Alerich Clausse - 000

Peter drank water from the old wooden cup, trying to force down the knot in his throat. Setting down a bundle of papers on his desk, he sighed and rubbed his face, muffled songs of celebration leaking from the floor below. Impossible, he thought. It was impossible. Yet, the papers were authentic. With both his father’s signature and seal, he could not deny it, as much as he actually wanted to.

When he heard that his father died, Peter could not have been happier. It relieved him to hear that maybe, without that bastard, he would be able to be free. He thought and hoped that he could leave the house and move on to his actual desire. His father would not be there to stop him. And with the financial backing of the estate, he would have total freedom. But, this letter was just like his father. Now, that asshole haunted him from beyond the grave.

“But at least he is dead,” Peter sighed in relief. Lord Blackstone was dead and the whole city celebrated.

Startling Peter upright, the door slammed open, and the music intensified inside of the room, and a young man, a very drunk one at that, entered with two girls. It was Rattles, a recent college graduate and magnificent potion mixer, though he wasted much of his time trying to refine the best tasting alcohol.

“Petah! What are you doing stuck in the office on such a wonderful day? Come join us!”

“Rattles, I need to speak to you in private; it’s important,” Peter, said stacking the papers on the desk.

“Whaa- now?”

Peter, smiling at the two girls, offered them the door. “Ladies, if you’d excuse us for just a few minutes.”

The two girls, still clinging to Rattles sighed, but did not complain. They were looking at the new Lord Blackstone after all.

“Take a seat,” Peter said and closed the door behind him. “This is pretty bad news.”

“Fuck, I hate when you say that.” Rattles, whose nickname deceived many, was actually more levelheaded than Peter or any other man in his twenties. And, having known peter all through college, he knew this couldn’t be good. “You found out something about him, didn’t you.”

“My father was the middle man.”

The blood drained from Rattles’s face, and his eyes widened.

“The documents I found in his archive, their a paper trail of the money’s transfer. Someone moved al lot of money in order to kill your father.”

“Is there-“

“There are two names. Lord Blackstone’s as the one who authorized the transfer from his bank, and a Mr. S. Finch. There’s nothing more than that.”

Rattles sunk onto the chair and closed his eyes, the image of his father and mother, both forced out the door, a black hood over their heads, imprinted on his head. He remembered the distinct smell of burnt flesh that lingered around in the house, the smell that led him to burn the house down with his past.

“At least,” Rattles spoke after several minutes of silence. “Whoever killed them paid taxes in order to do it.”