Trails of Intertwined Stars: Chapter 74 {Part 1}

~Chapter 140: I've Made Up My Mind~

In memoriam, Mohan Manor held a small, grief-filled gathering to remember Henry and Leora.
"Such terrible news, isn't it?" Lady Gwendolyn frowned, fanning herself, her face covered in wet mascara tears," First his wife, then him. A horrible fate! And poor, little Leora got caught in the cross-fire, didn't she?"
Lord Bramston cleared his throat," Quite literally cross-fire, wasn't it?"
Basil scowled at Lord Bramston for his quip, gently rubbing Dorian's back. Lord Bramston awkwardly looked away, sensing his comment had been rather insensitive.
"Is Julian not here? I thought he and Henry were close?" Lady Gwendolyn frowned, glancing around.
"They had a falling out," Soren stated; leaning on the arm of the armchair that Edward had taken.
The butler sat there, staring distantly out of the window at the cold, lifeless garden; his expression numb.
"A pity. I'm sure Julian was distraught to hear the news, nonetheless."
Dorian glanced up, gravely," Do you think the curse is gone, now there's nothing left to take? It destroyed the heirs, after all."
"Time shall tell, dear, time shall tell," Lady Gwendolyn sighed, sadly.

A young lad, who looked a little like a boyish Leora walked over; it was Timothy, Leora's mother's nephew. He seemed about the age of twenty, and was much too happy and bright to be in such a sad company.
"Lovely place this manor, isn't it?" He leaned on the sofa, glancing around, taking in the architecture of the longue.
Everyone looked slightly awkward and the odd happiness he seemed to feel. It was quite clear he didn't know Henry and Leora at all when young.
"It's traditional, yes," Lady Gwendolyn decided to humour the lad," You don't see houses like it nowadays."
"Yes, quite," Timothy grinned," I wonder, when Master and Mistress Mohan kick the bucket, if I'll inherit it?"
Everyone was quite taken aback by his blunt, youthful audacity.
"You won't."
Edward's voice was hard, and cut. He'd stopped dazing out the window, and now faced Timothy, his eyes furiously cold. The butler had never spoken back in his life, so, the guests were all rather startled to hear it.
"And why not? I'm a heir, aren't I?"
"No, you are not a Mohan," Edward hissed, venomously," Miss Emmeline was through marriage, but you have no claim."
Lord Bramston nodded, solemnly," The butler is right, lad. The house will be given to the government and up for sale."

"It's not like anyone will take it though," Basil murmured," Well, with the constant cases of death, and talks of a curse; nobody will want a place like this."
"Perfect!" Timothy grinned," When it's for sale, I'll buy it. I'm an engineer, after all, I-"
"You won't," Edward cut in bitterly, yet again," Because I'm owning it."
They all glanced at the butler, rather startled.
Soren let out a nervous laugh," Now, now, Edward. Let's not be too-"
"I'm very serious, Soren," Edward glared warningly at the tutor," I've made up my mind, and you can't stop me. I can't give up this place."
Soren pulled back, searching his eyes desperately.
"Edward, we can't possibly maintain a place like this. Well, with all the servants gone. We can hardly afford it! We're going to London, you hear me? I have a nice little town house. I think it'll do you good, to get away from this place, with all these horrible memories it'll upset yo-"
"I'M STAYING HERE, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU!" Edward yelled suddenly; silencing everyone instantly.
They had never heard the butler raise his voice before. Not even once. Edward's chest heaved with anger.

"If I go, she'll be alone. Who will maintain the grave? I'm going to grow flowers for her there, more than Henry ever got. Who will keep her company? She'll be upset, if she's all alone. Who-"
Edward twisted away, feeling tears creep into his eyes. Nobody had the heart to tell the butler that Leora would not feel those things, because she was gone. It was clear it was Edward who was scared of being alone, scared of being away from her, scared of losing his daughter.
"You're pale, have some brandy," Soren whispered, crouching to his side, trying desperately to get the butler to drink something.
Edward let out a frustrated cry, and stood up and stormed off. Soren's shoulders sagged with sadness. He gave the other guests a weak, apologetic look and drank the brandy himself, sitting in Edward's armchair; deciding to give the butler some space. The butler stormed past the buffet table, and out of the room, shutting the door frustratedly behind himself.

Sherlock leaned against the buffet table, Watson at his side as they glanced around the manor, and the forlorn looking gathering.
"Why are we here, Sherlock?" Watson frowned, tapping his foot uncomfortably against the floor.
"Now, now, Watson; despite our differences, Henry and I got on alright," Sherlock shrugged, biting into a sandwich thoughtfully," Feels wrong, to not see him."
"Even though you thought he was Jack the Ripper?"
"Thought?" Sherlock chuckled, before glancing at Watson, humoured," Watson, I know it was Henry."
Watson furrowed his eyebrows, curiously, bringing his voice down to a whisper.
"How so?"
"Well, I have a little trinket," Sherlock hummed, gently pulling out the blade Miss Eddowes had used to cut Henry," We have a blade belonging to Miss Eddowes. It was covered in blood, but not enough to be her own wound. No, no. A scrape, you could say. That night, when I grabbed Henry's arm before he could fall off, his jacket loosened, and I saw a blood stain on his shirt, the size of a cut. That stubborn bastard, I thought he'd died when they couldn't find his body. He was playing us all along..."
Sherlock chuckled.
"...Henry Mohan, you sly fox..."

Watson's eyes widened," You've cracked it, Sherlock! We should tell-!"
"No, Watson," Sherlock sighed," They won't believe it. His body was burned completely in that fire, there's no way to evidence it. We may know it was Henry Mohan, but the world, unfortunately, will never figure it out. He's gone, he can do no more harm. So what's the point?"
Watson's face fell, as the realisation dawned on him. Sherlock was right, the evidence was lost, Jack the Ripper was gone. There was no point. Sherlock let out a sigh, pulling a battered lighter from his pocket. It was the very lighter that Henry owned, and had dropped that night when he'd set part of Whitechapel on fire.
"That's!" Watson blinked in shock.
Sherlock chuckled, lighting his cigarette with it, and bringing it to his mouth," Works a charm, after all that, hm?"
"You're keeping it?"
"A souvenir, I like to think it," Sherlock hummed, taking a drag of his cigarette," After all, Henry won't miss it, will he?"
Watson pouted, and Sherlock laughed, fondly, leaning against the table.