Chapter Sixteen – Gaining a Partner
A grey morning snuck through the tall, mullioned window, casting light patches on the carpeted floor. Lawrence woke with a start from a dream he couldn't remember. He was alone, Bastien long gone, seemingly. How could his guest have moved so quietly that he didn't wake up?
Maybe, just maybe, he was letting his guard down too often for an investigator. To make sure he hadn't lost his valuable clue – Lukas's notebook – he checked its location first. There were no signs of tampering, but that didn't make Lawrence less uneasy about how he had slept through Bastien's leaving the room.
The heater indeed made a difference. Lawrence woke up rested now, a delicious languor seeping deep in his bones, a sensation he wasn't particularly accustomed to. Even so, he needed to shake it off and get ready for the day.
Minutes later, a knock on the door interrupted his otherwise pleasant morning. Pleasant if he didn't take into account the dream he couldn't recall. It annoyed him not to be in charge of his own thoughts, and dreaming in general usually unnerved him.
"Just a moment," he said, throwing a look around at his made bed and then another at himself to see if he was decent enough to receive visitors.
His visitor was too patient to be Ali. That left little room for options. Lawrence hurried to get the door.
Herr Becker met his stare with a look that rivaled the Arctic Ocean in its frigidity. "The syllabus for all your lessons is ready." He handed Lawrence a piece of paper covered in neat handwriting. They loved being a little quaint at Veridien. Not many typewriters in sight, either.
"Thank you, Herr Becker," Lawrence said politely. It struck him as unusual that the housemaster hadn't just instructed one of the students to bring him the syllabus. But he wasn't one to question such things out loud.
"What is that?" Herr Becker asked, his nostrils flaring, as he looked past Lawrence into the room.
Once Lawrence understood what object intrigued the housemaster in such an unpleasant manner, he barely kept in a grimace. "A heater, sir," he replied.
"I didn't assign one to this room." Herr Becker moved his pale eyes to Lawrence. From up close, they seemed so watery that one would wonder whether he was suffering from a particular condition that usually affected the elderly. Only Herr Becker wasn't that old.
"My fellow students, in their generosity, decided to offer me one of theirs," Lawrence supplied politely. "Refusing their help would have put me in a difficult position."
"And who exactly--" Herr Becker's eyes narrowed menacingly when Ali burst into the room.
"I did it," Ali announced. He seemed to be out of breath, and he was chewing vigorously on his sweet-smelling gum.
"Ah, Monsieur Martel," Herr Becker said, emphasizing each 'r' as if he could use the harmless letter as an instrument to punish the newcomer. "In what capacity, if I may ask, did you decide such a thing?"
"Poor Larry was freezing," Ali said. "I don't recall being taught heartlessness at Veridien. We are taught to be munificent."
Lawrence had to bite his lower lip hard. Munificent was hardly the correct word to describe Veridien ways, seeing how overly conscious of everything they appeared to be, from the food served to the students to the minimalistic surveillance system and, of course, heating.
"Where did you take it from?" Herr Becker continued his interrogation.
Ali shrugged. "From the man who has it all and more than he needs."
"From Herr Rector's office?" the housemaster asked, too dumbfounded to control the tone and volume of his voice.
"I'm talking about Bastien," Ali said, unhesitating as he threw the housemaster an innocent and startled look.
Herr Becker shrugged his shoulders, and his posture became even more rigid. "And does your fellow student know about how you stole the heater from his room?"
"Certainly," Ali said. "You know how generous he is. He said, and I am quoting him exactly, 'Alistair, please do not let the lower classes think that we overindulge while they freeze and go hungry.' Also, he said the same thing in Latin and French, just in case I didn't hear him correctly the first time."
Lawrence didn't know whether to fear for Ali's future at the academy or do something to hide his grin better.
The housemaster, whether he believed Ali's hodgepodge-like recounting of events that never took place, let out a noncommittal grunt. "I will ask Mr. Hawthorne about it."
"Please do so, Herr Becker," Ali said in the most solicitous manner. "I am certain he will corroborate what I just told you about my actions that led to bringing one of his many heaters here."
With another puff of air through his nose that was supposed to communicate his feelings better than words could, the housemaster began marching out of the room. But just as he was about to step onto the small landing, he stopped abruptly. "Have you no respect for academy property?" he asked, turning slowly on his heel with the gravitas his position dictated.
Both Ali and Lawrence stared at Herr Becker, neither having the slightest idea what the housemaster could mean by that.
Herr Becker stepped sideways and brushed the side of his shoe against a book on the floor, lying there with its face down. The back suggested that the tome in question had seen better days, its edges marked by spidery cracks in the veneer, which had dulled from what must have been its original green to a more common grey.
"Well, won't you pick it up?" Herr Becker asked, the height of his paper-like cheeks coloring slightly. "Whose is it?" His heavy accent became heavier the angrier the housemaster got.
Lawrence moved quickly, since it looked like Ali was showing no sign of complying with the indirect order. He hesitated for a moment as he turned the book with its face up, as his eyes quickly scanned the title. Pressing it hard against his chest, he looked at the housemaster.
"Apologies, Herr Becker. It must've slipped from my arms when I returned last night from the library."
"Be more careful from now on, Mr. Garth," the housemaster said, already turning to leave.
Ali hurried to close the door after him and gave Lawrence a wide-eyed look. "What's that, Larry?"
His self-assigned best friend was either an excellent actor or not one at all. Lawrence turned the book, and Ali leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees like an old man suffering from back pains and bad eyes.
"Does it look familiar?" Lawrence asked.
Ali squinted. "Not really, no."
Lawrence sighed. "Okay, I might be giving the impression that I'm slow, but this game must stop. This is the title Lukas borrowed last. Per the information you provided."
"Really?" Ali asked, taking a second look. "I'm not so sure, though."
"Ali," Lawrence said in a stern voice, "the book couldn't have been in the same place on the floor when Herr Becker came. He would've stepped right on it."
Ali pulled back in surprise. He didn't, however, look guilty at all. "Wait," he blinked, "do you believe I came here with it and instead of handing it to you, I let it drop? Why would I do that?"
Lawrence kept any emotions out of his face. "You tell me."
Ali waved his hands in front and pursed his lips in displeasure. "That was definitely not me."
"Well, if you don't care to come clean--"
A crashing noise coming from not far below interrupted Lawrence's words. Ali stared at him for a moment and then rushed for the door, Lawrence right behind him.
The staircase was too narrow for both of them, but Lawrence didn't need to outpace Ali to realize what was happening. Or rather, what had happened.
One of the large statues on the intermediate landing was lying in pieces on the floor. And hurried steps could still be heard somewhere on the ground floor.
This time, Lawrence was faster than Ali. He jumped over the scattered remains of the unfortunate statue and rushed after the culprit. A sharp piece of stone must have landed far from the crash zone, and Lawrence groaned in sudden pain when he stepped on it.
Ali rushed ahead, while Lawrence had to remove the shard from the arch of his foot. He'd gone barefoot, which clearly had been a bad idea. He limped after Ali, but whoever had been there was gone.
The ground level in this part of the castle consisted of a long corridor, and while a couple of doors led to the lavatory and one other room meant for the personnel, there could be only one way the perp could have gone through.
"Through there," Lawrence said, pointing at the farthest door down the hallway. That led to another hallway at the end of which the garden lay. That was his guess for an escape route.
Ali broke into a sprint. Lawrence cursed; the cut wasn't very deep, but it needed tending, sooner rather than later. He had his first aid kit with him, and he'd better go back. Examining it didn't help much, as quite a bit of blood was pouring from the wound.
Ali returned, breathless, his hair sticking to his forehead. "Dressed in black. Quick as wind. Disappeared faster than I can run. Larry, what the hell happened to your foot?" His voice came out in short rasps.
"I cut myself, looks like," Lawrence said. "I need to take care of it."
Ali hurried to place himself under Lawrence's arm. He looked like he might faint, so Lawrence wrapped his arm around him and didn't let his weight rest on him. "Not much of a runner, are you?" he teased.
Ali grunted. He still struggled getting his breathing back to a normal rhythm. "You should know me by now. Let's get that taken care of. We can't be late for breakfast."
"You should go ahead."
"Are you serious? No, absolutely not. I have questions, Larry."
"About what?"
"About how you knew the title of the book Lukas borrowed. You know, the one I couldn't remember."
Damn. He should've been more careful. The young men who went to Veridien were, not only presumably, among the brightest the old continent could offer.
Unnervingly so, Ali spoke again before he could manage to get another word in. "You're bleeding all over the floor. Let's go."
That gave him a very brief reprieve to come up with one hell of a lie.
***
The first aid kit came in handy. Ali had the bedside manner of a war nurse, and his efficiency would've been to Lawrence's liking if it weren't for the pressing matter of throwing his fellow student off his scent.
"There. Cleaned and tidied up." Ali leaned back to admire his handiwork. "Can you manage breakfast and lessons for today? It wasn't a deep cut after all."
Lawrence flexed his foot for good measure. "I'll live. As long as we don't have fencing or another ritual that involves barefoot walking."
"We have neither today," Ali said. "Now, Larry," he added, looking up and catching Lawrence's stare with his, "what's with all this curiosity of yours about Lukas? This isn't about Bastien."
Lawrence grunted, prepared to deliver his lie.
But once more, Ali ignored whose turn it was to speak. "You want to discover who killed him." That last bit came out as an energetic exclamation, making Lawrence gawk at his self-designated friend. "Don't look at me like that. I mean, that year of yours at the police academy. And you are getting the education of a spy. I bet you are so curious now that you're here, the place where it all happened."
"Yes, that's pretty much it," Lawrence said, keeping his tone neutral. "Lukas's case got discussed at lot where I studied last year."
Half-truths, half-lies, what better way to keep afloat?
Ali grinned from ear to ear. "Finally, someone who's interested in discovering the truth."
"What do you mean? I'm sure the police--"
Ali waved. "I'm talking about," his eyes darted briefly to the door, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "the faculty. They only care about their reputation. And the others are too hurt to think straight, like Bastien, too insensitive or," Ali stopped for effect, "have something to hide."
"Do you think so?" Lawrence asked, schooling his face into an expression that had equal parts disbelief and curiosity to qualify for the role Ali was creating for him. He also dropped his voice. "Would you say it was murder?"
"Someone wants to hurt Bastien. Of that I'm sure," Ali said. "And since you came here, odd things keep happening. I think," his words were barely a whisper now, "you are in danger, Larry. Bastien likes you, and this person, whoever they are, wants to see him destroyed."
The conspiracy theorist was hard at work.
"In danger?" Lawrence asked, stricken enough to look genuinely afraid.
"Don't worry. I'm keeping an eye on you," Ali said. "Though you almost drowned on my watch, and that's a terrible recommendation if you come to think of it--"
"That was me playing the fool," Lawrence said. "Not your fault whatsoever."
"Yeah, but even an accident would be devastating for Bastien right now. An accident involving you. So, what do you say?" Ali stuck out his hand. "Let's be partners. Like in American movies."
Lawrence couldn't say he was truly surprised. "American movies, huh? Are you watching many of those?"
Ali beamed at him, and his eyes lit up. "Whenever I get the chance, which isn't often enough. They are the best. The good guys always win. That's what I love about them."
This partnership could be a slippery slope. However, Ali was on the inside, no matter how separate he kept his business from everyone else, which meant that Lawrence could use the resourceful Martel twin to navigate Veridien's maze-like architecture and mysterious policies. Especially since there were now some pressing matters to attend to.
"That's fiction, Ali," he said. "Not always the case. In real life, more often than not, the good guys don't win."
Ali shrugged. "But it's good to have dreams. Come on, let's shake on it."
Lawrence offered his hand and shook Ali's solemnly. He'd have to be careful how much to share for this to work without drawing unnecessary suspicion to their actions. In a way, Ali's involvement would be the perfect cover in case things blew over. They were just two overly curious students. The truth should be on Veridien's coat of arms, after all. Somehow, despite thinking that, Lawrence wasn't entirely convinced the faculty was keen on respecting the old institution's principles.
"Now, what do you think happened?" Lawrence asked. "Why did our mysterious visitor knock over a statue?"
Ali got up. "I have an inkling. Let's go observe the scene of the crime."
Lawrence made sure to put a pair of slippers on this time and followed Ali down the stairs.
His partner was obviously enjoying himself. With his hands behind his back, he stepped gingerly around the broken pieces. "Our mysterious X--"
"We're going to call him X?" Lawrence asked. He remained on the stairs, his arms crossed, while he was taking in the disaster, as well.
"We must call him something," Ali argued. "Any better ideas, partner?"
"X it is," Lawrence said with a shrug.
"All right, now let's continue. Herr Becker is upstairs, in your room, with you. I come right after because I heard the gatekeeper was inspecting the rooms and worried he'd catch Bastien in your bed."
"It's astonishing how everyone seems to know Bastien is sleeping in mine," Lawrence commented.
"Not exactly a secret for the people involved," Ali said, perfectly unperturbed. "Will I look good in a trench coat?" he asked. "I'll get a trench coat," he added, without waiting for Lawrence's reply. "Now, where was I? Oh yes. I'm now in the room with you, and this person comes," he stopped and lifted a small piece of rubble from the floor, "and flings the book up the stairs to land on your doorstep without knowing that you have company." The stone shard hit a step and bounced back. Ali could use a little bit of work on his throw.
"But the door was open. X must have heard us talking," Lawrence pointed out. "And flinging an object to land before my door," he said, turning slightly to examine the distance, "would have made enough noise to get our attention."
"Ah," Ali said, squeezing past Lawrence, "he must have climbed very quietly and placed the book on the floor so you wouldn't miss it. Then," he added, returning to the landing, "realizing that Herr Becker was about to head down, he needed to hide and fast."
Ali slinked along the wall and turned the remaining statue, revealing the empty space behind it. "He obviously knows the place quite well to know that he'd fit in here."
It was just about enough space for someone slender like Ali. That, however, hardly narrowed down the list of suspects, with so many students looking chic and thin.
"Why break the statue?" Lawrence asked.
Ali pointed a finger at him. "There could be a few explanations. One, it was an accident. He hurried to leave and bang, the statue fell. Or, he wanted us to know he'd been here while deterring our pursuit."
"I have another theory," Lawrence said.
"Let's hear it," Ali offered magnanimously.
"By crashing the statue, he made sure I'd be in trouble. Is breaking academy property grounds for expelling a student?"
Ali stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Oh damn," he exclaimed, his eyes returning to normal and growing even bigger. He turned and looked at the mess with new eyes. Then he pushed his hands through his hair. "We need to clean this and fast. Do you have a broom, Larry?"
"No, but I think we can get what we need from the broom closet on the ground floor. Provided that it's not locked."
"Nothing is locked here. I'm on it."
Lawrence waited for Ali to disappear down the stairs to examine the scene, as well. If the perpetrator hid, as Ali suggested, behind the statue, then, after pushing it to the ground—
There it was. Lawrence stepped gingerly around it. A footprint, quite clear on a dusty patch. As clear as he could hope for, at least.
A boot with a round toe, large enough to establish that it belonged to a mature male. Nothing like the shoes that came with the academy's mandatory uniform. A sturdy model with a good grip. The perpetrator must have employed a good amount of skill to climb the stairs noiselessly in those boots.
"I brought a sweeper, a dustpan, and some bags." Ali presented his findings with glee.
"Let's get to work," Lawrence said. He'd have to draw the shoe print from memory later. "Still, don't you think Herr Becker will notice a giant statue missing when he comes here next time?"
Ali, who was already hard at work picking broken pieces from the floor, stopped for a moment. "We'll need a replacement."
"Hmm. Do you know someone who can create an identical statue in less than twenty-four hours?"
Ali grinned at him. "Better. I know where we can find a perfect copy. Well, maybe not exactly the same but close. Dead philosophers tend to look the same, don't you think?"
"I need more information to give you an answer," Lawrence said. "I suppose it was an antique."
Ali shook his head. "Not at all. All these things were replaced a long time ago with replicas. You know, we don't want an accident to happen," he recited in a deadpan voice that made Lawrence smile. "We'll sneak out tonight and drag the replacement here. In the meantime, make sure that you give the gatekeeper absolutely no reason to come here again."
"I'm not sure I can prevent him from coming here if he so wishes."
"Right. I'll keep him occupied. You'll have to finish cleaning here by yourself, Larry," Ali said, happily handing Lawrence the sweeper and the dustpan. "Hide all the evidence, aka the bags with the rubble, in your room. We'll get rid of them later. Like in a prison escape movie. Ah, and you can't have Bastien over tonight. He needs to remain none the wiser about this whole thing."
"Why?"
"Because he has suffered enough," Ali said.
"You still care about him," Lawrence pointed out.
Ali shrugged. "Eh, some habits die hard. I'll always care about him."
"What do you plan to do about Herr Becker?"
"What I do best. I'll play the truant, and he'll have to supervise me for the entire day. But Bastien, I'm afraid, falls to you."
That shouldn't be hard. Lawrence winced as he stepped too hard on his hurt foot.
***
First things first, he stuffed the garbage bags filled with the remains of the statue underneath his bed, since that was the only hiding place available for them in his monk cell. Hopefully, Ali's plan to get rid of them at nightfall would work.
Then he hid the book under the mattress. Even if it had obviously been planted, Lawrence would peruse it. If someone was keen on feeding him false clues, that could very well backfire on them. By pointing too energetically in one direction, one could very well draw attention to the opposite, as he'd learned while studying various cases.
The Geometry of Power was with him now. It was, indeed, written in French, which would involve, at least for the more difficult phrases, the use of a dictionary.
Or he could just make use of his new partner. Within limits, of course. Lawrence had no intention of letting Ali know his true mission at Veridien, nor of involving him too much. If there were, indeed, forces at play that could turn the game into a more dangerous version, he didn't need a civilian to worry about.
His uncle would have so many things to say to him about what he was doing wrong. But Lawrence didn't want to end up kicked out of the academy before he took at least a proper stab at the mystery surrounding Lukas's death.
This partnership with Ali, just as his involvement with Bastien, would have to remain out of his weekly report.
TBC