Rook waited patiently, his finger on the trigger.
The signal… Wait for the signal…
He sighed. It would be a lot faster if he shot now…
His target, no more than a speck to the hunter, shifted around in his chair, clearly discomforted but unaware of the immediate danger he was in.
Do it now…
Realising he could stand it no longer, the man twisted around in his chair and opened the window behind him. In a flash, he slumped forwards, his head falling onto the desk in front of him, splattering it with crimson. Rook rapidly put away his air rifle into his bag and slinked away into the crowd below.
—
The dim lights lit the foggy streets, as the cab made its way to the scene of the crime. By the time they arrived, the moon had risen from its slumber and cast an eerie light among the drizzle of ominous fog.
"In here, sir," prompted a haggard constable standing at the entrance of a quaint terraced house. The two men had gotten off, paid their fare, and were now staring at the gloomy door.
"I've kept the scene untouched and the onlookers away," he informed them, while they walked up the stairs. "Here, through this door."
It was a total mess inside the roomy study room. Blood was sprayed all over the wall; a puddle of it was on the desk, slowly dripping onto the wooden floor beneath it. Towns' giant body was still slumped on his chair with his arms dangling down.
"What can you make out from this, Sigerson?" asked Inspector Branch, turning around but finding that the detective was missing.
"Sorry, inspector," panted Sigerson, running up the stairs to join his superior. "I was checking the footprints below."
"What did you find?" the inspector asked, entering the room with the detective.
"There was another set of footprints that led in through the door. Someone other than the constable and the victim entered the house before us."
The two of them walked around the room; the inspector with a solemn air and the detective with great interest, gliding around quickly to every spot in the room, studying everything intently. It was not a particularly large room; Sigerson could walk from one end of the room to the other in only a few steps, so much of the room was splattered with blood; the investigators had trouble making sure not to step in it. A window directly behind the desk on which the victim was slumped on was one of the two sources of light that shone in the room, the other being a lamp that they had brought along, which cast a strong light on the entire room. The constable, seeing that they needed nothing else, sunk back to the door, standing there like a statue.
"Was the door unlocked?" asked Sigerson to the constable.
"Yes it was. It was locked from the inside."
Locked from the inside? There was also an extra set of footprints…
Sigerson walked around, inspecting the blood splatters carefully. He abruptly stopped and stared at a few individual drops attentively.
Strange… These drops of blood were not created by the bullet wound; they are not the usual oblong shape but circular instead, meaning they fell from somewhere directly above. Something or somebody must have been in this very room during the murder…
He got up and walked over to the desk, inspecting the area around.
The angle that he had been shot at suggests that the shooter was considerably elevated above the victim. There are two possibilities: either someone stood behind him and fired or someone fired from a tall building. The latter seems to be the most likely; after all, there's no more than a foot's length of space between the victim and the wall. A hidden gunman…
Squinting out of the window, Sigerson could make out a tall multi-storey building in the ominous misty night. The door was hanging slightly open, which the detective hurried over to inspect. Miniscule tufts of fibre stuck to the doorpost, catching his eye; he plucked them off and held it up to the light.
Interesting… It is possible that the lock was slid shut by a piece of string tied to it, since the gap between the door and the frame is wide enough to let a piece of string through… I don't have much evidence, but I'm sure of it…
"So have you found anything yet?" asked Inspector Branch, waiting for him to make a mistake.
"Nothing definite so far," replied Sigerson, who clearly saw the inspector's satisfied grin. "As in, nothing that will help catch the culprits easily."
The inspector's smile dropped a bit.
"Meaning you still have found something connected to the crime?"
"Yes. I can confidently say that the crime was carried out by two people, one of them knew or was expected by the victim, and the murder was carried out by an exceptionally skilled shooter with an airgun."
"W–What?" stuttered the inspector, dumbfounded.
"There was only one set of unknown footprints around the house. They show that the person, most likely a man judging from the size of the shoeprints, was let in by Towns, as there doesn't seem to be any suggestion of a break-in. As you can see here—"
He pointed at a few drops of blood.
"The trajectory of the blood flying through the air was disturbed by something; namely, the mysterious person. The window was opened, Towns was shot, and then the person closed the window again, making it seem like the work of a single culprit."
"How do you know Towns wasn't shot by someone in the room?"
"The lack of gunpowder and also the position he was shot at; it would be impossible to squeeze in between the victim and the wall like that."
"What about the skilled shooter and the airgun?"
"Well, you have to be excellent at shooting to be able to hit a target at about nine hundred metres away. As for the airgun, I asked the constable standing on guard, and he told me that the neighbours never heard a sound. Since the airguns use compact air to shoot, they barely make a sound when they're used. Airguns are quite rare, but are nonetheless acquireable."
"I give up," admitted the inspector, "You really have thought of everything properly. Well, if everything you've said is true, then we should be able to find clues on our hidden assassin in that building."
The two of them descended back down the stairs and into the living room, where a fireplace and several other furniture were scattered around.
"Just a minute, inspector."
Kneeling down, Sigerson picked up a fragment of charred paper in the fireplace, fluttering gently while held down by a burnt log.
This is… A message?
"What is it?"
"Inspector, have a look at this."
He placed it softly into his palm and held it up; the fragment was no larger than an eraser. It was blackened around the edges with miniscule, cramped writing on it.
The murderer had enough time to completely destroy, yet they didn't; they must have left it here on purpose. But what can this mean? An eight and a thirty? P127/250… A10… A fragment of the sentence has been saved… Bomb is the only word I can make out from here…
He peeked to the side. A drawer was closed but had a clean patch inside of it. Something rectangular in shape had been taken out of it. What could it be?
"You should save this, Inspector," said Sigerson, handing over the charred piece of paper. When Inspector Branch tucked the piece of evidence away safely in a brown envelope, the detective prompted him, "That building is the only one left to inspect now, I think."
A pale illuminating light radiated from the moon and cast shadows over the quiet street. Footsteps from the two men were loud and distinctive in the silent night, as the only other sounds to be heard were the gentle wind blowing and the soft flickering of the flames in the street lampposts. Staring uncomfortably at them was the door of their destination.
It was an old tenement building set up for destruction and reconstruction; the inside was dusty and dirty with cobwebs hanging around like decorations. Rays of moonlight shined on the stairs leading up, eerily guiding them towards the tallest floor. Up the stairs they went with the light from their lamp illuminating the way and the stairs creaking with every step. Finally, the air brimming with ominous anticipation and fingers on the triggers of their revolvers, they reached the highest floor and pushed open the door.
There was nothing much; the room was nearly empty, except for a table and a chair lying on its back.
"Well, it looks like the bird has flown from its nest," sighed Sigerson. Seeing the crestfallen expression on Branch's face, he hastily added, "Don't worry, inspector; I suspect we will gain much from this little scene. A criminal may come and go silently, but never without leaving traces."
Immediately, Sigerson scoured the dusty room for marks and odd patterns and almost instantly gave a sharp exclamation and asked for the inspector's attention.
"These footprints are different and much bigger than the ones in front of Mr Towns' residence. And can you see here—" He added, adjusting the lamp's light to focus on a spot on the ground.
"Somebody has been kneeling here; much of the dust has been displaced."
Beyond the spot Sigerson was indicating, on the window ledge, was a slight mark.
So he knelt down, used the window ledge to steady his gun, and shot from here. And as expected, there are no signs of gunpowder, strengthening the theory for an airgun. The footprint is much larger than mine; the culprit must be at least five inches taller than me… Could it possibly be him?
—
"So, what did you find from that?" asked the inspector eagerly, bumping up and down the cab as it drove along an uneven road. They were heading back to the station after a night's investigation.
"Not much more aside from what I previously said. The shooter in the building is approximately six foot six judging from the marks on the ground and on the wall, where he leaned on. That's all I can find out for now."
Inspector Branch nodded and sank back into his own thoughts.
"Actually, there is someone I suspect."
"Who is it?" asked Inspector Branch with great interest.
"I have no evidence to link him to the crime, but I believe that Captain Rook of the second division of the army is the killer."
"August Rook? The one who shot down thirty soldiers from an enemy outpost without being detected? He's a national hero, you know."
"I know, but the evidence we do have fits him almost perfectly. He's excellent at shooting, he's six foot seven, and the last time I checked—"
Sigerson drew out a cloth wrapped with a cigar in it.
"He smoked these. I found this thrown away in a corner."
"How do you know he smoked those specific cigars?"
"I met him briefly in a meeting before; as to how I know that our assailant smoked this individual cigar, look closely and you will see that there are smudges of blood around it. Now, in the empty room we had investigated, there were small specks of blood splattered around the windowsill. I think it is safe to assume that the two small amounts of blood came from the same source; after all, nobody should have a reason to enter the building."
The soft clip-clopping of the horses' hooves came to a stop; they had arrived back at the station. Bading each other goodnight, the two of them left to their separate paths. Tolling ominously through the night was the giant bell, alerting everyone of the imminent midnight. Sigerson, hearing the midnight toll, quickened his steps. Something was troubling him from the crime scene; what was it?
The motive… There was no clear motive for the crime… Something was removed from the drawer… What could it have been? And that fragment of paper left; what do the numbers on it mean? Eight and thirty… Was it a date or a time? The only word that I can understand is bomb… Is this part of their plan? No… Something doesn't feel right; it seems like they want me to believe they're going to perform another crime… The accomplice had more than enough time to burn the evidence; why was the fragment still there? I'll have to think about this later, but there's no doubt now; an entire organisation is behind these crimes…
Greeting him warmly was an ornate oak door with a brass knob. He placed his coat aside on a rack, marched down the carpeted hall, and flopped into a cosy cushioned chair, exhausted from the work, he had missed lunch and dinner due to all the excitement of the day.
"Evie's still not back?" he muttered, his sharp green eyes glittering as a hand reached out for a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled down everything he remembered from the fragment of paper.
"Now, let me see… The only clues so far are the numbers eight and thirty, P127/250 and A10, and the word bomb. No… I also have another clue; the person behind all of this wants me to know this. It's unlikely that this set of letters and numbers is a code; there is no pattern to them at all. There has to be something that can be commonly found to turn these digits into a message. There is a high possibility that this is a message pointing to another crime; is it another diversion? If it is a message, then it should contain where and when the crime is to be carried out. Eight and thirty… Most likely a date, since there are no indications of it being day or night… That leaves where the crime is going to take place… A10 seems like a coordinate; it should match up with a map. The question is which one? It has to be in general use and easily obtainable… There is only one official street directory in Sodor… It also contains two hundred and fifty pages so page 127 now…"
Sigerson dropped his pen and moved sluggishly to a nearby shelf, which was stacked with books, and took down a bulky hardback edition of the city's street directory.
"Page 127, A10… Here it is. The theatre? Why would anyone target the theatre? Could there be something there that links the puppets and the strings? No… I'd better get some rest before anything now…"
With his mind still in shambles, the yawning detective returned the book back into its place and crept up in bed, closing the bedroom door behind him.
—
Chaos reigned over the city. Burning fireballs rained from the sky, reducing everything on the ground into ashes. Then, the balls of fire twisted themselves into humanoid figures, oddly distorted and horribly strong; they marched up against the country, threatening to destroy all. The smoke filled the air; screams and the sound of crashing buildings dominated the scene; he was powerless to help anybody. All of a sudden, before the destruction reached the country's most respected building, the House of the Custodians, everything disappeared in a blink, and Sigerson woke with a jolt.
The mahogany curtains covering his bedside window were drawn, letting the joyful sunshine jump and fill his room. His mind was still focused on the troubling night's dream. It had been too realistic… But there was no time to focus on imagination…
He limped out, half asleep, to the dining table, where his cousin, dressed in a plain white gown, was waiting for him. Her rosy red hair, neatly brushed and straightened out, seemed to glow in the morning sun, as her round green eyes looked up from the book she was reading.
"Your coffee is getting cold."
"Right. Thanks a lot, Evie," he said, sitting down in his chair and picking up a mug. Noticing a few additional new marks on the piece of paper he used yesterday, Sigerson asked quietly, "Did you understand the message on that slip of paper?"
"This?"
Evelyn indicated the paper.
"Yes, I solved it before I went to sleep. Clearly, these few numbers and letters point to the theatre, where I suppose a bombing is going to take place."
Sigerson fell silent, then seeing that the street directory was put in a different place on the shelf from the previous night, he lowered his voice and said, "You wouldn't have gotten it if I didn't leave the book out like that."
"Maybe not," replied Evelyn with a smile, putting down her book and bringing two dishes with toast.
"Aren't you worried? You work in the theatre, don't you?"
"If there really will be a bomb in the theatre, it'll most likely be carried out by an insider; if I suddenly change my usual routine, somebody's bound to notice. Besides, everyone will panic if I tell them, which could make catching the culprit much harder."
"I suppose so."
He quickly devoured the toast on his plate, and hurriedly dressed himself.
"Well, I'm going now, and I doubt I'll be back before nine, so don't bother waiting for me to come home for dinner."
Waving behind him, Sigerson left for work with a heavy feeling; why did he always feel like something was missing? He tried to shake off the feeling and walk on; after all, nothing was going to be achieved if all he was going to do was worry.
The work that day was extremely tedious. Seeing that the only clues on the murderers were the shoeprints, Inspector Branch sent out a team to track down the shoes and the owner, causing Sigerson to feel a slight bit annoyed at the inspector's decision.
"It's nearly useless, sending people out to match the shoes and wearer," the detective pointed out, while they were eating lunch. "The culprit had more than enough time to throw away his shoes along with some of the other evidence on that day; the chances of finding them are practically impossible."
Hold on… I understand what I was missing the entire time… If they are planning to bomb the theatre, then they won't be killing just a single person; they kill hundreds… This is not like the other more secretive murders carried out before; it's far too loud and they've never warned the police beforehand either until yesterday… Could this be a direct challenge to me?
Later that day, when Sigerson returned back, he asked Evie in his calmest manner, "Is everyone acting normally at work?"
"Hmm?"
The two of them were playing a game of whist, a favourite pastime for the pair, which usually led to intense disagreements and covert muttering. Evelyn slapped down the ace of spades triumphantly and replied, still fully focused on the card game, "Yes, everything's fine."
"Has anyone been acting strangely during the past weeks?"
"What do you mean by that? Do you really think someone working in the theatre is really plotting to blow it up?"
"As you said before, it is most likely that a crime was plotted or aided by an insider. And as for the message, I do think that they are going to bomb the theatre; the hand behind the crimes specifically wanted the police to see the message they left behind. If it is a diversion or a fake message, then I don't see any harm in taking precautions."
"Well… If you say it like that then, everybody is acting normally in my opinion; I trust my coworkers and believe none of them would ever participate in any crime."
"You trust too easily," muttered Sigerson in an undertone.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Anyways, when you go back to work tomorrow, can you check the building and any places that might contain concealed bombs because—"
"There are places that are restricted to me—"
"Then put on a disguise. I've seen you in your disguise before; nobody can do it better than you. I know you can do it."
When Evelyn continued to frown at him behind her cards, he said exasperatedly, "Look, if I could do it myself, I would have already, but I have too much paperwork back at the station. Besides—"
His voice became gentler.
"This is for you and everyone else's safety, so you would really just be helping yourself."
Evelyn sighed then said, "Fine. I'll do it tomorrow."
Unable to contain her happiness any longer, she left her cards, turned away, and disappeared into her room, leaving her cousin the pleasant duty of cleaning up.
—
During the following weeks, although nothing had been found in any of the theatre's rooms, which Evelyn had stated was obvious, a number of curious incidents popped up in the newspapers and instantly caught Sigerson's attention. One of the highest ranking generals in the army was shot in the heart by an unseen hand; the owner of a famous newspaper company was run over by a speeding cab; and the Foreign Affairs minister was nowhere to be found in Revalty, where he had been visiting on that day.
"There's a pattern in these murders, Inspector," stated Sigerson, kneeling down to get a better view of the tracks left by the cab wheels, horses, and victim.
"Do you think this was a murder?" asked Inspector Branch, joining him on the ground.
"Yes. The wheels of the cab didn't swerve until hitting the man," he replied, pointing at the messy lines imprinted on the ground in front of him.
"Notice that the hoof and wheel prints don't turn away from these footprints until they've run them over. This was a murder… A premeditated murder… Oh, I would arrest the cabbie if I were you, Inspector; it might provide us with a clue on this invisible hand."
I know what you're doing… Who you're targeting… Now I just have to figure out how to expose you… They were both seen together for a number of times during the past few years, but lately have been sending messages to each other through letters… I can't take the letters, but that proves that they are still communicating with each other…
A few years ago, when Rook was suspected, he suddenly stopped communicating with Blight; the crimes were then shifted to target Wenworth's company through Towns. Then, just a few weeks ago, an assassination was carried out on Towns, cutting off much important evidence. The prime suspect is now August Rook… What are you going to do now, Blight?