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When Veerle let out his fifth heavy sigh of the hour, his breath sending the glinting dust motes caught in the morning light swirling (not that Maxim had been observing it, nor anything near his lips for that matter), he let out a frustrated huff of his own. His eyes flicked down to his book, then unwillingly up a second later. The image of Veerle flopped rather unceremoniously over the lounge was made more crisp by the golden pince-nez perched on his nose. His tousled hair rendered in coils of stark shadow and pale light, the errant strands of stress greys crowning him in delicately spun silver. His lips were pursed, though Maxim did not let his eyes linger there too long. He’d already experienced the delightful if damning consequence of that indulgence.He lowered his book, the leather of his chair creaking as he settled into it. “What troubles you, Veerle?”Veerle didn’t move aside from the faint flutter of his closed eyelids and a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he sighed, something between annoyance and despair thickening his tone.“I don’t believe that,” he replied, arching a brow and closing his book.Veerle’s face scrunched, and Maxim forced back the slight smile the endearing expression prompted as the detective cracked open his eyes. “I don’t mean ‘Nothing is troubling me’. I mean ‘Nothing is troubling me.”“Ah, I see.”“From the point of view of a criminal expert such as myself, London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of Dexter.” Veerle hissed the name, though his voice quieted as he did, a tremor of something too heavy to bear with his voice mixing with the distaste.“I would think you more relieved. No small amount of grief went into achieving the feat after all,” even now, months later, Maxim couldn’t help the faint edge in his voice at the reminder, “And I can’t imagine you’d find many decent citizens to agree who would agree with you. We are all better off.”Veerle winced, expression fading from a harsh crease to an all too familiar guilty crumple. Deserved as it may be, Maxim’s hands twitched at the sight, as though longing to reach out and smooth it.“Ah, well, you are right there. I must not be selfish, and I am glad to have it behind me. Behind us. Apologies, Maxim, I am merely bored. For all the grief he caused he was a true master at distracting me from it. With him on the loose the morning paper could contain infinite possibilities, infinite puzzles, infinite ways to entertain myself. Often it was only a trace, the faintest of indicators, and yet it was enough to tell me the scheming bastard was there,” Veerle threw up his hands, the frustration brewing in his under stimulated mind spilling forth, “Like the gentle tremors of a web reminding one of the spider lurking in its shadow corners. Anything from petty theft to gruesome assaults— to one who knew him it could be worked into one connected whole. But now…”Veerle deflated, arms flopping upon the upholstery, the enflamed glint in his eyes dulling, glassy and empty. He shrugged, expression slack. Indeed he was right. The grand connected whole he spoke of, the tangle of red string and newspaper clippings he’d painstaking poured over for as long as Maxim had known him no longer enwebbed the walls of the drawing room. Now the cork boards were mostly empty, and Maxim had hung even more framed entomology specimens to hide the pin holes left in the wallpaper from the overflow. He wasn’t sure if walls covered in displayed bugs were better or worse than the garish map of Veerle’s inner conscious. Maxim’s gaze slipped from the Veerle, something in his chest twisting at his companion's evident distress. “Perhaps peruse the paper, maybe there is something amiss you can set your mind to. Either way, let us not dwell on the matter of its coming any longer. All is well. We have that at least.”Veerle being well and alive, by Maxim’s side, them being together in the cosy safety of their home, were all crammed into that single sentiment. Perhaps it would never be enough for Veerle to have this quiet contentment, but as the detective dragged himself into sitting and dutifully unfolded the morning’s paper, adjusting his skewed glasses with deft fingers, it was certainly all Maxim needed. Perhaps there was more he wanted, but in terms of a functional baseline… whether he had a bored detective or an engaged one, this was enough. Should he ever be so blessed to have the more they’d briefly experienced in the fleeting morning kisses after Veerle’s not so postmortem return, then the only wants left would be those that were impossible.He did not dwell on the notion that, only a few short months ago, before he had thought Veerle dead, before his life had been shattered and clumsily repaired, Veerle’s lips being wanting and willingly pressed to his own had been one of those impossibilities. Repaired though he may be, the new shape of his life was one he’d yet to fully grasp. But still, the space Veerle filled within it remained, maybe even deeper this time.Too immersed in his thoughts to actually read yet going through the motions regardless, he opened his book, only to slam it shut as a clamours ring echoed from the stairwell. Both their heads snapped to the entry to the drawing room. The front door rattled on its hinges as it swung open, the drumming of footsteps upon the stairs following it. An instant later a staggeringly tense man in a dishevelled suit burst into the room. His face was drained of colour, brows drawn into a tight worried line. In one hand he clutched a sheaf of papers, and he clung to the door frame with the other. He glanced between the two, abruptly straightening at their stares.“My sincerest apologies, Mr Aspera,” he choked, what seemed to be a usually firm voice shuddering as harsh breaths interrupted his words, “But you mustn’t blame me, I’m sure you will understand. I am the most unfortunate John Ledger.”He announced the name as though it should explain all, though as Maxim glanced to Veerle for an answer he found nothing but a blank expression. It seemed he was as unknown to his companion as he was to Maxim. He frowned, but turned back. If a detective such as Veerle didn’t know him then it was likely, at least in terms of their work, he wasn’t worth knowing. At least, not yet.Veerle’s hand drifted to a small tin on the coffee table, popping it open and offering it out to the distressed man. “Take a cigarette, Mr Ledger. Given your stress I’m sure a sedative will help,” he ignored Maxim's unimpressed stare, but the doctor made no move to interfere. Sound medical advice or not, at least it would mean one less for Veerle to indulge himself with. “If you are feeling a little more composed I would be glad if you would take a seat and tell us in a bit more detail who you are and why you have come to us. I don’t recognise your name despite your implication that I should. Beyond you being a solicitor of some success, an asthmatic, and for some reason took a number of backstreets to get here, I know nothing about you.”Maxim hid his scoff at the man’s astonishment, the badly masked widening of his eyes comical after having seen such a reaction so many times. Familiar with Veerle’s methods as he was, it was easy to piece together the clues he’d used. The papers formatted in a legal fashion, his fine if dishevelled clothes, the still wet grime not found on the paved main streets nearby caked to his shoes, and his still strained wheezing were all evident. At the revelation he cast a second glance at the cigarette now trailing smoke after Mr Ledger’s hand. In the interest of not interrupting the case, for he knew the look the detective would send him well, he ignored it. Should he wish to worsen his own health than that was his prerogative. The scent of smoke thickened in the room, however, more bitter for lacking the sweetener of Veerle's lips.“Yes, I am indeed, Mr Aspera. A most impressive observation. However, in unfortunate addition, I am maybe the most troubled man in London at this moment. Do not abandon me. I must have the time to tell you my whole story. Even if they come to arrest me you must give me time to explain.” Both tensed at the revelation. “Then I may go in peace, knowing the truth shall be uncovered and justice done.”“Arrest you?” exclaimed Veerle, eyes brightening, no longer glassy but full of near elated energy that seemed to radiate through his whole body. Even the pale light of dawn grew in warmth and intensity, sliding through the curtains with piercing brightness as though the heavens themselves were unfurling to watch his delight. “This is really most fortu— ehm— interesting. What is the charge?” He tilted his head, stare fixed on the man in the manner a bird would watch an unsuspecting bug crawl over its claws.The solicitor’s straight backed posture slumped, his eyes falling to the floor as though pulled by a grave weight. “I’m afraid it’s murder, Mr Aspera. The murder of one Mr Jonas Schist.”
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Maxim sighed in defeat as a consoling expression unfortunately not devoid of the same satisfaction of a cat who’d just caught its prey settled upon Veerle’s face. It seemed their day was not fated to be one of peace, then.
“How interesting,” Veerle mused, scanning over their guest with a new vigour, “It was only just before that I was complaining to my companion about the loss of sensational cases from the paper.”
Mr. Ledger sighed, reaching to take the open paper still resting over the detective’s lap. Maxim’s brows twitched as his faintly shaking finder bumped Veerle’s thigh, knuckles skimming over the fabric, and he was forced to suppress the glare which sought to settle on his features. It was not his place to get worked up over an accidental touch. No one cared about it, least of all Veerle who was too busy now peering at the paper as it was held out to him. There was just… There was something about those idle and thoughtless touches which Maxim had never been able to ignore, least of all now when he found himself wanting more openly for them. But his ire was not quite that of sour jealousy. Instead, he kept his stare firmly on their guest. Innocent or not, a suspected killer was not someone he wanted in his home, nor with their bloodied hands near his companion.
While Maxim began to stew in his displeasure the solicitor continued. “If you had looked at it you would have immediately noted my case. My name must be in everyone’s mouth by now,” he said darkly, pointing at a front page article, “Here, allow me to read it to you.”
“By all means.”
Mr. Ledger cleared his throat, and in a flat voice began to recite the words, both the detective and his doctor leaning forward to listen. “The headlines are as follows: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a well known Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ And the clue of which they speak, unfortunately, leads infallibly to me. The police are likely waiting for the warrant to arrest me… I’m afraid it will break my family's heart to hear of it.” He wrung his hands, resting his elbows upon his knees to brace himself.
Though he did not possess the observational powers of his companion Maxim still passed a searching eye over their guest. He was tall, and as previously noted dressed in the black and white suit of a well-to-do gentleman, his hair was dark, eyes a pale blue. Though his expression was dull and dower he noted nothing sinister behind the eyes. No tone of voice or strange choice of words which may betray a tendency toward violence. Indeed when he had spoken of the crimes attributed to him his body tense in discomfort, lips twitching in badly hidden distaste. Maxim had known killers of all kinds. Those who relished it, those who saw it as a grim necessity, and those who justified bringing death as part of noble deeds.
If Maxim were to be honest, despite being a doctor he knew easily which of those categories he found himself in. But this man… He had not the bearing of a killer, at least not one who would enact such violence with his own hands or purposefully.
“In that case let us establish the details quickly,” Veerle said, handing the paper to Maxim who raised a questioning brow, “Would you please read the paragraphs in question? I find your voice takes better to such things, it would help me settle and think.”
At his soft tone and small smile Maxim took it without complaint. It was something of a trend for him to read aloud to Veerle. Anything from case notes to stage plays. It always made some tight feeling in his chest ease when the detective asked for his help, when he sought to take comfort in his voice. It was a small strange thing to take pride in, but he did so regardless.
Clearing his throat, Maxim read the article in the same steady tone that always had Veerle relaxing into his seat, and on rare occasions, laying his head upon the doctor’s shoulder.
“Last night an incident occurred at Lower Norwood which points to a serious crime. Mr Jonas Schist is a well known resident of the suburb where he has carried on his business as a builder. He is a bachelor, fifty years of age, and lives at Deep Dene house upon Sydenham Road. He is reported to be a man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from business, in which he is said to have amassed considerable wealth. However, a small timberyard still exists at the back of the house, and last night, at about twelve o’clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines arrived swiftly, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed. Up until then, the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh evidence points to a serious crime.
“When the master of the house did not show an enquiry followed, which revealed his disappearance. An examination of his room revealed the bed had not been slept in, that a safe within it was open, several important papers scattered about the room, and finally, signs of a murderous struggle. Slight traces of blood were found in the room, and an oaken walking stick which also showed blood stains on the handle.” Maxim's eyes flicked up to their guest, who had gone a shade paler at the retelling. “It is known that Mr Jonas Schist received a visitor that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property of this person. He is a young London Solicitor named John Ledger. The police believe they have evidence in their possession which supplies a convincing motive for the crime, and it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow.
“Later. —It is rumoured that John Ledger has been arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr Jonas Schist. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. Sinister developments have been made at the investigation. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room, it is known that the French windows of the bedroom, which is on the ground floor, were found to be open, and that there were marks as if a bulky object had been dragged across to the woodpile. Finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the charcoal. The police theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed. The victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged to the wood stack to be ignited and hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of the investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Culantro of Scotland Yard, who is rigorously following the clues to their conclusion.”
Veerle listened to the account with closed eyes. He was leant back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, brow faintly furrowed. No doubt he formed an image of the crime in his mind. Aiming to visualise the picture they knew so he may locate the dark spots where unfound clues may lurk. The morning light filtering through the curtains edged his cheek with a warm silver, glinting off flyaway strands of hair, and illuminating his faintly fluttering lashes. Maxim wet his lips, having to clear his throat more than once as he came to the end of the article.
“The case certainly has some points of interest,” Veerle hummed, opening his eyes to regard Mr. Ledger with a deceptively easy stare. Maxim noted the faint tightness in the corners of his eyes, the slight dart of dark pupils across their guest’s figure, as the detective analysed their client one more. Maxim bit the inside of his mouth to distract from the distaste turning his stomach. “May I ask how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough evidence to arrest you?”
“Ah, well, I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, right near my family, but last night having to do business late with Mr. Schist I stayed at a hotel in Norwood and went to work from there.” While the solicitor spoke, Maxim's attention was drawn to the window, and the flurry of boots on stone echoing from below, “I knew nothing of the affair until I was on the train, when I read the article you just heard. Seeing the danger of my position I hurried to put the case in your capable hands. Should I have been at home or my office I do not doubt that I would have been arrested— Good heavens!”
The doorbell clashed a shattering note, and not a moment later those heavy bootsteps were pounding up the stairs. Maxim sighed, already lamenting the dirt he’d no doubt have to clean. Veerle did not flinch, merely frowning at the clamour, no doubt for the disruption to his careful mental puzzle. From around the corner appeared a short puffing man. He wore a long brown coat with a collar that bushed against his apple cheeks. Short curly hair fell around his faintly weathered face which bore a firm expression, though he offered a polite nod to both Maxim and Veerle. From behind his shoulders two uniformed figures hovered.
Inspector Bileyg Culantro straightened his clothes and drew himself to his full height, which was somewhere below Maxim’s shoulder. Despite his stature his stare was stern to make their guest pale further.
“John Ledger, I presume?” the inspector asked.
The solicitor rose, hands clasped in a white knuckle grip behind his back.
“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Schist. You are to be taken into our custody, please do not resist.”