Jenkins pointed his cane at the man's throat and sent Chocolate on an errand. The cat glanced up at Jenkins's face, then scurried into the living room, disappearing around a corner into the hallway. It reappeared a dozen seconds later. Since it hadn't owed, Jenkins knew the box of money was still there.
"So you're not a thief?"
Seeing the man had no pockets large enough to conceal anything, Jenkins glanced at the knife stuck in the door.
"So, you're... the midnight serial killer?"
Mr. Hood had ntioned it at one of the gatherings, but since it was just a mundane affair involving ordinary people, Jenkins's mory of the details was hazy.
"I'm warning you, don't move," he threatened. "Otherwise, I can't be sure what I'll do."
He then spotted a stack of old newspapers on the shoe cabinet—ones he'd planned to give his maid, Mrs. Mahat, the next day. The poor often used such things for wallpaper.
He found last weekend's evening edition and, sure enough, the front-page headline was a report on the midnight serial killer.
"Was this your handiwork, too?"
He shook the newspaper at the intruder. The short, red-nosed man rely groaned, offering no reply. It was clear he wouldn't confess. Jenkins's expression hardened. He raised his cane and struck the man sharply on the shoulder, then, ignoring his reaction, brought his foot down and crushed the man's wrist.
Security on St. George Street had always been excellent, though that might have had sothing to do with the fact that a widow pregnant with an evil god's scion once lived there. Regardless, it hadn't hard the street's reputation. Patrols passed by every hour at night, and most of the officers knew the famous writer resided on this street. So, when Jenkins sought their help, the policen, carrying their kerosene lamps, readily agreed to escort the intruder to KalFax Field.
The na of the Sage's Church still held weight there. The inspector who dealt with Jenkins simply asked for a statent of events before allowing him to leave, promising a swift investigation into the man's background and a satisfactory resolution for Jenkins.
Early the next morning, a Friday, Jenkins saw the related news in the morning paper. His na wasn't ntioned; the article simply reported that a murderer had been apprehended on St. George Street.
The Church had clerical staff embedded at KalFax Field, and they had reported the incident to their superiors the previous night. The Church, in turn, inford Papa Oliver. So that morning, he asked Jenkins what had happened. Upon hearing it was just a mundane affair, he thought no more of it.
It made sense. After all, it wasn't likely to cause any major trouble.
Papa Oliver also filled Jenkins in on the aftermath of the other incident from the previous evening. The statue, A-12-2-6083, the [Dead Man's Witnessed Statue], had been secured by the Church behind the Gate of All Things. And the identity of the man who died while stealing it had been discovered.
There was no grand conspiracy involved. He was simply a bankrupt shop owner who, in a mont of desperation, made a fatal mistake.
"The man's na was Geert," Papa Oliver told Jenkins. "He had a wife and three children. The youngest is only four years old."
So we have to give them so money? Although Gelt had paid the price for his actions, his family was innocent.
"So, should we send them so money?" Jenkins asked after a mont of thought. "Even though Geert paid the price for what he did, his family is innocent."
He said after thinking for a while.
"I was thinking the sa thing," Papa Oliver said. "And at the end of the day, we do bear so responsibility for improper storage."
With that, he pulled a small paper packet from beneath the counter.
"There are thirty pounds in here. You can add a little more if you like. Take it to them around noon."
It was a considerable sum. To put it in perspective, Alexia Miller's nominal annual salary as Miss Stuart's tutor was roughly the sa amount—and that was only due to the Stuart royal family's generosity. That salary also included room and board, plus a partial allowance for travel and clothing. An ordinary novice tutor, by contrast, might not even earn ten pounds in a year.
(Note: including food and lodging, and covering part of the cost of transportation and clothing)
"I understand," Jenkins said. "Let's make it a round fifty pounds. It's the least we can do to help."
As he spoke, Jenkins pulled so loose change from his pocket and added it to the packet. Papa Oliver then jotted down the Geert family's address on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
"Hmm?"
Jenkins raised an eyebrow.
"Is sothing wrong?"
Papa Oliver glanced at the address again, confused, confirming he had written it correctly.
"No, no. Nothing's wrong, sir," Jenkins said, masking his surprise. He was taken aback because, as it turned out, Geert was Mr. Barnard's neighbor.
said Jenkins, covering his surprise, because Gelt was actually Mr. Barnard's neighbor.
After finishing his morning studies and work, he set out with Chocolate. He had been to that street once before—on the night he first beca a god—so he was able to give the carriage driver the precise location.
The carriage crossed the city, dropping him off at the entrance to the neighborhood. Jenkins continued on foot toward his destination. After a mont's thought, he ducked into an alley, summoned his Black Robe, and assud a new appearance. He still looked like a young man of about the sa age, but with a completely different face and hair color—though he remained strikingly handso.
The entire street was residential, and strangers were a rare sight. Perhaps it was thanks to his handso face, but none of the residents seed to suspect him of being a thief with ill intentions.
The Geert house was halfway down the street. As Jenkins approached, he saw a middle-aged woman clearing snow from the yard with a small child strapped to her back. The family's eldest was eighteen and likely at work, while their twelve-year-old daughter was probably inside preparing lunch.
He glanced next door. The door to the Barnard residence was shut tight; it was impossible to tell if anyone was ho.
"Good day," he called from outside the fence, addressing the woman. "Pardon the intrusion, but are you Mrs. Geert?"
The woman looked up from her work, a blank expression on her face, clearly not expecting a visitor.
"Yes, I am. Hello."
She was certain she had never seen the young man before.
"Ah, I've finally found the place. It wasn't easy," Jenkins said. "Is Mr. Geert at ho?"
He asked the question before realizing how tactless it was.
Sure enough, the woman's expression imdiately clouded with grief. Calculating the ti, Jenkins figured she had likely been called to identify the body only last night and was still reeling from the shock.
"My apologies, my apologies," the young man said quickly, then pulled the small paper packet from his pocket.
My apologies.
"Since Mr. Geert isn't here, and this is indeed the address he left, then I suppose I should give this to you."
He passed the packet through the fence and into the woman's hands.
"A year ago, my employer had a business deal with Mr. Geert," he explained. "There was a family ergency, and my boss had to leave Nolan in a hurry, so the final paynt was never settled. I've co to deliver it now. It includes a bit of interest as well."
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