A Waltz of Knives

Eleanor and Godfrey walked together to where it seemed most fitting for them to stand, leaving Theodore, whose eyes scouted the surroundings, behind.

By that time, he had already mapped out the faces of those he was willing to watch: Lady Penelope Windemere, Viscountess Celeste Windermere, and Baron Percival Greystone. He had a longer list in mind, but he eventually settled on focusing on the targets already identified.

To his horror, he could find none of them by the time he entered the hall. He took a while thinking, not of where they might be, or what they could be doing, not even of the potential dangers of leaving them stray around as they wish. He thought of the most practical way to find them; of the protocol he must follow to inevitably find all his targets. And he did not think of that to maximise his efficiency; he only did because he was curious.

By the time he decided to focus on the matter at hand, Penelope was in front of his eyes, he had not noticed her despite her strong presence, he was the kind of person who once enters his own realm of thought, never leaves for no good reason –and the rest of the world almost always seemed like a not good enough one.

"Professor Wycliffe," this was far from the first time she called his name, getting no response, that's why it almost sounded like a scream, a rather weird scream, just loud enough to make her emotions reach him, but for someone standing a handful of feet away, it would sound like a whisper.

"Oh, Lady Windemere, I…" he tried to speak, but he could not; he was unprepared at best, completely lost at worst.

She covered her lips and laughed slightly at the state she had found him in, "Were you looking for something, perhaps?"

An answer was still yet to emerge from his thoughts when he noticed the Viscountess on the edge of his field of view, strangely filling him with both relief and disappointment. It is easy to explain why one would feel relief at that moment, but disappointment is one step further in complexity. Theodore wanted to find them on his own; he wanted to challenge himself and allow himself to grow in the process. Simply put, Theodore Wycliffe felt like his long-awaited prey was stolen by a predator.

Or maybe not, the Baron is still missing, and although his task became much less challenging, he was in no position to complain.

With his mind set, he had enough composure to put words together once more, "Lady Windemere, have you seen Baron Greystone?"

Of course, his question was not waiting for an answer, but just creating an environment where he could escape her and start searching.

"I couldn't be sure; he disappeared right after what happened between you two earlier."

"That's unfortunate, I must apologize for that; I'll go find him." he bowed a little, holding his hat at his chest, "Please, enjoy your time."

As Theodore found his way through the halls of the mansion, the ones that filled him with a weird feeling of nostalgia, he rearranged his thoughts, which was easier given the newfound silence. By that time, he had already figured out his attack plan – a weird choice of words, but that is simply how Theodore Wycliffe describes his world.

And likewise, he methodically, slowly but inevitably, covered the path he suggested the Baron would most likely follow; he knew the man was drunk, old, and rusty; all he had to do was a little guesswork, and before he could complain about how well hidden that latter was, Theodore heard a voice behind him.

"You!" said Baron Percival Greystone, his eyes so narrow they were practically closed; he could not focus his drunken, blurry vision otherwise.

"Baron Greystone, nice seeing you again," Theodore answered, not exactly meaning everything he said.

The man lifted his cane again and tried swinging it at the one in front of his eyes, missing him by feet and losing his balance. He fell forward, but Theodore caught him, which is not something to be so relieved about. Percival Greystone has a huge figure, and Theodore, to put it nicely, has not got the best of physiques. He had to adjust his foot to balance himself, and with a little more than some struggle, he managed to put his hand around the man, walking him back to the hall where he stood on his own.

The baron walked forward, ignoring the very existence of Theodore around; he walked as if lured by a Siren's singing voice, he took the hand of a maid and kissed her. The girl's name was Iris, just like the rest of the servants who work for the nobility; she had no title. Her mother, however, was a noble at some point in her youth, that is, until she met a painter from the commonwealth and got disowned by her family.

Iris was young, too young in a matter of fact, young enough for anyone to wonder why she was there rather than making wrong decisions in the dark alleys of the city. When most maids were in their thirties, widowed or homeless women who decided to earn their living and keep their dignity, Iris was barely in her twenties. Not only did that make her stand out, but it was so relevant given the mistress of that mansion –Eleanor- was also around the same age.

As the baron approached her, she was steadier than one would expect, not to say she did not seem worried, but she had already expected what working for the nobility that betrayed her mother would be like. She hoped she could find her way around without having to sacrifice much, but if push did come to shove, she was at the very least prepared for it.

The Baron put his hand around the girl's waist, turning her discomfort into actual fear. He started flooding with sweat, his eyes drooping, and his breath growing slower and heavier.

Then, in a glimpse of an eye, the silhouette of the old man froze dry, and his entire weight fell, for the second time, on Theodore, who was standing there intending to stop whatever was about to happen.

The Baron's gaze was consumed by Iris's presence, and his body did not make a slight movement; it was so solid that an ant's steps could have sounded louder than this rampant man's silence.

Theodore called the Baron's name not many times before the realisation filled him with terror; what his hands held at that moment was not a living man, but a dead body.

Professor Wycliffe took a deep breath before calling out Eleanor, who just so happened to come near to check up on him, "Can you lend me your voice?"

She looked at him, yet to realise what was happening, "Theo, is he…"

He nodded.

She returned the nod, "Dear guests!" screamed Eleanor, drawing everyone's attention, as Theodore examined the body for any answers or questions alike.

The music stopped on a bad note, only adding more layers of tension to the scene.

"It saddens me to announce that Baron Greystone's condition is not so promising. Please, fear nothing, we are yet to know what's happened."

Whispers from the back sounded louder than just whispers, "Didn't that commoner touch him a moment ago?" "No one did on except for him." "Is the Baron going to make it?"

But Theodore explored the body like it was a treasure box, finally putting his hand on a small pinhead in the back of the body's neck, he slowly and carefully picked it up with a pair of scissors, he then lit up a match, and heated the pinhead, and just as he feared and expected, it caught the flame.

It was clear that the Baron was poisoned, but Theodore was yet to figure out what the poison was, given that the latter was the only clue. Theodore thought, "It's a flammable substance, he didn't seem to feel pain in his neck, therefore it has a neuromuscular effect, muscle weakness and paralysis, assuming he wasn't injected until I wasn't around to watch, the poison could have been in his bloodstream for no more than a few minutes…"

Theodore eyed Eleanor for a long moment before she excused herself and dragged him to the hallway once more, this time making sure they were not followed.

"I'm not so sure," he paused, "I have one strong candidate for what the poison could be, but it's not a fun story to hear."

"Tell me everything," she answers very reliably; being his friend for a fair deal of time taught her that what he needs the most in tough times is a dry order to keep him focused on what needs to be done.

"I think it'd tubocurarine."

She looked at him with a provocative smile, reminding him that most people do not know what that is.

"It's a poison that, simply put, stops your body from moving, your arms, legs, and eventually your lungs. He was stuck in his motionless statue of a body for a long minute before he suffocated to death."

She let out a long sigh, "But that cannot be all of it, this is far from your first time dealing with death, why are you so worried?"

"Tubocurarine," he explained, "is a pure form of Curare, only found out of the continent, in America… whoever the murderer is, they have better connections than you'd like them to."

She took his hands slowly, in a kindness he never found in her behaviour, and because he never did, he cared not to be so naïve to expect it or accept it.

"We'll go back now, and I need you to find this person for me, is that clear?"

"I will."

The two walked back in, Eleanor reassured everyone that no more losses would be taken, and that the murderer would be found, despite her best efforts. Theodore was so obvious a suspect, and they couldn't get back at ease; accordingly, she asked him to leave for a while as things settled down.

He headed to the balcony and stayed there for a moment before he heard some footsteps, knowing exactly to whom they belonged. The heels of the nobles made a loud sound, but hers were the cheap heels of a maid.

"Iris, is it? I'm sorry I did not move any sooner; it's on me that you had to go through that."

She remained silent.

"Show me your hand," he demanded, expectedly sounding like a mannerless, weird commoner. He took her hand and watched it closely. He had already figured out much about Penelope that night, only from her hands, which says just how much of a valuable tool they are; they are a living record of every craftsman's craft.

The colours at the edges of her nails gave away that she was a painter, just like her parents, who carved art into her being, as a continuation of their dead legacy.

Before he could comment on his discovery, her figure that stood indifferent in front of everyone, broke down in tears as she spoke, "I… I was scared, that man… is he dead… did I do something wrong, please sir, am I going to be okay?"

To no one's surprise, her legs failed her, as she did not stop crying, or seemed like doing it any soon, the death of another noble couldn't have made less difference to her, but her cup was already full, so that any movement was enough to spill everything.

Theodore missed at first how everything would have looked from the perspective of Iris, but now, as she talked, it was clear that she deserved to be reassured at the very least.

"you're an artist, right?" he said in the best affirmative voice he could make "I'm a professor, many think I'm too young for that though, we're both intellectuals, both commoners, both exiled in this dirty pit of nobility, if we don't rely on one another, who else do we have?" he then remembered he was yet to answer her question, "you'll be fine, if someone is to be blamed in all of this, it's got to be me."

She kept wiping her tears, slowly making sense of his words, "but sir…"

"Theodore… from now on we're friends, unless I'm forcing myself on you… Am I?"

"No not at all, Theodore…" she said, the tears leaving her eyes, but fear and sadness not, they were both greater and deeper than to be removed by a stranger who takes friendship so lightly as to give and take it in a moment, but she didn't cry, and for Thedore Wycliffe, that was something, and he was neither too greedy to ask for more, nor too weak to stop trying.

The ball continued, the guests kept together not by the music, the waltz, the laughing, and bonding, but by a stronger binding, doubt, no one was to leave, for all those in the hall were murderers, until they had proven otherwise.