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“Unpleasant business, isn’t it?”
Klint is never sure how to break the solemn silence of a murder scene, but he knows that stewing in discomfort is worse.
At his side, Asogi nods soberly. “And you say you knew him, Prosecutor van Zieks?”
“By association, yes.” A crime scene is unpleasant business regardless, but there’s a heaviness in Klint’s chest when he sees someone he knows meet this end. He doesn’t envy the servants who found the man this morning in a pool of his own blood on the drawing room floor. “Dr. Limburger. He worked at St. Synner’s, I believe.”
“Indeed, he did.”
The voice startles them both; they turn to find a man smiling at them pleasantly.
“He’s my colleague there,” the man continues, then amends, “Well. Was, I’m sorry to say.”
“Who the devil—?” Klint starts, just as Asogi asks, “Yujin?”
“I do apologize for the interruption, gentlemen,” Mikotoba—one of Asogi’s compatriots, if Klint recalls correctly—says with a polite nod. “You see, we were just finishing our own investigation.”
“... We?”
Even as he asks, Klint feels a sinking sense of apprehension. His fears are fully realized when he sees a familiar blond head poke through the open doorway. It’s the face that plagues his colleagues at Scotland Yard more than any other.
“My dear fellow, we really ought to be—ah! Inspector Asogi. And Lord van Zieks? I see London has sent their finest legal minds to solve this case.”
“You,” Klint says, as though the man’s identity alone is enough of an accusation.
“Indeed! You’ll no doubt rest assured, knowing that the great detective, Herlock Sholmes, is also on the case.” Sholmes steps forward and offers his hand to Asogi, who shakes it, and Klint, who does not.
“You’re not a detective,” Klint reminds him.
“I detect a hint of irritation, my dear fellow,” Sholmes says, utterly unfazed, “but no matter. We’re on the trail of the same great truth—and while I, of course, have the lead, I’ve no doubt that you’ll catch up to me soon enough.”
“Sholmes,” Mikotoba says pointedly, “I believe we may have overstayed our welcome.”
“Nonsense, my good man! Having only just arrived, we can assume that these gentlemen have hardly had the time to glean what we have from the scene of this burglary.”
There’s a tangible pause, then Asogi ventures, “Surely you mean the scene of this murder, Mr. Sholmes?”
“Surely not, Inspector,” Sholmes says with utmost confidence. “What we are seeing here is the scene of a burglary most foul.”
“I believe Dr. Limburger might disagree,” Klint mutters.
“Indeed,” Sholmes continues without missing a beat, pressing past the two of them and into the parlor to stand near the doctor’s body. “The intruder’s target was not the good doctor at all, but this ceramic bust that lies broken at his feet!”
Sholmes spins around, indicating the shards of white scattered around the victim’s corpse.
The other three stare at him. Only Mikotoba is smiling.
“Perhaps I may better illustrate my point with this: a Herlock Sholmes’s Logic and Reasoning Spectacular!”
“Absolutely not,” Klint says immediately.
Sholmes looks undeterred until Mikotoba chimes in, “I think we’d best continue our investigation elsewhere, Sholmes.”
Sholmes hums thoughtfully, looking back and forth between Klint and Asogi. “You may be correct, Mikotoba. We have, after all, several more avenues of investigation to pursue. And I’m sure the good prosecutor here will catch up to us again on his own.”
He looks back at Klint with a smile that could be an insult or an invitation.
Klint glowers. “I sincerely hope not.”
***
“You’ve got something for me, Inspector,” Klint says. “I don’t believe you’d be here otherwise.”
Asogi stands on the other side of Klint’s desk, arms folded. He has just given his report of Scotland Yard’s canvassing of Limburger’s neighborhood—a dishearteningly brief summary.
“Well, there is one thing…”
“And that is?”
“The statue that Mr. Sholmes mentioned.”
“Inspector, please,” Klint says. “Sholmes is an upstart, a vigilante, and a constant thorn in the side of the constabulary.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Prosecutor van Zieks, but I believe he can be all of those things and still be right.”
Klint frowns, and Asogi looks back at him coolly.
“Go on, then,” Klint concedes after a moment.
“Ours is the third statue to be found shattered at a crime scene in the past four months. All have been busts of Napoleon Bonaparte found in homes of well-off families in London.”
“Bonaparte?” Klint tilts his head, curious, then chuckles. “So I presume we are in pursuit of a serial killer who hates the late Emperor?”
“Not exactly,” Asogi says; Klint recognizes the tone of his voice that heralds bad news. “The other two crimes were not murders, which is why we hadn’t heard about them.”
Klint’s eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me they were—”
“Burglaries, my Lord.”
“So what you mean to say, Inspector, is that Sholmes was correct when he said that this crime was a burglary gone awry?”
Asogi has the grace to look apologetic as he answers, “It looks that way, I’m afraid.”
Klint sighs wearily. “Let’s not make a point of telling him that, shall we?”
“Agreed.”
***
When Klint opens the door to Stilton & Sons, he is unprepared for the sight that greets them inside the shop.
Not only have Sholmes and Mikotoba once again beaten them to this stage of the investigation, but they seem to be flying in the face of any possible procedure by having choreographed their interrogation.
“And what does this slip of paper tell us, Mikotoba?” Sholmes asks. He executes a spin that wouldn’t look out of place in a ballet but seems downright ridiculous in this place of business.
Mikotoba, for his part, taps his chin pensively as he considers the page. It would look normal, perhaps, if not for the fact that he takes a shuffling step into what appears to be a tap dance .
“What on earth is all this?”
Beside Klint, Asogi hides his face in one hand.
“It would seem to indicate, Sholmes,” Mikotoba says, irrespective of their new observers, “that the three busts arrived in the same shipment from Gelder’s Factory. And, Mr. Stilton, might you tell us what happened to the other two statues?”
The shopkeeper flinches. “Other two?”
“Indeed!” Sholmes says, as though he can’t help but interrupt. “Your shop in fact acquired six busts of Mr. Bonaparte. One remains on your shelf, just there.” He gestures toward where a pale countenance glares down at them from among the chintzy items on display. “And three have been erstwhile accounted for.”
“Meaning two busts remain,” Mikotoba seamlessly picks up the line of logic. “And it is paramount that we locate them as quickly as possible.”
“And thus, we arrive at the final question—the grand finale, if you will, of this Dance of Deduction.”
Sholmes takes hold of Mikotoba’s hand, and together they execute something that might have been called a jig under more appropriate circumstances. The dance ends with the two of them back to back, as though the idiots had rehearsed this nonsense.
Klint steps forward irritably, disrupting the production.
“We need the names of anyone who purchased one of these statues from you, Mr. Stilton,” he says. “It appears that your customers are being systematically targeted for burglary.”
“Burglary?” the shopkeeper asks, dismayed, at the same moment that Sholmes makes a noise of protest.
“I say, Prosecutor van Zieks, if you’re going to steal the show like that, you might at least do us the courtesy of joining the Dance.”
“He does seem entirely too stationary for such a timely deduction,” Mikotoba remarks. His tone matches Sholmes’s in sobriety, but his eyes twinkle with amusement.
Klint glares at them both in turn.
“Not a chance,” he says flatly.
“Mr. Stilton,” Asogi cuts in, ever reasonable, inserting himself into the space between Klint and Sholmes. “Might we see any invoices you’ve issued over the past four months?”
***
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Lord van Zieks,” Lady Camembert says between sips of tea from her delicate teacup. “Why would our new acquisition be of such interest to Her Majesty’s judiciary?”
She sets her cup on its small saucer for only a moment before she snatches it up again, taking a sip as she looks back and forth expectantly between the two men seated across from her.
“Of course, Lady Camembert,” Klint replies. For once, compared to Asogi, Klint seems to be more in his element; his typically stoic partner sits next to him, looking just a bit too stiff and formal amidst the frills and lace of Camembert’s drawing room. “Let me explain. You see, your statue is one of several produced by Gelder’s of London—”
Camembert laughs, a high, tinkly sound that doesn’t suit her.
“Oh, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she says. “My husband bought that statue on his last trip to Nice. Isn’t it lovely?”
She pauses, awaiting their response. Her expression only falters slightly when she is not met with the agreement she expected.
“I’m afraid, Lady Camembert, that your husband may have been—er, mistaken about the bust’s origin,” Asogi begins cautiously.
Camembert’s expression grows dark; she ignores Asogi, looking instead to Klint. “Lord van Zieks,” she says, sounding considerably more huffy, “is this meant to be humorous? Because if it is, I find it quite distasteful.”
“N-not at all, my Lady. Why would you—?”
“Then why are you the second pair of gentlemen today to suggest to me that my husband’s purchase is some—some cheap trinket from a factory? ”
Klint sets his tea cup down on its dainty saucer just a little too hard.
“The second pair?”
“Well, of course.” She resettles herself in her seat, the layers of her skirt rustling against her armchair. “The others were here not an hour ago. Are you suggesting that that is a coincidence?”
“Not entirely, I’m afraid,” Asogi laments. Camembert looks at him, her brow still furrowed; Asogi averts his eyes, suddenly very interested in the dregs of his tea.
Klint scrubs a hand across his face with a sigh. “Pray, forgive the confusion we’ve caused, and allow me to start from the beginning.”
***
“Well,” Klint says, closing the door of the Camembert residence. “That was… unpleasant.”
It’s a cool evening, and he draws his cloak closer around himself as they descend the steps to the street.
“Surely we cannot be held responsible for Lord Camembert’s dishonesty,” Asogi says as he falls into step beside Klint.
“Of course not,” Klint agrees. “But it was hardly a good use of time. Lady Camembert didn’t even know where the blasted bust came from.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, at least we know she is likely to be our burglar’s next target,” Asogi says.
Klint frowns. “Do we?”
“Why, it’s elementary, my dear prosecutor.”
Klint stops so abruptly that even Asogi, surefooted as he is, nearly collides with him. He looks around for the speaker, but the street is sparsely populated. The only person close enough to have overheard their conversation is a merchant, hunched over his cart of vegetables on the street corner.
And it can’t be. Can it?
Klint narrows his eyes at the man. The voice is different enough, but that isn’t enough to ease Klint’s suspicions. He moves closer, ducking down to get a better look at the face half-hidden by a dirty brown cloak.
“Sholmes?” he hisses.
The monger laughs, straightening his stance to reveal that he is much taller than he’d seemed a mere moment ago.
“Why, whatever do you mean, Sir?” the man asks. He is no longer disguising his voice, though he keeps his tone discreet. “I’m simply your friendly neighborhood costermonger, hawking my wares on this fine afternoon.”
“What are you playing at?” Klint demands, quiet but irritated.
“Why, I am here for the very reason Inspector Asogi has just articulated.”
Klint glares at Asogi as though his words somehow summoned this man in disguise. Asogi doesn’t balk; if anything, he looks amused at Klint’s consternation.
“The Camembert house is an easier target than the Wensleydale home we visited earlier,” Asogi explains. “It’s in a less crowded area—fictitious cabbage mongers notwithstanding—and it’s off the main thoroughfare.”
“Precisely, Inspector,” Sholmes says, “and there is one other key element that leads me to deduce that our thief will likely show his face.”
“Lord Camembert is overseas,” Asogi reasons.
“And he’ll have taken some of the staff with him,” Klint adds in agreement, “meaning there are fewer people on the premises than usual.”
“Indeed, gentlemen, by the stunning power of your intellects combined, you have come to the very conclusion that I deduced hours ago: Our thief is very likely to show his face here imminently.”
Klint frowns but decides to let the not-so-thinly veiled gibe pass. “And so you’re awaiting him… in the guise of a peddler?”
“I am awaiting him in the guise he least expects. And, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’d prefer not to tip my hand just yet.”
“By all means,” Klint says with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“So a sixpence should suffice, my Lord Prosecutor.”
Klint bristles. “What?”
“For the cabbage, of course,” Sholmes says, as though he’s concluding a negotiation that has never taken place. “We could hardly risk my cover by letting people think we are talking about anything other than cruciferous vegetables, now, could we?”
Klint frowns, and Sholmes smiles. He’s wearing a false nose that blends seamlessly into his own skin, but his impish blue eyes are all too familiar. Klint sighs and fishes in his coin purse for the appropriate amount.
“Oh, thank you, my Lord!” Sholmes seems to shrink before their eyes, and his voice is suddenly much reedier. He turns to his cart to retrieve a head of cabbage, which, grinning, he presents to Klint. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
And then he withdraws, off to find the next man foolish enough to pay for one of his godforsaken vegetables.
Asogi fails to hide his smile; Klint, still surly, shoves the cabbage in his direction. “Here,” he says gruffly. “Now, let’s get on with it.”
Asogi obediently tucks the cabbage under one arm. “Of course, Prosecutor van Zieks.”
***
“Perhaps we could have done with disguises ourselves.”
He knows Asogi’s comment is light-hearted—meant only to break the quiet tension of their terse wait outside the Camembert house—but it strikes a nerve anyway.
“This is an investigation, Inspector,” Klint says sourly, “not a costume ball.”
Twilight is upon them, broken only by the dots of light in the windows of the homes lining the street. The lamps have yet to be lit on this street, obscuring them in shadow.
Klint hates the waiting.
For all his pent up energy, though, it’s Asogi who reacts first when shouts erupt from the house.
There’s further commotion as they run, the sound of slamming doors, and a great crash. Asogi follows the sounds around the side of the house. Rounding the house, there’s no sign of the disturbance, but they do catch sight of two silhouettes beneath a lamppost and move to join them.
“What’s happened?” Klint demands. Only then does he realize that the men before him are not police; he’s addressing the great detecting duo.
Sholmes is still in disguise. Mikotoba is holding a cabbage.
Klint rolls his eyes.
“Our thief has left us an important clue,” Sholmes says. He points to where shattered pieces of white ceramic are scattered in the glow of the lamplight. “You see, he’s taken the time to stop and break this statue, here in the light. That tells us two important things.”
“Indeed,” Mikotoba chimes in, looking thoughtfully at the broken pieces.
“The first is simply confirmation. Breaking the statues has never been incidental but quite the deliberate act. But that’s elementary, of course. The real intrigue here is the why. So, let us think: He’s taken pains to carry out this desecration mid-pursuit here, where it’s well-lit. Which can mean only one thing—our thief hates the late Emperor so desperately that he wishes to highlight his spite for all the world to see!”
Asogi glances sideways at Klint, who says nothing.
Mikotoba hums curiously. “Or perhaps,” he ventures, “he is looking for something?”
“Indeed, Mikotoba,” Sholmes says quickly. The course correction seems to have taken none of the wind out of his sails. “He is looking for something he knows to be hidden inside one of these statues, but he’s unsure which.”
“You mentioned a pursuit,” Asogi says. “Where is our suspect now?”
Sholmes looks at him blankly, then waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, that. He ran off that way, with your patrolmen in pursuit. But you see, gentlemen, I've discovered something much more integral to our investigation!” He indicates the shards again in a grand, sweeping gesture.
Klint swears softly and turns to track down the thief and his pursuers; Asogi follows.
“You can of course express your amazement later, gentlemen!” Sholmes calls after them.
***
A door cracks open, and light falls across the drawing room floor. It stretches far enough to illuminate the mantel where a stone-faced Napoleon stares blankly at the intrusion.
A shadow passes through the doorway and moves across the floor noiselessly. It nears the mantel when suddenly—
“That’s far enough.”
The figure startles at Klint’s words and makes to retreat. Klint does not move to stop him, instead flicking on the nearest gas lamp. Orange light bathes the room, revealing to the intruder his hopeless situation: several policemen already surround him, and Asogi, katana at the ready, moves to stand between him and the door.
The inspector’s brow furrows. “Mr. Stilton?”
Klint indeed recognizes the shopkeeper who’d sold the very statues they’d been tracking. “Interesting development, Sir,” Klint comments, even as he nods to the nearest officer to detain the man. “Breaking in to break your own merchandise, Mr. Stilton? Good for business, perhaps, but it seems like quite the ordeal. I can’t help but wonder what you’ve really been searching for.”
“I believe I have the answer to your query,” says a voice from across the room—a voice that is not Stilton’s.
Startled, Klint looks toward the doorway but spies no new arrivals. Surely he’s not so haunted by Sholmes that he hears the man even in his absence?
That’s when he notes that there are five uniformed police in the room—where there had only been four with them when they’d arrived.
With a glance to ensure the detained shopkeeper is well in check, Klint stalks toward this extra officer. He stops in front of Sholmes, arms folded. “Where did you get that uniform?”
“A story for another time,” the Great Consternation dodges the question, “as what I have to share about our shopkeeper here is of utmost—”
“No, Sholmes,” Klint says, stepping forward until he’s quite close to the detective, glaring down at him. “I don’t think you understand how far you’ve crossed the line this time. Impersonating an officer? Making a mockery of my case with your—?”
“Evidence?” It’s Asogi who interrupts him; Klint turns to glance at his partner, who looks back pointedly. “Surely we should hear him out, Prosecutor van Zieks. You can berate him about the uniform later.”
Klint scowls at Sholmes, who peers back at him over the top of his large false moustache.
“Fine,” he says finally.
Sholmes doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve uncovered quite the fraternal conspiracy during my investigation, you see.” He pushes confidently past Klint, facing Stilton in the middle of the room. “Because you’re not the first burglar in your family, are you, Mr. Stilton?”
“How-how did you—?”
“Elementary, Sir,” Sholmes answers before the man can even finish asking his question. “Even now, your brother sits in prison, serving out his sentence for a string of burglaries—a spree that ended, in fact, only just before your own began. But there’s an interesting pattern to both of your crimes: You only target merchandise sold from your own shop.”
Stilton says nothing, but his flinching is enough to tell Klint that Sholmes is correct.
“His own merchandise?” Klint asks.
Asogi is watching them all intently when he chimes in. “I would suppose,” he speculates, “that a man would not need to settle for selling something once if he could sell it again and make double the profit.”
“Just so,” says Sholmes. “It was quite the scheme, really. You selling worthless products from Gelder’s of London, and your brother working tirelessly to bring the merchandise back into your inventory with no one the wiser.”
“But your brother was caught, and you carried on alone,” Klint says. “Only… you’re not stealing back stock, you’re destroying it.”
“Indeed, and I believe there is one last detail that will bring this whole tale to a close, my dear Prosecutor. Because, you see…” Klint finds himself abruptly caught by the elbow. Sholmes drags him toward the mantel, where he’s swung in a circle; the pair of them come to a stop in front of the ceramic Napoleon. “Your brother’s final crime—the one for which he now sits incarcerated—was the theft of several items. Most were confiscated during his trial, but one was never found. And it was much more valuable than any bust of Bonaparte will ever be.”
Sholmes grins at Klint.
Then he knocks the bust off the mantel.
Klint scarcely has time to make a noise of protest before the ceramic shatters at his feet. Sholmes stoops to sift through the pieces.
When he stands, he’s holding a ring: a sizable diamond in an elegant gold setting.
“A fine piece,” he says, presenting the ring to Stilton with a flourish. “The likes of which your shop is unlikely to see again, I’d wager. How many hundreds of pounds would you say this is worth, Mr. Shopkeeper?”
Stilton again says nothing.
“But you’ve been done in by your own greed,” Sholmes continues, “because you wouldn’t break your own merchandise, would you? Not until you’d had the chance to profit off of it at least once before you smashed to bits. And to think, if you’d just broken all six statues when your brother told you where he’d hidden this ring, all of us legal professionals—”
“You are not a legal professional, Sholmes.”
“—and legal-adjacent great detectives would have been none the wiser.”
It plays out like a game after that; Stilton confirms Sholmes’s story on the spot and even confesses to the murder of Limburger, accidental though it was.
“I never meant for all of this,” he says ruefully. “I’ve not known what to do with myself since Oliver went to jail, truthfully. Perhaps it should have been me all along.”
Stilton is quickly handcuffed. As the officers lead him away, Asogi asks, “I am curious, Mr. Sholmes. How did you determine that the ring was hidden in the Wensleydale statue? Even Mr. Stilton wasn’t sure.”
Sholmes laughs. “Oh it’s quite simple, Inspector. I didn’t.”
“You what?” Klint hisses.
“There were only two statues left, after all, so this statue was just as likely as not the hiding place of the treasure our shopkeeper has been seeking.”
“Just as likely as….” Klint’s words fall off abruptly; he covers his face with one gloved hand.
“Even so,” Asogi says, “it would seem we owe you a debt of gratitude for your assistance with our case.”
He looks pointedly at Klint, who grimaces.
“There’s a place for your brand of logic, Mr. Sholmes, I’ll grant you that,” he says begrudgingly. Then his expression turns wry. “But don’t ever make me dance with you again.”
“My dear Mister Prosecutor,” Sholmes says, exuberant as ever, “I’m afraid I can make no such promise.”