(((OOC: Evan's Last Post In Strangers At Night)))
(((OOC: Mods of Bruce cleared with Jess)))


Another murder.

When he had heard of the Kirk Street Murder, Evan was not intrigued at all. He expected it to be the work of a simple vengeance-looking fool who had planned it all out to mutilate the victim in the worst possible way. Nothing he would bother himself with unless paid well before. He was of the kind to dismiss anything he didn't consider interesting with ease. Even if it would be tremendously important, he would never give it a good look. He might glance at it, and do some work without even trying. It was always easier to say 'I can't' than actually attempt to force yourself to try. Evan was aware of this, and he took the easy way out each and every time. He'd been doing that since he was a boy. A good technique-claim you're not able to do something and have others do it. Sometimes, however, his pride got in the way and that was the only thing that could actually make him preoccupy himself with problems he didn't really want to deal with. And, surprisingly, then he would really, really try. Many people knew of this, but only his closest friends knew how to really use it on him.

Now it was not necessary. Another murder intrigued him, especially because of where it happened. The ball. He had heard of another scandal there-two people dancing the tango. That mde him wish he had been there-he might have enjoyed it, if he could still remember the moves...yes, he was certain he could. A few years ago, a prostitute from Spain taught him how to dance the exotic dance. He was attracted by the way she equalled it with sex, so he let her teach him. Evan would not have danced the tango at the ball, had he been there...that would have spoiled his reputation. He was a charmer, but he would never convert to shame or a scandal. At least not willingly. Would English people truly want a man who dances tango around Lindebo to investigate their most private affairs? He thought not. His parents wouldn't mind it, though, and since he still got most of the money from them...

Anyway, back to the murder. Ferdinand Mallister. Evan remembered hearing his name in association to numerous scandals. Many of his clients left his office with knowledge that man had been sleeping with their wives or daughters. This didn't make Evan think less of him, though-he only thought less of people he found in really embarassing situations, as men sleeping with men and women with women. Not that he would do something like beat up such people. It merely creeped him out a bit. Men and women having sex was natural, but homosexuality was something that made him feel uncomfortable. That's why he never informed his clients when he'd catch their wives sleeping with whores from brothels. What kind of a Vicotrian person wouldn't turn insane upon hearing such news? And insane people don't pay good money. At least not if you're the one that had made them insane. It was a lesson he learned long time ago, when he told a woman her husband was sleeping with their neighbor. She paid him half the price he could've gotten had he told her better news. If Evan was ever to remain penniless, he would surely have enough blackmailing material to rise to a material status of a baron. And a rich one. Figuratively speaking, of course. But he wouldn't be penniless anymore.

The ball was such an interesting murder site because of all the people attending. There were plenty of suspects to question, although almost anyone from the street could have gotten in had the security been low. Which was very likely the case; he had heard almost anybody could have gotten in. So, both victims had been men. Perhaps this was a woman thing, a revenge to the males? Then the woman would have to be a longer time inhabitant of Lindebo, to be paying revenge to the men of the city. Evan was sure that the victims weren't chosen randomly. Had, for example, a good old man come out of the ballroom, he would've been spared. The Killer would not take care of all the details if he were just a random wacko. Random wackos kill to kill, not to mutilate and such.

Evan could not have been happier when a certain Narcissa Mallister sent him a letter. Narcissa Potter Mallister, to be exact-Ferdinand's mother. She mentioned she wanted a meeting with him at 4 PM, at his office. Obviously, she wanted for him to investigate her son's death. Evan would gladly do it. The woman was about to come within the next fifteen minutes. The young man was pretty sure he would take up the case even if she paid minimum wages. Not because of smpathy, but because it interested him. Sympathy rarely got you anywhere...although Evan couldn't say he had never shown it. He would, for example, throw a coin at beggars here or there...wasn't that enough? And Mrs. Mallister, should she pay little, would find him a man very merciful for taking up her son's case.

The knock on the door came from his maid, whom he used as a secretary. She would welcome customers to his office, and clean the place up every evening. Plus, she was extremely attractive-a tall, dark eyed brunette with a curvacious body. He had used her as something esle than a maid soleley, but was smart enough not to ever bring it up. Miss Robillard followed the same course of actions, most likely afraid for her job. Evan liked to intimidate people, so this was very fun to him. Miss Robillard's head appeared in the doorway; "Mr. Stewart, there's a lady to see you. Mrs. Mallister..." Evan quickly removed his legs from the desk, where they had been only moments ago; "Show her in."

Narcissa Mallister was a short woman with a firm face. Her hair was snow white, but there were almost no wrinkles on her. Her features showed she had cleary been a vey beautiful woman before. The dress she wore was black, but obviously expensive and finely made. Her ocean eyes were stricken with ambition, obviously motivated by anger; "Mrs. Mallister." Evan got up to kiss her hand; "Please have a seat." He gestured to an empty chair, and waited for her to settle down before doing so himself. He chose to get right to the point, with no delay; "Now, how can I be of use to you?" The woman seemed fairly uninterested-strange for a person whose son had been killed in such an arduous way. Evan felt his admiration for her grow. It took effort to remain calm after all she had no doubt been through...

"You know that...my son Ferdinand has been killed..." Her voice faltered here, and she reached for her reticule to pull out a hadnkerchief. However, she stopped herself before even touching it, and averted her eyes to Evan; "No matter what they said about him, Mr. Stewart, my son was a good man...and whatever he had done, it was not his fault...he has had a troubled life and..." Her lips turned into a thin line as she realized she was still speaking as if he were alive. Evan spotted this, but paid little if none attention to it. Instead, he was interested to hear more about Mallister's past. It could be relevant to the case, and it was good gossip. He liked to know gossip for himself. So, he extended his hand and placed it on the old woman's one; "Madam, unless it is too difficult for you, could you please continue? Past life can be relevant to the...case." He had almost used the word 'murder', but he somehow felt it would shatter the woman. All her previous strength was gone.

Nodding her head hastily, Naricssa continued; "Ferdinand's father...was the love of my life. He was a...rich man, son of a succesful trader...and he walked away with my heart before I knew it after we shared a dance at a ball...Ferdinand was our second child. We first had a daughter, Emmeline. She is...was...is five years older than him, married, in London now. When Ferdinand was born, Simon...my husband...had been thrilled, he had always wanted an heir. But, when his father had been killed...he, to be frank...had lost it. Simon started drinking, and regulary beating Ferdinand up..." Mrs. Mallister winced, and tears ran down her face. Evan was to mesmerized in the story to pay attention to it; "He kept telling my boy he was worthless, stupid...so Ferdinand started to spend all his time outside of the house. Sleeping with...prostitutes, and on occasion married women...he was 16 when Simon disowned him. At 16, my boy had to leave the house..." She started sobbign violently; "And I was too blindly in love with Simon to see any of it, to oppose him, to actually do something..."

"Where is your husband now?" Evan asked, to get a swift response; "Dead. Killed in a bar fight two years ago." The woman sighed, giving him a pleading look; "I don't know if Ferdinand had any enemies...all I want is for his death to be justly avenged...if I had not been able to help him in life..." Her eyelids closed over her red eyes; "I want to at least have him rest in peace." She rummaged throuhg the reticule and pulled out a bag of coins. Evan was surprised; he had expected much less. Even more surprising where Naricssa's words; "You'll get five times that much by the end of the investigation. I am ready to pay for avenging my son, and I did not go the official authorities because, frankly, they are always in the dark and are completely incapable."

When Narcissa Mallister left, Evan wrote all the information he had gotten on a clean paper before placing it into his archive. This was very interesting indeed. Now, he was officially on this case. The first person he would question would be the night watchman. He of all people should have noticed something. Later, he'd pass over to the other guests of the ball. This would be difficult, but it'd also be very amusing. Evan wanted this to be the case of his life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tweleve hours later, he had arranged for the night watchman to come to his office. He had already prepared the questions for him. Really, he pondered, the man was also a valid suspect, for he could have roamed around freely without being questioned...Not that he was about to reveal this to Mr. Abercombie. That surely would not help him cooperate. Evan leaned back in his chair, waiting for a kncok on his door.

Bruce ascended the stairs to the address that had been indicated on the card left for him at the theatre office. He had, of course, recognised it at once as the calling-card of a gentleman; ladies generally had flowers and suchlike on theirs, not to mention no lady would be likely to call upon him. And only nobs used calling-cards; a man of Bruce's own class would have just left a verbal message with another theatre employee. But he had been unable to read it for himself, and therefore had been obliged to ask someone else to read it to him. He had asked Alastair Broderick, the stagehand, to tell him what the letters meant. And now, he reflected, he really was not much more enlightened than before he had known the name and address on the card.

Alastair hadn't known anything about the man, one Evan Stewart, at Number 15 Madsen Place, Furwich. Bruce himself had never heard of him. He could form no guesses as to why Stewart wanted to see him. Not many of Stewart's caliber wanted to speak to a night-watchman. Those in South Lindebo didn’t mess with people from Yardley Row. What could Stewart want with Bruce? The uncertainty made several ridiculous possibilities, ones he would not even have considered if he had been more in his normal spirits, fly through his head. Was it about a woman? Bruce had never messed with a woman who would have been remotely likely to be connected with anyone in South Lindebo. Could it be someone who knew him from London, as unlikely as that was? Could this person be associated with the theatre, and he was being pulled in for the interview that he had been dreading ever since the evening of the Easter Ball?

For Bruce was quite certain that within a short time, he would lose his position at the Lindeman Theatre. No one knew about his little masquerade as the Count, but it did not matter if they knew or not. The murder had happened on his watch, and although it was likely that even if Bruce had been attending to his duty he would not have caught the fellow in time, the theatre required a scape-goat for their own reputation. Bruce expected that he would serve their purposes quite well.

Losing his job would leave him with nowhere to go; he had not saved up very much money at all, and quite soon he would be unable to pay his rent. His landlady was a hatchet-faced harridan with a heart of cold, untouchable ice; she’d already thrown him out in the street once when he was only a day late with his payment. He had friends enough, but none that were wealthier than he was, and Bruce knew that he had no one upon whom he could rely for help. Therefore he had been turning his mind to securing a new position, before he lost the one he currently had. He expected that it would not be too difficult to go back to being a copper, except that the measly pay would oblige him to move into even worse lodgings than he currently had. Not that he would miss his landlady, nor the roaches in his bedroom, but he preferred just roaches to roaches as well as rats. Also, the life of a copper was very nearly one of the most miserable he could describe off the top of his head; walking the beat through rain, snow, and sickness, without much possibility of ever getting anything better - reaching his position at the Lindeman Theatre had been pure luck, a serendipity he could not possibly hope for a second time.

Well, it didn’t serve to worry about that part of the future. Right now, he had something else to worry about, and that was who exactly Evan Stewart was, and what he wanted with Bruce Todd Abercrombie. The night-watchman paused outside of the door, looking around him at his surroundings. Stewart’s home, or office, or whatever he called his place, was on the second floor of the respectable brick building, up a staircase on the outside. The knocker was a double ring, like an eight lying on its side. Or like a pair of knockers. Bruce grinned to himself, lifted the brass, and dropped it again to land against the door with a heavy thunk.

Miss Robillard was sitting in the parlour of the office. That was one of the reasons she liked working for Evan Stewart. He allowed her not to do anything at all; just sit around and read or play the lovely, expensive piano he had installed for her only. Needless to say, he was very handsome. Now, had she worked for a man even richer than him, even a noble man, she knew she would have received no better treatment. Really, what noble man would've purchased a nice, new piano for his servant? And what noble man would allow his maid to do nothing and enjoy herself for the entire day? Evan even allowed her to eat every treat he had in the parlour(those were supposed to be for customers waiting...but he had clearly stated she could take them all as long as she replaced them with new ones in time). So, yes, she was more than perfectly happy here. The salary was good, too.

She was just finishing the newest edition of the Gazzette when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, she tore her eyes from the "Easter Ball" article and pushed away from the soft sofa. A customer? Yes, naturally. Mister Stewart had an appointment with the nightwatchman. Because of the Murder at the ball. Really, Miss Robillard had been very surprised when Evan had refused to go to the ball; it was very unlike him. When she had asked him, he said he considered it too boring and snobby-he had rather gone to visit some...lady friends. To be honest, it made her feel jealous. But she was also very glad he had not gone to the ball now. What if he had been killed? She would've died, certainly. Moving over to the door, she wondered whether the night watchman was the murderer. Sometimes, she liked to try and solve her employers cases. It was good fun.

Opening the door, she eyed the man standing before them. He was tall, and handsome. This was enough for her to cast him a grin, and a flash of her dark eyes. My, she certainly hoped he was not the murderer. It would be a pity for his lovely neck to be hung...Oh, well. Changing her seductive smile to polite, she spoke; "Good day...Mr. Abercombie, I presume?" She had a good memory, "Please, enter...Mr. Stewart is expecting you." She led him to the parlor, "Wait here, please, will I go and notify him of your arrival." And she disappeared in the direction of Evan's office.

Evan was reading the Gazette as well, trying to find a detail he might have missed earlier. When it resulted in nothing, he put it away and lit a cigar. When was this night watchman going to arrive? He was already quite late. Evan wondered if the man had gotten his calling-card at all. He was just about to call for Miss Robillard, when she entered his office with a slight knock. His eyes flew to her; "Yes, Elaine?" He rarely used her first name..only when they were completely alone. And he could see she liked it, because her lips curved in a mysterious way when she answered, "Mr. Abercombie is here, Mr. Stewart. Should I lead him in?"

Finally. Evan nodded his head, and as Elaine disappeared, he had to admit he was only a tad displeased. Had Abercombie not arrived yet, he could've had some fun with Elaine. Ah, well. At least he was going to catch the murderer now. Or so he hoped.

Elaine Robillard returned to the parlor, smiling at Abercombie again; "Mr. Stewart will see you know. This way, please." And she lead him into Evan's office.

Bruce was uneasy about this whole thing, but he didn’t show it; when no one responded to the knock at first, he slouched against the doorframe and cupped his hands in front of his face, blowing on his fingers to warm them. He didn’t have gloves, and it was chilly in the mornings still, even though it was spring. He had only recently come off-duty – which, now that he thought of that, probably meant that Stewart was somehow connected to the theatre. At least Stewart was familiar with the watchman’s shifts, though he was clearly pretty peremptory.

The time Stewart had set for the appointment would have meant that Bruce would have had to catch a hansom cab directly from the Lindeman to Madsen Place if he was going to be punctual. Bruce would be damned before he’d be at the beck and call of some nob who didn’t give him much reason, so he hadn’t been in any hurry to head for Stewart’s instantly. Instead he’d gone home and changed out of his uniform, and now wore rumpled street-clothes. Then he’d taken a jaunt to Denton’s, where he had picked up a hot pastie for his breakfast. It was always best not to ask what went into Denton’s pasties, nor to look at them too closely while you were eating them; if you didn’t know, they actually tasted pretty good. Of course, he had to take five for a quick chat with Denton, who was a friend and a good sort of fellow. And after all that…he was rather late to see Stewart. That was Stewart’s problem, though, not Bruce’s.

After a minute or so, never having been the world’s most patient man, he knocked again, and this time heard quick footsteps from within, so he straightened most of the way and turned around. There was the rustle of skirts and then the door opened; there was a woman standing there, shorter than him, modestly if simply dressed in servant’s livery, and pretty. She had very fine brown eyes that caught the light and kept it; she was also smiling at him, a look that hid what Bruce knew well enough to see. He smiled back, naturally, but she dropped her gaze for a moment and then she was all business.

She welcomed him in with a pert greetings, identifying him right off the bat and then showing him into the house. With her mannerisms she had sent him a signal that meant flirtation was out of the question, at least for now, so he simply said, “How d’ye do, Miss,” and left it at that. He didn’t know her name, but he could find that out later. Stewart might be a waste of his time, or might even mean trouble, but he’d get at least something out of this morning’s business.

The maid left him in a well-furnished room, though it wasn’t Buckingham Palace. Bruce was decidedly misplaced in this sort of room, but he felt no real discomfort, and while he waited for Stewart to show up, he planted himself on one of the chairs and lounged. He had shaved the previous evening before his watch, though his jawline was covered with the night’s stubble that he hadn’t bothered to take care of in the morning. He scratched at the prickly hairs idly with one finger while he waited in the unfamiliar environment.

He amused himself with considerations about the maid. She was familiar with Stewart’s appointments, and there was ink on her fingers, so perhaps she was Stewart’s stenographer, or his secretary, or some such? She was certainly easy on the eyes, probably another reason Stewart kept her around. Perhaps he should ask her exactly what the hell Stewart had asked to see him for, she might be friendly. That first smile she’d given him had definitely been friendly.

But when she reappeared at last, she was still all business, leading him briskly into another room, which contained a man that had to be Mr Stewart. Bruce gave him the same careful once-over that he’d given the building and the interior furnishings, sizing him up. He was not as tall as Bruce, nor as powerfully built – a slim, wiry fellow, rather - and he was younger. As anyone would expect from his address in Furwich, he was tolerably well-off. He was something of a dandy, too, or at least he looked one with that pretty face. Judging from the way his eyes fell on the maid, Bruce was right on one of his conjectures about the woman.

None of that told him anything really useful, so he tipped his bowler hat slightly and said in Scotch twang, “How d’ye do, Mr Stewart?”

As he said that, there was a curious sensation nagging at Bruce's mind. He was certain he had never met or even heard of Evan Stewart in his life before, but there was something strangely familiar about the man. He could not put his finger on it. It was too vague, and there was no memory to go with it - just an inexplicable feeling of deja vu.

Evan nodded his head at Bruce, eyeing him quickly. Usually, he made very good first-sight judgements, and he always placed great trust into his eyes and into his hunches. He believed himself, to simplify, more tahn he believed evidence and clues. However, he needed the latter to be able to make use of the former. Bruce appeared to him as a slightly...simple man. He could not be very sophisticated, being a mere night watchman, of course. Evan had never heard of this man or met him, providing his only visits to the theatre had been those to some seductive actresses...Dancers, too. He had also seen a play once or twice, but always paid more attention to his date for the night. Was that not more interesting than some drama he could see any time he wanted? Even if that had not been the case, Evan would not have cared much.

Getting back to this witness/suspect he had here. Evan also noticed that he looked at him in a eweird manner...as if he'd seen him before. Now, Evan had nothing against people who had met him before, if he had seen them as well. But when he was recognized by people unknown to him...completely unknown to him, it made him feel nervous. He did not know why precisely, but he knew one thing-it had not been present before he had comitted that bar robbery...that joke that had resulted in such a terrible outcome. Maybe he was afraid that someone had seen him, even though he had worn a mask? No...no, that was impossible, of course. It had to be something else...maybe he was just uncomfortable with the fact people could know more about him than he knew about them; after all, he did know to what good use could such interesting information be put to.

Shaking off the memories of the past, Evan decided to focus on the present and the future. Motioning at the chair, he addressed Bruce; "Have a seat, Mr. Abercombie." Then, as he waited for Bruce to settle down, he grabbed his box of cigars and offered them to him. After that, he started thinking up questions to ask Bruce. The first thing to do was to explain why had he called him here. The key was to watch his face as he did that; he had to see what reaction the man had to the mention of the murder. If a murderer, he might panick, he miht appear scared. But he also might be able to conceal all that. With a polite smile, Evan began; "The reason I've called you here is the murder that had occurred at the Easter Ball:" A pause, during which Evan's eyes remained focused on Bruce's face.

In order to go on properly, he needed to take very good notice of this reaction. The details mattered, and Evan had the eye for details. Rare people could trick him; only professionals. And those did not come by all that often. Evan was pleased with that, because he liked to think himself to be the best. Actually, he did deem himself to be the best. At least for most of the time he did.

One of the things that Bruce noticed was that Stewart was observing him equally as closely as he was being scanned. The fellow kept his expression pretty clean, however. Bruce couldn’t read anything in his face at first, except perhaps a little disdain. Stewart’s opinion of him didn’t matter a jot, as he didn’t know Stewart from the man in the moon – he was sure of that, despite that odd feeling of familiarity. However, it did put his back up just a little, grating on a temper worn a little thinner than usual after the stress of the past few days. Irritation flared, and Bruce returned Stewart’s gaze with one of cool challenge.

There was a telltale flicker around Stewart’s eye, though, that in a moment gave Bruce to realise that for some reason, the other man was uneasy as well. He wasn’t betraying it very pointedly, and he offered Bruce a seat sounding as if he was perfectly unconcerned. Bruce had put him on his guard, though, somehow; dropping his bulk down into the indicated chair, the night watchman leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyebrows beetled together as he watched the other man.

A box of cigars was held out to him wordlessly, and Bruce reached out and took one of the fat brown cylinders. He didn’t usually smoke cigars – he couldn’t afford them. Instead he rolled his tobacco in paper and smoked that. He bought a copy of the Gazette every now and then for that use. The cigar was bound to be better than Bruce’s own tobacco, though – he didn’t doubt that his can was half dandelion greens or some such; it made a foul smoke. He drew a packet of safety-matches from his coat pocket and pulled one out. Striking the match on the edge of Stewart’s table, he gripped the cigar in his teeth, lit the end, and drew in a puff. Blue-grey smoke spiraled upwards with a woody, rich fragrance.

"Thanks," he rumbled to the other man. It was a good cigar. Then he looked up, and caught Stewart staring at him intently as he said – almost casually, with a detached smile that belied the focus in his eyes – "The reason I’ve called you here is the murder that occurred at the Easter Ball."

Bruce’s teeth loosened around the cigar, and he took it in his fingers and lowered it from his mouth. He only blew out a cloud of the sweet fumes. He might have shown more of a startle reaction, except that he had already guessed that was what Stewart was to see him over. So Bruce was completely calm, and with the rush of nicotine even relaxed. He didn’t care for the possibility of losing his job as night-watchman, but he’d already faced it and had come to a sort of philosophical acceptance, or at least deferred worrying until later.

"Aye, thought that would be it," he answered. "What do you want to know about it? I’ve talked to the bobbies already." Bruce caught the further question in Stewart's eyes, and added, "I’ll tell you the same as I told them: I heard nothing, seen nothing until too late. Saw the body only after all the hullabaloo."

[[[OOC: A bit crappy, I know. Sorry for that]]]

Evan wasn't particularly set off by Bruce's lack of reaction at the mention of the mruder. He was aware of the state of mutliation on those body, and was certain of one; if someone was capable of doing that to another human being, than they most certainly would have had no problem with lying into someone's face. Unless they were psychopatic to a level no one could understand. He chose to believe that was not the case. The crimes, as brutal as they had been, had also been very carefully planned; without any clues, any traces to lead the investigators to the commiter. A fully unperpared person could never have done all of that. Evan took some notes casually, making sure Bruce didn't see what he was writing. The detective was not aware the other man was illiterate.

"I’ll tell you the same as I told them: I heard nothing, seen nothing until too late. Saw the body only after all the hullabaloo." Evan nodded his head. Anyone could've said that. It was the most common alibi in the book. The oldest one, too. I didn't hear or see a thing, I was far away from the murder. Evan didn't really believe this man was the murderer, but he had to keep his mind open to all options; "Mr. Abercombie, did you know the victim? Or did you see them arguing with anybody...during the ball?" Of course, he was going to check Abercombie's story with the stories of other people he intended to interrogate.

During the pause, he readied his pencil to write down the recations and the story Abercombie was going to tell. It was suppsoed to give him some clues, and to tell him whom it would be the wisest to question after him. It was possible that the murderer had already chosen Mallister as his victim before that night. It was also possible he had chosen him randomly...because he was there. The last possiblity was that the killer picked his victims in the following way: when someone would annoy him, he'd mutilate them and get rid of them. In his eyes, the murderer was someone angry with the world, enough of listening to the others...wanting to revenge on the people of Lindebo. Perhaps not even all of them...just a few that had wronged him.

I must try and see if there's a link between Bullworth and Mallister. He made a mental note to himself.

The case of accident, of course, was dismissed. Perhaps the killer wanted to joke...

This thought had intiated a chain of others. Once again he was taken back to that night in London. He remembered the panic he'd felt, he remembered how he pressed the trigger...and how the bartender was dead. The police had nearly caught him back then...but he'd esacped...Why was he thinking of this now?

Because he couldn't help but ask himself whether there was any real difference between this killer, who was taking other people's lives because of a motive, and him, who'd accidentally shot a man.

(OOC – mods of Evan were all cleared, yupyup, all that jazz.)

Bruce held the cigar out to one side, so that the ashes wouldn’t fall on his clothing. They’d probably fall on Stewart’s carpet, but he didn’t care about that, that was Stewart’s problem. Relaxing in the chair, he watched the other man – he still suspected Stewart was working for the theatre administration. Perhaps it was around the offices that he had seen the man before? The fellow was writing something down, he could see his hand moving in small, brisk strokes, and he could hear the scratching of the pen. Bruce made no move to crane his neck to see, although he could have done it. He wondered, vaguely, what it was saying about him, but didn’t pause long to wonder.

He was at his ease, the cigar bringing a calm with it, but underneath that there was something bubbling up…an odd feeling. Quite apart from the strange and inexplicable familiarity of the man (with each word Stewart spoke, that impression grew on Bruce – his gut was telling him something was wrong here) there were other things strange about this meeting. What was with the formality of the whole thing? You’d think they could just tell him he was fired and be done with it. And he still didn’t get why Stewart was looking so uneasy.

Stewart’s next question surprised him a little more. “Mr. Abercrombie, did you know the victim? Or did you see them arguing with anybody…during the ball?” Coming from someone whom he had assumed was interviewing him prior to firing him, that question was not what he would have expected. No, Stewart’s line of thought had a different ring to it. At this point he wanted to know who Stewart was and what he was dealing with. He wasn’t going to be groping around in the dark, Stewart had nothing to do with the police – he’d have spotted a bobby in a second – but there was something fishy about this man.

“Mr Stewart, before I say nothin’, I’d like to know what I’m doin’ here and who you are.”

Stewart looked back at him coolly. “You’re here because of the murder that occurred at the ball, Mr. Abercrombie. I am, as it says on my door, a private investigator.” Bruce hadn’t read the sign on the door. He hadn’t been able to read the sign on the door. Clearly, Stewart had expected him to be able to, but this news took him completely by surprise. A grunt was his only expression of that surprise, though.

Knowing that Stewart was interrogating him as part of an investigation, now, what would he do? This wasn’t a simple query over his job – Stewart considered him either witness or possibly even suspect. He’d have dismissed the man out of hand, not having too high an opinion of private detectives in general, but this Stewart wasn’t a fool. Bruce trusted his gut about others, and right now, his gut was telling him to take Stewart seriously or he’d regret it.

Bruce had been a simple police constable, never an investigator. He’d never even been suggested for a promotion. What he knew about the business didn’t extend to understanding the deductive reasoning of the higher-ups. But he did know that if you were looking an detective in the eye, you didn’t lie. Even if it made you sound a tad suspicious. He answered with blunt forthrightness. “Yeah, I knew Mallister. I didn’t see him at the ball, but he hung around the theatre a lot. One of the regulars to the plays. He never liked to leave, I had to throw him out half a dozen times. He and I weren’t no kind of friends.”

Evan tried to restrain a frown when ashes from Bruce's cigar dropped onto his carpet. Not because he cared about the price of the carpet too much...he simply didn't like when people acted so...well, to put it plainly, as if they'd been born in a cave. As for the carpet itself...Elaine was going to clean it up. Or he was going to buy a new one with his father's or his money. Mrs. Mallister had paid him quite a sum. Certainly enough for a carpet. Dimssing the matter astonishingly quickly, he looked at Bruce, waiting for an answer to his question. After he'd told him who he was, Bruce began to appear a tad more unnerved. Strange...he had not read Evan's job on the calling card...and he also hadn't read it on his door. Evan began to wonder-had this man really been born in a cave?

If he was, he certainly knew him from that cave. He could see it in Abercombie's eyes again-the recognition. Evan tried his hardest to ignore it, and to believe he'd met him someplace else...perhaps they'd encountered on the street, perhaps he'd seen him when Evan had visited the thetre. Even though he didn't remember it, it was a valid possibility. When going to the theatre, Evan rarely paid attention to anything but the lady accompanying him. Except when he was working on a case. Then, his 'eye for details' would wake up completely. Since he had not worked on a case in the theatre in...well, he had never worked on a case there. So it was possible Abercombie knew him from there.

“Yeah, I knew Mallister. I didn’t see him at the ball, but he hung around the theatre a lot. One of the regulars to the plays. He never liked to leave, I had to throw him out half a dozen times. He and I weren’t no kind of friends.” Thankful for a chance to begin doing soemthing, Evan wrote down the night watchman's response. No kind of friends? Well, as poorly worded as it was, it gave him two possibilities. Either Bruce was putting up a play to appear less guilty, or he openly admitted he was guilty. Now, from what he'd seen of the man, Evan was certain that putting up any sort of play was well beyond him. He also didn't strike him as that stupid to admit he'd murdered someone. So, he eliminated him from the list of suspects for the time being.

Quickly, he formed the next question; "Mr. Abercombie, what did you do for a living before your current job? And where?" Only after speaking it, Evan had realized that he'd asked the question that had little relevance with the case itself. Of course, Abercombie wouldn't know that. Evan had spoken the question with such a professional ari no one could've doubted its genuinity or relevance. However, he himself knew the true reason. He couldn't be completely at ease until he knew whether it was possible this man knew him from before he moved to Lindebo. Well, all right, he thought, I'll find out that he hasn't, and we'll get on with the investigation

Stewart was still writing stuff down. Bruce watched him with a hard edge in his eye, wondering a little more sharply what exactly that bit of paper was saying about him. Each time Stewart glanced up at him, Bruce saw a glint of contempt in the fellow’s eyes, and he was rapidly starting to dislike that. He lounged back in his chair and watched Stewart evenly, taking on a possessive air, as if Bruce owned the office rather than Stewart.

”Mr Abercrombie, what did you do for a living before your current job? And where?” The man’s tone hadn’t changed at all from his previous line of questioning, but he’d just suddenly gone off down a tangent. It was too quick. He should have been asking more about the murder…what did Bruce know about Mallister, that kind of thing. Instead he’d gone digging for Bruce’s past. It could have been simply a check on his background, he supposed, but there was something in Stewart’s stare that told Bruce’s instincts that it wasn’t. It was a personal question, and that told Bruce that Stewart had a personal interest in him. Why…he had no idea.

However, Bruce’s background wasn’t exactly a secret. He took a drag on the cigar, then answered, “I’ve been at the Lindeman for five years. I was a Police Constable with the Met for ten years before that.” He saw something flash in Stewart’s eyes when he said that, and Bruce’s eyes sharpened…suddenly something had shifted in the balance of the encounter. Bruce shifted in the chair, leaning on one arm and watching Stewart keenly from a slightly off-putting sideways angle. “Now I’ve been answerin’ your questions, Mr Stewart, and I’ve been givin’ you my time all for nothin’. I think a trade’s fair, don’t you?”

He lifted one hand and pointed loosely at Stewart as he began his own set of questions. “Where do you come from? I know you from somewhere.” It was a shot in the dark, but Stewart had been looking uneasy from the moment that Bruce had walked into the room, and Bruce wanted to find out why. There was something very off about the man.

“I’ve been at the Lindeman for five years. I was a Police Constable with the Met for ten years before that.” If he had hoped for a resolution...for an answer that would lead him far, far away from the assumption Bruce could have recognized him from London...he had just had cold water poured over him before being thrown into a frozen pond. He didn't want his feelings to display, but a brief flash passed through his eyes as his mind did the calculations. Ten years. He had...robbed...the bar...for some reason, he had trouble even thinking of what he'd done now. Anyway, it had happened six or seven years ago. Bruce could've very easily known him exactly from that event.

A Police Constable. If he was a Police Constable...then he could've actually not only worked on the case. He could've actually seen Evan. Unwillingly, even though he tried to fight it, Evan was returned into that night again. He was running away from the bar...even though pretty unsure where was he going. The barman's shocked face, the blood that splattered over his face as the bullet hit him...it was all very vivid in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not block out those images. All of a sudden, he heard voices behind them. He could not discern what were they saying, but he somehow connected the dots-they were coppers. And they were pretty close. Evan was shocked for a moment...had he not just passed underneath a lantern...?

Never before, Evan thought as he returned into the present, never before had he truly worried about that particular part of the evening. He'd dismissed it the moment he'd come back home, and dropped onto his bed, exhausted. Could it be possible that, because of that tiny detail, his past had come to haunt him again? He knew the answer. Yes. As a Private Investigator, Evan knew how important details were. One tinies detail had the destructive ability equivalent to that of a cannon. Hell...greater than that of a cannon. One detail, unsignificant at first sight, could bring down kingdoms. It could easily do the same with one Evan Stewart.

Ignore it, he told to himself. No...ignoring things like that and denying their existance only gave them more power. It was what their power was mostly all about. Pretend you have chosen to ignore it...now, that was a better option. One he was going to take. Just as he was prepared to get back to ordinary questions, he was cut off by Bruce; “Where do you come from? I know you from somewhere.” Evan never really knew what it was like to feel every molecule within your body freeze. Actually, he did; he'd felt like that when he had killed that barman...and a few days after, constantly. But he had already forgotten it. Now, he was unfortunately reminded.

I won't answer, he decided. I'll say that it doesn't concern him. But then the PI within him woke up. He would look more suspicious that way. If he said he was from London, openly, Bruce might think he had met him on the street. As a matter of fact, it was a valid possiblity that he had. London was a big city. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. Inhaling, he spoke, trying to sound cool and composed; "London. Why do you ask?"

Nothing had really changed in Stewart’s expression, but the dynamics of the interaction between the two men had been completely reversed. Now, Bruce was the one cross-examining Stewart. That was what had been odd since the beginning of their conversation; that was what had kept Bruce off-balance. Stewart had called him in to question him as if he was the one suspected of guilt…yet Stewart’s behaviour had been guilty from the start. Only now had it become obvious, and in hindsight everything matched up. Bruce had no idea what it was, but he was sure that Stewart had something to hide.

The other man was shocked silent by Bruce’s answer to his last question. He appeared to keep his composure, but Bruce had caught the look in his eyes – the hunted look – for that second before he hid it. It was too late. Bruce knew, now, that Stewart had something that he wanted to conceal from the police – from the Met. It was then that the night-watchman had chosen to play his hand, and he was rewarded by everything he should have expected, knowing now that Stewart had a secret. The private investigator was completely silent in response to Bruce’s question for just a second too long.

He answered with a calm, unhurried voice, “London. Why do you ask?” But the delay had just been that little bit too long. Bruce was on the scent now, and he’d follow it. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, and perhaps that had something to do with his determination to dig out whatever it was that Stewart didn’t want him to know. After all Stewart’s smug superiority and condescension, it was the detective’s turn to fall down and find himself at the wrong end of his own job.

“Only you look familiar.” Bruce kept his voice deceptively casual, but he didn’t want to put Stewart at ease. He wanted to keep the other man guessing, wondering how much Bruce knew, so that he might betray some crucial piece of information in an attempt to defend himself. He wanted to drive Stewart's unease further up into fear and incaution. So despite his ordinary tone, he leaned forward in the chair; the set of his torso a move hinting of aggression. It would convey to Steward that this inquiry was not going to stop here with idle curiousity.

“You ever spend much time in the area around Charing Cross?” Bruce did not quite know why he added his next words, but for some reason the name flickered up in his memory, so he threw it out there. “Tottenham Court, happen?”

Only you look familliar. Only. It would have been truly nice had that been just 'only'. To anyone else, it would have been. Really, there were a lot of people in London, and there had been a lot of people there during the part of his life Evan had spent there. Abercombie could have easily patrolled before his house more often and therfore remebered him somehow. There was also another possibility; sometimes, when you even merely passed by people on the street, you subconsciously stored some in your memory, while you forgot the others immediately. He could've easily been categorized among the former in Abercombie's brain. A perfectly logical and a simple solution.

But this career had taught Evan to look far beyond logic and simplicity. Things were rarely logical and simple when it came to human beings. Especially when every single instinct he possessed was fighting vigorously against it. Evan knew that most investigators tried their hardest to ignore thier instincts. Evan was the complete opposite. Perhaps it was because he did this job for fun, perhaps because he was so carefree and careless about nearly everything. But the young man always followed his 'sixth sense'. It also proved to be worthwile, for had it not brought him success every time, he'd have abandoned the practice long ago.

Just as he had somehow managed to calm himself down and compose-really, what were the chances of that very policeman that had caught a glimpse of him sitting here...and even if it was him, remembering him?-another splash of cold water came for Evan; “Tottenham Court, happen?” Evan paled reasonably. It was that policeman. It was that very man, he was certain of it now more than anything. Bruce Todd Abercombie had seen him on the night when he had...committed a murder. When he'd killed an innocent man, a man who had even been his good friend. If he had managed to block any of the memories before, they all returned now in one big wave.

Evan had never had a problem with lying. He'd always been a smooth liar, capable of deceiving people and concealing his emotions masterfully, nearly with professionalism. But one thing that would always leave him petrified was that event that had happened six years ago...at Tottenham Court. Oh, he had been forced to lie about it, alright, and he'd done very well. But he had never been forced to lie to someone who had actually...been there. The fact that such a person existed was enough for his entire world to go spinning wildly.

I have to lie. I have to say no. But what if Abercomibe saw through his lies? What if denying would only get him into trouble? Maybe he was supposed to say he had been there, that he had visited the bar quite often...and appear less suspicious? But at this very moment, he doubted he'd be capable of mentioning that out loud without seeming extremely transparent. All of a sudden, the realization hit him; he'd been turned into a suspect in his onw office.

That last thought somehow got through to him, most likely tocuhing his pride. It was that pride that prevented him from entering a state simillar to a trance, in which his mind only repeated; I didn't mean to do it. He breathed in, focusing on the man before him. Was this...person...this uneducated, illtireate, simpleton going to intimidate him in his own office? No way. No theoretical way. Never. His expression hardening, Evan finally spoke, happy to see his voice sounded normal, firm; "I'm afraid not...at least not very often. Perhaps I'd come by the..place a few times." He paused, "But I believe we've wasted enough time for such frivolous things. If there is nothing more you can tell me about Mallister, the murder, the murderer...then I'd like to conclude this conversation."

Perhaps the single thing that connected Evan and Bruce was a shared tendency to rely on their instincts rather than rationality. However, the animal sense that each man possessed was working in two very different ways – Evan on the defensive, searching for a place to run or a way to turn Bruce away. Bruce the opposite. Why he wanted to know about Stewart, he wasn’t sure. When he had been a copper, he had been a good one, but he had seen enough of the world to know that things would never be set to rights. He was sure that Stewart had done something to make him afraid of the law, but Bruce had no particular plan of seeing him brought to justice.

Really, it was a good deal more simple. Stewart had pissed him off, keeping him out of bed on a Saturday morning and talking all hoity-toity down to him. Ordinarily Bruce took it whatever some high-class gent decided to step on him, but for once he had the chance to get his own back. Bruce wanted to see Stewart scared. He wanted to see him lose his contemptuous calm.

He got his wish. The instant the words Tottenham Court were out of Bruce’s mouth, Stewart’s face whitened; he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. Bruce’s shot in the dark had hit the target dead-on. Still, despite the faint tingle in his memory, he had no idea what he was shooting at, but Stewart knew very well – and if Bruce was lucky he’d think Bruce knew, too. He watched the other man keenly.

When the change came over Stewart, Bruce caught the first flicker and knew the game was up before Stewart said anything. The detective had mastered his fear, and Bruce had nothing concrete to pry at him with. Without any real idea of what he was searching for, Bruce could only have relied on Stewart’s panicking to give away the clue he needed to figure the whole thing out. And now Stewart had straightened, his eyes hardening, his breath coming angrily through his nose.

He spoke again, and this time his voice was strong and decided. “I’m afraid not…at least not very often. Perhaps I’d come by the…place a few times. But I believe we’ve wasted enough time for such frivolous things. If there is nothing more you can tell me about Mallister, the murder, the murderer…then I’d like to conclude this conversation.” Damn. He’d had Stewart in a hole there for a few seconds...but now it was done.

Bruce’s shoulders lifted and dropped in a wordless gesture. “Sure, Mr Stewart. Hate to disappoint you about all that mess at the Lindeman.” Then, with a gesture of concession, he added, “If you want more on Mallister, might be as you’ll find somethin’ down at McMillian’s place. And there’s a fellow named Sweeney, good friend of his. That’s where I’d start, if I was pokin’ my nose into the business.”

Bruce knew that he was done with Stewart; he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to figure out any more about whatever Stewart was so anxious to hide, and it didn’t bother him much. But Stewart was conducting an honest investigation, and Bruce saw no reason to hold that up.

He stood up out of the chair and snuffed his cigar out on the arm of the chair, flicking the stub into a potted plant by the window. At the door, he turned and set his hat back on his head. He couldn’t resist a parting shot to niggle at Stewart. “Maybe we’ll reminisce again sometime. Been missin’ my London days.” With that, Bruce nodded, and set out of the door, without waiting for the maid to show him out. He knew the way well enough for himself.

(((IT is, literally, literally, literally, the worst post I've ever written, to warn you before reading. I'm just very tired and without inspiration right now. :( )))

Abercombie seemed disappointed by Evan's sudden steering back to the original topic. The detective was pleased by that; he even smiled subtly. His strategy had indeed worked. People like Abercombie drew back as soon as you displayed a bit of authority. Evan had no problem with that. Now that his initial shock was gone, his anger grew more and more emphasized. He wanted to throw the man out of the office, or better yet, accuse him of the murder. He already knew he was going to look up his archives for anything dirty about the night watchman.

Still, he forced himself to listen to Bruce's words; "“If you want more on Mallister, might be as you’ll find somethin’ down at McMillian’s place. And there’s a fellow named Sweeney, good friend of his. That’s where I’d start, if I was pokin’ my nose into the business.” Evan nodded, writing down the names. Sweeney, McMillian. His usually orderly handwriting appeared more like a scribble at the moment, but he cared little. Abercombie couldn't have seen that. At least he'd been somewhat useful with the progress of the investigation.

That might not have been so positive...he only hoped Bruce's memory didn't serve him half as well when it came to his London days.

Evan didn't get up when Abercombie did, heading towards the door. Evan couldn't wait for him to leave, so he could finally stop holding his stream of thoughts back. Not that he was dying to recall what had happened...but he had to, if he wanted to take every precaution against the knowledge this man most certainly possessed of him and his past activities. His one past activity. The young man dreaded of what he knew awaited him; going through every, tiniest little detail of that night once again, re-living it all. That already happened to him too often; but trying to restrain it(as he was doing now) only made it worse.

“Maybe we’ll reminisce again sometime. Been missin’ my London days.” Evan's face expression didn't change, but Bruce had been right when he'd thought it would've annoyed him. More than just annoyed him, made him livid. Fortunately, the other man had left soon enough, otherwise, Evan could've truly thrown him out physically. Not that he would've...because then his cover would've definitely been blown.

He heard his assistant say goodbye, he heard the door close and Eileen getting back to her duties. After that, he sat there, staring silently into the wall for a few seconds, before burying his face into his hands.

Abercombie represented a true danger to him while he was out there.
He could've easily destroyed his entire life.
He only wished he could do something about it.

(Exit Evan Stewart)