Chapter Text
Donovan Desmond’s Private Study, 20:08
The only movement in the office was the movement of shadows. The shadows of the raindrops falling against the window. The shadows of footsteps on the other side of the door. The shadow of blood dripping down the desk and disappearing into the thick carpet.
A man sat at the desk, slumped in the stuffed leather seat. His head lay on the surface, forehead pressed against the papers as if he were merely resting. But his torso did not rise and fall with breath. Instead, his arms are splayed out on either side of his head, serving as a makeshift dam for the blood pooling from the slit in his throat.
Two soft clicks interrupted the silence of the office; one from the door and the other from the window. Both slid open simultaneously to reveal figures hunched in stealth. They were so preoccupied with entering the office quietly that they didn't realize the other’s presence until they were fully inside the room. Then–with a quietly drawn breath, the shifting of weight on carpet–their heads snapped to each other with awareness and weapons were pulled.
They immediately froze in place, eyes and weapons trained on the other, trying to read the other’s intentions. The deadlock remained for a solid ten seconds until their gazes finally fell on the body at the desk. Neither could contain the shock they felt upon seeing him.
“You–You murdered him!” the figure from the window gasped.
“I didn’t,” the other figure murmured, shock still dampening his voice, “Did you?”
“O–Of course not!” She raised a knife, which caught a golden glint from the sparse light of the window. “I was protecting him!”
Cautiously, as to not scare her, the other figure approached the dead man on the desk and gently held two gloved fingers to his neck. Still warm, but definitely no heartbeat. He carefully eased the body’s head to the side. He cursed under his breath.
Donovan Desmond was dead.
***
Approximately 1.5 hours earlier. Outside the Desmond Estate, 18:16
Disguises were Twilight’s specialty.
The mistake that most people make is that they assume spy disguises must be elaborate operations; plastic skin, fake hair, molded jaws, reshaped brows–things like that. Twilight was quite skilled at these sorts of disguises of course, but he excelled at making simple, efficient costumes. Things that could be put on while walking to an appointment or quickly assembled in a bathroom.
Tonight was one such need for a simple disguise. His ensemble was plain. Clean. Forgettable, even. All according to plan.
First: his hair. Combed to a side part and slicked back with pomade. Choosing the correct product was crucial, it had to be strong enough to keep its shape under his Panama hat but malleable to change in a moment’s notice just in case. Also, Twilight hated being able to smell it on himself.
Two: his face. He opted for using brown and gold browline glasses but kept a spare of round spectacles in his breast pocket. Again, just in case.
Three: his clothes. He wanted to blend in tonight. There would be lots of big personalities and even bigger egos in attendance, so it would be wise for him to avoid stepping on any toes with outrageous or flashy attire. Twilight selected a pressed dress shirt, knitted waistcoat, pleated pants, and shined Oxfords. The finishing piece was a brown tie impeccably tied with a half-Windsor knot.
The whole look was a bit casual for his taste, but the entire point of this event was for rich people to pretend to be casual for a night. It wouldn’t do for him to stick out.
After all, this was a dinner party hosted by the elusive Desmond family. WISE would be fools to pass up this opportunity to get close to the former Chairman. His mission was simple: investigate Desmond, steal what intel he could, and establish a connection.
Twilight smoothed over his tie in the driver seat mirror one last time as he pulled up to the Desmond estate. He was surely the only one at this party to drive himself. Then again, who would expect a lowly journalist like the humble—he double checked his forged ID—Mr. Bruno Baumann to have a dedicated driver?
Also, who even invites a journalist to a dinner party? Especially one as exclusive as this?
The whole thing was suspicious to Twilight.
Desmond’s staff were hunched over in the pouring rain as water soaked their black and white uniforms. They took Twilight’s car to be valeted and offered an umbrella, which he took. Dark, churning clouds blotted out what was supposed to be a stunning sunset. The whole point of driving thirty minutes out of Berlint to the opulent Desmond estate was to bask in its beauty and grandeur. In this storm, however, the surrounding land seemed quite lifeless instead.
No matter, the true crowning jewel was the mansion itself. It stood glowing from within like a large, ostentatious lighthouse in the storm. Twilight was ushered through towering mahogany double doors and into a cavernous foyer lit by a glass chandelier that could easily sell for enough money to buy a city block. The Desmond Manor was a testament to Ostanian pride; for several centuries it was owned by the royal family which the Desmonds had a blood relation to. It had been remodeled here and there but kept to the old Ostanian style. Rain beat against wall-length stained glass windows. On the ceiling, painted angels and cherubs watched the servants take Twilight’s umbrella and jacket and escort him to an equally flamboyant waiting room.
The butler announced Twilight to the rest of the party who were perched on chaise lounges, clutching their cocktails and politely giggling over whatever they were talking about. It was an information treasure trove; council members of the National Unity Party, representatives of the cabinet, and even the minister of justice. Most of them had their spouses hanging on their arms like expensive furs–they would be especially good sources of juicy information.
His attention was quickly caught by the hostess who waved him in.
“Oh, welcome, I’m so glad you could join us!”
Black curly hair styled in a loose bob. Thin lips painted in a smile. Narrow eyes accented by long, dark eyelashes.
Excellent.
“Mrs. Desmond, thank you so much for having me,” Twilight said warmly as he took a glass and plate.
“Of course, Mister….?”
“Baumann, Bruno Baumann from the Berlint Bugle,” he supplied with a handshake. Her hand was cold in his.
“Oh, the Bugle! Donovan loves the Bugle, he reads it every morning,” Mrs. Desmond cooed. She would have no way of knowing that. She and Donovan had been living in separate residences for at least three years. “He’ll be so pleased to be able to talk to someone from the paper.”
“I’m even more excited, madam.” He searched the room of tittering politicians. “Will Mr. Desmond be joining us tonight?”
Her smile tightened. “Yes, he’s just taking a moment to finish up some last minute business in his office.”
“I see.”
She cleared her throat and clapped her hands together in a vein-popping grasp. “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself tonight, Mr. Baumann. Please do let one of the staff know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you, Mrs. Desmond.”
She glided toward the salon door with practiced ease, but a certain valet caught her before she could leave. Out of the corner of Twilight’s eye, he watched them exchange a few hushed words, the contents of which seemed unpleasant. Twilight would’ve preferred to sneak into the party as a member of the staff, but the Desmonds ran a tight ship; all staff were personally vetted and chosen by the family and infiltrating the personnel would be impossible under such short notice. He recognized that particular valet as James Jeeves, a man approaching his forties with slender features and oiled black hair, who had been in the employ of the Desmonds for most of his life.
The nature of Melinda and Jeeves’s discussion and relationship greatly intrigued Twilight, but he had more pressing matters to attend to, namely squeezing what information he could out of these fellow guests. There were several people he could begin with but that most interesting to him was a portly man with peppered hair currently surrounded by two politicians discussing the best time of year to go quail hunting. That was Walther Winter, chairman of the Democratic Alliance Party and direct political opponent of Donovan Desmond for several years. In their heyday, the men had despised each other. The papers were filled with the outrageous accusations they flung at each other daily. And yet here was Chairman Winter, sitting in Desmond’s salon and eating bruschetta off of a crystal plate as if they were lifelong friends.
Twilight couldn’t just approach Winter outright, that would be much too forward. He’d have to make his work his way into an organic conversation. He struck up friendly conversation with a few nearby guests and immediately segued into schmoozing in hopes of integrating into the party. A plan formulated in his mind of how he would work his way up to Winter, in the meantime gathering gossip from irrelevant politicians would have to do.
The conversation was easy, no doubt thanks to his training, but the longer time went on, the more aware Twilight became of a strange feeling resting on his senses. It was similar to being watched; not like holding eye contact with someone you were talking to, but rather like there was someone lurking outside the windows staring in at him. It was not beyond the realm of belief that the Desmonds had some sort of security detail surveying the party, but this felt different. Malicious, even.
His thoughts were interrupted by Jeeves announcing that the ladies were invited to wine tasting in the parlor while the gentlemen took a tour of the manor. It was an excellent development which produced the opportunity to plant bugs, so Twilight kept one hand surreptitiously close to his hidden pocket where he kept the devices. Jeeves escorted the gentlemen down vaulted hallways lined with pillars to a complete menagerie of opulent rooms. A large library with bookshelves tall enough to reach the ceiling. A lounge fitted with a bar carved from a single piece of oak. A study with plush chairs that were at least two centuries old.
They were in Donovan’s private gallery, a grand hall showcasing an assortment of artifacts, when Twilight approached Jeeves. The rest of the gentlemen were preoccupied admiring a preserved set of medieval armor or gawking at a ferociously posed taxidermied lion, leaving the two of them alone.
“Jeeves, was it?” Twilight said with his most charismatic smile. “Thank you so much for the excellent tour. I can’t imagine being able to spend every day in such a beautiful estate.”
The valet bowed his head in a humble nod. “It is indeed an honor.”
Twilight noticed that the man, while professionally courteous, always kept his answers to questions short. He undoubtedly held an immense reserve of classified intel on the Desmonds and knew how to keep his mouth shut. Twilight didn’t expect to learn too much from him, but it couldn’t hurt trying to pry a little information.
“I must admit, I am a bit of a history enthusiast and I did my research prior to coming here tonight. It was originally built as a fortress, wasn’t it? Because of its access to Lake Stanburg?” he asked.
A small smile stretched across Jeeves’s face. “Correct. The lake feeds into the Hafen River, which, as you know, runs through Hugaria. The fortress served not only as a base for the army, but the navy as well. The docks are still functional to this day.”
“Fascinating. It’s too bad we were not able to watch the sunset over the water.”
“Indeed, there’s nothing quite like that view.”
Twilight tilted his head with curiosity. “I’ve heard that sailing’s gotten quite popular lately. Do the Desmonds ever take to the water themselves?”
“Ah, I cannot say they do. Master Desmond is quite busy and Melinda prefers to stay out of the sun.”
“Such a shame. Even after his time as prime minister he’s still so busy,” Twilight murmured.
“Indeed.” Jeeves’s gaze slid to the other men in the gallery, but Twilight suspected that he was looking much farther away. “Master Desmond never has the luxury of rest. It’s truly tiring.”
Twilight hummed in agreement but remained otherwise silent, hoping that it would prompt Jeeves to continue. To his disappointment, the valet sighed and stood up straight as if sensing he’d said too much already.
“Anyway, if you enjoy history, I recommend that painting over there.” He gestured an open hand to a large canvas in an elaborate gold frame. “It’s a portrait of the estate commissioned by King Maximillian during the sixteenth century.”
Twilight knew when he was being politely dismissed and took his leave from the conversation. It wasn’t a total loss, however.
Jeeves had referred to Melinda Desmond by simply her first name.
The rest of the guests had congregated around an ornate display case containing an impressive collection of antique weapons, but a figure lurking by some of the paintings tugged on Twilight’s attention. A tall, bearded man stood in front of a painting alone from the group, hand clasped behind his back as if deep in thought. Under the guise of studying the painting Jeeves recommended, Twilight sidled up next to the man; not too close to be suspicious but just close enough, and studied the stranger out of the corner of his eye.
Twilight had a knack for remembering faces and names, yet he found his search through the endless catalogue of his memory to be fruitless. The man's long face was all angles. His cheekbones carved long lines into his skin and his forehead bore thin wrinkles that spoke to many hours being creased in thought. He couldn’t have been older than fifty five. Everything about the man was unremarkable; neatly trimmed mustache and hair, tidy blue suit and leather shoes. It was like he was designed to be forgettable, not unlike Twilight’s ensemble.
During the mission briefing, Handler had supplied Twilight with the full guest list. He was familiar with every name except one: Linus Lange. Nothing that WISE or Franky did could scrounge up any information on Lange, which either meant he wasn’t real or had simply led an incredibly uneventful life. And, considering he was personally invited to Donovan Desmond’s dinner party, it was probably not the latter. Twilight was sure this man was the mystery guest.
“It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?” he murmured to Lange. The man startled slightly at the voice directed at him. Twilight nodded to the painting in front of the stranger, a landscape piece depicting a majestic waterfall pouring from a high cliff into mist on the breeze. “I believe the artist painted it while on a trip through Yapong.”
Lange wavered for a beat then smiled politely at Twilight with but didn’t say a word. The strange reaction bewildered Twilight.
“I had an uncle who once visited the country. He said it was beautiful there,” Twilight tried again to initiate conversation, “Especially the mountains. Apparently there was nothing else quite like it.”
Lange nodded thoughtfully but remained quiet. After another long moment, he turned and walked away.
Well.
Twilight would definitely be investigating him further later. He would’ve done it right then, but one of the politicians he was chatting with earlier swung a tipsy arm around his shoulders. Automatically, Twilight switched gears and transitioned back into the jovial dinner guest. But internally, his mind remained on the unusual nature of the party. Everyone at this party was acting so strangely, like they were all playing a role. It didn’t help that Twilight felt restless under the invisible gaze that refused to leave him. He was constantly on edge. The only way to survive this long as a spy was to develop a sense for when something bad was going to happen.
And at this rate, he knew something bad was going to happen.
***
Donovan Desmond’s Private Study, 20:09
“Get away from him,” the woman in black ordered. Just a moment ago, she’d sounded panicked and afraid. Now lethality dripped with every word. Twilight complied, hands raised.
“You said you were protecting Desmond?” he asked carefully, “He’s dead now. There’s no pulse.”
Honestly, he hadn’t really needed to check for one. The amount of blood pooling on the desk and floor was a dead giveaway.
“How do I know you’re not the one who killed him?” she demanded.
“I’ve no reason to, I’m just a reporter.”
“A reporter with a gun?”
Twilight cursed again internally. He’d forgotten in his shock he was holding the damn thing. He needed to deescalate the situation. The woman’s story of being a bodyguard felt fishy, especially because he caught her sneaking through the window.
“This is just one big misunderstanding,” he said slowly as his mind raced for an excuse, “I’m simply here to keep an eye on things, not hurt the Desmonds.”
“Then why were you here?” the woman asked accusatorially, “What were you doing sneaking into his office?”
“I could ask you the same. Desmond didn’t hire a security detail tonight and I don’t recognize you as part of the staff,” Twilight replied, “You were the one coming through the window.”
The woman’s face screwed up in an irritated pout.
“Q–Quit asking me questions, I don’t recognize you, either!” she stammered, “If you’re really just a reporter, then why do you have a gun?”
Clearly this wasn’t going to go anywhere, Twilight could see that clear as day. He would have to resolve this in a different way.
“I’m just like you, I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He slowly reached his free hand down to a concealed pocket in his jacket where he had a tranquilizer. He’d have to subdue her to deal with later.
The woman’s eyes snapped to his movements and she immediately tensed.
“Keep your hands up!” she snapped.
So much for subtlety.
What should’ve been an easy fight against a woman wielding mere knives against his gun ended up being a desperate struggle for survival. The woman fought with such speed and ferocity that Twilight relied on pure instinct alone to keep up. She pounced on him, a deadly storm of knives, kicks, and punches. He staggered back, narrowly avoiding tripping over chairs and side tables as he did, until his back hit the wall.
The woman swung again, but this time she left a small opening by her ribs. He took a chance and struck, this time managing to land a lucky blow. She reacted, quick as a lightning strike, wrapping her arms around his and pulling, sending them both tumbling to the floor of the office. Before he could even register the bizarre change in position, she was upon him.
He didn’t dare take his eyes off her. He’d never been this winded in a fight, never felt like he was dancing this close to death. She squeezed his waist in place between powerful thighs and she pinned one of his wrists hard against the floor in an iron grip. The cool metal of her knife pressed against his throat. Regardless of the precarious position, he theoretically should’ve had the upper hand; the barrel of his gun was buried into her side. But it still felt like he was the one who should be begging for his life.
The echo of footsteps approaching the study snapped both of them out of whatever hypnosis had possessed them. Everything had somehow gone sideways, but Twilight knew one thing: he could not be seen here with Desmond’s body. The woman must’ve had a similar thought because she jumped back from him and scrambled to her feet, head frantically whipping back and forth to search for a hiding place. Twilight spotted a slim door off to the side of the office, presumably a closet of some kind.
He dashed to the closet and slipped inside. It was tiny; there was barely enough space for him to squeeze beside the filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. Just as he swung the door closed, a hand stopped it in its tracks.
“E–Excuse me, please,” the woman whispered as if she were walking by a stranger in a grocery aisle and pushed herself beside Twilight.
He scarcely had time to complain, in the same instant she closed the closet, the study door creaked open. Twilight watched through a crack in the door as the hallway light spilled into the office. He held his breath and waited for this mystery person’s inevitable reaction upon seeing Desmond. Beside him he felt the woman do the same.
Instead, the room remained silent, save for the sound of rain falling.
Rain falling?
Twilight breathed out a swear so quietly he couldn’t even hear it himself. The window was still propped open slightly. Water was beginning to gather on the carpet below it.
As if making the same realization, the woman gasped quietly and he felt her body tense against his. With bated breath, they watched a shadowy figure cut through the hallway light and venture deeper into the office. It paused over the desk before approaching the window where it lingered for at least a minute. Finally, it reached forward, closed the window, and then retreated from the office back to the hallway.
The door softly clicked closed but Twilight and the woman remained statue still in the closet for what felt like an eternity, counting heartbeats and holding their breath. Sweat crept down his brow and dampened his neck. He wracked his brain desperately trying to make sense of what he’d just experienced in the past five minutes, but he came up empty.
“Was that the killer?” the woman asked beside him, sounding just as bewildered as he was.
Twilight swallowed and suddenly remembered their uncomfortable position.
“I don’t know,” he murmured in response and reached over her head to push the closet open.
The cool study air rushed over his sweaty face and helped clear his mind a bit. It would’ve been more helpful if the stench of blood wasn’t so strong. He stood over Desmond’s body, mouth covered in thought.
“Then…who was that?” the woman asked behind him. She’d put away her knives, having decided that Twilight wasn’t an enemy.
“I don’t know that, either. But it’s safe to assume that it’s someone involved in all of this,” Twilight said gravely. “That being said, it’s clear to me that whoever killed Desmond can’t have gone far.”
“Can’t have gone far?” she echoed curiously.
Twilight recalled the strange behavior of the guests one by one. The strained laughs, the spiteful glances, the odd mannerisms. He turned to face the woman.
“Someone at this dinner party is a murderer.”
***
Approximately 45 minutes earlier. Dining Room, 19:38.
Dinner was served in a dining room large enough to park a plane. Twilight was seated near the far end of the table, undoubtedly because Bruno Baumann was at the very bottom of the social hierarchy of all the politicians and businessmen present. It was no matter, he was seated across from Linus Lange who, from what he’d observed, no one else really seemed to know and was placed there by default. Before the dinner began, Melinda stood at the head of the table where Donovan was to sit if he were there.
“Before we begin dinner, I just wanted to thank you all for coming,” Melinda said graciously, playing every bit of the dutiful host and wife, “I’m terribly sorry that Donovan is running so late, but he assured me that he would be here promptly.”
She raised her glass, the wedding ring on her left hand glinting in the chandelier light as she did.
“In the meantime, let’s enjoy an evening to celebrate our friendships, shall we?”
The table murmured in agreement and drank to her toast. Melinda sat back down, leaving Donovan’s tall, throne-like chair empty at the head to loom over everyone in his absence. Servers began swarming around the table in an elaborate choreography of water pitchers and appetizer plates.
Lange fidgeted in his seat across from Twilight. His food sat untouched.
“I’m not fond of oysters myself,” Twilight murmured to Lange with a quiet chuckle. He gestured to the shells topped with a luxurious red gravy on both of their plates. “They’re a bit too salty for my taste.”
As feared, Lange only smiled and remained silent.
Twilight shifted his focus to the rest of the table to assuage his annoyance. His gaze caught on Winter who was checking his watch. That was the fifth time Twilight had seen him do that tonight, the third time at this very dinner table. He wondered what had the man so concerned about the hour. Did he need to leave early?
Twilight’s gaze then went to Melinda, who was rising from her chair for a second time. She’d been jovially conversing with the other guests with that tight smile of hers, but now the glint in her eye seemed panic-stricken despite her best efforts to hide it. She had her wine glass clutched tightly in a claw-like grip, however, she wasn’t addressing the table again. Instead, she strode across the room to where Jeeves stood at attention on the far end of the room. The pair erupted into a hushed conversation–or maybe it was an argument?–of barely audible whispers. Melinda’s eyes glimmered in the light like the wine in her glass as if she were about to burst into tears. Whatever they were arguing about, Jeeves was unconvinced and he merely shook his head in apology. Just when Twilight was considering finding an excuse to wander over to eavesdrop, Melinda turned on her heel, a new, strained smile on her face. Twilight quickly averted his gaze.
“Mr. Baumann!” she called as she began walking towards his area of the table. Twilight panicked. Had she noticed him trying to spy on them? “How are you–ough!”
Across Twilight, Lange lurched in his chair as wine spilled across his shirt like blood. Above him, Melinda held her tipped glass in one hand, the other clamped over her mouth in horror.
“Oh, I am so sorry! I’ve completely ruined your shirt! I knew wearing these new heels was a mistake, I’ve got two left feet in them,” she cried. She waved over one of the valets. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m sorry, it appears I don’t know your name, Mister…?”
Lange’s eyes were wide with panic. His mouth open and closed, only managing to make distressed chokes and half murmurs. He desperately looked around the table where to he rest of the guests openly stared, trying to find an escape.
“Mr. Lange,” Twilight offered. Lange’s frantic gaze landed on Twilight with relief. He nodded in confirmation. “Yes, Mr. Lange is, er, not one for much conversation,” Twilight explained to Melinda, “Do you need any help?”
“Oh, goodness no, the staff and I will take care of it,” Melinda insisted as she somewhat roughly tugged Lange to his feet. She steered him to the dining room doors while calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back, please carry on without us!”
Then they were gone, disappeared into the hallway with Melinda’s worried voice echoing through the otherwise silent dining room. After a tense moment, the guests reluctantly resumed their hushed conversation accompanied by the clink of silverware. From what Twilight observed, everyone in the party seemed somewhat ruffled by the incident and Melinda’s uncharacteristic franticness.
“Do you know Mr. Lange?” one of the guests next to Twilight asked. He shook his head.
“I can’t say I do, I only managed to spot his name on the guest list,” he replied.
The guest, a man Twilight recognized to be a retired politician, huffed. “If Mrs. Desmond doesn’t know him, then he must be acquainted with Mr. Desmond.” He turned to the other guests at the table. “Do any of you know this Lange fellow?”
“Not at all. I thought someone else would know him.”
“I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Are we sure he was even invited?”
“What if he snuck in?”
“I’m sure that once Donovan joins us, he’ll explain everything,” a voice near the front of the table called above the hubbub. All eyes turned to Winter, who gripped his cutlery in meaty fists. “For now, let’s focus on dinner.”
The rest of the guests sheepishly returned to eating, but Twilight leaned in close to the politician seated beside him.
“You wouldn’t happen to know why Chairman Winter of all people is attending Donavan Desmond’s party, would you?” he murmured. The politician darted a glance to the Chairman before replying.
“I assumed the two wanted to put the past behind them and this was a sign of good will on Desmond’s part. But,” He leaned in even closer, “I heard that there was a threat on Desmond’s life recently and now he’s trying to keep an eye on Winter.”
“Really?” Twilight gasped.
“That’s just what I heard. Wait, you’re the reporter, right?”
“Bruno Baumann with the Berlint Bugle.”
The politician narrowed his eyes. “This is all off the record, right?”
“Of course,” Twilight assured him.
“Good,” the man said, “Anyway, the Desmonds are apparently trying to keep the whole situation under wraps, but word gets out. A bit strange to throw a dinner party when you fear for your life, though, is it not?”
“Perhaps the Desmonds think it’s an empty threat. Surely this isn’t the first time it’s happened?” Twilight mused.
“No, I suppose not,” the politician hummed.
A few minutes later, the dining room doors burst open to reveal a red-faced Melinda trailed by a gaggle of hurried staff who appeared to have chased after her. She ignored their distraught pleas for her to return to dinner and the rest of the guests’ stares and looked around the room, searching for something. If she was looking for Jeeves, he’d apparently slipped out at some point during her absence. She scowled before turning around and storming back down the hallway, leaving the dining room buzzing with concern.
***
Donovan Desmond’s Private Study, 20:22
“We need to tell everyone so we can figure out who the murderer is then!!” the woman cried, “We can’t let them get away!”
Twilight’s mouth flattened into a tight line. “I would advise against that.”
“What? Why?”
“No one else knows you’re here, right? That’s why you’re hiding.”
“W–Well, no, but–”
He turned to face her, his expression grave. “Then how would it look if the former prime minister turned up dead in his office with you, an armed, unidentified and uninvited woman standing over him?”
“Th–Then you tell everyone he’s dead!” she sputtered, “No one has to know I’m here!”
“I can’t afford stirring up a panic. They won’t treat an unknown reporter with a concealed weapon very well.”
The woman flung a hand out at Desmond’s quickly cooling body. “We can’t just leave him like that!”
“For my own safety, I must. I can’t risk being caught. I suggest you do the same,” Twilight murmured as he began wiping away his fingerprints from the closet door and any other evidence he was there with a handkerchief. The woman watched him, fuming and stewing in silence. He paid her no mind, instead focusing on formulating an exit plan while he worked, that is until–
“You’re a spy, aren’t you?”
The question shouldn’t have thrown him off guard like it did. If he were in her shoes, he would’ve come to that exact conclusion.
“And you’re SSS?” he shot back. The woman didn’t seem like the secret police, but he wasn’t yet sure what else she could be.
“N–No, but if I’m discovered here, I…I have a way of explaining my presence,” she said. Then she lifted her chin with newfound confidence. “But you don’t. Which means I could turn you over right now.”
Twilight’s jaw clenched.
“Is that a threat?” he asked carefully. She’d seen too much already for him to lie his way out of this and also proven she was plenty strong enough to match him in a physical fight.
“It doesn’t have to be. All I ask is your assistance in uncovering the murderer in exchange for my silence,” the woman announced, “And, if you’re truly a spy, then you might uncover some valuable information while we investigate..”
“And what do you get out of this? Why are you so insistent on finding his murderer?” The woman was absolutely correct about his desire to dig up some intel, but Twilight also knew better than most that motivations were the most important thing to understand in a person. Not knowing what this woman’s goal was sending his overanalyzing mind into circles. She opened her mouth to speak before pausing, like she was carefully choosing her words.
“I was supposed to protect this man,” she said mournfully, “And I have failed. My…organization will not be pleased to learn this. The least I can do is bring the killer to justice.”
Her gaze lingered on the body a moment longer. The blood was beginning to congeal into a thick, darkened sludge.
“And I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him,” she confessed, “He was killed in his own home.”
“I wouldn’t feel too bad. He has plenty of blood on his hands,” Twilight murmured.
“He was still a person!”
“A bad one.”
The woman looked like she wanted to argue but instead she shook her head and focused on Twilight.
“I suppose we should begin our investigation by recounting the events of the night,” she said, “Tell me what happened downstairs. Start from the beginning.”
***
Approximately 20 minutes earlier. Dining Room, 20:01
Melinda hadn’t returned in several minutes. It wasn’t just her either, Lange and Jeeves were still absent and, now that Twilight spared a glance down the table, he realized even Chairman Winter had somehow stepped out at some point as well. This was getting out of hand.
Twilight stood, saying that he needed to visit the restroom, and set out into the hallway away from the chatter of the party. Now would be a good time as any to snoop around and plant bugs where possible. If anyone caught him lingering in forbidden areas of the house, he could simply feign confusion in being in such a large estate. As he walked through one of the hallways, he passed by Lange, presumably returning after cleaning his shirt. Twilight nodded politely as he walked by, but Lange acted as if he didn’t see him.
Whatever, he would figure out the mystery of Lange later, perhaps from Donovan Desmond himself. Twilight slipped through dark corridors while keeping an ear out for any of the staff. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind, but kept careful track of where he was on the map in his mind. WISE had barely managed to find a single blueprint of the estate. They were probably confiscated to prevent people from doing exactly what Twilight was doing right now.
Twilight paused by a large window in an unlit hallway. Rain fell down the glass in waves, blurring the outside world to a smudged painting. The rain had only gotten stronger as the night wore on. However, through the water, Twilight could see some movement on the other side of the pane. The window overlooked the docks on Lake Stanburg, which was currently ravaged by fierce and choppy waves. The neatly manicured trees and bushes were bent sideways, furiously whipping in the gale. It would be foolish to be out in this weather and yet, through the lateral rainfall, Twilight could see something by the docks.
With the waves so high and the waterline quickly rising, the actual docks themselves were mostly underwater. Regardless, there was still a small boat bobbing atop the choppy water. Furthermore, the boathouse situated on the lake’s edge was lit from a single lantern in one of its many windows. Was someone trying to go boating in this weather? Or had they not had time to get the last boat in? But did Jeeves not say earlier that the Desmonds hardly spent time on the lake? Twilight leaned closer, fogging up the cold glass with his breath.
A distant voice down the corridor tugged away his attention. Twilight leapt back from the window, ready to run, when he realized that voice, while loud, remained stationary wherever it was. Twilight crept forward to investigate, ready to sprint back into the shadows at a moment’s notice.
“I told you I don’t know!” the voice hissed, “He’s trying to pull something on me! …No, I know these phones aren’t bugged. Desmond’s too paranoid.”
Twilight peeked around the corner to see a man hunched over a telephone on a hallway table. He recognized that graying hair.
Winter listened to the voice on the line. He gripped the table’s edge with a thick hand like he was trying to strangle the life out of it. “I know, I told you–yes, I know, but I told you I’d handle it,” he snarled, “I went to the library and Desmond wasn’t there! The bastard stood me up! He’s been gone all evening! …Yes! No one was there!”
Twilight dared to lean closer, straining to hear what the person on the phone was saying, but couldn’t make out anything.
“I know…I won’t let him release those photos, even if I have to kill him,” Winter murmured darkly, “...I need to go. If I stay too long, people will get suspicious.”
Twilight was gone before Winter even put the handset down. On silent feet, he ran through the empty hallway to a different wing of the house towards Desmond’s study. Twilight wasn’t sure if he truly believed Melinda’s story about Donovan being held up in his office. If he truly was still there, then Twilight might be able to overhear a useful conversation. If he wasn’t, then Twilight would be able to break in and take a look around. He skidded to a quiet stop in front of the large double doors that led to Desmond’s study and waited, ear pressed against the wood, listening for movement. When he found none, he gently tried the doorknob, which he found to be unlocked, much to his surprise.
Twilight carefully pushed one door open, feeling the dark, cool air of the room rush across his skin. Instead of being greeted by an empty office, he found two figures instead; one slumped against the desk, the other halfway through the window.
***
Donovan Desmond’s Private Study, 20:25
“So Chairman Winter killed him!” the woman exclaimed. She’d listened to him explain the events of the night while nervously wringing her hands.
“I don’t think so,” Twilight said, “If he was telling the truth while on the phone, then he hadn’t met with Desmond yet. So, unless he somehow ran past me to get to this office, killed him, and then left without being seen by either of us, he couldn’t have done it.”
“Hm, I see. What are you doing?”
Twilight was kneeling behind the desk, careful to not touch Desmond’s body or the blood dripping down the wood. As he suspected, there was a safe in the desk. He began to turn the heavy dial with an ear pressed to the cool metal.
“I’m trying to learn what Desmond was blackmailing Chairman Winter over,” he answered.
“Blackmail?”
“He mentioned photos on that phone call. I suspect that Winter came to this party to perform an exchange of some sort with Desmond.”
“Ah. Can you actually crack safes like that? I thought they only did that on tele–”
The safe door swung with a satisfying click.
“Oh.”
“You can, it just takes practice,” Twilight said offhandedly.
He reached inside and extracted some file folders and a thick leather-bound ledger book. His blood hummed with excitement. These documents were certain to be a goldmine of intel WISE could only dream of getting. He flipped through the papers with nimble fingers, quickly scanning their contents for anything particularly damning about Chairman Winter. Instead, he found that the files were dated back several years, specifically during Desmond’s time as prime minister. Western intelligence stolen by Ostanian spies, reports of classified technology, military plans and maneuvers; all things he expected–until his gaze landed on a thick report held together by clip. He frowned when he read the title.
TOP SECRET: Project Apple
Twilight had never heard of such a thing, not even in all his time weaseling himself into the upper echelons of Ostanian politics. He thumbed through the beginning summary, parsing together information through what wasn’t blacked out with ink. It appeared to be more results from scientific testing conducted under the orders of Donovan Desmond himself. That alone wasn’t unusual, the war had pushed the current limits of technology and the only way to tip the scales of this stalemate between Ostania and Westalis was through scientific discovery.
He turned the page and his heart dropped.
There were photographs of children, their skin stark white and eyes nearly black in the harsh lighting. There were dozens of them, the youngest of which an infant he guessed to be no more than a year old. The photographs revealed an unspoken timeline of sunken, tearful eyes, thin cheeks devoid of baby fat, and, most horrifically, particularly fragile-looking children who disappeared from the record after a visible decline. The notes detailed their height, weight, and condition with a chilling clinical apathy like they were simply cattle rather than children. Rage and disgust swirled a blinding storm on Twilight’s mind. He was so angry that the words began to swim on the pages and he could hardly determine what the project’s actual goal was outside of needlessly harming innocent children.
Then Twilight remembered reading about a government whistleblower in the newspaper. Definitely not the Berlint Bugle, of course, which was practically run by the government, but an independently owned publication which could be trusted to tell the truth. The whistleblower reported that he’d been ordered to conduct immoral experimentations during the war and that they were still ongoing despite his departure from the program. He hadn’t been able to give many details yet, but promised that solid evidence would soon come to light. And, rather than outright deny these accusations, there had not been an official government response, only a strange, guilty silence.
Project Apple had to be what the whistleblower was referring to. Just the photographs alone could be enough to implicate everyone involved, Desmond included, in several human rights violations. The scandal would be detrimental and the inevitable criminal charges could send them all to prison with multiple life sentences. It truly would be Desmond’s fall from grace.
Well. If he weren’t already dead.
“What did you find?” the woman asked. Twilight snapped the folder shut and gave her a grim expression.
“I fear this may be outside our hands. We need to contact the police.”
***
Below the Desmond Estate, 20:25
Everything had been going to plan until the rain. All things considered, the plan was remarkably reliable considering it had been thrown together only two weeks ago, so it was incredibly irritating that it would be derailed by something as trivial as rain. Well, it wasn’t derailed yet, just mildly inconvenienced. Ostania hadn’t seen a storm of this caliber in years, how were they supposed to know one would happen now of all nights?
The culprit unlocked a long-forgotten door and switched on a hefty flashlight. Now wasn’t the time to leave just yet, but they were worried about the tunnels. The tunnels were old, almost as old as the manor itself, and were susceptible to leaks in heavy rainfall. The culprit slowly descended a set of stone stairs, guided by the weak halo of the flashlight. They squinted into the darkness. It was so difficult to see like this.
Of course, they didn’t need to see in order to know that the tunnels were definitely leaking. The echo of running water bounced around the cold stone walls. But it was worse than they feared. Already there was ankle deep water beginning to gather on the floor.
The culprit scowled.
Alas, it was out of their hands and if they needed to walk through a little water to make their escape when the time was right, then so be it.
***
Desmond Estate hallway, 20:33
Twilight set the phone down with a grim expression stretched taut across his features. His long ingrained aversion to speaking with authority figures had won out and he called WISE rather than the police. He swore he heard Handler’s forehead creases deepening as he explained the situation, although he chose to exclude the mysterious woman for now.
“It’d be best if we sent out a tip to the Berlint police for you. We have someone on the inside. Don’t let anyone else in the house know what’s going on,” Handler said, “Investigate in the meantime. Take advantage of this opportunity to learn information.”
Except after Sylvia had sent someone off to do the job of reporting the murder, the agent swiftly returned bearing bad news.
“They said there’s severe flooding on the roads leading out to the Desmond Estate,” Handler said, “Your calvary won’t arrive for several hours.”
Twilight nearly sputtered. “Several hours? The former prime minister is dead. Surely there’s other routes they could take?”
“I agree; it’s highly suspicious, but it’ll give you more time to snoop. Look into it, agent. Call back with any updates.”
Everything Twilight uncovered tonight just made his head hurt even more.
“Well?” the woman asked tentatively behind him. She’d been standing guard to ensure no one was listening in on their call.
“The police won’t be here right away. Severe flooding on the roads, apparently,” Twilight murmured, “We’ll have to investigate for ourselves in the meantime.”
Her eyes widened before narrowing in determination. “Then where do we start?”
“We begin with establishing a timeline and eliminating suspects.” He turned and strode down a corridor heading back to the party. “We can mingle with the guests and determine who had the means and the motive to kill Desmond.”
Then his walk slowed to a stop and he looked back at the woman.
“I’ve told you why I was here at the party,” he said, “But you have yet to tell me your side of the story.”
The woman glanced around as if afraid the walls had ears before suddenly grasping his wrist and tugging him into the first vacant room she could find. It all happened so quickly that Twilight hardly had time to react save for an embarrassing, surprised grunt that escaped his lungs.
“You can’t tell anyone this, alright?” she hissed. Everything about her posture and the situation felt intimidating; her immense strength pinning him against the wall so hard he felt the wainscoting digging into his back, her tight fist tugging on his waistcoat, and the lethal edge to her stare. But the slight quiver to her voice betrayed her clearly frayed nerves.
“You have my word,” he vowed, although he planned to report all of this to Handler as soon as it was over. The woman sucked in a breath as if to prepare herself.
“I’m a part of an organization that works with the government. Like…like a private contractor,” she explained slowly, “And, as a part of our services, we often provide protection for important people. People like Donovan Desmond.”
“They hired you?”
“N–Not exactly. Not the Desmonds, anyway,” she said, “They–the Desmonds–usually hire our services during any sort of public excursion, but they didn’t for this dinner party. My boss thought it was strange, so he sent me to keep an eye on things and, well…”
She raised a hand and gestured at space around them, alluding to the complicated mess they now found themselves in.
“I see. And if you were discovered, then you could claim to be providing security. The records of your organization could back you up,” he murmured. Thankfully the woman had released her hold on him and he could breathe easier.
“Exactly.”
“Then we should begin with everyone who was invited to the party,” Twilight said as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his clothes. “There’s been a lot of strange behavior among the dinner guests, especially that Lange character I told you about.”
“Indeed he seems very strange. What do we do?”
Twilight led her back into the hallway towards the party. “We interrogate them. Subtly, of course,” he replied.
“But how? I wasn’t invi–”
“Ah, Mr. Baumann!”
They had turned a corner and ran face to face with Jeeves. His face tilted slightly with polite confusion when his gaze landed on the woman.
“And this is…?”
Twilight course corrected without a pause.
“My wife,” he supplied with an all too easy smile, “She was delayed due to the rain, but she’s here now. I was just showing her the way from the restroom.”
“Oh, of course. Welcome to the Desmond Estate, madam,” Jeeves said with a deep bow.
The woman had gone absolutely still behind Twilight, her expression one of trying and failing to refrain from outburst. Her face turned red which, now that they were in the light, he realized matched the color of her eyes.
“Follow me, then. I’ll show you the way back to the party.”
Jeeves politely beckoned them to follow him down the hallway. It took a gentle nudge from Twilight to get the woman to break from her surprised stupor. They were soon met with the sound of tinkling laughter and jazz played on a record player coming from yet another lounge. The rest of the guests hardly paid Twilight’s entrance any mind, the party now fully entered in its post-dinner drinks phase. The men were in deep discussion by the roaring fireplace, puffing thick cigars that filled the air with spicy smoke. The women were huddled in a corner of the room, perched on overstuffed chaise lounges while they clutched cocktails and exchanged gossip.
Jeeves cleared his throat, barely loud enough to be heard over the buzz of conversation. Hovering just outside the chatting circle of women was Melinda Desmond herself. She cradled an untouched cocktail by her head, staring at a particular point on the wall like she couldn’t hear a single thing anyone else was saying. Her eyes were slightly red like she’d recently been crying. Regardless, she finally returned to the present upon Jeeve’s call and began making her way towards them.
“I’ve told them I’m Bruno Baumann and that I work at the Berlint Bugle. Play along,” Twilight muttered to the woman, “If they ask you any questions about me you don’t know how to answer, say we haven’t been married long and you don’t know yet.”
He slipped something onto her slender fingers. Normally he could pull this sort of maneuver without detection, but she still yelped at his touch. On his own hand, he slipped on a similar wedding ring just as Melinda approached them.
“Ah, Mr. Baumann, there you are! I was beginning to get worried,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. She turned her gaze to the woman.
“I–I’m Mr. Baumann!” the woman squeaked before Melinda could ask who she was, “Or, I mean, I’m Mrs. Baumann! Uh, Rose Baumann! N–Nice to meet you!”
“My wife was delayed by the weather, you see, we’re terribly sorry she missed the earlier festivities” Twilight quickly added, hoping that Melinda would interpret the fumble as nerves rather than an admission of guilt. The clumsy introduction took Melinda off guard, but thankfully she gave both of them a sweet smile.
“Well, welcome, Mrs. Baumann,” she said graciously, “Come with me, I’ll introduce you to the ladies.”
She tugged on the woman’s–Rose’s?–arm to guide her to the rest of the women. Rose threw Twilight a panicked look, but he only gave her an encouraging nod before turning his sights to the men. Winter had reinserted himself into the middle of the conversation, cigar in hand, discussing his collection of pet pigeons with great vigor. It was hardly the same man Twilight had overheard threatening to kill Donovan Desmond earlier that hour.
Most interestingly, Lange had also returned. He lounged on an armchair, drink in hand, quietly watching the party with the look of someone very content with the current situation. Any stress he experienced earlier that night had also disappeared.
Twilight didn’t like any of it. He sidled up beside the politician he’d been chatting to earlier.
“What’d I miss?” he asked conversationally. The politician swirled the drink in his hand.
“Desmond’s still missing from his own house party,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “Melinda burst into tears earlier about it. There was also the panna cotta we had for dessert, which was delicious. That’s all.”
“Melinda? Is she alright?” Twilight glanced over to the woman in question. She indeed did look like she’d been upset over something.
“Seems like she’s barely holding it together, poor woman. I heard their marriage is on the rocks.”
That would be an understatement. Not only had the Desmonds not lived in the same residences for at least three years, they hadn’t been seen in public together for at least five. Honestly, it was a miracle that the Desmond scion was conceived. If he was even Donovan Desmond’s legitimate son at all.
“Melinda and that butler seem awfully close,” Twilight mused. His conversation companion snorted.
“That valet has been around for as long as I’ve known the Desmonds, and that’s saying something. Word is that he’s Donovan’s right hand man, but his true loyalties lie with Melinda,” he said with the glee of a child sharing rumors on the playground, “Whatever he knows, Melinda knows as well.”
Twilight hummed. “Where are you hearing all of this?”
“My wife, mostly. She’s in Melinda’s little patriot women whatever group.” He leaned in even closer. “But the real gossip’s with the servants. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve heard the cleaning girls chatting about when they think no one’s listening.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yeah.”
“That’s good to know.”
Twilight excused himself from the conversation and made his way back towards the hallway. His hand found his tie pin and slid a finger across its sharpened edge. He quickly ran into a young woman carrying a platter of drinks. With a shaky smile, he raised his finger which was now beginning to bubble with blood.
“Excuse me, I–”
“Oh no!” the server gasped, “Are you alright, sir? Let me get you cleaned up!”
In a flurry of movement, Twilight was rushed to a back room near the kitchens based on the aroma of cooking meat and spices wafting through the air. He sat at a small bench by a window while the server girl and a young man who appeared to be a part of the cooking staff fussed over his split finger. They bickered over the correct procedure of cleaning open wounds; clearly they were newer members of the Desmonds’ employ. Truthfully, Twilight, who had stitched himself up plenty of times over the course of his career, had to bite back the nagging urge to just do it himself. Of course, however, that would defeat the purpose of this whole act.
“And how did you say you cut your finger, sir?” the server asked as she dabbed antiseptic at his finger.
“I think one of the cups has a small cut. I didn’t even realize I was bleeding until I set it down,” Twilight answered with a good natured laugh, “I’m terribly sorry, I should’ve brought the glass with me.”
“Don’t worry about it, sir!” the cook quickly said, “It’s our fault for not noticing the broken glass earlier.”
The server let out a troubled sigh. “First Master Desmond gets holed up in his office, then the Mistress accidentally spills wine on that shy gentleman, and now this. This night’s been going so poorly.”
“Oh, Mr. Lange? The quiet gentleman?” Twilight ventured, “He’s a bit of an odd one, isn’t he?”
“That’s his name?” the cook asked with a snort, “How in the world did you find out? All the servers have been watching him all night and he refuses to talk to anyone. Not even the other guests!”
“What if he can’t talk? What if he’s just mute?” the server challenged.
“Yeah that’s what everyone was thinking until Glenda saw him talking to Jeeves!”
“Jeeves?!”
“Yeah!”
“I knew he was up to something!”
The two were so caught up in their gossip, they briefly forgot about Twilight holding a bandage around his finger until he piped up.
“Did your friend overhear what Lange and Jeeves were talking about?” he asked as innocently as he could manage.
“Glenda didn’t say anything specific,” the cook said with a disappointed huff, “Wish she had. I’m dying to know what’s up with Lange.”
“Yeah. I felt terrible for the Mistress. She looked like she was ready to burst into tears when she spilled wine on his shirt,” the server added.
Twilight frowned. He remembered Lange’s shirt had been completely clean when he and Rose returned to the party.
“I didn’t see any wine on his shirt. Did you manage to clean it? It looked brand new,” he said.
“Oh, no, that shirt was beyond saving,” the server said, “She told one of the other servers to go fetch one of Master Donovan’s shirts. Well, she wanted Jeeves to get it but he was busy. I heard her calling for him. But by the time the server came back, Lange had somehow slipped away. Guess he somehow got the new shirt anyway.”
Melinda Desmond just offered one of her husband’s shirts to a stranger? Donovan was a tall man with broad shoulders, it was a miracle that the shirt fitted Lange as well as it did. But, now that Twilight thought about it, there were several physical similarities between the two.
Unfortunately it was at this point that the server and cook came to a collective realization they had divulged too much information. They quickly dismissed themselves and sent Twilight on his way back to the party. Regardless, this had been a useful exchange, just as that politician had promised. It’s just that the information he gleaned only made him more confused.
He was getting very tired of that happening tonight.
***
Desmond Estate, East lounge, 21:28
The reporter and that woman were asking too many questions. The culprit tightened their hold on their glass.
Who even was that woman? How did she get in?
A wife? Likely story. The culprit had fought too hard for this plan to go right just for some commoners to waltz in and screw it all up. They would do what needed to be done.