Chapter Text
On the quiet evening of April 28th, 1895, a young woman enters a local hospital. Her body complains of internal aches, mostly across her torso. On the neck and chest are several punctures, cuts, and bruises—quickly diagnosed as likely symptoms of an enraged assault. What is most noticeable, however, is the lack of a head. Scotland Yard’s investigation would reveal it had been discarded beneath a pile of rubbish.
His eyes watched the feathers, glistening like a gilded painting, being preened and arranged. This bird was a curious thing—covered in pure white and characterised by the liberal friendliness towards all it met. It did not mind that the man currently holding it had unsightly bandages bound around his face.
“Not a speck of colour,” Stronghart enunciated. “Perhaps that is what separates the lowly pigeon from the holy dove; what is relegated to the role of pest and what is regarded as a symbol of peace.” He looked at Barok, eyes peering casually at the other man as if he could see the visage beneath. “But that is merely how society at large perceives it.”
The long silence indicated an expected response. Therefore, Barok lifted his chin, with his full intent on his superior, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Stronghart was satisfied.
“As for myself, I would grant it the title of dove—if only for its handsome appearance and amicable nature.” Stronghart waved the staff to his other hand and shook his head. “But, again, I digress. I am confident you will handle the case with as much of your usual care… in spite of your injuries. What have you gathered so far?”
Barok relaxed. He survived the final waves of Stronghart’s speech, leaving only the more manageable matters which he could now discuss. He straightened his posture, as if he were still some called-upon schoolboy, and let the shocks of pain shoot through his spine before he could rest his arms by his sides. The bird, alarmed by this, reached in mild flight away from him and perched on the nearby suit of armour.
“Mr. Roger E. Morrison has been arrested by Scotland Yard on suspicion of committing the so-called ‘London Beheadings’,” he began to recite. There is hard evidence against him: veritable witnesses and the murder weapon itself. We’ve only yet to fully solidify the connection between him and the rest of the murders, and Scotland Yard has nearly finished with the investigation.”
It was almost too simple. Barok’s fingers brushed the edges of his brother’s badge as he recalled the far more complex cases he had handled previously. These ones were vile, despicable crimes, but even the fledgling prosecutor he was five years ago could have done this easily.
Perhaps Lord Stronghart had recommended it to him because he had only recently recovered. Anything more complex would receive too little from him, of course.
He searched for hints of those judgments in Stronghart’s face, but there were none. There was only his contemplative, knowing gaze.
“Interesting,” Stronghart said, stabbing his staff into the floor. “I had not looked deeply into it, due to being preoccupied with my other duties. However, I have caught glimpses of the news reports surrounding them. Supposedly, he had killed the selected victims to ‘examine their insides’; in other words, to judge their character.”
“That’s merely suspicion,” Barok said carefully. Behind Stronghart, the dove was inspecting him, as if it could understand the conversation they were having now. “…Those are only rumours—the investigation itself has not established any firm motive as of yet, but perhaps they shall interrogate it out of him soon.”
“Gossip, then?”
“Merely gossip.”
Stronghart nodded. “Sometimes I find it entertaining to investigate what narratives our Londoners create in response to such events,” he said. “Although van Zieks, even we must take caution in letting them remain as narratives in our minds.”
The dove continued to preen its feathers, digging its beak into them and realigning them individually. It distracted Barok for only a moment, but he managed to return to the conversation.
“...What is known is that the victims have come from a variety of backgrounds, ranging from a highly esteemed man of the gentry to even a street orphan,” Barok said, crossing his arms. “It’s suspected the killer must have the freedom and connections to target them, which the suspect does; however, it also obscures the connection between the victims and the suspect.”
“Because there is no coherent link.” Stronghart smiled, with only flickers of pride or satisfaction.
“Yes. And the investigation believes that establishing that motive should solidify the case.”
“I know I can rely on you,” he commented, before picking out his pocket watch and attaching his glance to it. “It seems I’m running four hours, thirty-two minutes, and twelve seconds late to my other meeting. You may return to your duties.”
Barok released his breath. “Of course, my lord,” he said.
“Ah, but there is one more thing I would like to ask of you.” Stronghart returned his watch to his pocket before pointing a look towards the dove. “Would you mind having it in your care?”
“The…the dove?”
“Yes, it seems to have taken quite a liking to you,” Stronghart said. “If I remember, you had quite a fondness for animals.”
“That’s…” Barok had not cared for any pets in recent years, not since the passing of poor Balmung. On some occasions, he tended to Stronghart’s pigeons if no one else could. But to take one such bird under his own care?
“Besides,” Stronghart said. “Perhaps it would benefit your recovery to have a companion. If you need to feed it, there is some spare birdseed you may take with you.” Using his staff, he pointed to a small box sitting beside the bookshelf.
For once, Barok was glad that the bandages restricted and concealed his facial movements. He was sure that if they had not given him this miracle, he would’ve had a laughably confused expression.
He raised an open palm, like Stronghart told him to do earlier, and let the dove fly back into his grasp.
“Don’t be afraid to whistle,” Stronghart said, already busy gathering his papers at his desk.
The dove perched curiously, its dark, innocent eyes watching him.
Barok accepts a bag of birdseed before leaving.