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Were Tobias Gregson any other man, he’d have been halfway to the gallows by now. Corruption, though undoubtedly rife in London, wasn’t tolerated on the rare occasions it came to light. A Scotland Yard inspector colluding with a criminal in the dock? Rarely was it so obvious, so unequivocally unethical, so thoroughly prosecutable.
Being the man he was, Gregson sat across Barok’s tea-table unfettered. No man in London could fire the detective who brought down the Professor.
In fairness, Gregson didn’t look well. As long as Barok had known him, the inspector had been a man defined by his work. Suspension didn’t suit him. He stirred his tea, languid and uncharacteristically unfocused, as Barok stared.
“You’re welcome to apologize whenever you like,” said Barok. “I’m afraid I’ve little to say to you until then.”
Gregson snorted weakly and looked down into his teacup.
—
On the night Barok had received his prosecutor’s badge, his brother had taken them out to dinner. They stayed late at an expensive lounge, and debated the state of London, and for the first time Barok had truly felt he had license to weigh in. He did have license. It was pinned to his chest, as proudly as it was to his brother’s, as it had been to his father’s.
They ordered a bottle of wine, and then another. That had helped his remaining nerves a great deal. Barok had had sips before, or perhaps a glass on special occasions, but back then he’d never drunk wine to drink.
Klint had found his intoxication hilarious. Barok was too intoxicated to be bothered by it.
“Easy there,” mumbled Gregson, lifting him up from the floor of the toilets after he’d dashed off to vomit.
“Oh, dear,” slurred Klint from the doorway, still barely containing his amusement. “I’m sorry, Barok, I shouldn’t have let you drink so much…”
Gregson chuckled quietly. “Rite of passage, ain’t it?” he replied.
“Ha—I suppose it is.”
“One I’d have avoided, given the choice,” muttered Barok.
Gruffly, Gregson patted his back. A solid, familiar gesture.
The next time Barok felt that hand on his back was at Klint’s graveside.
Barok had been grateful beyond measure for it. As he began his career, as the Reaper rose from rumor to certainty, his old friend’s support had kept him sane until he no longer could be. Tobias Gregson had been his one remaining tether to his former self. The last of his brothers in arms.
Since then their bond had hardened.
—
“I’m sorry I had to keep it from you, m’lord,” said Gregson. “It was Lord Stronghart’s orders, you see.”
“…It was Lord Stronghart’s orders to withhold crucial information from the prosecutor of a case?”
Gregson finally looked up. “A case he told you not to bother with, it’s worth mentioning,” he replied. His voice had become more heated—almost a welcome change from his flat, depressive suspension affect. “And now you’ve got your pet defense banned from working, not to mention your pet inspector—”
“Don’t you dare insinuate that any of this falls on my shoulders—"
“—And there’s a bleedin’ innocent girl in the Reaper’s crosshairs.”
Barok shut his mouth and clenched his teeth. That was his fault. Soseki Natsume would be his fault. Magnus McGilded, God rest his wicked soul, was his fault. He was a murder weapon. He’d forgotten what that meant.
Gregson could tell Barok had been nursing this guilt before he’d informed him he ought to be. He sighed.
“He’s right furious at you, Lord Stronghart,” he said. “And at me, for not stoppin’ you.”
Barok looked away. “I don’t care what Lord Stronghart thinks.”
Gregson scoffed. “That’s no way to get ahead in London.”
“Then I’ll speak with him later.” Stronghart had never treated him kindly , per se, but Barok knew he got on with him far better than Gregson did. He wanted to speak to him anyway. Frankly, Barok was more surprised by Stronghart’s dedicated silence—that these encoded secrets were ones the Lord Chief Justice would go to such lengths to make sure he was completely unaware of, to everyone’s detriment.
“But no matter your orders, I thought better of you, Inspector,” continued Barok. “I thought you had integrity enough to understand when orders ought not to be followed.”
“I did what I needed to do for London,” replied Gregson. He stared up at him, jaw clenched. “I’m sorry you ran afoul of it, but I’m not sorry for it.”
Barok stared back at him.
Tobias Gregson would break the law to protect his city. To hear this so openly chilled Barok to the core.
—
On a miserable evening years and years ago, when he’d accustomed himself to wine well enough to withstand it, Barok had looked at his theater ticket and been unable to summon the wherewithal. Everything then had taken an enormous amount of wherewithal. Work and recreation and daily tasks exhausted him equally, as if to do any of them he had to swim through syrup.
He’d stayed home instead. He’d kept drinking and fallen asleep on the library sofa, where he’d woken in the early morning to Gregson’s panicked shouts.
It was on the front page of the newspaper—the Reaper had become so infamous by then that Barok’s defendants were the most famous souls in London, and their deaths were reported on with the greatest fanfare. The fourteenth one had been killed at eight-fifteen the previous evening, when he would have been sitting in a theater seat. His ticket hadn’t been used. He hadn’t been seen there. Gregson dragged him up off the sofa, begging him to explain where he’d been.
His colleagues arrived shortly to clap the Reaper of the Bailey in handcuffs. They’d been very excited about it.
It hadn’t amounted to much. His housekeeper was able to attest to his alibi, and the charges were dropped. Barok had noticed his staff keeping a sharper eye on him after that. It had been Gregson’s urging, he learned from the newest, most easily intimidated parlor-maid.
At the time he’d simply assumed the man worried for him. Had seen him drunk and desolate and wanted him looked after. But—in the years since, he’d gone over his muddled memories of that morning a hundred times. He’d come to wonder if there was more to Gregson’s panic than mere concern.
Each of his defendant’s deaths, after all, had taken place at a time when his alibi was incontrovertible.
—
Since returning to court, Barok had given it a great deal of thought.
The Reaper had never tried to implicate him—if it had aimed to, it was a singularly inept organization. No. The Reaper cared for him. The Reaper wanted him free. Either to keep killing with his hand, or…or to keep him safe. An act of love within an act of hatred.
The Reaper was people he knew. Barok had had this thought before. As a young man, the terror and suspicion and isolation had nearly killed him. This time, he had resolved to end the Reaper before it could.
He had returned to his old suspicions with new purpose, and Tobias Gregson remained chief among them. A renowned police inspector, with high clearance and high autonomy. A highly intelligent man with stunning foresight and tactical skill. A close friend, who knew his movements and his obligations.
However… He had no motive. Would Gregson kill for the sake of law and order? Could Barok have misjudged another man so grievously?
Whenever he got here Barok tried to talk himself out of it. This was the man whose determination had brought Klint’s killer to heel. This was the man who’d stood by his side ever since. Surely there was some sacrilege in suspecting him? But… That was the same refuge Genshin Asogi had taken. The steadfast family friend, above suspicion by design.
Barok had trusted before. He would never allow himself to be that foolish again.
He sipped his tea pensively, praying his guest couldn’t read his mind, and then he finally spoke. “I apologize, Inspector,” he murmured. “I understand how difficult it is to betray a direct order, even in service of the truth.”
“I’d’ve been livid if I were you,” mumbled Gregson. “Can’t blame you for that.”
“And I—” Barok swallowed. “I apologize for letting my anger get the better of me,” he said. “I should never have stepped into Miss Lestrade’s courtroom, no matter her defense.”
“…I s’pose I can’t blame you for the anger either,” Gregson replied, looking away. “Lord knows I still feel it time to time myself.”
Barok watched his friend across the table, breathing as evenly as he could to calm his hammering heart. Gregson had loved Klint as dearly as he had. Gregson had trusted Genshin Asogi as implicitly as he had. Gregson hadn’t faced the years of fear and blame that he had, but Gregson had stood by his innocence without once wavering.
Gregson loved him.
He had never been able to decide if this made the inspector a less likely suspect, or a likelier one.
