“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street,
“life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.
-=<+>=-
My dear fellow - I would wager
Life is infinitely stranger
Than what we can invent
(No matter our intent)
Since that is just human nature
-=<+>=-
A typist’s stepfather was greedy
Deceiving her proved to be easy
With a little disguise
And dozens of lies
He became his stepdaughter’s sweetie
-=<+>=-
When Holmes found that her beaux was spurious
He was quite righteously furious!
It wasn't illegal
Though morally evil
Deserving a beating injurious!
-=<+>=-
-=<+>=-
The (Eww!) End
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[The Great Ace Attorney] A Case of Identity - Ch. 9
Summary: On that fateful night in Lowgate cemetery, the bullet finds its target in Enoch Drebber. When he awakens he’s locked behind an iron mask, facing a lifetime of imprisonment as the mass murderer who survived a botched execution - the Professor.
However, help is afoot.
Characters: Enoch Drebber, Esmeralda Tusspells, Herlock Sholmes, Yujin Mikotoba, Tobias Gregson, Gina Lestrade, Mael Stronghart
Rating: T
Prologue and all other chapters will be tagged as ‘case of identity’ on my blog.
A/N: Is this update late? Yes. Do I have excuses? No.
Sorry, guys.
***
“I don’t know nuttin’. I ain’t no diver.”
“You bragged about being the best diver in the East End not five minutes ago.”
“I lied.”
“Uuuugh.”
As Gina Lestrade stuffed yet another buttered crumpet in her mouth - Sholmes had added a generous dollop of honey on each, for good measure, before disappearing in the kitchen - Inspector Gregson seemed remarkably close to tearing his own hair out. Mikotoba half-expected him to explode, but he seemed to be making an herculean effort to remain calm.
Well. Relatively calm. Mikotoba suspected the man had not been entirely calm a single day in his life, at least since joining Scotland Yard.
“Gina, you are not in trouble,” Mikotoba said, Iris safely asleep in the crook of his arm. The statement gained him a doubtful look; the child seemed still unsure, although hot tea and crumpets had done a lot to lower her guard. Come to think of it, she must have been ravenously hungry; who knew when she’d last had a proper hot meal.
“You said the’ Yard’s lookin’ for me,” the girl replied, eyes turning back to the sketch on the small table before the armchair she was huddled on. She couldn’t read what was written on it, but she could recognize her face, and she could tell what it meant - she was a wanted person across London.
“... Well. You may be in trouble with Scotland Yard, sure enough, but you are safe here and we’re going to help you. Most of all, we want to understand why they’re looking for you. The Inspector here has a theory, and--”
“You brought me ‘ere,'' Gina cut him off, turning to look at Gregson, narrowing her eyes. She seemed wary, but most of all confused. “If you’re from the Yard, why hide me?”
Gregson set his jaw a moment before answering. “The Lord Chief Justice wouldn’t start a large-scale manhunt for a simple diver, sunshine. Something about all this smells off.”
“Like th’ fish in your pocket?”
“Yes, sort of-- how do you know what’s in my pockets?”
“I checked. While you carried me.”
Gregson’s face flushed red. “I thought you were barely conscious!”
She seemed awfully pleased by the reaction. “I was.”
“Then how--”
“I’m the best diver in all of th’ East End. Cleanin’ pockets in my sleep.”
“So you admit you’re a diver!”
“... Maaaaybe.”
Gregson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Well, sunshine. Maybe you took something from the pockets of the wrong man, and maybe this someone is the most powerful individual in London bar the Queen and the Prime Minister, and maybe he’s determined to get to you so he can have it back. So maybe, if you came clean and told us what it is, we may be able to help you out of this mess. What do you say?”
Gina looked back at him, and the self-satisfied expression faltered. Mikotoba could see the realization sinking in: she was in over her head into something much bigger than herself, and no amount of pickpocketing skills and disappearing acts in dimly-lit alleys was going to be enough to get her out of it. She looked down, and swallowed. “I--”
“LUNCH!”
The kitchen door was thrown open and Sholmes came in, surrounded by a frankly concerning amount of smoke. He was carrying four plates in precarious balance, each of them full of horribly burnt sausages and eggs.
Gregson groaned. “Sholmes, we’re trying to--”
“Can’t solve a case on an empty stomach!” Sholmes declared, putting down the plates. “Isn’t that right, my good doctor?”
Mikotoba, who had precisely no intention to put anything cooked by Sholmes in his mouth - a sentiment shared by Gregson, going by the look on his face - nodded. “Of course. But the crumpets were quite enough for me, I believe they’ll see me through until dinner tim--”
“I’ll have his part,” Gina said, and unceremoniously snatched the plate. To Sholmes’ obvious delight she dove in, shoving food in her mouth without a single comment on how badly burned it was. It would have been an amusing sight, if not for the thought that crossed Mikotoba’s mind again.
How long has she truly gone without a filling meal?
“See, that’s the spirit,” Sholmes grinned, and sat across from her. “Perhaps you’re in a better mood for conversation now that your hunger is being sated?”
Gina looked over, chewing on some sausage. She seemed to debate whether to respond for a moment, then shrugged. “... So if I stole somethin’ important, why do you want it? Why not let Lord Whatshisface have it?”
“You see, Miss Lestrade,” Sholmes said with a smile, putting more woefully burnt scrambled eggs on her plate from Gregson’s own untouched one. “We believe the Lord Chief Justice has done something quite horrible to an innocent man - leaving him to languish in prison for crimes he did not commit.”
Gina frowned, and stuck another forkful of food in her mouth before speaking through it. “Wot’s that to do wit’ me?”
“We believe that whatever you… relieved him of that day at the docks is crucial evidence of his misdeed; at least, the timing and circumstances suggest so. That is likely why he’s so desperate to have it back. Now, if we could get our hands on it instead, we could make sure he’s exposed and the man he wronged is released from prison. It would be vital evidence.”
Gina Lestrade rolled her eyes, but had the good grace to swallow her mouthful of burnt egg before she scoffed. Loudly. “You’re bein’ funny just now,” she muttered, causing Gregson to frown.
“Can’t see what’s so funny about it, sunshine.”
“You said he’s th’ most powerful man in London. Wot’s evidence goin’ to do?”
There was an undeniable truth to her words, and she had hit a sore spot, if the way Inspector Gregson flinched was of any indication. “Well… it’s… in a court of law…”
“He’s a Lord, innit? The likes o’ im don’t care ‘bout evidence. They get away all the time.”
A brief silence, then Gregson straightened himself, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “... Not this time, sunshine. You have my word. He won’t get away with this.”
She wrinkled her nose. “... Ain’t he your boss?”
“That will make no difference. If he did what we suspect he has done, he ought to pay. And I will not under any circumstances let him get his hands on you.”
“That’s rich. A copper protectin’ a diver.”
“You’re just a little girl.”
A forkful of egg stopped in mid-air, and Gina stared back at Inspector Gregson as though struck. For a moment Mikotoba expected her to protest - say that she was not a little girl, she was the best diver the East End had ever seen - but instead she kept staring in silence for a few moments, mouth slightly agape, before looking down. She didn’t seem insulted: just taken aback, and oddly saddened. In the middle of the large armchair she looked smaller than ever, and something in Mikotoba’s chest ached. It must have been a long time indeed since she last got to be just a little girl with someone to protect her - if she ever had been.
Please, Yujin. Find the woman and help her child. It’s the last favor I can ask of you.
Mikotoba swallowed, looking down at Iris’ sleeping face. It took him a dreadful effort to push all thoughts of Genshin out of his mind, and focus on Sholmes’ voice as he spoke.
“You have nothing to worry about, Miss Lestrade,” He grinned at her. “You have a copper, soon to be world-famous detective, and a doctor at your service. I daresay you’re safer than the Queen herself. We would however appreciate your help in solving this case, so we can remove this threat to your safety altogether.”
Gina hesitated, and turned back to Mikotoba. She seemed to me most reassured by him, perhaps on account of having seen him with a baby in his arms almost as soon as she awoke. He smiled.
“We would be very grateful indeed if you could tell us all you know.”
“I…” a sigh, and she scowled down at her half-empty plate. “I don’t recall,” she finally mumbled.
“Don’t recall?”
“... I was at the docks. As you said. I remember that.”
“That must have been when you picked the Lord Chief Justice’s pockets clean,” Gregson muttered, and the child nodded.
“Hu-uh. Was lookin’ for a good target.”
“Awful choice there. And then?”
“Nuttin’.”
Gregson frowned, leaning forward. “What do you mean, nothing! You surely did something, or else we wouldn’t all be in this mess!”
“I don’t remember nuttin’! I was at th’ docks and then-- I remember lots o’ water. Cold.”
All annoyance vanished from Gregson’s face, and he leaned back in his seat. “Ah, yes. You…” He shifted a little, as though uncomfortable. “You fell in the Thames.”
“There was a nurse… a nice lady… there was you. You carried me. Said you’d keep me safe.”
Gregson cleared his throat. “Yes, well-- I do intend to,” he mumbled, pulling down the brim of his hat. Sitting next to him, Sholmes smiled brightly and clapped his hands.
“Well! It seems you forgot quite a bit about that eventful day, Miss Lestrade. And all the relevant things to our case too! Unfortunate, that. What’s the doctor’s take on it?”
Mikotoba reached to put a hand on Gina’s upper back. “It’s not uncommon, after a traumatic experience. And she had a fever, too. It usually comes back after some time and rest.”
“So I’m goin’ to remember?”
“I’m sure you will, and if you could tell us all you recall we’d be very grateful.”
“... I see. So that’s the catch.”
Mikotoba shook his head. “There is no catch. You don’t have to earn our help. If you cannot recall, we’ll find another way to solve the case and keep you safe. Isn’t that right, Sholmes?”
“Of course!” Sholmes gave an enthusiastic nod. “My fair lady, we wouldn’t dream of leaving you to fend for yourself against the might of Britain’s judicial system incarnate! And besides, Inspector Gregson here is more than ready to cover my fee out of his own pocket. Oh! Gregson! I have mentioned I have been considering changing to an hourly fee?”
“What, you-- agh--! I mean-- uuuugh!” Gregson rubbed his face, which had seemed to rapidly turn into several different colors under Gina’s puzzled gaze. “I mean-- yes. Of course. There is no catch for you, sunshine,” he forced out. “But for my sanity’s sake, try to remember.”
Gina laughed. It was a sudden sound, and it caused Iris to startle with a surprised sound. Gregson grumbled, but he didn’t complain again as Gina muttered “deal” and shoved another forkful of eggs in her mouth.
***
“Of course you realize, we can’t just sit around and wait for her to remember before we act.”
“Well, I for one am not sitting. You should try spending a couple of hours a day upside down on your chair, Inspector. All that blood to your head will clear your thoughts wonderfully! Or make you black out. But the return to consciousness may just bring forth an epiphany!”
Tobias Gregson, who at the moment very much wished he had followed the family tradition as shopkeepers and never became an Inspector at all, glared at the spot where Sholmes’ head would have been had he not decided to turn upside down like a circus monkey. “What I am saying is that we have no time to waste!” he snapped at the detective’s slippers.
“Ah, did I get you concerned about my new hourly fee policy, Inspector?”
“There is a man locked in prison as we speak, in case you forgot.”
“Oh! Of course, Mr. Drebber. I almost did forget.”
“Remarkable, considering that you have his head in your living room,” Gregson grunted, and turned to look at the head in question. It had been moved from the table and was covered with a cloth before Gina Lestrade could see it, but its presence remained unnerving.
“Well, not quite his head. It’s a wax replica, made with remarkable craftsmanship and-- ah, Mikotoba! Both our guests are back to sleep, I hope?”
“Indeed. Both Gina and Iris are back in bed. Sholmes, you really should stop doing that.”
“It gets all the blood flowing to the brain, and helps me think better!”
“That is not how this works.”
“How would you know?”
“I have a degree in medicine, for one.”
“Ah, yes. That is why I call you ‘my good doctor’, after all.” With a sigh and a movement that frankly should not have been possible in Gregson’s opinion, Sholmes returned to a normal sitting position on the armchair. “Well. The Inspector here was saying we cannot wait for the young lady’s memory to return.”
Mikotoba looked over at Gregson with a nod. “I do agree,” he said, to Gregson’s utter relief. There was no love lost between them, mostly due to the fact Mikotoba’s presence was always a sign Sholmes was not far away, but the Japanese doctor did tend to be the most reasonable out of the two. A low bar to step over, that. “We don’t know how long it may take for young Gina to recall the events of that day, and what precisely she took from Lord Stronghart. It may happen tomorrow as well as in six months’ time, for all we know. Or… well. We cannot rule out the possibility she may never remember. We need to think of some way to prove our theory - that the man currently imprisoned at Barclays is not the Professor. Or at least to be absolutely certain ourselves. But I don’t know how--”
“Well, we go see for ourselves, obviously.” Sholmes spoke just as though he had just suggested they look out of the window to check the weather.
Gregson fought back the usual urge to throw something heavy at the detective’s head and just dropped his own head back against the armchair’s backrest. “Oh, of course. We walk in and ask to see the prisoner no one is allowed to see but one selected, deaf warden, by direct order of the Lord Chief Justice of London. I am sure they will open the door away.”
As per usual, all his sarcasm flew well over Sholmes’ head. “Why, that would be awfully nice of them. But alas, through my powers of deduction I have come to suspect they would not let us in. However, if the Lord Chief Justice were to ask to see the prisoner, I am certain they would open their doors to him and whoever is accompanying him. Don’t you agree, doctor?”
Gregson opened his mouth to ask him if he really thought he could talk Stronghart into letting him in, but before he could get a single word out Mikotoba laughed. “I believe, dear Inspector,” he said, “that Mr. Sholmes has a plan.”
Another insufferable grin. “That I do! But to enact it, we will need some external help…”
***
“... Nice plan, great detective.”
“I hadn’t quite planned for Mr. Stangerson to faint…”
“You pulled off a cloth to reveal the head of his missing friend!”
“A wax replica, Inspector! I would have told him right away, if he had the good grace to wait a few moments before collapsing. I would handle it with more grace if I were to see Mikotoba’s disembodied head on a table.”
Mikotoba raised an eyebrow. “Oh, would you now?”
“... How come I get the distinct feeling I am currently on very thin ice?”
“Will you two stop talking nonsense for a moment and help this man on the sofa! Why is his hair burning-- ugh, he’s heavy…”
“Oh yes! Tall and imposing! Just as we need him!” Sholmes smiled brightly as he watched Mikotoba and Gregson lean an unconscious Joseph Stangerson onto the sofa. “Mmmh. He may be slightly too much on the portly side, but that’s nothing a good girdle cannot help with.”
“What on Earth are you--”
“All in due time, Inspector. Now, it may be best for you to leave before Scotland Yard starts wondering where you’ve gone - your next shift starts shortly, as I believe you mentioned no less than sixteen times. Whatever excuse you gave for your absence can only hold up so long.”
Gregson frowned. “You haven’t told me what your great plan exactly is, Sholmes.”
Sholmes grinned, and wagged a finger at him. “All in due time! Don’t worry, go back to work and be as non-suspicious as possible. I’ll handle everything here.”
“That is precisely why I’m worried,” Gregson muttered, and rubbed his face. “Ugh. Fine, I’ll go and be back later. Whatever you’re doing, swear to me that the kid stays out of it.”
“... Miss Lestrade, or little Iris?”
“Both, for God’s sake! Both need to stay out of this!”
“Of course, of course! Now, where did I put the smelling salts?”
“I’ll get them,” Mikotoba said quickly. Last he had let Sholmes grab the smelling salts, he’d wound up grabbing something entirely different from his chemistry set. Things would have taken a drastic and permanent turn for the worst, had he not been able to immediately intervene.
Thankfully, Stangerson did not need any smelling salts. By the time Mikotoba headed back downstairs - after a quick check to make sure that both Iris and Gina were still asleep - Gregson was gone and Stangerson he was once again conscious, staring with wide eyes at the wax head as Sholmes finished explaining… well. Everything they knew thus far, really.
Mikotoba said nothing, and sat on an armchair as Stangerson’s expression went to horror to relief, then to confusion, and slowly back to the most utter horror as the reality of Mr. Drebber’s situation sank in. Just as Sholmes finished speaking, he jumped on his feet.
“We must do something! We have to get him out of there!”
“Of course, and that is what we mean to--”
“We must go to the press!”
“We would not be believed, not without proof, not with so much at stake. And first of all, we need to be absolutely certain that our theory is sound--”
“I’ll go to the prison myself and--”
“Mr. Stangerson. I promise you, we are going to get Mr. Drebber out of there safely,” Mikotoba spoke up, and reached to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But if we show our hand too soon, things could go wrong. If our suspicions are correct, then Mael Stronghart can do… extreme things to keep the truth from being known.”
Stangerson looked back at him, hands still balled into fists, and suddenly he looked so lost.
“You think… do you think he could be killed?”
“It’s… not outside the realms of possibility. Him, or any of us.”
“God.” With a groan, Joseph Stangerson fell back on the couch and ran a blistered hand through his hair. “Oh God, I should never have let him keep going out at night-- I knew it would land him in trouble-- if only--”
“This was not your fault, Mr. Stangerson,” Sholmes spoke up, and crouched in front of him. His expression was serious, his mouth a tight line. “Your friend’s choices are not your own, and you couldn’t know what would befall him. But when he went missing, you turned to us for help. That’s what matters. And we will help him.”
“He doesn’t know,” Stangerson choked out, and his gaze turned from Sholmes to Mikotoba. His eyes were wide, and full of dawning horror. “He’s all alone in there and he doesn’t know that we’re looking for him.”
“But he will soon enough. And he is alive, Mr. Stangerson. There is hope yet. But if we’re to reach him, we’re going to need your help.”
A shaky breath, then Stangerson nodded. “Anything,” he said. “I’d do anything.”
Sholmes smiled. “That’s what I hoped to hear. So, my good man, how would you feel about wearing a girdle?”
“... Huh?”
Stangerson blinked, and looked over at Mikotoba, who shrugged. “I am afraid he hasn’t divulged the details of this plan to me yet.”
“Ah, you won’t have to wait long. Just as soon as Miss Tusspells arrives - my message should have reached her a little while ago, after all.”
“Tusspells? Was it-- the lady who found him at the cemetery?”
“That’s the one! You see, you have a convincing enough body - but your face, I fear, looks nothing like that of our Lord Chief Justice, Mael Stronghart.”
“My… face?”
“Well, you see--” Sholmes began, only to trail off upon hearing a knock on the door. He grinned. “Oh, it seems Miss Tusspells has received my message. The good news is, I now will only have to spell out my plan once…”
***
“A mask.”
“Yes, that’s what I--”
“A wax mask in the likeness of the Lord Chief Justice of London.”
“I am fairly sure that is what I just said. Was it not?” Sholmes paused, frowning, and turned to Mikotoba. “My good doctor, that is what I said, correct?”
“This is ridiculous!” Esmeralda Tusspells paused her pacing, and crossed her arms. “No idiot would fall for it!”
Sholmes smiled. “I can’t see why not! Your wax sculptures are remarkably lifelike, as the bump on Mr. Stangerson’s head can prove.”
The mention of the student caused Tusspells to bite her lower lip, looking over. For all his remarkable size, the man in question looked oddly small as he looked back at her, his expression pleading. She hesitated, and when she spoke again she sounded defensive to her own ears.
“Of course my work is lifelike - it’s not that I have doubts! But a face made out of wax cannot move. Even if I can make a wearable mask out of it - which I have never done before - it would take only a good look to tell it’s completely motionless.”
“But there is a chance it might work!” Stangerson spoke up, wringing his hands. “Even if it is a small chance, we must try. An innocent man is in prison!”
“Not all that innocent, digging up corpses…”
“Well-- you were there to dig up a corpse too!”
“Touché. But I never claimed innocence.” Tusspells, sighed, and rubbed her temples before turning back to Sholmes. “... Run this by me again, monsieur. The way you envision it, the Lord Chief Justice shows up, saying nothing, never changing expression, and yet prison guards immediately take him to the prisoner without so much a direct order? Do I have to tell you how unlikely that i--”
“Bell’s palsy,” the Japanese doctor spoke up, causing her to trail off. She looked over, startled, and the man - Mikotoba, was it? - smiled. “It is a type of temporary facial paralysis caused by inflammation of the facial nerve. It usually only affects one side of the face, but it can be bilateral in rare cases. As prison guards are hardly doctors, I feel this explanation would suffice should anyone pose questions.”
“And who would answer those questions, if he cannot speak?”
Sholmes grinned. “Ah, we have an ace up our sleeve for that! A bona fide member of Scotland Yard willing to accompany the Lord Chief Justice to the visit, and speak for him. Surely, if the Lord Chief Justice arrives in prison and a respected Inspector is accompanying him, no one is going to look too closely.”
Tusspells paused for a moment. “That… does change things,” she said, and resumed pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “... Yes, it’s so stupid, it might actually work.”
“That it is!” The detective smiled brightly, but she paid him no mind. Her thoughts were already racing, trying to think of a way to adapt her work to make a mask - a wearable mask.
“It won’t be easy,” she said, frowning. “I will need to make a few experiments, and choose a material to serve as the basis of the mask. It cannot rest directly on skin, clearly, as the warmth might damage the wax and make it lose its shape.”
Stangerson nodded. “I am a chemist. Perhaps I can help you find a solution - something to make the wax more resistant to body heat, at least for a time.”
Tusspells nodded. “Yes-- yes, that would be very helpful, monsieur. And of course, I will need photographs of the Lord Chief justice. Obviously an imprint of his face would make the best basis for my work, and make it far quicker, but that seems impossible to obtain.”
Sholmes smiled. “Ah, but is anything really impossible?”
“I’d wager that shoving Lord Stronghart’s face in plaster to make a cast of it without him noticing would be close enough to impossible to be an impossibility, Sholmes,” Mikotoba pointed out, gaining himself a long-suffering sigh.
“You are horribly attached to common sense, my good doctor, but I will concede this point. But certainly, mademoiselle, you’d be able to make do without a cast?”
“Oui, of course. I can create his likeness in wax without a cast, but the process will be longer.” Tusspells rubbed her chin. Stangerson looked over, wringing his hands.
“How… how much longer?”
“Perhaps a week. Perhaps two. It all depends on how quickly I can have all the material I need.”
“I’ll get you anything - what material do you need?”
“I will need photographs, as I said, from any and all angles. Portraits of him too, as accurate as possible, to get his complexion just right - seeing him briefly at night in the light of an oil lamp was far from enough. I’ll have to make a wig, too. And… let me look.” She suddenly reached out to grab Stangerson’s tie, causing him to bend forward towards her with a startled yelp. She took the glasses off his face and looked at him closely. “We’re lucky, monsieur, that your eyes are such a light blue. Even if they’re not a precise match to the Lord Chief Justice’s, they will do. And… excuse-moi, but are you aware your hair is on fire?”
“Oh. Of course, that’s… that’s good. I’ll look for any photos, he’s in the newspapers so often-- I’ll find them,” Stangerson said quickly, entirely skipping her question about the perpetually smoldering lock of hair on his head. He straightened himself, putting his glasses back on.
“As for portraits, I believe the Inspector can help us,” Sholmes spoke up. “There is no shortage of portraits of the new Lord Chief Justice in the Yard and around the Old Bailey, and he might just be able to smuggle one out to us.”
Tusspells nodded. “That would be perfect. And, it goes without saying - if you are caught, you’re not to name me as the creator of the mask.” She crossed her arms, looking the detective in the eye. “That gallery is my family’s legacy. I am all that is left. If anything happens to me, my entire family’s claim to immortality goes with me.”
Sholmes nodded, and held her gaze with a serious expression that, she had learned by now, only graced his features when the situation was particularly serious. “You have our word, your name won’t get past our lips if this goes wrong - but I am certain you realize, Miss Tusspells, that if the worst happens… it wouldn’t take long for Lord Stronghart to connect the wax mask to you regardless. Given your work and your presence at the cemetery that night.”
That much was true; it came to no surprise to Esmeralda Tusspells. If that insane plan failed, if they were caught, getting to her would take Stronghart very little time and no effort at all. Accepting meant putting everything on the line, whether or not those men could be trusted to keep their mouths shut.
“... I know,” she heard herself saying, and Joseph Stangerson stepped forward.
“Miss Tusspells, I beg of you--” he began, only to trail off when Sholmes lifted a hand in his direction.
“Mr. Stangerson, the choice is hers alone.”
For a few moments, Esmeralda felt remarkably as though she was standing among her waxen creations. Everything was still; each face was turned to her. She alone could speak her mind, she alone could decide whether or not the show was over.
The man looked so young. So pale, as though he’d been bled dry.
“Monsieur, what happened?”
“H--help--”
And then she’d seen that face again, only weeks and yet years younger, smiling at her from a newspaper as the man held up a trophy. The Professor had suddenly had a name - Enoch J Drebber - and then he was suddenly not the Professor at all. A student with a brilliant future ahead of him until an ill-fated night, in the wrong cemetery, at the wrong grave.
Could have thrown the newspaper out then and I didn’t. I came here instead. I came for help because… because…
“... I saved his life,” Esmeralda heard herself speaking at last. “He’d have suffocated there, and we’d be none the wiser, if I hadn’t dug him up. And because I dug him up, he’s buried alive again.” A brief laugh and she tiled up her chin, looking at each of the men present. “Mon Dieu, how can you look at me and say I actually have a choice on the matter? There is only one choice.”
Mikotoba smiled. “There is another choice. The easier one. But you are a good person.”
A scoff. “Hah, hardly. Once this is all over and you’ve gained yourselves national popularity, I demand you all let me take casts of your faces for my museum.”
The request gained her a delighted grin from Sholmes. “Happily! I must say, I did wonder how come my visage was not in your museum just yet. Never too late, is it! I will happily let you take the cast of my face right awa--”
“Right after this case is closed,” Mikotoba cut him off and, to her utter relief, the detective stopped talking.
For a time.
***
When Gina sneaked downstairs, no one stirred.
She was very quiet, of course, that came with her occupation, but she could hear someone - either Sholmes or Meek Toby - snoring really loudly behind the door of the room where they had retired to sleep, so she was pretty sure they wouldn’t have heard her of she stomped down the stairs.
Meek Toby had been really nice after she had woken up again from her nap. He’d got her more food, and told her she could have the room all for herself; he’d share the room with Mr. Sholmes, he’d told her, until the matter with Scotland Yard was resolved and she could go her way without fear. He’d even offered to take baby Iris in the room with them too, but Gina had told him she didn’t mind. She was cute and well, if she started crying, she’d probably hear her no matter what part of the house she was in. That, and she wasn’t used to sleeping on her own. There were always other kids with her whenever she went to sleep, for as long as she could remember. An empty room just for her seemed… daunting.
The stairs creaked a little, but not too much. She made her way quietly enough to the front door, slid the deadbolt open, tried the handle, and… the door opened.
Gina Lestrade stood there a few moments, bewildered, feeling the night air on her face and staring at the fog that blanketed the street. She had fully expected the door to be locked with a key too, she had been so sure it had to be - of course they would try to lock her in, it was all grownups did, they could not be trusted. She’d already decided that if the door didn’t open, she’d try climbing out of the window. But the door did open; they hadn't locked her in, and Gina found she didn’t know how to deal with that. Finally, she slowly closed the door, pulled the deadbolt, and sneaked back in bed - confused, and relieved, and confused at her own relief.
I can keep her safe, the copper had said, and maybe he’d meant it. Maybe they all meant it.
Maybe, she thought, some grownups could be trusted after all.
***
Mael Stronghart’s plan, as far as the dispatch of Seishiro Gigoku and Genshin Asogi from the country was concerned, had been flawless.
As their ship left for its first stop in Calais, it did so well ahead of the newspapers’ evening editions printing the story of the Professor’s survival due to a botched execution - something which may have roused a misplaced sense of guilt in one man, and too many questions in the other. The latter was the greatest concern, and Stronghart would rather not have Asogi return to England out of a misplaced sense of honor to find out what happened, and who the man languishing in prison in his stead was.
The ship left Calais perfectly on time, to farther shores, before news could spread to France in any form. Always ahead of any newspapers which may be dispatched internationally - that was, as long as the ship kept to schedule. And it didn’t.
Much later, some would describe it as fate. At the time, it seemed an inconvenience of little consequence: a defective boiler which forced the steamship to stay in the Port of Gibraltar nearly two days more than planned, for repairs. It caused some grumbling among the passengers already on board, but it was welcomed by others who would otherwise have had to wait for the next passing ship.
On the afternoon of the steamship’s delayed departure from Gibraltar, no fewer than nineteen extra passengers boarded - most of them British nationals. And one of them had, among his belongings, the copy of a London newspaper from the previous week, delivered to him that very same morning. While the news on it was not all that new in Great Britain, it certainly was news to the British Overseas Territory of Gibraltar - and stunning news, too.
Professor’s death sentence commuted to life imprisonment after execution is botched.
ok ok let me see if i can escape the long, brittle fingers of death long enough to talk about this
so holmes offers watson a pinch of snuff, and watson points out that the snuff box is a bit ostentatious for holmes’ taste. ok. that’s fair. then four sentences later he’s pointing out that holmes is also now wearing a “brilliant” ring that “sparkled upon his finger,” which holmes goes on to explain as a gift from the reigning family of holland.
but watson just told us that holmes isn’t the kind of man who would own a gold, jeweled snuff box, so why would we believe that he would actually be the sort to go about wearing a brilliant, sparkling ring? seems like that’s not really his style. unless maybe that ring had some sort of significantly sentimental value. sure, holmes might want a memento to remember a case well-solved, but is he really the type to wear around a fancy ring just because a client gave it to him?
and then why is watson even bringing up the ring anyway? it doesn’t have any bearing on the story. they weren’t discussing it before watson brings it up. he just mentions it for no reason at all. almost like he wanted to bring attention to it. kinda like he was excited by the prospect of a ring on holmes’ finger. maybe, just maybe, like he was proud to see it there.
now i don’t know about you, but if i see a friend sporting a sparkly new ring, there’s one place my mind automatically goes. add in watson mentioning it for no real reason, as if he wants to show it off, and i think what you’ve got here is a watson who has proposed to his holmes.
now of course it has to be explained away--gift from a client of course, can’t possibly tell you more about that case--but why else would holmes suddenly be wearing a ring? why would watson bring it up, even if he can’t tell us anything about its origin?
[The Great Ace Attorney] A Case of Identity - Ch. 8
Summary: On that fateful night in Lowgate cemetery, the bullet finds its target in Enoch Drebber. When he awakens he’s locked behind an iron mask, facing a lifetime of imprisonment as the mass murderer who survived a botched execution - the Professor.
Prologue and all other chapters will be tagged as ‘case of identity’ on my blog.
A/N: Okay I let months pass between updates but I commissioned some art from an amazing artist so take that as my apology I guess?
(Also a heads-up: there is a flashback to a past case which deals with the murde of young children)
***
Looking back later on - even much later on, years and decades - Dr. Yujin Mikotoba would be thankful for his and Sholmes’ decision to get some rest before they headed to seek an audience with the Chief Justice of London.
“Not to be rude, my good man, but you look an absolute wreck and I suspect so do I,” Sholmes had said, barely intelligible over a yawn he was too tired to even try and cover up with a hand. “A few hours’ sleep will do us good, and certainly won’t change much for Mr. Drebber in the grand scheme of things.”
“He is imprisoned for crimes he did not commit. Mere hours would feel like years to me,” Mikotoba had replied, but his own voice faded into a yawn. Frankly, he could barely keep his eyes open - and Sholmes’ next argument was very convincing.
“We are about to seek an audience with the Chief Justice of London to reveal we are aware of some rather important secrets concerning the Professor’s botched execution, and then tell him he accidentally put the wrong man in his place. Easy enough to come across as madmen without also looking the part, wouldn’t you agree?” Sholmes had yawned again, wide enough to make it seem a small wonder his lower jaw did not fall to the floor. He headed up the stairs towards his bedroom, gesturing for Mikotoba to follow. “A few hours’ sleep will help us both look more like civilized men with a firm enough grip on our sanity, and the Chief Justice may actually not need too much of an effort to be convinced there is merit to our theory.”
He had a point, Mikotoba had to concede, and he’d followed him to his bedroom. With Iris safely tucked in a chest they used as a makeshift crib, they’d simply kicked off their slippers and fallen on the bed in a heap of limbs, Sholmes’ face tucked against Mikotoba’s throat.
A few hours’ sleep, they had said, but they only got to sleep about one hour and a half before vigorous knocking tore Mikotoba from the most peaceful slumber he recalled enjoying in months. Truth be told, it nearly was not enough to rouse him; but then Iris began making the dreaded noise that always left her before she started to full-on wail, Sholmes let out a long ‘uuuuuuurgh’ against his skin, and Mikotoba knew that ignoring the knocking would not be an option.
“Coming, coming,” he heard himself mumbling, and stood, picking up a fussy Iris on his way to the door. She calmed fast when in someone’s arms as they walked, and this time was no exception. Mikotoba held her to his chest, trying his hardest to focus on the stairs despite his sleep-deprived state, and held back a yawn before he opened the door, house robe and all.
“How may we help--” he began, only to trail off when his gaze met that of Inspector Gregson.
There was no love lost between Gregson and Sholmes, however blissfully unaware of that fact the detective may be, and by extension there had never been love lost between Gregson and Mikotoba either. The recent events, with Genshin’s arrest, had not helped in the slightest. He was about the last person he may have expected to come knocking at their door, yet seeing him wasn’t even the main surprise: in the Inspector’s arms, head resting on his shoulders and small arms around his neck, was a sleeping child. Not an infant like Iris, but no older than perhaps six or seven either.
They stared at one another for a few long moments, both men clearly very much in need of a good night’s rest, both of them holding a child to their chest, neither very happy to see the other. But it had been Gregson to visit, and in the end it was him to clear his throat and look down, adjusting the grip on the sleeping child. Beneath the hat pressed on that small head, Mikotoba could see a few locks of golden hair.
“... Something is very wrong,” Tobias Gregson finally spoke, sounding as though each word he spoke caused him physical pain. He did not even ask about the baby cradled in Mikotoba’s arms. “And I think I need your help.”
***
“Gina Lestrade. A nice name. And ah, the portrait is so wonderfully accurate! Scotland Yard’s sketch artists are getting better and better, my dear inspector!”
“Noted.”
“Don’t be so dour, it was a compliment.”
“I’d appreciate it more if the sketchers’ skill wasn’t biting me in the--” Gregson paused, and looked over at Gina Lestrade, who was currently soundly asleep in the middle of Sholmes bead. She was beyond hearing of them, but he still chose his next word carefully. “... Rear.”
“Oh, yes, it does make it harder to hide your little fugitive here. I must admit I did not expect you to come with a wanted criminal, Inspector Gregson. Ah, life is full of surprises!”
“That it is,” Gregson muttered, his voice nowhere as delighted as Sholmes’. He was not looking at either of them: he just looked down at the child’s sleeping form for a few more moments, then pulled the covers up beneath her chin. He was not precisely tucking her in the way Mikotoba had tucked Iris back in her crib - the gesture was somewhat prickly as the man itself - but something in the way he set his jaw made it come across as fiercely protective.
If the Lord Chief Justice showed in the doorway now, Mikotoba found himself thinking, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Gregson fight him with his bare hands. What is going on?
He looked over at Sholmes, and saw his own thoughts mirrored in the man’s pensive look for just a moment before his expression melted into a smile. “Well, do come downstairs, Inspector. We’ll offer you a cup of tea and you may explain to use what is it that Lord Stronghart wants with her - and how come you’re so keen to keep her from him.”
A scoff. “Some of those answers are what I hope to hear from you, because I don’t have a damned clue,” he said, but he followed downstairs, closing the door quietly behind himself.
***
“... So the long and the short of it is, she stole something from Stronghart - or so he says - and he’s ready to tear the East End apart to find her. He claims it was the death certificate from the Professor’s botched execution, but I know from a certain source that the certificate was safely in Caidin’s office as of yesterday morning. It must be something else, but he won’t tell what it is. And quite suddenly, Dal-- I mean, my source - is no longer allowed to go anywhere near the prisoner. No one is, except for the only deaf warden. Clearly there is something they don’t wish the Professor to be able to tell anyone, but I have no idea--”
“His name.”
Sholmes spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly, with none of the usual flourish. Mikotoba turned to look at him, feeling a lot like he was moving underwater; he knew what Sholmes was driving at. It was the only explanation that made sense, and yet it made none.
He is not unaware of the mix-up at all. There was no mistake - Stronghart knows the man in the iron mask is not Genshin, and he’s keeping it a secret. I cannot imagine why, but he is. What would have happened if we’d gone to him this morning, told him we knew of Drebber?
Gregson, on the other hand, had no clue. As usual. “His name? Dale-- dammit-- my contact already knows Asogi’s name, as does Caidin. There is no reason whatsoever why neither of them should be allowed--”
“Ah, but you see, therein lies the problem. The prisoner’s name is not Genshin Asogi.”
“What are you--”
Sholmes stood and ah, there was his usual flourish again. He reached for the cloth covering something in the middle of the table, and he pulled it up as though unveiling a magician’s trick. “I present to you, the man behind the mask!”
“What in the-- AAAAAGH!”
With a strangled cry, Gregson stood and tumbled over the back of the armchair he was sitting on, eyes wide, shocked to the core by the lifeless gaze of the disembodied head on the table. Smiling widely, and coming across just a little to the left of sanity, Sholmes gestured towards it.
“This, my good inspector, is Enoch J. Drebber, student at London University and part-time repurposer. Fear not, this is only a very lifelike wax replica! The real Drebber’s head is, I believe, still firmly attached to the man’s neck - although it is at the moment hidden beneath an unsightly iron mask.”
“What in God’s name, Sholmes!” Gregson let out a noise that was both a sigh of relief and an exasperated groan, as well as an embarrassed huff. He stood, a hand clenched over his chest. “You should have warned me!”
“And miss this amazing performance? Perish the thought! I must say, I am amazed to see how nimble you are - and for a man your age!"
“For a man my-- how old do you think-- uuuugh, you… you…!" A groan, and Gregson collapsed back on the armchair. He wiped his brow with a sleeve before gesturing towards the wax head. "And… what is this nonsense anyway?”
Mikotoba chose to take pity on the man, and looked over at Sholmes. “May I take on the task to explain our current investigation into Mr. Drebber’s disappearance?”
“By all means, be my guest.”
He explained, concisely as he could manage, all they knew: of the missing student, of the evidence placing him at Lowgate cemetery on the night of the Professor’s hanging, of their theory that he may have gotten into an argument with other grave robbers over Genshin’s body - an altercation which they suspected he’d painfully lost.
He spoke of how Drebber had been found inside the coffin by a witness who had then seen the Lord Chief Justice, Mael Stronghart, claim the man to be the Professor... and the execution to have been botched.
“... And we assumed, right until your arrival, that it was a case of mistaken identity,” Mikotoba concluded. “A dark night, a tall, thin man with long dark hair, unconscious inside that coffin… it seemed possible to make that mistake, to think Gen-- the Professor had been buried alive. But now - what you have told us - it only makes sense in one scenario, does it not?”
Gregson stared back at him, sitting rigidly and rather pale. Everything in his demeanor made clear he did not like where he was going one bit, but he was not so dense, or so naive, that he’d waste any time arguing against the obvious. It was the only explanation which made Stronghart’s actions and orders - at least some of them - make complete sense.
“... He knows,” he said in the end, turning his eyes to his cup of tea. It was cold now, and had gone mostly untouched. He frowned at it, and glanced over at the wax head on the table. “The execution was not botched, was it? Grave robbers got the body, but he is dead - of course Dr. Stevens woudn't make a mistake like that. The man in Barclay right now is not Asogi, and Lord Stronghart knows.”
Beside Mikotoba, Sholmes nodded. “He obviously does. And he’s hellbent on making sure no one figures it out, as what you’ve told us plainly shows.”
“But it makes no sense! Why would he?”
“Perhaps he only realised it later, and wishes to avoid serious embarrassment by admitting he made a mistake that night and imprisoned the wrong man? Especially as it would mean having to admit he believed the execution to have been botched, and lied to the public on how that occurred,” Mikotoba suggested, as Sholmes let out a pensive hum.
“It seems possible," he conceded. "Although pretending to have a prisoner in custody is easier than keeping even the wardens from realizing the man in their custody is not who he seems. A student desperate for funds such as Mr. Drebber would be easy to bribe, if it came to that."
"It does present a risk he may not hold his half of the bargain and talk, thought," Mikotoba pointed out, and Sholmes nodded.
"Quite right, quite right. " He glanced at Gregson. “Inspector, you know the man better than we do. Is this something you’d deem him capable of doing? Knowlingly imprisoning the wrong man for life, for the reputation of our justice system?”
For a few long, quiet moments, Gregson stared back at them. Mikotoba saw it flashing over his face for a moment, plain as day - denial - but then it was gone, and the man was looking down, scowling. “... We need a well-oiled, respected justice system. That is his thought on the matter. It is vital - if we are to make Great Britain safe - that no one takes us for fools.”
Sholmes smiled. “Ah, I see. And what is the life of a grave robber, compared to the safety in our great Empire?”
There was not a hint of reproach in his voice, but Gregson’s face flushed red with anger all the same. He jumped to his feet, hands balled into fists. “You think you can sit there and judge, don’t you! You, the detective known to find all the shiny trinkets misplaced by high society ladies with deep pockets!”
That was a gross mischaracterization of the cases Sholmes usually took on, and Mikotoba - who had carefully chronicled each of them - opened his mouth to protest… but was stilled by the gentle weight of Sholmes’ hand on his knee. He was seraphically calm, looking at Gregson as he raged.
“You choose and pick whatever cases challenge your intellect, don’t you? But the rest of us don’t get to pick! Me, our men, the prosecutors - we get all of it! All the mud, all that’s rotten in this city, we see it all! We must wade in it, and then go home, and live with it!”
The cup of cold tea in Gregson’s hand spilled over the inspector’s sleeve, and he suddenly threw it on the ground with stunning force, causing it to shatter. Mikotoba recoiled, a noise of protest caught in his throat. Sholmes’ expression did not change, and it seemed to anger Gregson even more. Mikotoba had never seen him as unhinged as he was now.
“We live with it when yet another gets away because they could pay their way to freedom in money or connections or some damn royal title bestowed by William the Conqueror’s third cousin! They have a laugh shrugging off all the laws we bust out gut to uphold! We look at the bodies and the ruins they leave behind and we can say nothing other than that we tried! So stop looking at me like that - do you even know, sunshine! Do you even know what it means to try and fail!”
He paused in his tirade, breathing fast, as though the screaming had left him winded. Sholmes tilted his head to one side. “I do. I have failed greatly, just recently, and I shall take that regret to my grave.”
“What--”
A sound came from upstairs, the wailing of a child, and Gregson trailed off. Sholmes looked over at Mikotoba. “Would you look after Iris for a moment, my good doctor? And I do believe our other guest should be having her medicine just about now, too.”
It was not quite time yet, as per the instructions Gregson had from the hospital, but if Sholmes needed him out of the room for a few minutes he would not question his judgment. He went up the stairs, carefully stepping over the broken percelain, and left the conversation in Sholmes’ capable hands; perhaps he would be able to calm the inspector, after all, instead of making him angrier.
He supposed there could be a first time for everything.
***
The body is just a few yards down the bank, laying on a cloth beside the sack it has been pulled out of. So very small and limp, a few short strands of hair on the tiny head, caked to the skin by the muddy waters of the Thames. In life it may have been fine, feather-like.
Newborns’ hair usually is like that.
Gregson ignores the churning in his stomach, and keeps his expression as calm as he can while escorting Dr. Courtney Stevens towards the body. She herself remains calm and focused; her lips are pressed in a thin line - she is the mother of a young girl, Gregson knows - but she lets no emotion show. Every single officer around her looks shaken, some on the verge of tears, but it is a luxury Gregson knows Stevens could not indulge: any such show of emotion from her would be viewed differently and call her professionalism into question.
Towering above the body, staring at it with arms crossed over his chest, prosecutor Mael Stronghart looks equally stoic. No sign of upset, not the smallest hint he may shed a tear, if he ever has in life. There is only a peculiar stiffness in the posture, the way he sets his jaw and the hand clenching on his own sleeve to give away the barest hint of any sort of turmoil.
Then again, he is looking at the body of an infant dredged up from the icy bottom of the Thames. Had he not shown any sign of discomfort at all, Gregson may have considered suggesting Dr. Stevens to put his name forward for a one-way trip to a psychiatric ward.
“... Lord Stronghart,” he calls out, and the man turns. He gives him a nod, and immediately turns his gaze to Stevens. He has requested her as the coroner right away, overruling any timid objection that Dr. Wilson may be a better choice. Her role in the force is unprecedented for a woman, and there is a general uneasiness when it comes to exposing her to the worst London has to offer. Stronghart has no such qualms; she seems to appreciate it.
“Dr. Stevens,” he greets her, and tilts his head down towards the dead infant. His voice is firm, but somewhat tight. “The body was found an hour ago. Do tell me what you can.”
She nods and sets to work, crouching by the small body. The examination is brief, with not a lot to see. Gregson looks away, wishing he could see nothing whatsoever, but he catches sight of a small pink hand out of the corner of his eye. His stomach feels heavy as stone.
“... Female, three months of age at the very most,” he hears Dr. Stevens say. “Early stages of decomposition - the cold water of the river may have slowed the process, so determining a time of death won’t be easy. She looks… emaciated. Congealed blood on the head hints at blunt force trauma, most likely before she went into the water. She probably did not drown.”
Maybe her death was quick, Gregson thinks. Emaciated. That was not quick, he thinks.
Stronghart nods with a pensive hum. “But you can ascertain that for sure, certainly?”
“It will require an autopsy.”
“No one to argue against that - do what you must. Prosecutor van Zieks will take this case.”
Stevens nods, and she looks over at the cut-up sack next to the body. In it, Gregson can see a few red bricks. “Is this where she was found?”
“It is. The bricks weighed down the sack, and it was at the bottom of the river. It was brought back up by a fishing boat’s nets - someone hoped to catch some dinner, and found this.”
“Mh. I am astonished that anyone is still trying to fish in the Thames. It has become more of an open sewer than a river,” Stevens muses. There was a thriving fishing industry along the Thames once, but it has long since died out along with much of the fish in those waters.
“The man was hungry, I suppose,” Stronghart says, with the distant tone of a man who never experienced hunger firsthand. “He was questioned, but is clearly unrelated. He seems to have lost any appetite he may have had,” he added, his tone glum.
Makes two of us, Gregson thinks. He has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak.
“I will have the body brought in right away, doctor.”
Stevens nods. “Thank you. But cause of death aside, I doubt there is much I will be able to tell you. Water will have washed away most evidence.”
In the end, however, there is enough evidence. The bricks the sack has been weighted down with lead them to a house, its owner a baby farmer of all things. They find remains in her basement, evidence she has been killing other children in her care, illegitimate children she was paid to look after, and pocketing the money; Baron van Zieks has to tell what few desperate mothers he can track down that they trusted the wrong woman with their babies.
Yet none of it matters, in the end. Among her many clients are some unwed daughters of men of wealth and influence, none of whom wishes to see their secrets spilled. It does not matter how loud the few women they take to the witness stand wail; men of wealth speak a few words in the right ears, so very quietly, and the murderer walks free.
The nameless girl fished out of the river will remain unclaimed, destined to a pauper’s grave.
She never had a chance, Gregson will think. And neither did we.
***
It had been the wailing of the baby to wake her up - really wake her up at last. That was a very young child, someone much too young to be living with her and the others in the East End.
Am I back in the orphanage?
The thought chilled her to the bone, and it cut through the last cobwebs of sleep clinging over her eyelids. Gina Lestrade opened her eyes with a start, and looked around expecting to find herself in a dirty room, surrounded by dozens of other cots and makeshift cribs and young children with hunger in their eyes, cowering at the steps of an adult getting closer.
But she saw none of that. She was in the middle of a large, plush bed, in a nice room with a carpet on the floor and curtains at the window - and she was alone, save for the one baby wailing inside a chest, swaddled in blankets. She sat up, blinking, still warm with fever.
“... Wot?” Gina’s own voice sounded distant and weirdly alien to her ears, like an instrument being played for the first time in a long while. How long had she been asleep? Why had she been asleep, had she been ill? She remembered so little, bits and pieces - a horse, a fall, water so cold and so dark. Then a nice lady, a man with a warm voice… and someone else carrying her, a scratchy coat under her cheek, a gruff voice in her ears.
Sunshine, her mind supplied. She remembered the gruff voice saying that - weird thing to say, but everything was weird now. Where was she? What had happened?
“Oh. Good afternoon, miss. It’s good to see you’re awake.”
Gina looked up from the baby towards the door, which she hadn’t heard open. She jerked her head so fast her vision swam; the man at the door was smiling, but his expression turned to concern when he saw her sway a little.
“No need to get up too fast - you should rest.”
“Who-- who are you? Where am I?”
She tried to stand, but she lost her balance and almost fell back. A hand caught her, warm against her back. “I am a doctor, and you’re someplace safe,” the man said, his voice kind. Gina looked up, wary. She had met plenty of folks with kind voices who could not be trusted. None like that one, though - he spoke English, but he had an accent that she couldn’t place. She had never heard anything like it, not even at the docks, where she thought she’d heard people from all over the world.
Unaware of her thoughts, the man crouched by the bed. He had not closed the door behind himself to keep her from bolting, Gina noted, but she didn’t feel like running off now. Well, she was probably in no shape to, but even if she was… he didn’t seem dangerous. “My name is Yujin Mikotoba," he was saying.
The who and the what now? “You… Meek… Toby?” she tried. His name came out hopelessly mangled, and she half-expected annoyance, but that was not what she got. The laugh that followed did not feel insincere; it made even the baby stop fussing and fall quiet, turning her tiny head towards him.
“Well, I shall be Meek Toby for you only, Gina.”
… Wait. Gina’s eyes darted up, her frame tensing. Something that felt a lot like a cold hand grabbed her stomach and squeezed. “You-- ‘ow do you know my name?”
Meek Toby hesitated, but only for a moment. “The police are looking for you - and quite hard, too. It seems they believe you came across something important. Two days ago, at the docks - do you recall?”
“I didn’t do nuffin’!” Gina snapped, and made a run for it… or rather, tried to. She jumped off the bed, made for the door… and her head spun again. The floor rushed up to meet her, but she was spared a painful landing on her face. An arm had grabbed her easily, and was pulling her back to sit on the mattress. The grip was firm, but not unkind.
Like that of the lady. And the man who carried her, at some point, while everything in her head was fog. Someone was saying she would be safe - safe from what? What had happened?
“You have yet to recover - you had a fever, after a bad fall in the Thames. Do you recall?”
She did not, like she did not recall going to the docks, but there was something all right. The sensation of falling; cold, dark. Her chest burning, then air, and someone’s heartbeat against her temple. Before that… before that…
“A horse,” she muttered. “A horse almost got me.”
“It’s all right. Your memory will come back, I am sure. Now, can you cough for me?”
“Wot?”
“I’m a doctor, remember? I’d like to hear if your lungs are nice and clear. A big breath - yes, like that - now cough, please…”
She did as he asked, more bewildered than alarmed now. He listened, an ear against her back, and seemed satisfied with what he heard. “Ah, almost completely clear. That’s good.”
Gina wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she let her gaze wander through the room instead. “... You goin’ to call police?”
“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, we are technically hiding you at the moment. You are safe here, do not worry.”
She had her doubts, but she’d been out like a light and she had not woken up in a jail cell, so maybe he was telling the truth. She frowned, trying to gather her thoughts, but then her gaze fell on the baby in the chest. She was looking back at her, blinking blearily. Cute. “Who’s that?”
“Ah, this is Iris.”
“She yours?”
“No. Her parents have passed away - I promised I’d keep her safe, but she cannot come with me when I return home. I will leave her in good hands.” A wistful smile. “I do have a daughter there, though. She is just about your age.”
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, quite far from here. A long way east.”
“Like the East End?”
A chuckle. “A bit further than the East End, but that’s the general direction.”
“Ah,” Gina said. She tried to recall what was east of London, but then something grumbled and it took her a moment to realize it had been her own stomach. When she did, however, it hit her all at once: she was starving.
“Well. It seems it’s about time both of you have some breakfast,” Meek Toby said, and stood. He picked up the baby with one arm, and held out his hand to Gina. “I think you can stand, but it’s best if you walk slowly. Take my hand.”
Gina hesitated, because if there was something you learn fast in the streets - something older kids tell you time and time again - is that you cannot trust grown-ups. Even if they’re nice, especially if they are nice. But… well…
... How long have you been awake?, the gruff voice had asked her.
Dunno. Where we goin’?
Someplace safe. All of Scotland Yard is looking for you. You messed up big time, sunshine.
Something had happened, and she could not recall what it was any more than she could run. This man said he wanted to help - the gruff man had said he would keep her safe, too - so maybe going with the flow was her best bet. For now.
Until she got the right opening to get away.
In the end, Gina Lestrade nodded and grabbed Meek Toby’s hand.
***
“... Do you wish me to close this investigation?”
“I asked if you’d like me to close my investigation into the disappearance of Enoch Drebber.” Herlock Sholmes leaned forward in his armchair, elbows resting on his knees. “If it is your opinion that keeping him imprisoned for life serves a greater good - that his freedom is a fair price to protect the reputation of our judicial system and keep Her Majesty’s subjects safe - I will tell his friends I could not find him after all. I don’t think anybody else will look very hard for him. His family certainly will not. He was disowned some time back.”
Sholmes’ calm voice carried through Gregson’s jumbled thoughts, through his anger, and he recoiled. He looked up from the cooling tea on the floor, towards Sholmes, and the image--
a tiny body pulled out of the Thames much too late, water turning to frost on dead skin
a small outstretched hand nearly vanishing into the darkness, the one he reached on time
-- faded from his mind. “What?”
None of these children will be claimed by any family, Klint van Zieks had told him, only months and yet a lifetime ago.
Her name is Gina Lestrade. She’s an orphan like us. Don’t know if she made up the surname, Wiggins had told him the previous evening.
Gregson groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. His gaze fell on Enoch Drebber’s motionless face, the single visible gray eye staring vacantly at him. “No, you will not close the damned investigation.”
An infuriating smile. “No, I will not. Because you won’t ask me to.”
Gregson thought of the cells in the bowels of Barclay Prison, in what used to be a proper dungeon back in the day. No sunlight, no one to speak to, no nothing. Only the knowledge that being innocent did not matter, that innocence didn’t keep anybody safe in that damned city. Gregson had to learn it the hard way; he had to watch the most brilliant prosecutor in the Old Bailey learn it himself, watch as it ate him up month after month and year after year.
And, what the hell - if he left things as they were, Barok van Zieks would keep believing his brother's murderer had escaped the noose. He deserved to know he had not, that he had died for his crimes and had probably ended up dissected before a gaggle of medical students. He deserved the closure that had been yanked out of his grasp.
“... Of course I won’t. How in the blazes could I do that? I came in with a single question, and you gave me a million more. Least you could do is provide me with a few damned answers. To begin with, what does Stronghart want with that kid upstairs?”
“Perhaps she really did steal something from him.”
“I’ll bet she did and I’ll bet it was important, if he doesn’t trust even me to know what it exactly is. He just said--” Gregson trailed off, and groaned. “An important document that must never see the light of day, he said. I guessed it was the death certificate, but… uuugh. I just went and served him the lie to tell on a silver platter.”
“Don’t blame yourself, inspector. With what information you had it was a perfectly logical conclusion to draw, if not a terribly inspired one.”
All of a sudden, Gregson regretted throwing the cup of tea on the floor. If he’d still had it in his hand, he would have aimed for Sholmes’ head right now. “Well, what does your inspiration tell you, sunshine?”
A wide smile. “Obviously, it’s something related to the entire affair with Mr. Drebber and the Professor! What else would he be so desperate to hide?”
“... You don’t say. Anything more specific?”
Sholmes shrugged before leaning back against the armchair, sticking the still unlit pipe in his mouth. “I am hard at work on that,” he declared, putting his feet up on the footstool.
Gregson raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, I can see how hard at work you a--”
“But perhaps our guest can help us along, don’t you think?” Sholmes cut him off, and glanced up, gesturing at something behind him. Gregson blinked, and followed his gaze.
From the top of the stairs, holding onto Mikotoba’s hand, Gina Lestrade was looking back at him with wide blue eyes.
***
“... I am sorry. I tried.”
Baron Klint van Zieks maintains composure, as always, but his eyes are full of such raw grief Gregson finds it almost impossible to hold his gaze. He understands; a child dead, evidence of more children killed for money, and yet none of them will have justice. A murderer is free to leave court, free to leave London, and set up the same business all over again.
We tried, and tried, and tried, and it amounted to nothing, van Ziek’s expression says. It keeps me up at night, every night. Is this really the path I have set my little brother on?
Gregson sighs, looking down. The grief will come later for him; for now he feels drained, bone-deep tired. He wants to go home, sleep and dream of nothing, but he already knows what his dreams will be full of. He’s seen it before: that sack sinking, and he tries to swim, tries to reach it. It never makes it on time. It sinks in the dark and there it will remain.
“I will speak with the Lord Chief Justice so that the body - the bodies - can be released to me, if they do keep going unclaimed,” van Zieks adds. “I’ll make sure each has a decent grave in my family plot. I am sure he’ll understan--”
“The Lord Chief Justice, understand? You may be severely overestimating him.”
Lord Stronghart’s voice cuts him off suddenly, somewhat less booming and more detached than usual. Both van Zieks and Gregson turn to see him glaring out of the window in the prosecutor’s lobby, down at the city His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw clenched tight.
Some of the anguish on van Zieks’ features fades to exhaustion, the kind that comes from having had the same argument time and time again, knowing how it will play out before a single word is spoken. “The Lord Chief Justice understands we are doing all that is in our power,” he remarks, but the response he gets is far less contained than usual.
Stronghart’s head whips in his direction as though he just insulted his mother. His usually unflappable expression is gone: his features are contorted in a fury so terrible it makes Gregson step back, and even van Zieks to flinch.
So, there it is, Gregson finds himself thinking, looking on with an odd sort of fascination. The fury that’s always there. It comes out at last.
“Our power?” Mael Stronghart lifts his arms, teeth gritted and eyes ablaze. “What is he talking about? What power do we hold? We try to strike the scum of Earth and all we do is tickle them. Criminals and murderers walk free and we are powerless to put a stop to it!”
“The Lord Chief Justice--”
“What does that weakling understand?” Stronghart spits out the words like something rotten. “He sends us out to fight monsters with feather dusters, and the monsters win time and time again. No amount of sentimentality - of offering up graves and funerals to quell your conscience - will change that. What will you do once you have run out of plots to bury them?”
Klint van Ziek’s features twist, and he struggles to keep his voice even. “It is not about my conscience, Stronghart. If we are powerless to see justice, we may at least do the decent thing and give them respect in death.”
“Respect!” Stronghart scoffs with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pity, more like. Pity is no substitute for justice - nothing decent about it! I’d sooner have their bodies rot in unmarked graves as long as their murderers rot alongside them!”
“Enough!” Klint van Zieks’ voice is a roar, but it belongs to a wounded beast. He walks quickly, past Gregson, past Stronghart. He shoulders the door open, and he is gone.
Gregson goes to follow, but he’s barely passed the threshold when a sudden crash causes him to stop, and turn. The glass of the window Stronghart had been looking out of is gone, shattered, a few shards still clinging to the frame. And he did not use his cane.
Stronghart’s hand is still lifted, the fist barely shaking as blood slowly tinges his glove red.
***
A/N: With everyone describing Klint as such a great guy before he went into kill mode, I wondered what kind of cases he had to deal with, and what may have been the one that broke the camel's back. So I made one up. It is based on the crimes of the 'Ogress of Reading'.
[The Great Ace Attorney] A Case of Identity - Ch. 4
Summary: On that fateful night in Lowgate cemetery, the bullet finds its target in Enoch Drebber. When he awakens he’s locked behind an iron mask, facing a lifetime of imprisonment as the mass murderer who survived a botched execution - the Professor.
However, help is afoot.
Characters: Enoch Drebber, Esmeralda Tusspells, Herlock Sholmes, Yujin Mikotoba, Tobias Gregson, Gina Lestrade, Mael Stronghart
Rating: T
Prologue and all other chapters will be tagged as ‘case of identity’ on my blog.
A/N: Don’t you hate it when you set out to catch a thief and accidentally adopt a child.
***
When Gina arrived, Scotland Yard was already there.
There was a workhouse in East End - or at least a building that used to be a workhouse, before it fell into disrepair and part of the roof caved, causing it to be abandoned. It was where most of the orphans in the area, at least the ones who were not striving out on their own or locked up in an orphanage to learn grammar and go even hungrier than they already did, met up in the evenings to eat and sleep.
It wasn’t too bad, when days were not too cold and it didn’t rain. They brought together what they had stolen, sent the cleanest-looking of them to pawn it all off, and used the money to buy food. They’d find a way to cook it and there would be dinner, company, some laughs and play and a place to sleep without having to constantly watch their back. A lot of people around assumed that the workhouse was haunted, and they made sure to keep the belief alive, so it would keep grownups out. And it had worked… until now.
Clearly, the police didn’t believe in ghosts. They were everywhere, swarming around the workhouse - inside, too - and dragging out boys and girls alike.
“Where do you think you’re going!”
“Come back here - agh, stop kicking me!”
“The blonde kid over there too!”
“All of you, stay where you are!”
“What do you want? We didn’t do anything!”
“What-- hey! Let go of me!”
“You’re hurting me!”
“Hey, hey! Careful there! We’re not here to break arms, sunshine! Do that again and I’ll see you back on the beat like a common bobby!”
“Ah-- sorry, Inspector, I--”
“Don’t Inspector me - London would be much safer if you lot were as tough on crime as you are on kids, for Pete’s sake! Do your job without the power trip, why don’t you!”
“But-- he kicked me!”
“Oh, poor you. Think you’ll survive this vicious assault from a four foot nothing kid?”
As Gina watched from the window of an abandoned house - she dove in the second she saw a bobby, and before being spotted - a man in a green coat and hat gave orders, waving around a hand full of what looked like fish and chips. An Inspector, the bobby had called him. What was someone so high up doing there, dealing with some divers in the East End?
“All right, listen everybody! We’re not here to hurt anyone. Any of you kids with blonde hair are going to come with us. We’ll have a chat, that’s all, and afterwards you’re free to go.”
“But why!”
“We didn’t do anything!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you didn’t, so let’s get this over with quickly. Someone stole something of value today on the docks and we want it back, is all. Come with us without a fuss, have a chat with the man who got robbed, and you’ll even get dinner for us. Unless one of you has something to confess right away, so we can make this even quicker?”
There were a few moments of silence, but none of them had anything to confess and how could they? None of them could have anything to say, Gina knew, because none of them had targeted the docks that day. Only she did, and she had only stolen one thing there.
Something of value, he’d said. The letter seemed to burn in her pocket; could it really be that important, that someone high up enough to command Scotland Yard was desperate to have it back? Could it be that… that she really was a lost princess, or duchess, like in the stories? That her family was looking for her and the letter proved it-- and some evil man wanted it gone? That always happened in the stories, too.
You can’t trust grownups. Not a single one of them.
There was more yelling as the kids were forced into the carriages - she heard someone cry - and she wanted to run outside, yell that she had what they were looking for, tell them to let her friends go.
But what will happen to me then? Will they let me go if I confess?
Things were not so easy in the stories. There was always a villain who wanted to keep the truth from coming to light, and they would stop at nothing. What if someone decided she should die - or be locked away for good? And the letter, were they going to destroy it?
No. No. It’s mine. They can’t have it.
Terror gripping her throat, Gina stepped away from the window and looked around, frantic. There was a loose board not far from where she stood, and she went to pull it up with all her strength; not the greatest hiding place, but it would do. Gina stuck the letter in the small space beneath, and heart hammering, and put the board back in place. She pulled on a broken piece of old furniture to move it on top of it - it would be good enough for now.
Outside carriages were now moving, taking her friends… where were they taking them?
They will be fine, once they see none of them has it they will let them go-- right? Right?
She wanted to believe that, but a grownup had said it and grownups couldn’t be trusted. She had to know, Gina thought, and there was only one thing for her to do: try and follow the carriages, find out where they were being taken. If they let them go as promised, all would be well; if they didn’t then… then… she would give them the letter, and confess.
Her mind made up, Gina peered out of the window to see the carriages and bobbies were leaving, heading towards the riverside, leaving behind confused orphans who were too old, or with hair too dark, to be taken. She waited until all carriages were past the house, and finally slipped out, pulling the hat down to better hide her hair - blonde hair, they were looking for kids with blonde hair - before she began to follow.
She didn’t get to take more than a few steps.
“Hey! Where did you come from?”
Well. That stealth mission hadn’t lasted long.
Gina turned, heart hammering in her throat, to see the man in the green coat had stayed behind. Not all coppers had left after all - should have known they’d search the workhouse. He began walking up to her, staring a bit too intently, and Gina only had one option left: run.
And run she did. There were more shouts, but she ignored them. Before the man could reach her she had crossed the road and ran as quickly as she could towards the riverbank, determined to lose him if it was the last thing she did.
The man was… faster than he looked, but so was Gina and also he kept wasting his breath by yelling for her to stop running, as if that was going to happen. He kept up with her for a stretch, but he was beginning to fall behind when Gina came across a bridge over the Thames. There would be more people beyond the bridge, she knew, and crowds were exactly what she needed: she could disappear in them, and the Inspector would have no hope of catching her. So, at the very last second, she took an abrupt turn onto the bridge.
And found herself facing a horse-drawn cart coming straight towards her.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. The cart driver yelled something in wide-eyed horror and pulled hard on the reins, the horse tried to stop and so did Gina - but the momentum worked against them. Hooves slid across cobblestones, the horse and cart still hurtled towards her, and Gina tumbled instead of stopping. She fell hard on her butt and elbows, acutely aware of the fact she wouldn’t get up on time, that she was about to be trampled right there and then. Her long-lost family, if she had any, was not going to swoop in and save her.
Gina Lestrade, a nobody from the slums, shut her eyes tightly and waited for the end.
***
“How could it happen?”
Even as he uttered the question, Mikotoba knew full well Sholmes couldn’t possibly have the answer. That, and technically he knew the how already: as a doctor, he could guess quite easily what may have gone wrong for a hanging to fail. A too short rope resulting in a too short fall, a poorly executed knot - not many options to go through.
All things considered, the only question to ask was why did such a thing happen. But fate, he knew, was often beyond their understanding. Even that of Herlock Sholmes himself.
Not that it stopped the detective in question from trying to find an answer anyway.
“Someone must know something!” he declared, walking back and forth before the fireplace while going over the brief newspaper article again. “I will ask-- call in favors, I have a couple… maybe one to call in.. but, but I will call it! They must allow you to at least visit him!”
No, Mikotoba thought, they ‘must’ nothing and we both know it.
Mikotoba sighed, and rubbed his face. “I doubt they would allow us in, no matter who you turn to. Caidin is a good friend - he still refused to let me take a single step past his office.”
“Well then, we shall break in!”
Oh. Oh no.
“Sholmes, it is a prison with high levels of security--”
“But they are trained to keep people from breaking out!” Sholmes cut him off with a wave of his hand. “They won’t be prepared to stop anyone trying to break in - they wouldn't see it coming, and for good reason. What sort of lunatic will try their utmost to break inside a prison, after all?”
The sort of lunatic I am looking at right now, Mikotoba thought, and despite everything there was… something akin to a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“While I… appreciate your concern and desire to help, I do not think breaking inside Barclay’s prison would be a viable option, unless we are prepared to remain in it afterwards for… quite a long time, very likely.”
“Only until we find a way to break out after you have had a chance to see your friend!”
Mikotoba opened his mouth to say there was no guarantee they could break right out again, remembered who he was talking to, and decided that was not the hill he would die on. Instead, he chose to be practical and tilted his head towards the open trunk that, for time being, served as Iris’ makeshift crib in the living room.
“I have promised to make sure she would be well looked after, Sholmes. I can’t do that very well from a prison cell, can I?’
“Ah.” The smile on Sholmes’ face immediately went out. “Well, I suppose taking her with us may not be a wise decision,” he added, uttering what was probably the understatement of the week. “But then, what do you suggest we do?”
Nothing. There is nothing we can do. Perhaps he wouldn’t want to speak to me either way - he made clear he had told me all he was willing to share.
“... We have a case we ought to focus on, I believe,” Mikotoba finally said, and turned his gaze back to what Sholmes taken home while he was at the prison - namely, a large locked trunk and a bag overflowing with books that looked as though it may be heavier than the trunk itself. “What have you found out?”
“Mikotoba, this can wait--”
“No, it cannot,” Mikotoba cut him off, his voice firm. He met Sholmes’ gaze, mouth pulled in a tight line. “Genshin… we can figure something out later, I suppose. We know where to find him. He is quite clearly going nowhere, nor about to be executed. But Enoch Drebber is missing, and he may be in terrible trouble - time is of the essence. So please, let us focus on finding him safe and sound.”
Let me help save someone who may yet be saved.
“I…” A moment’s hesitation, and Sholmes nodded, the smile back on his face. “Of course, it is time for some more amazing deductions! I won’t keep you waiting!”
Mikotoba smiled back, and glanced at the back of the room, where Sholmes’ cluttered desk was. “I presume this is the trunk Mr. Stangerson mentioned this morning?”
“Well spotted! Yes, the very one. He was correct when he said the lock is formidable and quite complicated,” he added, and he stepped closer to it, beckoning Mikotoba to follow. “Luckily, I just happened to recognize the symbols on the cylinder right away!”
“You did?” Mikotoba knew Sholmes could be a trove of random, highly specific and often concerningly in-depth knowledge, but those symbols looked unlike anything he himself had ever seen, and it was rather surprising to know his friend had somehow identified them right away.
“Of course, my dear doctor - at first glance!” Sholmes’ hand landed heavily on Mikotoba’s shoulder. “What you’re gazing upon is Geʽez,” the great detective declared, and waited with a grin for exclamations of surprise to follow, along with admiration.
“Bless you,” Mikotoba said instead. Sholmes blinked, taken aback for just a moment before the smile returned, just as bright as before.
“Good doctor, that was no sneeze!”
“Oh?”
This time, the sarcasm in that simple syllable was just thick enough not to sail right over Sholmes’ head as it often did. The smile fell into something akin to a pout.
“Oh, I see. You mock me now.” A dramatic sigh, shoulders dropping. “Oh, the unfairness… I fail to impress even my ever-impressed partner…”
That was a dangerous slip into one of Sholmes’ self-pitying moods, which would last… hours or even days, upon occasion. Not a good thing to happen in the midst of a case. “I simply jested, Sholmes. I am very impressed you recognized… whatever this is. I will need you to explain what it is, tho--”
“Oh, it is a language!” Sholmes immediately bounced back, gesturing at the trunk. “An ancient Ethiopian Semitic language!”
“Ah. That is... a peculiar thing to find carved on the trunk of an English student.”
“Well, Mr. Drebber is American on his father’s side. And his surname is distinctly of German origin.”
“Ah,” Mikotoba repeated, and hesitated before clearing his throat. “I will admit geography was never my strong suit, Sholmes, but unless I have very much misunderstood the basics about continents… none of those places is anywhere close to Ethiopia.”
“Quite right, quite right.” Sholmes pulled out his pipe, and brought it to his lips, unlit as… well, as always. “It is an unusual thing to find, I agree. But it may be vital that we open this trunk, so on the way I have picked up… a few books.”
The few books in question were the many heavy books Mikootba had already noticed, most of them looking… very old. He had no clue where Sholmes had sourced them, but he had a hunch as to what the subject may be.
“Books on Geʽez?”
“Precisely, my dear fellow! I may have recognized the symbols’ language thanks to my photographic memory, but I still don’t have the slightest cue as to what any of them mean. Which means I have a long night ahead of me - Mikotoba, it is absolutely vital that you keep providing me with tea throughout and, of course, make sure I do not fall asleep before--”
A sudden wail rose behind them, and Mikotoba found himself chuckling. “It seems,” he said, “that our newest assistant will ensure both of us remain perfectly awake through the night.”
***
There are times in a man’s life, Tobias Gregson knew, when said man has to make choices.
Bend the law he’d sworn to uphold, or let a murderer go free. Bring the full might of Scotland Yard on some children whose worst crime was pinching a few wallets while trying to survive, or risk an embarrassing scandal that may discredit all of Scotland Yard and a talented coroner. Watch a child being turned into raspberry marmalade before his eyes, or risk being turned into raspberry marmalade himself on the off chance he might prevent it.
Lots of choices indeed, and often hard ones too. But some of them… well, some of them are easy. The raspberry marmalade conundrum, for one, was solved without a moment’s thought - perhaps mainly because there wasn’t a moment to spare on the luxury of thought. All Gregson could do was come between the rearing horse and the child, grab the child, and leap out of the way. Which in this case amounted to vaulting over a side rail, and plunging right down into the river below.
The weather was fairly mild and therefore the water wasn’t as icy as it could have been, but it was still cold. Along with the fact he landed on his back - oh he was going to feel that for days - it was enough of a shock to the system that Gregson lost his grip on the child, and he opened his mouth to cry out… only for it to be filled by the Thames’ filthy water.
Oh, that day was just getting better and better, wasn’t it?
Looking back, sheer disgust was probably what snapped Gregson out of his stunned immobility. A few moments and he broke the surface of the murky water, spitting and coughing before taking long gulps of air. There were cries, several voices calling out from the bridge above him, but he didn’t look up. Instead he glanced around and there it was, a few feet from him - the green hat that had caught his eye in the first place.
“Now listen here, sunshine--” he began, reaching to snatch up the hat - except that there was no child beneath it. Only water, murky and… oh.
Oh no.
“She went down!” A woman’s voice cried out. “Saw her go down like a rock! On your right!”
Again, there was no time to think: Gregson took a deep breath and dove underwater, struggling to see anything in that damned river, more mud than water. Darn it, had he saved the street urchin from being trampled only to drown like a rat in a sewage-filled river?
He swam a little deeper, almost blindly, dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he realized he couldn’t see the child anywhere. Then, moments before he swam upwards again for more air, he saw it: something sinking to the bottom, a tiny outstretched hand barely illuminated by a rare ray of sun making it through the surface.
Gregson ignored his own need of air and swam after it, deeper down, the water getting colder - and then he reached out, grasped that small hand, and pulled. The child floated against his chest weightlessly, and he pulled her in a tight grip before he kicked to push himself upwards and he finally, finally broke the surface again. “Augh!”
“Look! He’s back up! With the child too!”
“Is she moving? Is she breathing?”
More voices, and Gregson listened precisely to none of them. The current was not too strong there, and he could get himself and the child to the riverbank easily enough. The child in question, a little girl, coughed up some water when Gregson dragged himself on land and sat heavily; some gasps for air followed, and that was a good sign. The thought of finding himself sitting in mud with a dead child in his arms chilled Gregson far more than the river could have, and he heaved a sigh of relief before he shook the girl a little.
“All right, sunshine. The chase is over,” he muttered. But there was no response, and the child did not move. She was out cold and remained limp in his arms; some of the relief faded into concern again. He shook her again, a little harder. “Kid? Open up those eyes. You’re safe now, darn it. Come on, sunshine, wake up!”
No response: only that tiny pale face, the limpness, the locks of wet hair. Blonde hair, but that bit of information and its relevance was entirely pushed to the back of Gregson’s mind, along with the small green hat he still clenched tightly in his left first. The reason why he’d chased after her could wait; there were more pressing matters to tend to now.
Gregson adjusted his grip on the unconscious girl and looked up at the small crowd forming on the bridge above. There had been cheering, but it was dying down as they, too, realized the kid may not be out of the woods yet. God knew how much water she’d inhaled, and what even was in that water.
“Show’s over, folks!” Gregson found himself yelling, and stood. There were stone steps going up the bridge, and he climbed them quickly despite how heavy his drenched coat felt, the girl still motionless in his grip. “Now make yourselves useful and get me a darn doctor!”
There was no doctor in the crowd, it seemed, but a man who looked as though he may be somewhere between seventy and a couple hundred years old looked down at him from the driver’s seat of a coach. “St. Synner's Hospital is not too far, sir,” he muttered. “It’s not on my route, but with the right incentive--” He yelped when something hit him square in the chest, that something being Gregson’s police badge.
“Here’s your incentive, sunshine. Get us to the hospital now,” he snapped, and climbed in.
“But sir,” the man complained, “I have a family to feed--”
“You’ll receive your payment when we arrive, so get going!”
Thankfully, that was all it took and the coach finally got moving. Gregson sat down, shivering in his wet clothes, and leaned the child down on the seat before him. Her breathing seemed back to normal, if a little labored, but she was still out cold... and probably just plain cold. Taking off wet clothes would be advisable, but Gregson was not about to undress inside the coach and definitely was not going to undress an unconscious little girl either, so that was out of the question at the moment. It wouldn't be a long ride to the hospital, after all.
Well, this will be fun to explain at Scotland Yard. Took a dive in the Thames while running after a random street urchin. Unless she happens to be the one Stronghart is looking for, this will make me a laughing stock at the precinct.
With a sigh, Inspector Gregson leaned forward and did a quick search of the child’s pockets; Stronghart may have forbidden him to do so, but what the Chief Justice couldn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. Either way, he found no sign of the death certificate on the child: there was some cash in one pocket - not a lot, but still too much to belong to her - and a couple of cheap bracelets in another, but nothing else. No soaking wet fistful of paper that may have once been a death certificate, or a document of any kind; she was not the one, then, despite the blonde hair and green hat. He’d told Stronghart that was too little to go on.
Well, that was that, then. He’d chased down a young pickpocket who had nothing to do with the entire mess, and nearly got them both killed in the process. The best pick of Scotland Yard indeed - best pick of a bad lot. With a groan, Gregson reached into his own pocket to pull out the sodden remains of fish and chips and then his watch, the one he’d been given for his role in capturing the Professor. He meant to check the time but, of course, it was no longer running. Water got in, and with his luck it was ruined for good.
Bastard should have just died on the gallows and saved everyone the trouble, Gregson thought, and the girl chose that moment to groan. She didn’t regain consciousness, but it was enough to distract him from the loss of the watch. He took off his wet coat to fold it and placed it beneath her head - too soaked to serve as a blanket, but it would do well enough as a pillow. The child - who, for the lack of a name, Gregson would just think of as Green Hat until a name was given - settled down, not stirring again all the way to the hospital.
***
“... Here you are, Professor.”
The Professor, of course, could not answer on account of being a disembodied head made of wax, but it had turned out satisfactory enough that she could almost expect those lips to part and words to come out of it in response. Almost, because it was still a bit rough in places and she needed to add the glass eye and hair, but with some more work it would soon be truly lifelike.
Tusspells moved the head so it would be in better light now that the sun had set outside, picked out one of the instruments for the finer parts of the work, and began working on the details. She worked around the nose and eyelid first - the glass eye would need to be gray - and that curious lens that had covered the man’s right eye. She’d keep it as part of the wax model for now, but she planned to build a similar lens to apply on the finished work.
At that point the wax was cold and firm enough, and shavings fell on the layer of old newspapers between the wooden work table and her waxwork. Tusspells hummed as she worked, put down her tool to pick up another, and without thinking she used her hand to brush some wax shavings aside.
And she found herself staring at the Professor’s face again.
Tusspells stilled, feeling as though something had just smacked her. That part of the old newspaper had been hidden right beneath the waxwork’s base until minutes earlier, and then it had been covered in small wax shavings - and now that she gazed upon it for the first time she found herself unable to breathe.
The Professor was looking at the camera with a wide, bright smile, a trophy in his hands. It was him, she had no doubt; he looked more youthful than he had in the cemetery, but those were the same features she had just finished sculpting… and there it was, the distinctive dark monocle over the right eye. She was looking at the same man.
Tusspells frantically tugged the newspaper page free, not caring if wax shavings fell all over the floor. The photograph was part of a small article, far from the front page, which was probably why she had never noticed it.
Royal Science Award trophy for excellence assigned to London University student, the title read. And below the image, in small lettering, she could read a name. Mr. Drebber receives the award during last night’s ceremony, the caption read. A quick scan of the article told her his full name: Enoch J. Drebber. Was that it? Had she just uncovered the Professor’s name?
A student, and he became known as the Professor, Tusspells found herself thinking. A career boost more than a career change.
It was almost funny, in a morbid way… and yet, something was bothering her. Something was not right, much like the blood on the man’s body, like the presence of the Chief Justice of London in the cemetery that early in the morning. With a sudden sense of dread, Esmeralda Tusspells glanced over to check the date of the newspaper.
Just over a week ago. And at that point… on that day…
“It can’t be!” The newspaper page fell to the ground, and she began furiously going through all the old papers scattered across the work table - throwing them on the floor too, one after the other, until finally, finally, the one she was looking for was in her hands.
The title was there on the front page, huge and bold: MASS MURDERER KNOWN AS ‘THE PROFESSOR’ APPREHENDED BY SCOTLAND YARD.
With a shaky breath, Tussepells looked up at the date and there it was, the confirmation of what she already had guessed: something was truly, horribly wrong, in a way she could no longer ignore.
On the day Enoch Drebber stood smiling with a trophy in his hands before God knew how many witnesses, the Professor had already been caught.
***
Mael Stronghart considered himself a patient man.
That was not to say he suffered fools gladly - he did not - but he was never one to lose his composure, or express his annoyance through outbursts that got precisely nothing done, aside from making seemingly civil men come across as a missing link between humankind and apes. Patience was, after all, a virtue; he liked to think it was among those in his possession. Still, as he stood before the fifteenth wailing child to be brought to his office in little less than an hour, he felt that virtue was being harshly tested.
“There is no need to be upset,” he said, crossing his arms tightly over his chest to keep himself from reaching out and shaking the boy into silence. “All you need to do is tell me where you were today at around two in the afternoon, and empty your pockets on my desk.”
“I-- I was in Bethnal Green all day, sir, I didn’t do nuthin’--”
“Empty your pockets,” Stronghart repeated, watching the child as he did what he was asked to. No trace of a letter among its contents - that watch was surely stolen, though - but Stronghart was not excessively surprised. The more he looked at the boy, the more certain he was that he was not the child who had robbed him at the docks either. His hair looked the right shade of blonde, but his voice was a bit too deep, and he seemed just a bit too tall. He did not tower over him quite as much as he had towered on the thief earlier that day.
Sorry, sir, didn’t see you there.
But I will see you soon, Stronghart thought, and God help you when I do.
“... Is that all?” he spoke instead, and the boy sniffled, showing all his pockets had been turned inside-out. The ones still on him, at least: the ratty jacket he had been wearing was off, already searched thoroughly by Stronghart himself. He nodded, one last question before he would be done with him. “Can you read?”
“S-sir?” The child looked up, sniffling and trying to wipe his face with a sleeve.
“I asked, can you read?”
He flinched, and looked down. “I… only my name, sir.”
“Mmh. And what is that, if I may ask?”
“Wiggins, sir.”
“Very well, Wiggins. Are you aware of any of your… colleagues targeting the docks today?”
“N-- no. I don’t know where everyone else went.”
“But will you tell me, should you find out - or remember?”
“O-of course!”
“... I’ll hold you to that,” Stronghart said, and rang the bell to summon an officer inside. “I am done with this one. Take him back with the others and bring in the next one.”
Wiggins swallowed, looking up at him with wide eyes. “You’re… you’re letting us go, right? You said you were--”
“Soon. After all, there has to be some punishment for thievery, no?” Stronghart said, glancing over at the small collection of items that was now piling on his desk. “Fear not, you will receive three meals a day as long as you’re in our care - proper nourishment jogs memories. Your jacket,” he added, handing the filthy rag to the boy. He seemed about to protest, but a piercing look put an end to that. He just trembled and took the jacket before he followed the officer outside, too scared to argue.
Once again alone, Stronghart rubbed his face, acutely aware that each passing moment was a moment when his secret may be exposed. He faced a sleepless night of questioning slum thieves, and many more sleepless nights to follow if that bid to find van Ziek’s will failed.
Maybe they’ll just use it to light a fire and keep warm at night, Gregson had suggested, and perhaps they had - but until he knew for certain the will was gone, that the beast keeping a hold on his throat had lost its teeth, Stronghart wouldn’t be able to rest again.
***
“... So you’re not able to tell us the patient’s name.”
“No.”
“Her age?”
“I can guess--”
“Does she have any relatives who should be informed?”
“Not a clue. If I had to guess, I’d say no.”
“... What is your relation to the patient again?”
“I fished her out of the Thames. Can you or can you not help her?”
A small huff. “Of course. She is unconscious, but in otherwise fine health. We’ll keep her warm and make sure her lungs have not suffered from inhaling water - the Thames is not as clean as it used to be.”
Gregson had no recollection of the Thames ever being clean by any stretch of imagination, but he chose not to say anything about it. Instead he looked over at the bed Green Hat was now tucked into, hair towelled dry; her wet clothes, which Gregson had searched once again to be on the safe side, were in a bag on the floor. She looked even smaller than she was, cocooned like that in blankets, but at least some color had returned to her face.
“... Visiting hours are over,” the nurse said, and hesitated a moment, eyeing his dripping clothes. “Unless you would like us to check on you as well?”
Oh yes, just what he needed, disappearing in a hospital while Lord Stronghart needed his help to search for a needle in a haystack. That, and he doubted the hospital menu included fish and chips. Gregson shook his head.
“No need, I’m perfectly-- atchoo!-- fine. I’d like to be informed once she awakens, though.”
“Well, we’re supposed to inform family if there is any, but as you have no relation--”
“I am a Scotland Yard inspector and this is a police matter,” Gregson cut off the nurse. Truth be told he could very well have left it at that - leave the kid in the care of professionals, go home to a hot meal and dry clothes after reporting at the precinct, and forget all about her. He’d already established she was not the diver who’d robbed Lord Stronghart, so as a matter of fact health was no police matter at all.
But then again, the kid wouldn’t be there if he hadn’t given chase, so he should… make sure, at least.
“Oh,” the nurse blinked, taken aback. Her eyes flickered on the badge, on the exhausted-looking man standing before her in soaking wet clothes, then back on the badge. “In that case… of course. We will inform you as soon as she awakens.”
“Good. Send the message to Inspector Gregson at Scotland Yard,” he said. He gave another long look at the child, tipped his hat and finally turned to leave - trying to walk out with as much dignity as he could muster with shoes that made a squelching noise at every step. He was already out when he realized he had forgotten something - the girl's hat, still dripping water inside a pocket of his coat.
***
“EUREKA!”
“Gah!”
Sholmes’ cry was loud and it was sudden, with no regard whatsoever for the fact Mikotoba had just succeeded in making Iris fall asleep and was getting a bit of a shut-eye himself, sprawled on the sofa. Thankfully, Iris did not awaken again nor did she begin to cry.
Had that happened, the British judiciary system may have found itself having to deal with another murder committed by a Japanese exchange student - that of a private detective of increasing fame, tragically killed by having his head bashed in by a heavy book. But, for all of their sakes, Iris kept sleeping even as Sholmes called out.
“Doctor! Come look!”
“Lower your voice, Sholmes, I beg of you!”
Mikotoba groaned, but he stood and dragged himself to Sholmes’ desk, yawning. He had been reading through ancient-looking tomes most of the night, but the one in his hands now looked… relatively new. He was looking at Mikotoba with an almost manic smile, eyes more than a little bloodshot.
When he had that look on his face, he was either on the verge of an amazing breakthrough or an amazing blunder - hard to tell which. Sometimes it was both.
“Come read, my good fellow!” he exclaimed, but he kept his hand on the page to block out some of the writing, no doubt with the purpose of having a dramatic reveal later. Mikotoba rubbed his eyes, held back a yawn, and went to read what little Sholmes would graciously allow him to see.
"... the most complete manuscript of this ancient religious text, first brought to Europe by James Bruce and translated only recently, was written in Ge'ez. Most Christian groups regard it as non-canonical--"
“Exactly!” Sholmes closed the book with a sudden snap, causing Mikotoba to recoil, and vaulted over the back of his chair to where the trunk was. He kneeled before it with the expression Mikotoba had learned to associate with that of British children on Christmas day, and began turning the segments of the cylinder. “That right there gives us the answer, Mikotoba!”
“... It does?” Mikotoba stepped closer, watching on as Sholmes turned the symbols over. “I assume the text mentioned in the book has something to do with it?”
“It does indeed! It makes perfect sense, when you think about it, that Mr. Enoch Drebber would choose that as his secret code - a little known religious text, rejected as biblical canon by most sects of Christianity.”
“... Except Mormonism?” Mikotoba hazarded a guess, only for Sholmes to shake his head
“Oh no, including Mormonism. The very cult he rejected himself, and which rejected him in turn. An excellent reason to pick it. That, and the irony of it.”
“I am afraid I am not following.”
“Just watch!”
Mikotoba did watch,as one by one several symbols appeared on the cylinder. And then, as the last one was turned, completing the code - መጽሐፈ ሄኖክ - there was a sound, faint but unmistakable.
A lock clicking open.
It wasn’t the first time he’d watched Sholmes pull a solution seemingly out of nowhere, and not the first time it happened so quickly, but it would never quite cease to astonish Mikotoba. He looked on, stunned, as Sholmes turned back and spoke again, a triumphant note in his voice.
“This is the title of the text mentioned in the book. The moment I read about it, I knew it had to be the answer.”
“But… how?”
“A little bit of intuition, is all. My pronunciation is probably going to be atrocious, but this reads aloud as maṣḥafa hēnok,” Sholmes said, and lifted the lid of the trunk. It opened with a loud creak to reveal some clothes, books, a folder full of documents and a folded map, but Sholmes was not looking at any of it. He was still gazing up at Mikotoba, elated, waiting for him to enquire.
Mikotoba smiled, and didn’t make him wait too long. “I wouldn’t be able to tell whether your pronunciation is accurate, but I suspect what matters is the translation. What does it mean?”
Sholmes’ face lit up as he gave the answer, his grin impossibly wide.
[The Great Ace Attorney] A Case of Identity - Ch. 1
Summary: On that fateful night in Lowgate cemetery, the bullet finds its target in Enoch Drebber. When he awakens he’s locked behind an iron mask, facing a lifetime of imprisonment as the mass murderer who survived a botched execution - the Professor.
However, help is afoot.
Characters: Enoch Drebber, Esmeralda Tusspells, Herlock Sholmes, Yujin Mikotoba, Tobias Gregson, Mael Stronghart
Rating: T
Prologue and all other chapters will be tagged as ‘case of identity’ on my blog.
A/N: Several people are having a bad night. Someone gets an even worse morning.
***
“What have you done!”
“Greetings to you as well. I trust the accommodation meets your taste?”
“What has become of that man?”
“The man you shot, you mean?”
“You made me do it!”
“I recall doing nothing of the sort. Did I perhaps grab your hand and squeeze your finger on the trigger? And I told you to shoot Asogi, if I am not mistaken - aiming for that man instead of simply refusing was entirely your call.”
Seishiro Jigoku clenched his fists so tightly they hurt, wishing nothing more than crashing both of them on the unnervingly calm face staring at him. Repeatedly. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that doing so would doom both him and Genshin; breaking the face of the newly appointed Lord Chief Justice of London would have far more severe consequences than breaking a bench during a travesty of a trial.
“This was not the plan!” he barked, pacing across the dusty room. He and Genshin had been directed to an old abandoned house to await their chance to board a ship. Well, he had been directed there: Genshin was still dazed, some of the drugs he had been given to slow his breathing inside the coffin and make oxygen last making him sluggish, and could only follow him while mumbling under his breath. He was asleep upstairs now, to let it all wear off, but Jigoku knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink. Not after what happened.
“We were supposed to retrieve Genshin and just leave!”
“The plan did not account for the presence of a grave robber tonight of all nights. But no need to worry, the matter has been taken care of.” Mael Stronghart reached into his pocket to pull out a pocket watch, and wound it absentmindedly. The curtains were drawn and windows barred, the only source of light in the room a huge fireplace, but he seemed to be looking at the time. “The man was merely wounded, and steps have been taken to guarantee his silence. He has no idea what he really witnessed, either way.”
Jigoku snorted. “Do you think I was born this morning?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stronghart looked back, expression still entirely calm. He still looked pristine, no sign of what he had just been involved in. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Not as far as I can throw you.”
“If your recent performance in court is anything to go by, I suspect that may be a fair distance,” Stronghart said, nothing in his tone or expression to suggest he was jesting. The watch went back in his pocket. “Either way, you have my word. You killed no one, you will both be on a ship home by afternoon, and all is well. A good outcome for everyone involved. Is that not what you wanted?”
You killed no one.
Not guilty. I can’t be guilty. My career would be over.
Of course, that was what Jigoku wanted to believe and he knew that Stronghart was counting on that. A transparent trap, but what else was he to do? Genshin was there, and they would return home. Yujin would join them soon, whenever this urgent matter was resolved or when British authorities finally kicked him out. He only had to go along for a while longer. “Yes,” he gritted out, crossing his arms and looking away. As long as he didn’t know otherwise, he could try and believe that the man he’d shot was alive.
A damned grave robber, Jigoku thought. Of all nights to wander in that cemetery, it had to be tonight. I didn’t want to shoot him, but what choice did I have? It was him or Genshin.
Unaware of his thoughts - or more likely, perfectly aware and entirely untouched - Stronghart nodded. “Now what remains is the matter of van Ziek’s will, if such a document exists.”
“It does.”
“Oh, have you seen it?”
“Genshin doesn’t lie,” Jigoku replied, with the same certainty he would have felt stating that the sun rises in the east. The few times he had to say even a minor lie in their university days, he’d always look like his stomach was hurting for the next several hours. An allergic reaction, he and Yujin would joke, and Genshin would give them a grimace that could almost pass off as a smile. “If he says such a document exists, then it does.”
“He lied well enough in court.”
He has a son to go back to.
Jigoku scowled. “He didn’t. He only kept quiet in the face of your accusations.”
“... Very well. In that case, I must remind you that it must be in my hands before either of you boards that ship. I trust this can happen without incident and without you making a disgraceful spectacle of yourself, as you did in the courtroom.”
“The entire trial was a travesty, and-- and it was just a bench!”
“Mmmh.” Stronghart didn’t lift his eyes from the watch he had pulled back out of his pocket. “I seem to recall you also had a few choice words about the British justice system.”
“Yes, well--”
“And British mothers.” The watch snapped shut. “Mine, specifically.”
“Er--”
“I feel life already dealt her the most grievous insult, Stronghart, cursing her with a venomous snake as a son.” Genshin’s voice rang out suddenly, almost making Jigoku jump out of his skin. By the fireplace, Stronghart simply shifted his gaze and nodded.
“Mr. Asogi, awake at last. Not yet too steady on your feet yet but do not worry, the effects will pass soon. We were just discussing the next… arrangement in our transaction.”
Genshin glared daggers at the man and stepped forward, a hand against the wall to keep himself steady. “Not yet. You won’t have it until we’re boarding the ship home. I will not be giving you the only insurance I have left while still at your mercy.”
A long silence followed, Stronghart’s face entirely emotionless in a sharp contrast to Genshin’s disgust. In the end, the Lord Chief Justice of London nodded. “... Very well. You will board the ship in a few hours, and I will take you there personally in my carriage. You will give me the document on the docks.” A pause, and he tilted his head. “If you try anything underhanded - even so much think you can flee with the will of Klint van Zieks - I want you both to keep this in mind that while you may make it beyond my reach, your common friend will not.”
A cold chill ran down Jigoku’s spine. “Leave Yujin out of this! He knows nothing!” he almost roared, but Stronghart didn’t even flinch.
“I have no intention to bother him. As long as I have the document in my hands as you board the ship, of course.”
Disgust plain on his face, Genshin almost spat his response. “Of course.” He turned to Jigoku, and the disgust faded into concern. “Seishiro, in the cemetery - there was… there was a man, wasn’t there? I saw a man.”
Ah, so his mind hadn’t been so clouded he couldn’t recall. Jigoku didn’t turn, but he was acutely aware of Stronghart’s presence, of the ice-cold eyes bearing into the back of his head as he spoke. “A grave robber who chose a bad night to desecrate a cemetery,” he said, helping Genshin to sit on a dusty armchair by the fire. “We scared him off.”
“Was he harmed?”
He was. I shot him. I want to believe he is alive but I don’t know. It was you or him and for a moment I almost aimed that gun at you, old friend, but I will never tell anyone, you least of all. It will be for me to live with now.
“No.” Jigoku heard his own voice as though coming from a distance, perfectly calm and betraying none of his thoughts. Had Mael Stronghart been rubbing off him? The idea alone made his stomach clench. He couldn’t wait to put several countries between himself and that man. “No one was harmed.”
Genshin seemed to search his face for a few moments, still pale, then he slowly nodded, and Jigoku barely held back a sigh of relief. Of course he’d believe him, they were good friends. Why would he lie?
For your own good as well as mine. And Yujin’s. It’s for the best.
“That’s good. I had dreadful nightmares,” Genshin murmured, and Jigoku took his arm.
“You need more rest. Come.”
Behind them, still standing before the fireplace, Stronghart hummed. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your well-deserved rest. I shall be here at--” a pause “-- one fifteen noon, to make sure you don’t miss your passage to Japan. Ensure you have your ticket with you, and I trust there shall be no issues. I advise against trying to leave this building, as i’s closely watched.”
He left without waiting for a response, and Genshin scoffed as soon as he heard the front door close. “He’s a monster,” he spat. Jigoku could only nod his agreement, and didn’t speak until they reached the bedroom.
“... Why did you do it?”
A pained expression creased his friend’s features. “Klint was a good man, before he went astray. He died tormented by regret.”
“You could have told him to turn himself in. They pinned everything they could on you, but what you did does amount to murder.”
“And I shall carry it on my soul forevermore. But he deserved an honorable death.”
Jigoku groaned. “Ah, already making me wish I’d left you underground,” he said, gaining himself a sound resembling a chuckle.
“I should accept punishment. I know it is hypocritical of me to flee it, but--”
“Your son. I know.” They sat on the edge of the bed. “... Where is it, Genshin? The will?”
There were a few moments of silence, but in the end Genshin turned to his possessions on the ground; they had been delivered there instead of being shipped to Japan, as the official story went. Among them was the Asogi clan’s blade, Karuma. Jigoku knew all about it, mostly because Genshin wouldn’t shut his mouth about it during their sail to England.
It had been a very long trip.
“Karuma is--”
“I am begging you not to start.”
“Hmph.” Genshin huffed, but did not argue. Instead he twisted the hilt of the sword, and the very top came off to reveal a tightly rolled-up piece of paper. He stared at it for a few moments, then he sighed. “Forgive me, Klint. It’s for my child. I hope you understand,” he murmured, and handed the will to Jigoku. “Here. You ought to keep it. I am not sure I would be able to hand it to that monster when the moment comes, despite everything. You do it.”
“Of course I will. Especially as you will be inside my luggage the moment we board.”
“... I will be where now?”
“It’s… safer this way. You never know who may be watching.” Jigoku took the will and put it in his pocket. He found he had no desire to read it, to find out just how much horror had transpired. He was ready to leave it all behind him, return home to take a position in the government if Stronghart’s promise could be trusted - like he’d needed an incentive to save his friend from death - and forget all about the murders, and that night in the cemetery.
About the man he desperately wanted to believe he had not killed. “... We’ll be on our way home soon,” he finally said, breaking a brief, heavy silence. “I only wish Yujin accepted to board the ship today. I don’t understand why he wants to remain until the British kick him out. He kept saying he had something to do.”
“Heh. That he does,” Genshin murmured, and let his eyes slip shut. He added nothing more, nor did Jigoku try to coax answers out of him. He didn’t want answers.
He only wanted to catch some rest, and go home.
***
In the safety of her home - some would call it a workshop, and to be fair it was a bit of both - Esmeralda Tusspells stared down at the bloodstain on her cloak for a very long time.
She was not easily impressed or squeamish: when keeping up a family tradition the best way possible entails picking up a felled head or digging up a body to take a cast of its face in the dead of night, you cannot afford to be. And the body in the coffin had looked dead, sure enough, pale and cold and still; the only thing that had given her pause was the lax jaw, when rigor mortis should have already set in.
Except that the dead body had gasped for air, and that had changed everything; there was no shame, she supposed, in admitting it had scared her half to death. Then the Lord Chief Justice of London himself had shown up before she could begin to understand what was going on, making a bewildering situation all the more nonsensical.
Why the Chief Justice would be in Lowgate cemetery in the middle of the night was beyond her. At the moment she had assumed he’d been at the Barclays prison and had seen her lantern through a window, or from high up one of the walls surrounding it. The more she thought about it, however, the odder it seemed: why come alone to face a potential grave robber, maybe more than one, when he could have had any number of prison guards follow him?
He had clearly been displeased to see her there, and the explanation he had given for the man she had found buried alive where a corpse should be had been brief.
“It seems the hanging was botched,” he had told her, arms crossed, after prison guards took the masked man back towards the prison on a stretcher. “There will be consequences for this show of incompetence, but the public need not know it got to the point the man was buried alive. Surely, for the sake of avoiding a criminal record, you will agree.”
She had, because it was so tempting to believe that was what had occurred and put it all out of her mind. She had the cast, which the Chief Justice had failed to see her take away and hide before she went to fetch prison guards, and she got away with only a verbal caution; it was all she needed to care about.
Except that something was wrong; the large bloodstain on her cloak, which no one had noticed in the dark, was proof she had not imagined it. What kind of botched hanging leaves a man bleeding? What had really happened there?
“Nothing of my concern,” Esmeralda told the empty room, avoiding looking at the table where she had put the cast of the Professor’s face. Around her, wax faces at various stages of completion looked back at her with blind eyes. She was always comfortable among her creations, but not this time. Now it felt as though they were judging her silence.
And she’d never felt so alone.
***
Alone in his room, Yujin Mikotoba downed yet another glass of whiskey. On the wall, the minute lancet moved; in the distance, a clock struck the hour. Six in the morning.
Surely it’s done by now. Genshin is dead.
Mikotoba set down the empty glass with a sigh, heart heavy in his chest, and rubbed his eyes. He ought to rest, and hadn't slept a wink. There was nothing more that he could do other than sit there and grieve. Maybe it would have been easier if Seishiro had been there, but he’d said he needed time alone before the journey back to Japan and had said goodbye the previous day.
“I don’t know exactly what time the ship leaves port yet,” he had said. “So don’t worry about seeing me off. I will see you home. Take care.”
It was uncharacteristic of Seishiro, but then again he must be grieving too. Maybe they both needed time alone, Mikotoba had thought, which was the reason why he had declined Sholmes’ offer to stay up with him. Now he wondered if he should have accepted a shoulder to cry on.
Maybe he should have gone home, but-- no, he could not. Not with a baby in need of his help who could not follow him home, he told himself, knowing full well that the baby girl probably had no need for him whatsoever. It was plain to see that if he were to depart, she would want for nothing: he knew Sholmes well enough to be certain she would always have a home with him.
And such a good home, too. In his old age, surely, he would still look back to his years at Baker Street with a fondness unmarred even by the bitterness of the most recent events. He had been happy there, and so would Iris after he was gone.
It hurt to think he was looking at a future Sholmes would play no part in, and perhaps that, not Iris, was the true reason why he was so reluctant to go any earlier than he’d be forced to.
It wasn’t like he would be new to leaving behind a baby with someone else.
I could not save Ayame’s life, and I have never been a father to our Susato. She won’t even know my face when I return. Some husband I have been, some father. I go back to her because I must, dreading the return, while Genshin spoke so often of looking forward to his return home to Kazuma. Ten times the father I am, but who knows what madness seized him and he’s gone. I never noticed a thing. Some friend I am, too.
Another sigh, and Mikotoba filled his glass again. Kazuma, too, ought to be looked after; he wondered how long it would take for the letter carrying the news to get to them, how long before the boy knew he was fatherless. He wished nothing more than to help him, but how could he fill the void when he failed so utterly a father to his own flesh and blood?
I will have no choice. A month at most and I will be on the way back - no escape from it.
Another heavy sigh, and had another drink against his own medical advice. As he drifted off to an uneasy slumber on his armchair, someone else across London, stirred.
Someone else with no escape.
***
Somewhere to his left, something was dripping.
The steady sound was what truly pulled Enoch Drebber back into some sort of consciousness, the one noise he could cling to in the otherwise deafening silence all around him. It made him groan, eyes still shut as though his eyelids had been glued together.
“Stangerson,” he rasped. “If that’s the boric acid again, I swear to God.”
He waited for hurried and utterly unbelievable assurances that whatever substance was being spilled in their student lodgings was harmless, or for Stangerson to make a quip about him swearing to God despite the complete rejection of his suffocating religious upbringing, but neither thing happened.
Only silence, that dripping noise, and the sinking realization that whatever he was laying onto was far harder than his mattress.
What is happening?
With a groan, Enoch forced his eyes open to be met with darkness. Even his right eye, painfully sensitive to light as it was until he covered it with a dark lens, seemed unable to penetrate it.
Something is wrong. When I went to sleep last night, did I… did… no. No, that’s not right. I didn’t go to sleep. I went… I… No!
A sense of panic and visceral rejection gripped him before he could make himself remember, and Enoch tried to sit up - only for pain, dormant until that moment, to shoot through the back of his left shoulder and shatter any remains of his peaceful slumber. Searing hot, unbearable, and suddenly he remembered--
the corpse
the pain
the fall
the dark
-- and screamed, in pain and horror in equal measure, a hand stilling in the air halfway to his burning shoulder, his left hand's fingers tingling and numb. He screamed loud enough for his voice to become hoarse and he fell back, dizzy and shaking, more pain flaring up as his back hit hard wood beneath him. With a stifled cry, he reached up to press his hands on his sweaty face, to ground himself.
But rather than feverish skin, his hands touched something hard, cold, unyielding. He knew what it was instinctively, saw it again staring back at him as its owner climbed out of his grave - then open like the maw of a beast - then upon his face. He heard the clacking noise of a key turning in a lock by his temple, saw someone’s ice-cold eyes bearing down on him.
“You should not be alive,” he had said. The words rang in Enoch’s mind through the haze of pain, and the scream in his throat turned into a choking sob as he clawed uselessly at the mask caging his head.
Buried me, he thought, they buried me alive, this is my grave and I will die here. Maybe I am dead already and this is Hell.
“Ah, I see you’re awake.”
A gasp, and Enoch craned his neck towards the voice, eyes snapping open. The movement got another groan of pain out of him, but his attention was taken by what he could finally see: a man standing only feet away, a lantern in his hand. In the light of that lantern Enoch could see stone walls and bars, a vaulted ceiling water dripped from and no windows at all, but none of it registered in his brain right away. All he could think of was that wherever he was, it was not in his grave.
“W-what--” he tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat when the man glanced up from a pocket watch and then directly at him. Ice-blue eyes, devoid of anger but unyielding. He had seen them before, and they made something within him tremble.
Later he wouldn’t be able to tell if the man’s hair was a very light blond or white, or what his facial hair had looked like, or even describe his features. All he could stare at were those pale eyes, spelling out his doom.
“I was advised it may be a while before the anaesthetic wore off, but it seems you’re more hardy than you look,” the man spoke. “Very well. This will save me time, and God knows how little of it I have right now.”
Enoch had to lick his lips before he could speak; his throat and mouth felt like sandpaper. “Anesthetic…?” he managed. His voice seemed to echo inside the iron mask.
“To remove the bullet from your shoulder, of course. It seems you frightened a grave robber as you climbed out of your grave, Professor, and the criminal decided to shoot first and ask questions later.”
What…?
“No-- no, no, you-- you got it backwards, I--” Enoch struggled to speak, but the man just silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“The public needs not know this detail, of course. We will simply explain that your execution was botched. Your neck did not break, and you were suffocated into unconsciousness - but were not dead by the time we lowered you.”
“My…” Enoch shook his head, heavy as it felt. His mind was still sluggish, but dread was settling in. Part of him knew where this was going, but he refused to acknowledge it for his own sanity. It couldn’t be. It simply could not be. “No. No, it wasn’t me--”
“Not the first botched hanging, regrettably, and it has been dealt with as those previous cases were - even if it meant I had to drag our highest members of the judiciary out of bed at an ungodly early hour.” The man lifted the lantern, the flickering light casting shadows on the bricks behind him. On that wall, his own shadow took the distorted form of a monster.
No, that’s not logical. Monsters are not real. Or are they?
“Attempting a hanging again would be unprecedented. We agreed to a commuted sentence. In Her Majesty's name, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment for your crimes, Professor.”
“No!” Enoch tried to cry out, but all that left him was a hoarse gasp. He tried to stand, reach the bars, but he only fell off the cot, landing in a heap on the floor. Another flare of pain, but terror was greater and he was able to lift himself on his good elbow. He realized, distantly, that his ankles were chained together. “You’re making a mistake! I’m not the Professor!”
“Oh?”
“My name is Enoch Drebber. I--”
“I wouldn’t know, Professor. Your name was kept a secret, remember?”
“I am not a murderer!” Enoch cried out, voice breaking up. “I am a student-- a grave robber, I confess, but I am not-- I saw him! I saw him rise from the grave! I can testify as much!”
“Ah, yes. That certainly would be inconvenient.” The man looked down at him, expression unchanging, and a sudden realization left Enoch speechless. He had been operating under the assumption that there had been a mistake, but he realized now that no mistake had occurred. The man may not have known who he was, but he knew exactly who he was not. He knew it in the cemetery, when he put that horrible mask on him, and he knew it now.
For reasons beyond his comprehension, that monster was set to see him pay for crimes he did not commit.
“Y-you-- I--” he choked, unable to articulate a single coherent word. With a sigh, the man straightened his tie.
“I will ensure a deaf warden is assigned to tend to you and bring your meals,” he said. “So that your vile lies never leave these walls.”
“NO! You can’t do this! Let me out of here!” Enoch cried out, trying to stand and, failing that, to crawl to the bars. But his shoulder was on fire and by the time his hand closed on the cold metal the man was gone up the stairs, the lantern with him, leaving him in darkness. He cursed, shouted, begged for him to come back for a very long time.
Then he just screamed.
***
“UUUAAAAAAAAAA--”
“Mercy! Please!”
“--AAAAAAAAAAAAA--”
“Look at this dollie! Look at it!”
“-- AAAAAAAAAAAAA--”
“Mikotoba! Help! Do something! My brain is hurting!”
Mikotoba would never know what was it that had pulled him out of his uneasy slumber, Iris’ drum-shattering shrieks or Sholmes panic-stricken yell, but either way he didn’t mind, groggy and tired as he felt. The few hours of sleep he’d had - no more than three, going by the clock on the wall - had been disturbed by vague nightmares, shadows and cries, two different women bleeding out before him while a baby girl’s cries filled the air, and throughout it all Genshin’s solemn face as he faced his fate, and Jigoku’s impotent fury as he failed to stop it.
Someone in need of the kind of help he could provide was a welcome change.
“--AAAAAAAAAA--”
He found Sholmes in the living room, tumbling around in what seemed a particularly clumsy waltz, the screaming baby in one arm and a baby bottle in the other hand, a doll under his armpit and singing a particularly off-key rendition of London Bridge Is Falling Down - all while looking more than a little sleep-deprived.
The effect was comical enough to get a smile out of Mikotoba. Only later, with his mind more rested, would it occur to him that perhaps the spectacle had been… a little exaggerated, with that exact intent. “... You called, Sholmes?”
“--AAAAAAAAAA--”
“My dear fellow! Yes!” Sholmes twirled dramatically to face him and held out Iris to him, shouting to be heard over her wailing. “Make her stop! I beg of you! More and more of my grey cells are dying by the minute! If too many die, what will become of me? I need them to live!”
Mikotoba’s smile widened a little. Part of him was very, very grateful for the distraction. “Most people find having cognitive functions useful to sustain life,” he said, and took Iris in his arms, making sure to support her head as he’d been shown how to do six years earlier, when Susato was born. He barely got to hold her at all before he left. “Was she fed?”
“--AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH--”
“Of course! In a manner of speaking!”
“Meaning?”
“She wouldn’t drink a drop! I am at a loss, my good fellow, at a loss. This is the best tea money can buy - if you’re on a tight budget, that is - but she won’t have any of it! She spat it all over my shirt, see?”
Ah. Maybe he was starting to see the problem. “... My friend, in no manual of medicine is ever recommended to feed babies anything other than milk. Surely the formula will do?”
“Yes, yes, but I tasted it--”
“You what--”
“And it tastes horrible!” Sholmes declared, almost shouting to be heard over Iris - who, to be fair, was beginning to calm down. “Tea is a far superior beverage!”
“May it be because babies are not meant to drink tea!”
“You say that because you folks never tried!”
“We have had tea since the eight century, Sholmes, and you’re the ones barely catching up.” Mikotoba groaned. “Please, just get her milk and--”
A knocking sound caused him to trail off, and Iris, now almost quiet, was taken from his arms.
“Ah, rent collection already - two demanding ladies is more than I can handle. Milk she shall receive, but please go see who’s at the door. I simply cannot be seen with tea all over my shirt.”
“Of course. And your share of the rent--”
“As soon as she’s fed!” Sholmes yelled, ducking into the kitchen along with the squalling baby. With a rather strong suspicion that his refusal to face their landlady had more to do with a lack of rent money than with concerns about the state of his shirt, Mikotoba shook his head and went to open the door with a smile, hoping he didn’t look as sleep-deprived as he felt.
Only that standing before him wasn’t their landlady. Their visitor was a man perhaps in his twenties, tall and stout, giving off a scent that was rather difficult to describe and which Mikotoba had only smelled in close proximity to Sholmes' chemistry set and experiments. He smiled somewhat anxiously and took off his hat with hands covered in burns, plasters and black smudges, revealing a mop of wavy brown hair that seemed to be… smouldering. Yes, one of the strands was definitely burning - a detail to which the youth seemed unaware of.
“I am sorry to bother you, sir,” he said, his voice a surprisingly pleasant baritone. He shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. “I was looking for the consulting detective, Mr…” he checked a smudge on his rather damaged hand. “Sher-- Herlock Holmes?”
Mikotoba smiled. “Sholmes?”
“Ah, yes! Him. The detective.” The young man - well, probably not all that much younger than him, but Mikotoba had rarely felt so old - nodded, the smile back on his face. “Is this the right place?”
Right place, wrong time.
“Indeed it is, yes. But--”
“Is that a fellow man in need of help I hear?” As though summoned by the prospect of cold hard cash, Sholmes appeared by his side, stained shirt and all. In his arms, Iris was busy suckling on his wrist with a gummy mouth.
“Ah-- yes, I suppose-- I have come for help. It’s--
“My dear fellow,” Sholmes said, tilting his head. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but are you aware your hair is on fire?”
“Huh? Oh! That.” The young man licked two of his chemically stained fingers and went to extinguish the smoldering strand. Or tried to at least, because when he pulled his fingers back it quietly started burning again.
Sholmes cocked an eyebrow. “If those stains on your fingers are the chemical compound I think it is, I commend your bravery, but it may be best to keep it away from your mouth.”
His warning was met with a wave and an absolute lack of concern. “Ah, don’t worry, I built immunity!”
“I see. Useful in your line of work, I suppose.”
The man blinked. “You know my...?”
Sholmes laughed, bouncing Iris in his arms. “I haven’t slept a wink but I’d have to be dull indeed, not to recognize a chemist when I see one!”
“Ah.” A chuckle. If he had questions about the presence of a baby scarcely three days old in a household shared by two bachelors, he did not voice them. “Yes, well. I am still a student at London University, but that is my chosen field.”
“See, Mikotoba, the deduction was correct! A very easy one for me, of course. I will only charge our good fellow a tuppence for it.”
“Wait-- what?”
“He’s only jesting,” Mikotoba intervened, trying not to roll his eyes in the man’s presence.
The student, on the other hand, straightened himself. “I have some money-- savings-- I can pay you,” he said quickly. “I read about you in the paper and I wonder if… if you can help.”
Ah. With the smile gone it was impossible to ignore the concern in the man’s voice, or his furrowed brow. Mikotoba had never felt less capable of taking on a case than he did that morning, and he suspected it was the same for Sholmes, but before them was a plea for help and he could not ignore it.
That, and perhaps another case was what they needed to keep their minds off… everything else. “Of course he can help. He’s not a great detective for nothing.” Mikotoba smiled, and gestured for the man to come inside just as Iris decided to start shrieking again, directly into Sholmes’ eardrum. As the great detective yelped, Mikotoba raised his voice to be heard. “What is your name, young man, and what brings you here?”
“My name is Joseph Stangerson,” the man yelled back, following them inside. “And a friend of mine has gone missing.”
