London Nights

Chapter 3 - Autumn Murder

The chilly breeze blew against my face, making it paler than it already was. Of the many definitions October has, I would choose 'autumn' to be responsible for these chilly winds. At least, it was better than winter. I would usually refuse to take missions during winter-of course, unless it was well-paid.

I cupped my hands together to my face, blowing warm air to them. You should've brought your gloves, my head said. I scowled.

My brother's azure eyes looked at me as if I was the most amusing thing he's ever seen. He wrapped my dainty hands in his, adding the warmth. I wondered, somehow, if his warm personality would affect his body temperature. But that wouldn't be possible.

I gently retracted my hands from his grip, tongue-tied. I sighed, confused.

"Was that really necessary?"

"No, not at all," he smiled. "I just felt like doing it, somehow. Besides, your hands felt like icicles!"

"Obviously," I muttered.

I recalled the what I had memorized earlier. 'Oakley Street, 7th Lane, #51', it said. 'Assassination of an elderly man, corpse found in the house's guest room on 9th October. Evidence included: a kitchen knife, and shards of a broken bottle.'

I furrowed my thin, defined eyebrows. Such clues seem ordinary enough in a case of murder. Anyone would have easily assumed that the knife was used in the direct kill, and the bottle was perhaps used in wounding the person or knocking him out cold. The simplicity of the probabilities in this case immediately arose my suspicion.

"What's the letter about, anyway?" Jones poked my forearm, raising a curious eyebrow.

I lifted it out of my coat pocket and handed it to him without another word. He lifted the paper out of the envelope, eyes skimming the written surface. He let out an annoyed snort, recognizing Georgio's almost illegible handwriting. I made a mental note to demand General Rodgellot another Mission Dismissal Officer to replace that useless imbecile.

We were travelling through sewers today-London's peripheral drainage system. I could not describe how immensely crude the scent of it was, for it was simply beyond explanation. Sometimes, I wonder why I had agreed to this job before if I had known that I would be walking in such disgusting places.

The trek through sewage pipes was morbidly disgusting, and I have not even mentioned the pile of unslightly rubbish and filth strewn across the rusty pathway which led underneath the destined location of our mission.

I almost laughed when my brother turned sickeningly green at the sight of numerous white maggots devouring dead mice. I had to admit, it was pretty revolting.

"I shouldn't have eaten that lasagna earlier," he croaked, almost on the verge of puking.

I pinched my nose to block out the odour as we passed it, my brother doing the same, before accelerating our footsteps. I had to admit that traveling within London's peripheral drainage system wasn't the best idea, yet it was the only shortcut we had in mind. Not sensible at all, and I could not help regretting.

Jones, on the other hand, had his monotonic poker face glued to his facial features once more. In admittance, I found it rather disconcerting that I have never succeeded to encode what lies beneath that emotionless façade, despite possessing lofty intelligence.

Before I processed what was happening, I found Jonathan locking a scrutinizing gaze at me with those hypnotizing azure eyes of his.

"What's wrong?" he inquired. I swiftly turned my head, attempting to avoid the question. I hated it-I could not deny the fact that he always knows whatever I was thinking at particular moments. This time, for instance.