Detective.” The man rose, and looked at his director.

“Do not distress yourself over this, Sandman. I can see there has been no negligence on your part.” But Dylan’s face was detached, as he said this.

The man was about to leave the restaurant car, when Lauren stopped him. “Mr. Sandman? Stay, we have need of you here.”

Chapter Text

For a moment, no one in the luncheon car spoke up after the interview with the conductor had concluded.

“I think,” the detective said at last, picking up the credentials and travel documents of a certain someone, “that it would be well should we have a further word with Mr. Wood, the secretary. We shall talk, in view of what we have uncovered till now, yes?”

No one answered, and Lauren asked the conductor present to summon the man.

He appeared promptly.

“Well? How are things going, Detective Sinclair?” Mr. Wood’s light coffee eyes darted around the car, watching the people seated there with intrigue. His gaze stopped momentarily on Dr. White. It was probably due to the fact that he had not seen him before. But, he smiled at him in civility. The doctor did not smile back. It was not surprising to the detective.

Lauren tipped her chin towards the empty chair before her. She gestured for him to sit, and he did. Tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, she answered his question, “Not too bad. We might actually have discovered some possible motives for this crime.” Her lips quirked upwards, to make up for any damage the doctor’s indifference had made in him.

“Oh yes?” He leaned forward, interestedly.

She nodded. “Hmm… The viscount – we found out that the rumors regarding him in The Clarke Case might be true, afterall.”

His face went blank for a second, as if missing a connection in the wires of his brain. “Clarke?”

“Mr. Wood, you must remember the infamous affair of little Hannah Clarke. The one that happened in the West; and there were rumors of the viscount having some involvement in that.” Lauren proposed some details to cue him to remembrance.

The man’s eyes shone, as he realized what she had said. “The Clarke Case? Why, yes. I recollect, now.” His expression turned grim, as it seemed the details of that tragic case fell upon him. “So, it was true, huh?”

“Yes, Mr. Wood.”

Suddenly, and it was very much without notice, he was angry. “How pathetic! And to think that I had been serving him!” He almost stood up in the process of his outburst.

With a blank look, Lauren queried, “You had no idea of this, Mr. Wood?”

He was looking down at the floor. “I already told you, Detective. He never told me anything about himself.” His voice was filled with conviction when he spoke next, “This in my knowledge, and I swear I would not even have been in a kilometer radius from him.”

Lauren raised a brow. “You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. Wood?” He was unnaturally angry for a cold case that was only a tragedy for show to the people.

“I have a reason for that, Detective. My father was the district attorney who handled the case. There had been so much drama. My father used to send me letters, and despite everything, he had never mentioned Redcliffe.” He shoved his face into his hands. He rubbed his face, and ran a hand through his brown hair. “I knew the Clarkes. I had known Judith. She was a lovely woman, and Francis, how he loved her!”

This was a hell lot of information to process. “Were you not there when this all happened, Mr. Wood?”

His face lifted only for him to see Lauren seated before him. “I was outside the country, for work, then.”

Lauren said, curiously, “You say as if you would have been willing to commit the good deed yourself?”

“I do. I–” He paused, and then flushed in the face. “I am kind of incriminating myself, am I not?” He hid his face again.

Somehow despite that reply, Lauren could not help but smile. “Do not worry, Mr. Wood. These kinds of cases seldom have a character that is honest enough to say something as this. I appreciate it. To be frank, I should be more inclined to suspecting you had you expressed any inordinate sorrow for your employer.”

“I cannot do that.” His hands fell in his lap, and he looked at the detective grimly. “If you do not mind, may I ask how exactly did you find that those accusations against Redcliffe were true?”

Lauren expected that question sooner or later. “There was a fragment of a letter in his compartment.”

He leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “I thought surely –” he hesitated suddenly, and his expression was undecipherable. “Well, then that was luck for you, would you not agree?”

She said nothing, and just stared.

Mr. Wood held her gaze, but it was apparent with every passing second he was getting more and more uncomfortable holding on to this impromptu staring contest.

The detective broke her gaze first, just turned to Dr. White and asked out of nowhere, “Do you want anything to eat, Doctor? Somehow I find myself craving some ice cream right this instance. Mr. Wood?”

Mr. Wood politely declined, as he somewhat squirmed in his seat after being freed from under her stare.

The doctor was silent for a second – as if contemplating the health effects of eating an ice cream in the freezing temperatures of February – and then nodded. His voice was gentle and low. “What would you like?”

“Anything sounds good enough for me.” She pondered, and then decided, “Blueberry, perhaps.” Her smile was bright at the end.

Dr. White asked, “Mr. Sandman?”

The conductor became alert in his chair at the side.

“Would you bring a bowl of blueberry ice cream for the detective?”

He stood up. “And for you, Doctor?”

“I do not desire a brain freeze right now.”

Sandman went away with the order into the galley.

Mr. Wood sat, baffled on what had just transpired. His eyes remained fixated on Lauren, and she did not back down either from this small staring contest once again.

“You see, Mr. Wood, that what I need to do is just to make sure of what every single passenger’s activities were last night. You understand, yes?”

He nodded, comprehendingly. “Of course. It is routine…”

The detective’s golden eyes just shone for a second when she said, “That is right.” She spread the berth plan before him. “Which berth, Mr. Wood?”

“Numéro 6. Celui du bas.” He pointed with a finger to the compartment he was in on the paper.

“Can you describe your movements from the time you left dinner? That would be utmost helpful.” Her fingers entwined, and she kept her hands on top of the desk.

Mr. Wood smiled easily. “That is easy. I went out on the platform when we were in Bricston. I actually saw you then, Detective. You were talking to two gentlemen. One of them was Mr.…” He turned to the doctor seated away on his side. “Pardon, gentleman, but I think I did not catch your name?”

The gentleman narrowed his eyes, but it was an inconspicuous action. “Dr. Kieran White.”

“Oh! Doctor, yes.” He corrected himself, lowering his gaze momentarily in bashfulness, and then went right away with his narration from earlier. “It was too cold for me, so I came back in. I talked with Miss Riverhood for a while. She is in the compartment after the one next to mine.”

“Afterwards? I saw you talking to the colonel too. You were, no?”

“Oh, yes! Colonel Andrews, I fell in conversation with him, then. We talked for some time, but Mr. March told me Viscount Redcliffe had some work for him.”

The detective perked up. “The memoranda about his circus, Mr. Wood? Was that it?”

“But yes, that was it.”

“Go on.”

“Colonel Lawes was in the corridor, and he already had his bed made. I did not. We talked and I invited him in my compartment for some conversation.”

He had not lied till now, and Lauren remembered running into them when this had happened. “How long, Mr. Wood?”

“I do not remember clearly.” He shrugged.

Lauren shook her head. “Do you remember what time it was when he left you?”

“Definitely after two, I am sure, but I cannot say exactly.”

“That is alright. So, you went to the viscount, took the letters, and then conversed with the colonel well into the night. Did you notice the train was at a standstill?” The train being still had practically just prevented sleep in her own case. But, somehow she had survived the night. While, he was wide awake, and had company above all. They might have discussed of it.

“Yes, we did. But we had not thought it was anything serious, when we found a thick layer of snow outside.”

“Did you leave the train anytime?”

“Colonel Lawes and I had, just for a minute. It is too damn cold in the North here. I get sick in the capital easily. Imagine what it is like here for me.” He stretched his fingers wide. His hands were raised, and he waved them in a circular motion, in an attempt to convey the seriousness of the failures of his natural immunity.

Lauren rested her chin on her hand, and her elbow on the desk. “Which door did you get out of on the platform, Mr. Wood?”

“There is the one next to the restaurant car. It is closest to my compartment, and we had gone out through that.” With this reply, Mr. Wood looked for a moment towards the end of the restaurant car where it connected with the sleeper coach. Lauren knew, with as less as a step out of here, the exit door will be just next to you.

“Was it bolted? Do you remember it being bolted?”

He stroked his chin like he was lost in thought. “I think it was.”

Lauren spared a glance at Dylan, who in turn was looking at the direction of the galley. As if summoned by some invisible power, the conductor came out of there with a small bowl in hand.

He handed it to the detective with a short word saying that he hoped she enjoyed the dessert. Lauren said thanks, and Sandman reoccupied his seat in the car where he had sat before.

“When you came back, did you bolt it close?” She put the bowl on the side, and did not eat it nor even looked at it.

“I am not sure I did. I do not recall doing it.” He paused, and looked at Lauren and Dylan. “I am sorry, but perhaps you are suggesting it is an important matter?”

She had only come to know it was unbolted when she had come to breakfast earlier that day. She shrugged. “It is just a working theory among several other working theories, Mr. Wood.” Lauren bit her lip. “When you and the colonel came in and then later parted ways, what did you do then?”

“I called for the conductor. He made my bed while I waited in the corridor.”

“What activity did you see in the corridor when you and Colonel Lawes were busy in conversation?” She considered for a moment. “Until he went in his compartment, of course.”

“I think I saw the conductor pass. I also saw a woman, I think.” He held up a finger and pointed at the same direction he had looked previously: the door that connected the restaurant car and the sleeper coach. “She went to my end of the corridor.”

“Who was it?”

“Since my cabin faces the restaurant car, I did not see her face. Her back was to me, but I think she was wearing something red.”

“Was she going to the toilettes?”

“She must have been, unless there was a buffet in the restaurant car in the middle of the night that I did not know about.” He smiled as he spoke. “It would have been a pity had I missed that.”

Lauren could not help but laugh a little in return to what he had said. She looked down, and her hands fell in her lap under the desk. Yet, her smile did not subside. “You have got humor, Mr. Wood. Even so, did you see her return?”

“Now that I think of it, I do not think I did. But she must have done so.”

She nodded to make it clear she understood. With a curt glance at Dr. White, she asked, “Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. Wood?”

“No. I am not a smoker, Detective.” His nose scrunched up a little, which made him look kind of adorable. His appearance despite his age was not much mature.

“Very well.” She stretched her hands wide, and then partly fisting, she ran a thumb over her nails as if they bore some symbols of a mythical language she had to crack the message out of. “By the way, did you and Mr. March always travel second class on such travels?”

Mr. Wood tilted his head in consideration of the question. “He usually did. I mostly travelled in first class, preferably a compartment next to the one that was the viscount’s. He used to keep his luggage in mine.”

“Alright.” Lauren nodded. “And it is just a request, but could you perhaps call for me Mr. March? I would like to talk to him. Please tell him he is required here, and to come here if he can.”

“He should have no trouble.” He stood up from his seat, and so did the detective.

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Wood. That is all for now.”

He left, and Lauren fell back in her chair. She felt Dylan look at her curiously. When turning to look at him, he spoke up first, “So, what do you think?”

“That man is quite honest with his words.” The detective had her eyes narrowed, which gave the impression that she suspected him despite the frankness he had shown to her just then.

His eyebrows rose up. “You consider him innocent, then?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “I do not. You should know I never do unless the person is proven to be innocent with solid evidence. I might think he was, if he was dead, but I’ve seen dead people be proven guilty so… no. In this case, he is neither.”

She reached for the ice cream bowl, and went busy with it. While, the director was left perplexed as he turned to the doctor for some kind of elucidation, only to be met by a stare equally blank.

Chapter Text

The valet of the viscount – Mr. March – Lauren found was a man of quite an agreeable conduct. With reddish hair and – despite the stubble on his chin, he looked quite young.

He came into the restaurant car, and stood erectly. The detective had to call out on that, and make him sit and relax for the interview.

“You are the valet of Viscount Redcliffe, yes?”

Mr. March nodded. “Indeed.”

Lauren dug once again through the pile of passports and ID’s. “What is your name?”

“Oliver March.”

With a little pat on her coat pocket, Lauren brought out her little notepad. She opened it, and presented it to him just as she had done with the secretary previously. “Name, age and address, please.”

He wrote his name, yet again, his age and an address on the street Lauren found was quite close to the police station in the 11th precinct of the capital. The detective also did not expect him to be in his late forties. The man looked a decade younger.

“Have you heard that your employer has been murdered?”

Mr. March spoke with no emotion in his voice. “Yes. An anomaly, no?”

Lauren found it weird when he said anomaly and not something that was a synonym of shocking. The viscount must have been a terrible master.

“Could you tell me at what hour did you last see him? Had he asked of any service from you then?” She fiddled with the corners of the pages of her notepad.

He considered for a moment before replying to her. “It was last night. I went to him as usual, and attended to him.”

“What were your duties exactly? Tell me in your own words.”

He held up his hand in show with what he told her. “I folded up his clothes, hung his coat. Basically, all I do is that I make sure he has everything he needs for the night.”

“Alright.” Lauren lowered her head to a degree. “How was his behavior like when you went to him? Was he as usual?”

“Well, he kind of looked upset. In a way…” He trailed off at the end, not finding the exact words to describe his employer’s demeanor the previous night.

The detective spared him the hassle, and jumped to the next query. “Do you know why?”

“I am not sure. But, he was reading a letter while sitting on his bed.”

“What letter?” There were two possible options regarding what letter it could have been. Either it was the memoranda that Mr. Wood was to take, or those threatening letters that the viscount had been getting recently.

“I do not know. But he asked if it had been me who had kept the letter there.”

“Had you?”

“No. I said it must have been Mr. Wood, his secretary. But he was frustrated, and swore at me a bit.”

Then, it must have been the memoranda regarding the circus, since the last threatening letter had arrived two weeks earlier, when they were in Hayatte.

Lauren raised her brows, in a bid to make it look like she was surprised a member of nobility could not keep his composure over such a minuscule thing. “Did he lose his temper that easily?”

“Not really, but he seemed exceptionally upset last night.” He winced at the end, seemingly recalling his experience.

“Mr. March, did the viscount use to take a sleeping draught?”

In her peripheral vision, Lauren saw Dr. White lean forward at the question. He was curious too, it seemed.

“Yes. He did, but only when he was on train journeys.” Mr. March crossed his legs.

“Why exactly?”

Gestures went parallel with his words. “He said he found it difficult to sleep with the constant movements. So, he needed a draught to make is easier.”

“Did you give the draught to him last night as usual?”

If he said yes…

“Yes, I did. I poured it into a glass with water and kept it on his bedside table.”

The detective went silent. Then without warning, she gave Dr. White a curt glance. It was hard to determine what that was supposed to mean. Mr. March looked puzzled.

She looked at Mr. March when she asked further, “Then you went away? Did you not see him actually take it?”

“I did not see him take it.” He shook his head, the confusion still lacing his words. But he did not ask his doubts.

“What happened next?”

“I asked if he needed anything else, and at what time would he like to be awakened at. He said I need not do that and that he would ring for me when he woke up.”

“Was that strange?”

“Not at all.”

“Was he an early or late riser?” Lauren mentally ran through whatever she had heard the conductor had said when he had narrated how the dead body had been found. The hourly timeline was a crucial part of the investigation.

“It depended on how he was feeling. Just his mood, it depended on.”

“So, you were not concerned when no summons came in the morning?”

“I was not.”

“Were you aware that your employer had enemies he was wary of?” Lauren blinked slowly at the end of the question.

“Yes, I was.”

“How did you know?”

“I had heard him talk of those letters countless times. He had been discussing them with Mr. Wood.”

So openly?

Lauren hummed in comprehension. Her lips thinned in a straight line but then quirked up. “Did you hold any affection for the viscount, Mr. March?”

“I did not. But he was, for sure, a generous employer.”

The detective lowered her head, and her eyes narrowed. “But you did not like him?”

“I did not, Detective.” Mr. March was as confident and emotionless as ever with his answers. He did not seem affected with Lauren’s continuous trail of inquiries.

She huffed. “Do you know of The Clarke Case, Mr. March? Perhaps you might have read of it in the papers?”

“Indeed, I did. A shocking affair, involving a little child – was it not that?”

Lauren evaded the question with one of her own. “Were you not aware your employer was an instigator in that affair?”

“Well, then I am glad he is dead now.”

That was quite straightforward and quick for a man whose employer had just been found to have been murdered. Even if he had no particular attachment to him, it was intriguing to her.

“You did not answer my question, Mr. March.” She emphasized further on the last word in her next sentence. “Were you not aware?”

“I had but just read of the allegations against him, Detective. But I had not believed them then given that they were proved to be baseless in the court of law.”

“Nevertheless, now it has been found out to be true.” She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Let us come back to the events of last night, yes? What were your actions exactly after you had had dinner?”

“I informed Mr. Wood that he was required by Viscount Redcliffe. Then, I went to my own compartment and read.”

She ran her gaze over all the names that had been inscribed on the sheet before her. “Which one is your compartment?”

“The end second class one, sir. It is right next to the restaurant car.”

“I see… which berth is yours?”

“The lower one, it is the No. 4.”

“Is there anyone with you that shares the compartment?” There was no name other than his.

“No.”

“The upper one is empty, then?”

“Yes, it is.”

“May I ask what you were reading last night?”

“Currently, I am reading Creed by Aidan Finnian Doherty.”

“Is it a good story?” She smiled.

“I would like to say so.”

“Great.” She picked up her pen and scribbled on the last page of her notepad the title of the book and the author. “I will remember to check it out the day I reach the capital, Mr. March. Thank you for the recommendation.”

His expression was that of confusion over the sudden talk of books. “You are… welcome…?”

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes! So, you went to your compartment and read Creed till – may I ask till when?” She flipped the notepad close, patted its cover out of habit, and tilted her head at him.

“Till about ten thirty – I had asked the conductor to make my bed up.” He spared a glance at Sandman who was near the galley.

Lauren had already let him go. And it turned out someone wanted something to eat, so the man was now stuck delivering eatables to their compartments.

“Then after that, I presume you went to bed and slept?”

“No.”

“Why, Mr. March?”

“You see, Detective, I had a toothache.”

Lauren scrunched her nose up. “It must have been painful, no?” She had once gotten it when she was a teenager. It had almost made her cry on several instances the whole four days it lasted.

“Utmost painful, it was,” he agreed.

“Did you do anything to ease the pain?”

“I applied a little oil, but the pain did not subside. I spent half the night reading because of it. I could not sleep.”

Lauren’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did you not go to sleep then at all?”

“I did, I think.” He uncrossed his legs, and his hand went up to his face. He stroked his chin for a moment. “I dozed off at around a half past three or near four in the morning.”

“Did you leave your compartment at all before you dropped off, Mr. March?”

“No.”

Lauren blinked. “Mr. March? Are you sure? Perhaps you went to the toilettes and forgot…?”

She saw Dylan on her side look at her with an expression he had given her already two times now. It was for the third time that he did now. She glared at him. He glanced away.

“I think I did go.” Then, as if it took some effort to and he was supposed to breach a topic he did not want to, he looked at her and swallowed silently. “But, Detective, what do you mean?”

“What I want to understand is what you mean. Did you hear anything unusual during the night?”

“I cannot, by any chance, say..” He let out an inaudible sigh. “The only reason I was reading till morning was to get my mind off things, like the toothache.”

“Can you shed any light on the tragedy?”

“I’m sorry, Detective.” He shook his head.

“Was there any bad blood between Mr. Wood and your employer? Did they ever quarrel?” It was just for a second perspective on the question.

“No, Detective. Mr. Wood is quite a pleasant gentleman.”

That he was. Lauren found herself agreeing with a nod. “Where were you in service before you came to Viscount Redcliffe?”

“I was not a valet, then.”

So, that meant the viscount was his first employer for his service as one. Lauren wondered what could have been his previous occupation. “What did you used to do before you were employed by the viscount?”

“I worked in the capital. I… used to be a detective in the police.”

Lauren must have gawked at him because the next second, he looked uncomfortable. She started, “Why… did you leave your job, then?”

“It was not the one for me.”

“And being a valet is?”

“…I am still figuring things out.”

Lauren looked down at the floor, and let the topic die then. She asked without looking at him, “How long have you been in employment under the viscount, then?”

His hand fell in his lap, and he was pensive for a while. “A little over nine months now.”

“Thank you, Mr. March.” She smiled, but then held up a finger to pause. “One more question, do you smoke a pipe?”

“I do not smoke, Detective.” A brow rose on his face.

“Alright. That will do.”

“Detective?” He had already stood up, but then he hesitated as he called her. “The lady – Mrs. Murphy was her name, I think – she is in a state. She says she has something huge to tell you people. She says she knows all about the murderer. She is very excited.” He lowered his eyes in shame for something that seemed undecipherable.

“Is she?” Lauren’s eyes widened.

The lady must have something to tell regarding the claim she had made the previous night.

She had told to the conductor someone had tried to force open the communicating door between her and the viscount’s compartment from the viscount’s side.

There were a lot of variables in this case.

“Yes. What do you think I should say to her? She demands an audience of you, Detective.”

“In that case, we had better call her now.”

“The conductor has been anxious over her. Shall I tell her, then?”

“Please do. Send her to us. We will hear her story.”

Mr. March nodded, and then exited the restaurant car with news for the woman.

Meanwhile, Lauren crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. The man’s lie about not going out of his compartment brought the conductor back in her mind. Sandman had said he was sure no one had gone into the dead man’s compartment during the night, but it had sounded as a lie. Obviously, that had made him even more suspicious in her perspective.

Yet now, Lauren was forced to wonder whether he actually was involved in this act or was just under the belief from this morning that someone did go in since the murderer must have.

Chapter Text

“I have some very important information to tell.”

The woman stumbled into the restaurant car all panicky. She seemed agitated and excited, and was almost jumping around.

“Mrs. Murphy, we are here to attend to you. So, please be seated and relax. We will hear you out on whatever it is that you have for us, yes.”

Her dark brown eyes settled on them. She sat, but her hands swung wildly. “Well, you see, I am here to tell that the murderer was right in my compartment!”

Lauren’s brows rose up about a millimeter. “Indeed?”

She did not seem at all affected by the lack of proper hyper reaction from the authority she had been demanding audience from for so long. “Yes! I was asleep, see? But then, I hear a noise out of nowhere–”

“What noise?”

“Huh?” She paused, and then continued with no care, “I heard the communicating door on the side – the one that connects my compartment with that of the next one – it was shaking. As if someone was trying to force it open or break it down. It could have made anyone sweat and scared! What if the viscount had gone crazy or something of that sort? It was such frenzy!”

The detective sighed, looking down in sympathy. “I cannot even imagine what you must have gone through.”

“I know right! And then, somehow it stopped.”

“The sound, Mrs. Murphy?” She looked at the middle aged woman expectantly.

“Why yes! What else would it be?” She scowled, but then schooled her features as if she was presenting a monologue on a theatre stage. “I tried to open my eyes and did so. But imagine, just imagine my horror in the dark! I realized there was a man in my compartment! The man had somehow came into my compartment and stood there.”

Lauren half exclaimed, “My goodness!”

Regardless how undermining her tone was, the detective had her head reeling with the new information. The conductor had only said that the woman claimed someone was trying to force open the communicating door. But he had spoken nothing of someone actually entering her compartment.

“Then somehow with my hands I felt for the bell. I pushed it. I pushed and pushed repeatedly. The whole train seemed so quiet that one could have thought the man had killed everyone onboard. But then, relief came to me when I heard hasty footsteps approaching. I screamed for him to come.”

“He did, did he not?”

“Yes. But then I somehow sat up in my bed and turn the lights on and there was not a soul in my compartment!”

Dylan leaned towards Lauren, and whispered into her ear, “She has no soul?”

Lauren almost laughed out. But unfortunately, it seemed the woman heard him.

“What do you mean – I– pardon, but I did not catch your names?”

“The name is Lauren Sinclair. You can just call me Detective Sinclair.” The detective smiled warmly.

“Dylan Rosenthal, Director.” The director bowed while still in his seat.

“White.”

The man on the other end of the aisle only spoke when Mrs. Murphy looked at him, expecting an introduction from him too. But even after the answer, her gaze did not go away.“Dr. White.” He said after a moment stretched too long.

“Right. So where was I, again?” She excitedly turned to Lauren once again who was still smiling.

She prompted her, “You switched the lights on and found no one in your compartment.”

“Yes, that was it. So, I ran for the door and opened it. The conductor was standing there and I told him of what had transpired. But would you believe he had the gall for it that he said he did not believe me! He said it must have been a dream.” She rolled her eyes. “But I insisted. And yet, he did not even completely hear me out. He cut in and just tried to uselessly pacify me. I then asked him to check if the communicating door was bolted. It was not, he said. Right then and there, I told him to bolt it.”

Lauren’s brows furrowed. “You could not see it yourself?”

“I did, it is just that I wanted to show him that the man could have entered my compartment. But he still did not believe me and just told me to go to bed. When he was gone, I put up a suitcase against the door just to make further sure.”

“What time was it when all this happened?”

“I am not sure. It was all such a tense situation; I did not look at the time.” Her hand gestures were pretty wild and she looked amazingly similar to a mime, except mimes were not as loud as she was.

“It is understandable.” Lauren blinked slowly, but her eyes remained narrowed. “But, you must have a theory. What is your theory now, Mrs. Murphy?”

“What else except that the man was the murderer! The viscount is dead so it must have been his murderer who came into my compartment.”

“Where did he go next, then? Back into the adjoining compartment of the viscount?”

“How would I know, Detective–?” She looked at the young woman apologetically.

“Sinclair.”

“Detective Sinclair, how would I know? I had my eyes shut, you understand?” Her expression was worried with the concern that they as well were going to disregard her words and not believe her.

“Yes, I do. But, are you sure he was in your compartment? It could just have been the viscount in his cabin moving around, and you mistook it because it was dark in yours.”

“No, I am not mistaken. And I have proof, Detective Sinclair, that the murderer was right in my compartment,” she said with strong conviction.

She brought up her bag. It was a small thing, wholly coloured in a dark shade of beige. Mrs. Murphy lowered her head as she furiously dug through the contents. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around her face.

She finally brought out something. Her actions paused for a second, and then whatever it was, she dropped it on the desk. It was a round off white coloured something.

Dylan leaned forward in curiosity, and then exclaimed in surprise, “Why, it is the button of a Wagon Lit uniform!”

“But then again, Mrs. Murphy, it is possible that the button dropped off of Mr. Sandman’s uniform when he came to your service last night.” Lauren took the button in her hand and examined it.

“Why is everyone so unbelieving of me?” The woman huffed in annoyance. “Detective Sinclair, let me explain. This button was found on top of the magazine I was reading last night. That magazine was kept on top of the bedhead table. And the conductor, on the other hand, just came in enough that he be able to bolt the communicating door. As you know, its bolt is near the main door. Now, what would you say?”

“That,” Lauren considered, “is what I call evidence.” Really, she just spoke to placate the woman.

“Exactly!” She looked happy on being understood, and pointed a finger at Lauren.

The detective put the button down. “But had you not bolted the door already when you went to sleep earlier, Mrs. Murphy?” She intertwined her fingers, and set both her hands on the desk.

“I had.” She nodded.

A brow rose on Lauren’s forehead. “You had? You just said it was not bolted.”

“I had told that Miss Davenport to look if it was bolted. She checked, and said it was.” She shrugged.

“Why was she with you?” In reality, however, Lauren had seen them together the previous night. Before she had gone up to Miss Davenport and informed her that she had changed compartments, the two ladies had been talking. Now that she thought, why was someone as taciturn as Miss Davenport in company with a chatter box as her? She added after a second, “And why could you not see for yourself?”

“She had come to ask for an aspirin. I was already in bed, and I was instructing her from words alone where the medications were. She was near the communicating door, so I asked.”

Without warning, she started laughing. “She had accidentally opened the door then. Viscount Redcliffe was sitting on his bed, and had just laughed and waved her concerns off. But I think that was not all…”

Dr. White snorted silently to himself.

“Ce n'était pas un homme sympathique” Mrs. Murphy glared at him. “And I am starting to think you are not either, Dr. White.”

“Pardon, Mrs. Murphy.” Dr. White hastily apologized.

Lauren spoke up, grabbing her attention. She was smiling from what had just happened. “Mrs. Murphy? What time was it when this happened? Surely after dinner this was, correct?”

“I cannot be certain, but it must have been around half past ten or quarter to eleven.”

“After that, did you hear any noises from the viscount’s compartment?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I heard a few random sounds, like running water and such.”

Lauren had heard that too. “You did not hear anything else after that scare about the man in your compartment?”

“How would I? The man was already dead, no?”

“Right…” Lauren lowered her gaze at that. She bit the inside of her cheek, before asking further, “Do you remember The Clarke Case, Mrs. Murphy?”

“I do.” Then, something seemed to get ablaze in her eyes. “And I also remember that wretch who got away after he swindled that family into loss and actually dared to instigate such a sickening crime.”

“You believe the rumors, Mrs. Murphy?”

“Those were not mere rumors, Detective.”

“Well, now that he is dead, are you… happy?”

“To think of that! My own daughter says I have the strongest hunches in these kinds of matters.” She sniffed, and looked at Lauren with part disbelief.

“What kinds of matters?”

She exhaled softly. “I judge one’s character as easily as you breathe, Detective.”

“Were you acquainted with the Clarkes?”

“They moved in exclusive circles.” Her hand moved in a fanning gesture, then in a circular shape. “But I do know that Mrs. Clarke was a lovely woman and her husband loved her dearly.”

“You have helped us a lot, Mrs. Murphy.” The detective nodded, and her lips curved up in a not-so-fulfilling smile. “Surely you would give us your full name? Your address too.”

Her notebook was opened once again, and she gave her details. Her name was Delilah Caroline Murphy, and her address was a location in the capital.

“Mrs. Murphy,” Lauren asked as she took back the stationery from her, “do you have a scarlet dressing gown, by any chance?”

Her hand went to her chest. “What an odd question!”

“Sorry, but it is required that I have your answer to this.”

“I do not. Mine is a pink flannel. There is another one that my daughter gifted to me – a purple silk one. But, why would you ask?”

“We have a suspicion that someone wearing a scarlet dressing gown entered either your or the viscount’s compartment.” Lauren held up a finger and moved it in a rotatory trajectory.

She frowned. “No one in a scarlet gown came into mine.”

“Well, it is hard to tell with all doors shut at night.”

“Then, it must have been the viscount, no? I mean, I am not surprised.”

“Come again?” Lauren straightened her posture in the chair. “Why do you say that? Did you hear a woman next door?”

“Not really, but as a matter of fact, I did.”

“When?” She leaned forward.

“I do not know. I just woke up in the middle of the night and heard a woman’s voice. He looks like that kind of a man, anyways.”

“Was it before or after you had a scare–?”

“I already told you! How would I hear anything, if he was dead, then?”

“Pardon, Madame.” Lauren took on an apologetic expression as she retreated back. “You must think me stupid now.”

“Do not worry yourself, Detective. Everyone slips up once in a while.”

“Yes, of course.”

Some further words of civility followed, but under them all, Lauren just wanted her to go now. She nearly shepherded her to the door.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Murphy, but you dropped your handkerchief.”

Lauren turned to the voice, and found Dr. White not in his seat, but rather right behind them. He had the piece of cambric they had found in the dead man’s compartment in his hand. He held it out to Mrs. Murphy with an expectant gaze.

“That is not mine, Doctor.” Mrs. Murphy looked confused, but still turned her nose up on the kerchief.

“Ah, sorry… Since it has the letter D, I thought it was yours.” Dr. White scratched the back of his neck, and apologized. Lauren had to admit, he did a great job at acting. She was pretty sure he would be able to earn a good career in theatrics if he tried.

“It is understandable.” Mrs. Murphy turned the kerchief down with one hand. “But, my kerchiefs have my full initials, as in D.C.M. Besides, the ones I own are sensible things. The one that you hold, however, what are they any good up in anybody’s nose?”

She turned, and left, having gotten no answer to her question.

Chapter Text

Dylan sat in his seat, puzzled as his hands fiddled with the piece of ivory.

“This button…” he started, “what do you think of it, Ren? This messes with my brain. What could it possibly mean? Is this evidence like you said that Abel Sandman is possibly involved in this in some way?”

Lauren said nothing, and in her turn, she was closely looking at a passport. “I don’t know what that means, Dylan,” she answered, half mindedly. She put the papers down, and after a moment of thought, asked the restaurant attendant to come.

He did, and a short exchange followed to get his name.

“Well, Monsieur Dubois, would you call Miss Davenport for us? We will be interviewing her now.”

The attendant acquiesced, and left the restaurant car.

Meanwhile, Dylan asked, “She is the one you shared your compartment with, previously, yes?”

Lauren nodded. “Yes. But, I did not get to know her much.” She brought the pile of papers on the desk before her, and started stacking them in order.

“How would you, when you spend more than half your time awake buried in your files?” Dylan laughed, and the detective just rolled her eyes.

At the moment, the door of the restaurant car opened. The attendant came in, followed by the pink haired miss – who, as usual – looked beautiful.

Miss Davenport came in, her conduct passive. It was a stark contrast to the hurricane of a woman who had whirled through the luncheon car just mere minutes ago.

The newcomer did not smile, nor did she indulge in much sweet greetings. She sat in the seat that was presented to her, and her amber eyes were as observant and keen as ever.

“Miss Davenport, thank you for sparing your time.” Lauren tried to smile. She always felt the woman had a presence that was heavily impressive.

The woman in question just nodded.

“Well, Miss Davenport, I would like you to write your full name, age and address right here.” The small notebook found its use again. All this time, the detective watched her attentively. At last, her only deduction was that she had quite a pretty hand at writing.

Her name was Belladonna Davenport, age thirty. And her address was in Central Ardhalis.

“May I ask what you do? As in, your occupation?”

She tucked a wisp of pink hair behind her ear. “I am a teacher, Detective.”

Lauren’s brows went up. “What school? And where is it?”

“It is a missionary school, where I work. I also contribute as a matron, there. The school is in the capital, but the services spread nationwide.”

The detective hummed, and asked, “I presume you already know of what has occurred? Of what happened last night?”

“Yes, naturally. I was told – that woman, Mrs. Murphy – she told me the murderer was right in her compartment. One cannot even imagine what it must have felt like – to be this close to death.” Her words were expressive, but her voice and look were not. She looked almost… bored. It might not have been the right word for definition, but it was the only one that came to Lauren’s mind.

“I was told something, too. You were the last person to see the dead man alive.” Lauren watched her face closely, to see if she would give away anything that way, “Is it true?”

“I cannot say that. It may be so. I do not know if I am the last person to see him alive, but I am definitely a person that saw him alive.” Her voice was so mechanic, the detective was having a hard time figuring this one out.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I opened the communicating door by mistake. It was kind of awkward,” her gaze went down, but not in a way that suggested shame, but rather an admittance of a mistake, “I must admit.”

“So, you indeed saw him.” Lauren could think of nothing much to say except weirdly just repeat whatever she had said just to get confirmation. It was not really needed.

“Uh huh. He was reading a book, and was sitting on his bed. I apologized quickly, and closed the door.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

‘Nothing much. He just laughed and said it was alright.”

Till now, Lauren deemed her account pretty much the same as that from Mrs. Murphy.

“And what did you do, after that?”

“I asked for an aspirin of that lady. She gave it to me, and I went away.”

“Did she ask you to check whether the communicating door between her and the viscount’s compartment was bolted?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And was it?” Lauren softly tilted her head.

“Oh, well. It was not, previously. That is why I had accidentally opened it.”

“Did you close it, after she asked you to do so?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“After that?”

“I went to my compartment. I lied down on my bed after taking the aspirin.”

“What time was all this?”

“It was about five minutes to eleven. I had looked at my watch before winding it up.”

The detective felt new thoughts erupt in her mind. “Did you go to sleep quickly next?”

Miss Davenport, perhaps just for graphic representation, subconsciously brought her hand to her face, and rubbed her temple. “Not very much… My head did get better, but it took some time for me to finally go to sleep.”

“Had the train come to a standstill before you went to sleep?”

“I do not think so. I only remember the train stopping at a station just when my headache had started to go away and sleep was not much afar.” Her ministrations to her forehead ceased, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, as if it would help her remember properly.

“That would have been Laspin, I take it. Now, I hardly need to ask of you of your compartment.”

“Of course.” She nodded, and put her hands in her lap.

“It is the No. 9.” It was a statement, and not a question.

“Yes, the upper one it is.”

“You had no companion after me.”

“That is right.”

“Did you leave the compartment anytime during the night, Miss Davenport?”

She pondered for a moment, before answering, “Does four in the morning count?”

Lauren grinned. “Well, what were you doing that early?”

“I just had to go to the washroom. After that, I was not able to sleep much, though.”

“Ah, alright. Miss Davenport, would you perhaps tell me if you own a scarlet dressing gown?”

“I do not.” Her brows rose, at facing rather a personal query.

“What is the colour of the one you own, then?”

The Miss took a moment. “Huh, it is mauve.”

“Very well. May I ask why you are taking this journey?” Lauren asked, and then she smiled goodheartedly, “I think it is a holiday, yes?”

“Yes.” Miss Davenport smiled, and this time it looked to Lauren a bit more genuine in sense. “It is just a visit. The daughter of a previous matron of my school, she has just started school over here.” She pulled at her sleeve. “I plan to stay for a week or two.”

“Have you ever been to the West provinces, Miss Davenport?”

“Plenty times, Detective.” Her smile died almost immediately at the change of subject. “I travel a few times a year since I visit schools and other institutions.”

A teacher, visiting schools other than her own? That, somehow, was a point of doubt to the detective. “That is not enough reason…”

“Ah, you need not think too much into that. I am a registered school inspector, as well.”

“Well, in that case, it is fine, I think.”

“You will not ask for proof of this?”

“Not at all. I take your word for it, Miss.” A grin spread on Lauren’s lips.

And so did on the interviewee’s as well. “That is really not much of a smart move for someone as you, Detective.”

“I do not need to ask you for it. I am well assured of your position. Besides, it is seldom seen that a woman as young as you had made to such high and respected statures.”

“Thus says the woman who does not even look to be in her late twenties and is currently investigating a case which seems impossible to me.” Miss Davenport put her elbow on the table, and her eyes narrowed, but not so in any malice.

The detective let out a laugh. “Shall we move on now? This is not a convention for us, now is it?”

“Right.”

“Do you remember the Clarke kidnapping case, Miss Davenport?”

“Oh yes, I do.” She pointed a finger. “To think that there are people such as those who can do atrocious acts as these can be quite scary to people.”

“Did you know the Clarkes, then? You said you have travelled to the West plenty of times.”

“No. Only that I had once gotten an application for my services to them. But, it never happened. With the whole kidnapping thing… I was kept on hold. Then, the body- I mean, the child… all unfortunate business.”

Lauren found it a bit hard to keep a straight face with Dylan literally inches away and staring at her.

She gritted out through clenched teeth, and tried to look amiable, understanding, and sympathetic, all at once. “That is all and alright. Thank you, Miss Davenport. This interview is much appreciated.”

“Okay. I hope this all ends well, yes?”

“Assuredly.”

Miss Davenport went out with an amused smile.

And on such relief, Lauren slowly turned to her friend, who only gaped at her speechlessly, over her being indifferent so much.

She sighed, and brought her notepad towards herself, and started scribbling.

“What are you writing, Ren? Anything extraordinary you picked out from her speech? I did not hear it.” He lied easily, as if he had not just been wordlessly staring at her, with his blank expression suggesting he had perhaps seen aliens dance ballad.

“Not really that. I just intend to organize what we have come to know till now, here.” She tapped the tip of her pen on the page repeatedly, leaving intense blue dots on the white plane.

Dylan finally retreated. “That is understandable.” He, then, shook his head. “Does nothing strike you as odd here, Lauren?”

She brought her hands to her forehead. “I cannot really wrap my head around this whole thing.”

The director lowered his head to her level, and tried for a smile. “For me, however, it seems pretty obvious the crime was committed at 01:15 a.m. The watch tells us that. And even Mrs. Murphy’s words fit in with this.”

“So, if that is what you think…” with narrowed eyes, Lauren looked at him, “care to tell me who you suspect committed the crime?”

His hand went to his chin, like he was deep in thought. “That is the difficulty.”

The detective rolled her eyes. “Ah, of course!”

He seemed alarmed, and suddenly reached out for the notebook. “What have you got there? Seriously, Lauren?”

“What? Nothing, Dylan.” She shrugged, helplessly, while putting the notebook as far from him as possible. “It is hardly as simple as that. Do you not see?”

For a moment, she turned to Dr. White to get his opinion over the ongoing exchange between them, but only found his seat empty.

That explained why he had not interrupted till now. But, had she not seen him leave?

Chapter Text

Lauren deemed it obvious for herself to wait. Perhaps Dr. White had some personal business he had to go for.

For a moment, she considered. Turning to her friend, the detective passed her notepad for him to see. “Here. See if there is anything missing.”

Dylan readily took it from her hands, though he tried to act coy. “Why now, Lauren? Why this change of heart? Had it not been just a moment ago when you kept it out of my reach?”

Even so, his curious eyes scanned the whole page, whatever she had written on there:

09:15 the train leaves Bricston
About 09:40 valet leaves the viscount with the sleeping draught
About 10:00 the secretary leaves the viscount
About 10:40 Miss Davenport sees the viscount (last seen alive)
00:10 train leaves Laspin
00:30 the train runs into a snowdrift
00:37 the viscount’s bell rings (Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé)
About 01:17 Mrs. Murphy thinks a man is in her compartment, and rings bell

“This makes everything clear to an extent. We can at least refer to it every now and then and can help us detect any dissimilarities among them.” Dylan smiled like it was the one good thing among a dozen occurrences of bad luck. He handed the notepad back.

“You still think everything’s fine? Nothing odd?”

“I don’t, I guess. I just can’t seem to understand what I’m supposed to think of as odd. Like, if the colonel and the secretary were together so late into the night, are they having an affair or something? What do I even take from all this?”

Lauren groaned. “What kind of books have you been reading?” She paused, and then narrowed her eyes at him with suspicion. “You don’t read books. Dylan, what kind of business are you getting up to nowadays? And should I know about it?”

The director looked positively disgusted. He made a face, and then strictly put it to her, “Don’t even think of that, Ren. Besides, this affair wouldn’t affect the case at all, so why bother? I still imagine that the crime was committed at 1:15, like the watch shows.”

“Fine, I understand your opinion. But just so you know, I’ll support you regardless of who you choose to romance.” The detective sent a wink to go with her comment. How she missed teasing him like that.

“Shut it. Your detective skills are absolutely useless in actually detecting romance. And you know it. Remember Chloe?”

“No.”

The director finally admitted defeat. He knew it was no use arguing with her. “Okay, whatever. Even so, who do you intend to argue wi– I mean, interrogate now?”

Lauren swatted her hand at him, with a smile that expressed she did not expect such a breach of elegance. “Interview, you mean. Who would dare interrogate the esteemed Lady Neyra? You make it sound like I am going to handcuff her at the end of it. Count your stars lucky given Dr. White isn’t here to hear it.”

“Lady Neyra?”

“Yes. It’s time we get back to business. I have realized that joking around with you is not particularly good for my career as a respectable enforcer of the law. Monsieur Dubois?”

The restaurant attendee respectfully came in and bowed, ready to take in another order.

“Dubois, can you call in Lady Neyra Elena Darcy here for us? We would like to interrogate her next,” Dylan requested.

The attendee bowed once again, and was about to leave, when Lauren asked him to halt. “First, I think I’d like a brief word with Mr. Sandman. Monsieur Dubois?”

He acquiesced for it, and promptly left.

When Sandman entered the luncheon car, the detective had been staring at the button – the one that seemed to have fallen off a Wagon Lit conductor’s uniform. The former did not notice anything off, and thus came in with expectations that something new had been discovered to make investigative progress.

“You called, Detective? Director?” Sandman bowed upon appearing.

It was Dylan who asked, now that he had discussed with Lauren about the delay with the actual interview with Lady Neyra: “Tell me, Sandman. Have you perhaps lost a button of your uniform? Here it is, it must have fell off of your tunic. Take it back.”

On hearing this, the man’s hands instinctively raised so as to search his uniform for any lost button. But he soon stopped, and shook his head. “No, Director. My uniform is perfectly alright. May I ask why you inquire?”

“We found this button – the same as yours – in Mrs. Murphy’s compartment. Can you say anything about it?”

“No, Director. I’m sorry, but I cannot account for it.”

“That is odd. However, because of the circumstances in which this button was found, one can be fairly sure that it was dropped by the man who trespassed into Mrs. Murphy’s compartment last night. When she rang the bell, do you remember, Sandman?” Dylan was not angry or accusing, but his choice of words was more than enough to get one’s head reeling.

“You cannot possibly be accusing me of this crime, are you, Director? I tell you, I was not even in the coach when that lady said she saw a man in her compartment. As I previously stated, I was out in the other coach. Cloutier, Detective, surely you remember?” He seemed, to an extent, desperate. “I can even get him for you if you wish to ask him.”

In that moment, Dylan looked at Lauren. It was to perhaps get her opinion on whether she would actually like to see this Cloutier conductor or not, and ask if Sandman was indeed with him when the lady panicked about seeing a man in her cabin. He did not say a single word. Lauren did refuse though.

He didn’t lie about being with that other conductor in the next coach at that time. So he could be off the hook. But it should be only for that particular instance. Sometimes, humans could even seem to be able to teleport in times like these, in cases like these that were planned till seeming perfection – impossible to find the cracks or edges of to break open or peel off.

Sandman was promptly sent off after a few more questions, even when he still sort of complained about the unfair accusation just because of his tunic.

“It is intriguing,” the director started, “Sandman did not see a single person walking away even when he was coming back on hearing the bell.”

“It could be a matter of time, as in, who knows if Mrs. Murphy was petrified and could not get past the shock. She must have felt scared, and only after a few moments, may have rung the bell. In those crucial minutes, the man could have slipped out.”

“Where would he go, then? We have searched the whole train, and to top it off, are stranded in a snowdrift.”

“Either the toilets, or one of the compartments themselves.”

“They are all occupied, though.”

“Not the one that is his own.”

“Clever,” the director remarked. “You paint an excellent picture of these happenings, Lauren. How remarkable.”

The detective sighed, however. “But it may not be so simple.”

A few moments later, the grace herself of Lady Neyra Elena Darcy stepped into the luncheon car. It was just that something about her. There were three women on the train that gave off heavy impressions on Lauren: One was Miss Davenport, who had already been interviewed; the second was Miss Riverhood, a young woman who was more mysterious than anything; and the third was Lady Neyra herself.

The young noble lady was dressed simply, but her elegance and the aura that she emitted made even the floor of the measly train coach look like the red carpet. It was all feminine grace that laced her movements, but underneath was also a kind of cold-iron sort of confidence and strength that reflected in her surety of herself. Her gaze was friendly despite all the rest.

She sat before the duo, which was, to make the difference all the more monumental in terms of stance.

Dylan started off with an apology which got abruptly cut off by the lady.

With a smile, Lady Neyra said, “No need to apologize, Director. I perfectly understand the circumstances that we are all stuck in right now. Such kinds of problems do not see or take in consideration a person’s social station. We are all victims of this snowdrift, and suspects of this terrible crime. I would appreciate it better if you were to consider me one of everybody that is present here.”

Lauren returned her feeling of welcome only a beat too late, “You are most amiable, my lady.”

“And so are you. A lady, but how ambitious and strong of you to sit before me now as a detective. I have heard quite the word about you, Detective Sinclair.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

“Nothing but, do not worry.”

The detective in question once again put forward the notepad and asked for her general information. “Now, we will ask you a few basic questions to clear out your perspective as well. Shall we?”

Lady Neyra put a hand on her chin, her violet irises akin to jewel stones as she leaned forward on the table between them.

The director breathed in shakily. Hopefully Lauren would keep it in mind and manage to not offend the lady too much. Only her questions would tell.

“Were you family to the Clarkes?”

They did tell, to his horror.

“No.”

Dylan searched her face to see if she was angry. She was not, at least it seemed as such.

“Did you know them?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elucidate how, my lady?”

Lady Neyra was not angry per se, that much was clear. However, her face was curiously serious right then. Her answering tone was grave, but still held to itself a kind of charm of her own. “I knew the husband, and also Hannah.”

“The husband? Francis?”

The noble nodded. Lauren half-grit her teeth and moved on. “How did you know them?”

“I was a personal friend to him. Hannah was my godchild, and I even commissioned for her future prospects quite a lot of times. She was a sight to behold, a model of a child. Adorable, and sweet, a child you cannot resist on loving. Through them, I also got to know the wife deeply.”

“Judith? How much of her? Does she have any family now?”

“A younger sister, much younger than her. Some say she is now married off to some Maurevian businessman. Others say she still resides in Ardhalis. No one has heard of her in recent years. Not since the incident with Hannah.”

“What do you say?”

“I shall only hope that she lives the rest of her days happy and loved by someone she loves too. That girl must have gone through so much.”

Lauren hesitated, but asked nonetheless, “How old are you, exactly, my lady? I am sorry if I am being too rude.”

Lady Neyra laughed, and to anyone the sound could pass off as a gentle summer breeze. It was delightful to hear her then. “Oh, of course not. Curiosity is good. But do not pitch such questions before someone else, Detective. Others may not share the same sense of humor as me, you know?”

“Right.” Lauren laughed sheepishly.

“31.”

“Hmm? Ah, right.” The smile on her face died off for a second. “But, my lady, I must ask why you are so amiable to someone who just asked something so unrelated to the case at hand. Are you not uneasy?”

Lady Neyra was silent for a moment. But, when Lauren thought that she had finally put her in a corner somehow, the noble lady smiled. It was Lauren who felt slightly uneasy at the sight before her.

Her answer to the detective’s question was as follows: “Detective Sinclair, like I said, as a noble miss yourself, you must know how much significance amiability holds for us, yes? And so far till now, I have learnt that you are a trustworthy person as well. Why would I go about and be angry or uneasy on a question like that? You detectives know your own businesses well, more so than anyone present here. I’m not the kind of person who will get in the way of justice.”

Somehow, the detective managed to ask, “What kind of justice?”

“Fair and square, of course.”

“Then, I shall just let you know that the man who has been murdered, is the man who was responsible for the kidnapping and murder of little Hannah Clarke.”

“Pardon my bias, for then, it is an admirable occurrence for him to have died.”

“Fair and square, indeed,” Lauren murmured to herself, but let it be. Next up, she started, “You are travelling to the capital all the way? What business did you have out here?”

“Just a vacation.”

The tension somehow seemed to have dissipated. Lauren breathed out in relief. “How about you now give me an account of your movements last night after dinner?”

The lady nodded. “Of course. I had the conductor make my bed right when I was at dinner. I returned to bed immediately after that, and read for quite some time. Around a quarter to one, I called for my maid. She came for me and helped me ease my headache with a small massage. She gave me company for an hour or so. I cannot be accurate with it.”

“Had the train stopped already then?”

“Yes.”

“You did not hear anything unusual during this whole time?”

Lady Neyra shook her head. “If I had, why would I not tell you?”

The detective shamelessly leaned forward, much to her friend’s dismay. “To hide something that you did yourself?”

“I like you, detective. Believe me; I would dare not get in the way of justice to those who have been wronged.”

“Your maid, what is her name?”

“I believe you have seen her.” She dared to wink now at Lauren. The latter retreated awkwardly. “At breakfast, today, right? Her name is Lila, Lila Desroses.”

She raised the documents to the lady’s maid’s name that she had kept at a side earlier. “How long has she been with you?”

“About 3 years now.”

Lauren narrowed her eyes. “You trust in her?”

Lady Neyra suddenly had a sense of confidence flash across her expression. It was unlike how she was earlier. Then, it was surety of herself; now, it was trust in some other. She said, “I have known her for more than two decades now. Her family has always served us, the Darcy family for what seems like forever. We trust our secrets on them more than each other.”

“I understand.”

The noble lady asked after a moment of suspended silence, “Is there anything else you want to ask?”

“Just one, but it is a little personal.”

“Ask on.”

“The colour of your dressing gown… is it by any chance a scarlet gown?”

The lady raised her eyebrows slightly. “Are you sure it is only a ‘little’ personal? It is violet, by the way.”

Lauren laughed, but then fell silent on feeling awkward. “You are not going to ask the reason behind this kind of a question?”

“I suppose it was reasonable enough.” She stood, and so did the detective and director, in sheer respect. With a slight nod of her head, the noble lady departed, a smile playing on her lips.

Dylan crashed onto his chair, breathing out as if he had just survived a beheading.

The detective laughed freely now.

Her friend said after a moment, “I still sometimes forget that you’re noble born too, Ren. I can never get used to these kind of clever conversations, as you say.”

“It will take you time. Though, I wonder what made Dr. White leave like that.”

“You,” Dylan started, but then smiled. “How curious, Ren.”

Chapter Text

“I wonder…” Lauren mindlessly started, then caught herself before uttering anything useless or irrelevant.

Her friend remained silent then; perhaps he did not quite catch her.

Lauren spoke again, “I do not even know how to articulate what I just heard, Dylan. Are you interested in hearing it, anyways?” She was half-dazed, but her speech was clear enough to understand she had a point she was driving towards.

Dylan sat straighter in his chair, and nodded.

The detective was silent for a moment, then started laughing. Suffice to say, Dylan was dumbfounded. He asked, “What am I even supposed to deduce from that, Ren?”

“Sorry, it’s just that I am so stumped right now, I cannot start anywhere with what is going on.”

“That just means you are as clueless as me.” The director huffed, and slacked in his chair. “I cannot get myself to even smile.” He heard her no longer, and got to ask for the next passenger the detective intended to interview now.

“How about the duke?”

Dylan raised a brow. “You seem curious. Fine.” He let the conductor know to get the noble in concern be brought to the luncheon car. A few minutes were spent in comfortable silence, though laden with curiosity for Dylan even as he deemed asking his friend useless for the instance.

When the noble man entered, the luncheon car seemed to be filled with a kind of air that was both elegant and friendly; it may be compared to Lady Neyra’s aura in a way, however, Dylan felt that Duke Hawkes was someone one could tease and joke around with as easily as one did with a pal of two decades. If he could appreciate a useless knock-knock joke was another matter entirely.

He entered, and he was alone; which was actually surprising. Lauren had called for both the Duke and the Duchess, in fact.

Duke Hawkes came in with an expression that seemed like he could not be bothered with having not brought his wife when the investigative party had asked for. He acted as such, and did not at all give any reasons for having not brought his wife when asked for even as he sat down for the interrogation.

Lauren tried not to ask about the matter straightforward, and chose to start with the regular questions, the same as everybody else. Still, the duke beat her to it.
As Duke Hawkes made himself comfortable in the seat opposite the director and the detective, he smiled. It was a pretty smile, one that could make a girl feel all butterflies. Lauren slowly blinked.

The duke said, “Greetings, Monsieur, Mademoiselle. What can I do for you to help?” The words were said in good humor, in a tone so volunteering one might as well ask for nothing just because of how helpful it sounds. Still, it sounded benevolent from his mouth.

The vision of Duke Hawkes was something everyone will agree on about being handsome. He was good looking, of course. With his blond hair and calm blue eyes, and a face that radiated charm and benevolence altogether, he had the ability to make anyone feel at ease, and maybe even forget how high of a station he belonged to. It was the air of him, and also his general countenance.

All in all, he was the textbook version of rich, kind, and handsome. He was an easily likeable man.

Lauren said, “I hope, your grace understands that I need to ask of you some certain things.”

“Of course, why not? It is the way of things; I cannot expect justice to bend for anyone. Ask away, and I shall answer as best as I can. I understand your position very well. Though, I fear, I have much to tell you. Or my wife.” Duke Hawkes chuckled sheepishly. He looked like a young boy then.

The detective smiled. It was like conversing with a friend. “It’s perfectly alright. First off, are you aware of the identity of the deceased? Who he was? And even what he has been uncovered as?” Lauren bit her tongue at the usage of ‘what’. Grammar mistakes.

“I know, Viscount Redcliffe. I saw him at meal times.” Then, the duke took on a dull look to his eyes, reflecting what seemed like good-natured sarcasm. “Aside from that, I think I am sure that his identity was on his credentials?”

Lauren said plainly, “Oh well. What I mean is, your grace, that Viscount Redcliffe’s more scandalous past has been uncovered. He is suspected to actually have been involved in the Clarke case from some years back.”

Lauren watched his face closely, but did not know what kind of reaction she expected from him. It was not like he was going to jump up and down in anxious excitement or suddenly confess his own foul-play like he was guilty.

Saving her from both, the detective noticed no such change on his face. He seemed quite unaffected, but picking up otherwise invisible traces she considered a part of her speciality. She could see a muscle get tense on his neck. His eyes opened only slightly.

“Ah… I expect that should throw some light upon the matter at hand, clear it up a little, eh?

“You are justified to think so, your grace. Now, let us start with the questions. As you said, they are but just a routine. I suppose you have been to the West provinces?”

“Why, yes. I have been there at least once a year since I was six. I’m twenty-seven now, so you must know how far that goes. My family has a vacation house near The Nike’s Tower. Has a nice view and all.”

“Pardon, that is like a solid 53 kilometres from Casnel.”

Duke Hawkes shrugged, it is not that big of a deal. “My maternal family lives in Casnel, but I don’t think it matters in this case.”

Lauren brought out the duke’s credentials. His wife’s document was attached with his. She slowly threaded through.

Full name was William Stephen Hawkes; spouse: Kym Ladell Hawkes. In the seating plan, to their name were booked two different cabins, side to side. These were compartments No. 12 and 13.

“How about we start with your movements last night?”

“Right,” Duke Hawkes talked calmly, “We retired as soon as we were done with dinner. One of our compartments had been made up, so we first went to the other one to pass time–”

Lauren cut him off to ask suddenly, “Excuse me, but which compartment was it that had been already made up?”

“No. 12.”

“So you were both in No. 13 for how long?”

“Not too many hours, I think. Perhaps 2 or so.”

“And after that, you heard nothing.” The detective felt the words roll out her mouth, but realized her mistake only after she had already uttered them. She had framed it as a statement, not a question as it should have been.

“Like I said, I do not expect us to be of much help.”

It was curious to Lauren, how every word that he said had an unheard-but-very-much-there ‘accompanied by wife’ attached to it. She said slowly, agreeable but in a way, doubtful, “Right.”

She then pointed to the window of the restaurant car; it had been shut, but the view was clear to everyone’s minds: a scene so white, it was blinding. “Did you know about the train running into a snowdrift last night?”

“I did feel something last night, but only this morning did I come to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“And what of you wife?”

Duke Hawkes smiled. “My wife always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train, else she cannot sleep.” He paused, then completed, “She was sound asleep afterwards. I think she must not have heard anything then.”

Lauren listened to him attentively, and could already imagine Dylan complaining having had no progress with them. She asked aloud, “Could you please write down your name and address right here, your grace? You see, it is quite essential.”

He took it easily, and with a flurry of ink wrote down the details. He had a nice handwriting, legible and elegant at the same time.

The detective took it back to check, and then kept it aside. “Perhaps, now, we could talk with the duchess, your grace?”

“It shall not be needed. I doubt if she can supplement any other information that I have not already, Detective–?”

“Lauren Sinclair, at your service, your grace.”

“Right.”

Lauren tried to seem agreeable. “I do not doubt your words at all. However, it is only formality, an order of things that must be complied with, you understand?”

Duke Hawkes narrowed his eyes. It was not much of a cute sight, but rather, authoritative. “It is not necessary, Detective Sinclair, I assure you.”

“I doubt if it shall do any harm, your grace. It is a mere formality; I need it for my report.”

“As you please, then.”

“Please what?”

A voice rung from the entrance of the luncheon car, and stood there the duchess herself. She walked into the car, the grey skirt fluttering with every step. Lauren knew she was quite sociable, but at the moment she felt that this sociableness overshadowed how pretty she was.

Her eyes were wide, and her face was all youthful and charming.

Duke Hawkes turned to meet her eyes, and winced. Lauren caught the way his expression soured at her sight. She did not know how to feel about this. Slowly, he stood up from the chair, and gestured his wife to sit there.

He leaned in to whisper something to her, but aloud he said, “Good for you, Detective. My wife likes to challenge my authority once in a while, so I am sure you two will like each other’s company.”

He let his eyes stay on Lauren, then wandered to Dylan for a moment, and easily departed from the luncheon car.

Lauren tried to focus on the lady that now sat before her. With a hand she tucked in dark strands of hair behind her ear, and smiled. She said, “Do not think too much of him and his petty self, Detective. I am sure he will come around soon.”

“How could you tell, your grace? His grace was not even that discourteous, was he?”

“He’s quite friendly and agreeable, maybe even to fault. But he can be quite nasty at times.” The duchess blinked slowly at Lauren, then said, “You agree, don’t you?”

The detective nodded, but remained silent to the question. She wondered how such a man could be so protective of his wife who seemed far more able to speak to one’s face. She had not, of course, but Lauren knew it from the way she carried herself, and spoke.

Lauren finally started, “Shall we now begin, your grace?”

“Why, of course.”