Chapter Text
It begins, as far as Edward knows, when one of his employees doesn’t turn up for work.
This wouldn’t actually have come as such a surprise, to Edward, if the employee in question had been nearly anyone else. There are some things that polite society refuses to forget, even if the law does, no matter what Edward does. So he’d leaned into that reputation, to a degree. It’s how he’s ended up hiring a lot of people who wouldn’t have otherwise gotten a chance, for varying reasons.
In fact, it’s how Edward ended up hiring Reginald Birch in the first place. The man hadn’t been unwanted for lack of skill, so much as for his temper—something that he can rein in, and has gotten better about since Edward actually gave him the chance that no one else would. And, while Edward thinks that Reginald would do very well for himself in whatever work he applied himself to, he is—perhaps because of Edward giving him a chance to begin with, and not wanting to let him down—nothing if not a hard worker.
Honestly, Edward wishes he would work a little less hard, sometimes. But the fact of the matter is that Reginald has never in his life, to Edward’s knowledge, willingly done so. And, as such, the fact that he simply hasn’t turned up at all—nor has he sent word, or provided any kind of explanation for his absence—is concerning. Much more so, as the day goes on with no sign of the man.
The reasonable assumption is that Reginald must have fallen ill. Misfortune happens to everyone, sooner or later, and while Reginald would almost certainly prefer it if Edward didn’t pry into his... he is worried, and he’d rather know what happened for sure, sooner rather than later.
So off Edward goes, shortly after the day’s work is done. Finding Reginald’s place of residence has been... easier said than done, to say the least. It’s a reasonably nice place; Edward vaguely recalls something about him having inherited the house and staff from a relative, and not much else. Reginald’s a relatively private person, when it comes to his personal life.
(Given the contents of Edward’s personal life, in the present and especially in the past, he can respect that view of things.)
He takes a deep breath—in all likelihood, Reginald will be largely fine, and at worst mildly annoyed with him—and knocks on the door. He tries not to fidget too much, while he’s waiting for it to open.
But, eventually, the door does open. Not to Reginald, but to a dark-haired young woman who looks to Edward like a maid.
“We aren’t expecting company,” she says, brow furrowed at him.
“No, I imagine you wouldn’t be,” Edward says, and tries for a smile, though he is more worried than he likely should be. “My name’s Edward, miss. Edward Kenway. I’m Master Birch’s employer.”
“...Ah,” says the maid.
She stares at Edward, instead of giving him anything in return that he can use. Edward stares back at her, and eventually asks, “Is he alright?”
“Why... would he not be?” she replies.
“Well,” Edward says, grateful for some kind of opening, “he never turned up today. You can tell me if he’s ill.”
“I... I don’t, I can’t...” Her brow furrows more, but she’s notably not slamming the door shut in his face, so Edward’s cautiously optimistic about this. “He isn’t ill. At least, not that he’s said, but I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have gone...”
Something definitely isn’t right about this. Which Edward suspected already, but he could have done without more evidence supporting said suspicions.
“Is he here?” Edward asks.
The maid nods immediately, which is something of a relief. “He must be, if he’d never gone to work. Master Birch asked not to be disturbed in his study this morning, after I brought him a cup of tea, and I... had meant to clean it, once he had left, but no one I’d spoken to could be certain that he had left, and he would be... terribly, terribly cross with me if I disturbed him before he had.”
“But it has been hours since then,” Edward points out.
“It has,” the maid agrees. Is it just Edward, or does she seem more nervous than she already, obviously, was?
(Then again, she likely has other work to be doing, and Edward doesn’t want to be a bother. But he didn’t come all this way to not at least speak with the man himself.)
“Look,” Edward says at last, “if you’re alright with me coming in, I can speak to him. And if Master Birch is cross, you can blame me, alright?”
The maid does not look particularly alright with him coming in, so Edward’s already come up with half of a plan to climb around the back and sneak inside before she bites her lip and opens the door a little wider, stepping aside. That’s a surprise, if a welcome one.
“He might not even be there,” the maid says, “and if he isn’t, then I can start on tidying up his study. If he is, then...”
“I’ll talk to him, lass,” Edward says in a tone he hopes is reassuring, as he steps inside. Ultimately, he scarcely gets a second look in favor of the maid closing the front door behind him and starting off in the direction of what he can only assume is Reginald Birch’s study.
The study is upstairs, and as best as Edward can tell, on the opposite side of the house from where he came in—so if there’s a window, it would be a good place to escape the building, away from prying eyes. Not that he particularly expects to make use of that information, but even if he’s largely stepped away from Assassin business until Haytham’s a little older, it’s good to keep himself in practice. He’ll never know when he might need to be, after all.
That said, finally having gotten a name out of Reginald’s maid—Mary Ann—is likely to be a little more useful, if only because she seems like a nice lass and Edward generally likes knowing people’s names.
“Here we are,” Mary Ann says at last. “And I do appreciate your offer, but it’s just... I really should...”
Before Edward can ask what she’s getting at now—he’s beginning to suspect that nervous may just be her default state of being—she takes a deep breath and knocks on the closed door to Reginald’s study.
“Master Birch?” she calls. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Master Kenway’s come to see you, and he was really rather insistent...”
She trails off, looking at the closed door. Edward looks, too, and listens. No sound comes from inside. Mary Ann frowns.
“Master Birch?” she calls, raising her voice more than Edward had honestly thought her capable of.
“Lass, I don’t think he’s in there,” Edward says when there’s still no response, “and if you’ll pardon me saying so, you’re being loud enough to wake the dead—if he’d fallen asleep, he would have woken up by now.”
“Ah,” Mary Ann says, sheepish. “I do apologize.”
“You’ve no need to apologize on my account,” Edward replies. “I’ll ask around, see if any of his other staff have any idea where he might have gone off to—”
(Without telling anyone, no less, or at least without telling anyone who had said as much to Mary Ann here. That’s... strange. And worrying.)
“—and you can get back to work,” he finishes. “I’m sorry to have kept you from it this long already.”
“That’s alright,” Mary Ann agrees with a nod. “Thank you, sir.”
Edward doesn’t think he’ll ever be entirely used to others—especially here in England—addressing him with any amount of real respect. Most of the time, it only happens on first meetings and much more rarely on a second. There are some things, after all, that polite society refuses to forget.
But he tends to have better luck with servants, people that polite society also overlooks, unless they’re forced for whatever reason not to. And even if he didn’t, they’re still people, worthy of the same respect anyone else is, just the same as him.
...That might be part of why he tends to have better luck with servants, now that he thinks of it.
“You’re welcome,” he says genuinely, and turns away as she opens the door on creaky hinges. A part of him’s curious about what Reginald’s study looks like, but he’s definitely snooped enough already when the man isn’t even here—
With that said. He immediately finds himself much more curious when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mary Ann freeze with the door only halfway open.
“...Master Kenway?” she says.
“Aye?” He turns back, retracing the few steps he’d taken already to rejoin her.
“He... is in here, after all.”
Mary Ann looks, and sounds, much less at ease now. And, looking past her, Edward can immediately see why. Reginald Birch is here, seated at his own desk—slumped over it, in a way that might speak to exhaustion were it not for what looks suspiciously like dried blood staining the papers scattered across the wood.
Edward swears under his breath, and moves past her into the room, scarcely breathing himself until he’s had the chance to feel for Reginald’s pulse. It’s not there. He’s not breathing. And the man himself is cold enough that, between that and the blood having dried, he’d be willing to bet Reginald’s been dead since the morning.
He blinks into that other sense for just a moment, since his back’s to Mary Ann. It only confirms what he’d already known, for Reginald. (Though something half-hidden beneath Reginald’s body gleams in the view of that other sight, before he blinks out of it and turns back to the maid.)
“He’s dead, lass,” Edward says grimly. “Couldn’t say for how long without investigating further, but it’s been hours, at least.”
“Oh,” Mary Ann says in a small voice. “Oh, I... I never would have imagined...”
She looks very pale, and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the body, which... is an understandable reaction, to be honest. Edward’s seen a lot of death in his time—hell, he’s brought about a lot of death—and he still hadn’t been prepared for this. While the possibility of Reginald having died was one he’d thought of earlier today, he’d dismissed it at the time—people with no connection to the Assassins or the Templars don’t usually turn up dead without a reason, and for all that Reginald worked for him, he’d had nothing to do with Assassin business.
Was his death a message? A threat? Or just a coincidence?
...Edward can’t easily say, without the chance to look a little closer. Fortunately, he already has an excuse to get Mary Ann out of the room.
“Lass,” he says, “I have an important job for you.”
She’s young. Younger than Jenny, he thinks, old enough to be an adult under the law but hardly enough to really feel like one. It’s been a long time since Edward was that young, but he still remembers how it felt—and how willing he was to help people who seemed to trust him as they would someone older and wiser, on the rare chance it ever happened.
(And then he’d overcompensated and then some with the piracy, but... well. There’s no changing the past now.)
“What is it?” Mary Ann asks, standing a little straighter with no less wide eyes.
“Master Birch is dead,” he says, “and in all likelihood, someone else killed him.” (He has certain doubts that Reginald killed himself, whether by accident or not.) “Considering how long he’s been dead for, I’d be willing to bet that whoever did this has already covered their tracks... but they might have missed something, and if someone is here keeping an eye on things, they’ll find it harder to come back for it.”
“I... I see,” Mary Ann says in a tone that honestly makes Edward think she’s mostly just humoring him. Better to cut to the chase, then. “What should I...”
“What I need you to do, is make sure the rest of the staff knows what happened,” he says seriously, “and—if you can—find help. If anyone nearby saw or heard anything strange today... even the smallest detail could help us find out who’s responsible.”
Edward’s reasonably sure that, as Reginald’s employer, he’ll be the one expected to investigate anyway, and he’ll be doing that. But there are a few things he’d like to do that he’d rather not be watched for, so it comes as a relief for a few reasons when Mary Ann nods determinedly.
“I will,” Mary Ann says, and then leaves the room quickly, closing the door behind her before Edward can ask her to leave it open. Ah well, it’ll give him more warning for when she’s coming back.
“Sorry this happened to you, Reginald,” Edward says seriously, returning to the desk and the corpse slumped over it, “and I’m doubly sorry if this happened to you because of me. Whoever killed you, though, I’ll find them. I promise you that.”
His eyes are closed, Edward realizes, as he shifts the body to be sitting back rather than slumped over the desk, which makes him think that Reginald’s murderer might have closed them. It’s possible they had stuck around long enough afterward to close his eyes, then, which makes Edward think they weren’t particularly afraid of being caught.
But, then, if the murder had happened in the morning—after Reginald had said he wasn’t to be disturbed, which the murderer might have known—then they’d had hours to work with, and it’s entirely possible that they’d known that. Overheard that, maybe.
What killed him, from the look of it, was a single stab to the heart. It would have been quick, then, if nothing else. That’s some consolation. And, given the lack of an exit wound on his back—or any indication of tampering with his desk chair—it must have been done with a short blade, and he must have been facing his murderer. A knife, some sort of dagger probably. Or...
...Well. Edward himself is wearing a blade like that under his coat. Two of them, even. He frowns, extending one of his own experimentally.
He can’t rule the possibility out. So he frowns more, makes a mental note of that for later, and returns to his own investigation. If the Templars had Reginald killed—or, God forbid, if another Assassin did him in—then Edward would rather keep any evidence of that away from prying eyes, and look into it himself.
Mary Ann could come back at any time. With that in mind, he’ll have to use the time he has to the fullest.
What immediately stands out? The clutter on Reginald’s desk, for a number of reasons. Reginald was nothing if not well-organized, to the point where Edward would be jealous if he didn’t know full well his greatest strengths lie elsewhere. His desk is approximately as cluttered as Edward’s own desk would be, in his own study, at home, halfway across London.
There also isn’t as much blood on the desk or its contents as Edward would have expected—there’s rather more of it that had spilled down Reginald’s front, and dried there—which makes him wonder. He blinks back into Eagle Vision for a moment. Only a moment, that’s all.
What Edward sees is enough for his breath to catch. For him to immediately change his mind on whether Reginald’s murder was a coincidence, or not. Because on a single loose sheet of paper, scrawled in dried blood that Edward can only assume to be Reginald’s, is one of a few symbols that Edward would know anywhere, instantly, no matter how long it’s been.
An Assassin stares at the symbol of his order. Edward scarcely manages to hold back the damned near hysterical laugh that wants to escape him, because as unlikely as it had seemed to him that Reginald had been murdered for reasons entirely unrelated to his employer’s allegiances, Edward would have liked to rule it out.
It could have been an isolated incident. But it clearly wasn’t. Whoever killed him knows what Edward is. They knew that he’d come here looking for Reginald, that he’d find this.
...And if they know that much, they likely also will expect Edward to hide any evidence obviously linking Reginald’s murder to the Assassins. Which they’re right about. He will do that.
The blood on the page has had more than enough time to dry, at least. It’s the work of moments to fold up the paper and tuck it into one of his own pockets, until he has an opportunity to dispose of it discreetly. He looks back at the desk, after that—and freezes.
He’d thought that writing out the symbol of the Assassins here—in Reginald’s own blood, no less—was meant to get his attention. And he doesn’t think he was wrong, about that, exactly—just about what it was meant to draw his attention to. Not to the scene as a whole, or at least, not just the scene as a whole.
The paper was covering something. A book, leatherbound. It looks almost like the journal Edward keeps himself. Almost, that is, save for one crucial difference: the front cover of Edward’s own journal is blank. The front cover of this journal, if it is a journal, bears the Templar cross.
Edward’s heart leaps into his throat as he flips open the cover, and it stays there as he lays eyes on the first page. He thumbs through several more, just to be certain, not that it helps any.
The writing within is in Reginald’s hand. He’s seen more than enough of that, over the last several years, to know it when he sees it—and there is quite a lot of his handwriting in a book with the Templar cross displayed quite prominently on the cover. Edward’s never seen this book before, of course. But he wouldn’t have, would he?
He looks down at the book. Then back at Reginald’s body.
It’s... theoretically possible, he figures, that it’s a clever forgery. Somehow, that seems more believable than the thought that someone Edward has trusted for over a decade—longer than his son has been alive!—is, or more accurately was, a Templar. In his heart, though, Edward knows better.
(There would have been easier ways to frame someone as a Templar than this.)
“Well,” Edward says to the dead man, “this changes things.”
Reginald Birch doesn’t reply, being a dead man. Edward can’t picture what he would say, if he wasn’t.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me how long you’d been a Templar for?” Edward says anyway, into the silence he doesn’t expect will be broken yet. Certainly not by Reginald—Birch. “Were you always one? Or did they get to you because of me?”
The journal in his hands probably holds the answers to at least some of his questions. If Edward’s particularly lucky, not that he generally is, it might even give him some clues about who actually killed Birch.
Edward had no idea that Birch was a Templar. But someone else knew. Someone else killed him—possibly even with a hidden blade—and left his journal here for Edward to find. It could have been one of Birch’s fellow Templars, or an Assassin. Or a Templar trying to frame the Assassins, which seems more believable than one of Edward’s own people having gone after someone he’d trusted. Someone he’d considered a friend.
...He won’t have time to read through any of Birch’s journal now, though. So he sighs, tucks the book away beside the paper that had been hiding it, and takes another look around the dead man’s study.
As far as he can tell, there are two ways that Birch’s killer could have gotten out, after doing the deed, without being seen. Either they’d sneaked out through the house, or they climbed out the window—both options that any Assassin worth the blade they carry would be capable of. Templars... maybe. Maybe not. He’ll have to ask Miko about that.
He’ll have to ask Miko about a lot more than just that. But he’s not likely to get another opportunity to look around here without company.
Edward’s still examining the window, and idly considering whether he has time to test how difficult climbing out of it would be, when he hears footsteps—at least a few pairs of them, too—coming down the same hall that Birch’s maid had originally led him down. That makes him think that he definitely doesn’t have time for testing anything.
Really, he barely has enough time to reach the door before it opens.
“Evening,” Edward says, as the door does. “You’ll have to forgive me for not calling it a good one, given the circumstances.”
The first person to enter is... well, the first thing that Edward notices about him is that he’s younger than he would have expected, given the circumstances and the fact that he doesn’t look like he’s part of the household’s staff. And then the lad opens his mouth.
“That,” says the lad, “depends on if I can find the one who did this tonight. You’re Master Birch’s employer?”
Edward nods, even as he feels his brow furrowing. He’d told Mary Ann to get help, but he’d expected her to let the rest of the household know of the situation, not to have brought in someone else entirely. And, unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that she’s here now to ask about who this is.
“Aye,” Edward says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Edward Kenway. And you are...?”
The lad eyes Edward’s extended hand, a little warily, then takes it and shakes it briskly. “Jack Turner, thief-taker. I’ve done work for the household before.”
...Is he a Templar, then? Wary as Jack there seems, there wasn’t any recognition in his eyes at Edward’s name or face, and he doubts there’s a Templar in the city who doesn’t know of him, at least. It might just be at the situation.
(Edward sympathizes, a little.)
“You fancy yourself a thief-taker?” Edward says before he can think better of it. Hastily, he adds, “I mean no offense—you seem young.”
Younger, perhaps, than that maid. Or perhaps not. The fact that Jack here either can’t manage to grow much hair on his face, or shaves religiously, is not doing him any favors.
“I’ve taken thieves before,” Jack says, his mouth thinning into a line, “and by the time my work here is done, I’ll have taken a murderer, too.”
Confident lad. Edward can respect that.
“How can I help?” he asks.
Jack blinks like he hadn’t been expecting Edward to agree so easily, before he says, “What can you tell me about Master Birch?”
Less than what Edward knows, or has strong reason to suspect, that’s for damn certain. He’s all too aware of where he tucked Birch’s journal safely away from prying eyes, and all too relieved now that he’d found it before the thief-taker turned up. At best, he doesn’t know anything of the Templars or the Assassins, and learning about either organization without being involved—to say nothing of both!—would put him in quite a lot of danger.
At worst, he’s a Templar himself, and Edward obviously will not be letting on that he knows Birch was one. He certainly hadn’t known, before today; that’s something he can use.
(He should have noticed... something, anything, sooner than that. But he hadn’t, and there’s nothing he can do about the past.)
“He was a hard worker, and nothing if not effective,” Edward settles on saying after some thought on the matter. “He’s been working for me since... over a decade ago, I believe. Sir Walpole introduced us, though we haven’t had much contact in some time.”
Grateful as he was to the cousin of the first Assassin he’d killed for everything that allowed him to start a new life, one that would be leagues better for his daughter than what he could give her as a pirate... Robert Walpole also happened to have quite the family resemblance to Duncan Walpole, which was startling at first and only somewhat uncomfortable after the fact.
...Did Walpole know that Birch was a Templar? Would he have cared, at all, if he did? Or was he as content as ever to sit back until his claimed neutrality was likely to get people killed?
“Sir Walpole?” Jack says, his tone sounding just a touch incredulous.
Edward nods. “I doubt he’s had much contact with Birch lately, either, but you’re more than welcome to check on that with him.”
“I will,” Jack says, “once my investigation here is done.”
Well, alright then. Edward might be here for a while, then, too.
The thief-taker is nothing if not thorough. Edward would be slightly more appreciative of this if it didn’t mean that, by the time Jack Turner decides it’s time to turn in for the night and return to his investigation tomorrow, the sun set ages ago and Edward is thinking longingly of his bed and his wife.
He’s a smart lad, that much is clear. Unflinchingly honest, too, or else—assuming better circumstances, which these aren’t—Edward would consider recruiting him for the Brotherhood, and sending the lad Miko’s way. As it is, as best as Edward can tell, he’d be more likely to try and go up against the Assassins and the Templars alike, and get himself killed very fast for his trouble.
Edward likes the lad. But he wouldn’t trust him even if he could be sure that he isn’t already in the Templars’ employ, and... he would have been more sure of that, before recently.
But he’d been wrong about Birch. The full extent of which... he’ll find out, he’s sure, as soon as he finally has the chance to read through a dead man’s journal.
Edward Kenway is not, and never has been, a particularly patient man. The journal seems to grow heavier and heavier in his coat, the longer he goes without taking it out. But first he’s got to get a message to Miko, letting him know that there is a situation and it’d be safer to discuss the details in person, and then he’s got to get home. His family is fairly used to him keeping odd hours already, even in the state of semi-retirement he’s found himself in, so finding something to eat and checking in with Tessa isn’t too difficult.
(Haytham, being nine years old, is already in bed, and he doesn’t stir when Edward presses a kiss to his forehead and tucks him in a little more securely. There’s a light on in Jenny’s bedroom, but it switches off as he approaches her door, and despite what some might think, Edward is capable of taking a hint.)
And then... Edward has some reading to do. Rather a lot of reading to do, to learn all he’d missed about Reginald Birch and maybe find some of the answers to the many, many questions this day has left him with.
It’s... likely for the best that Tessa goes to bed herself, before he gets very far in Birch’s journal.