'Happily ever after'

All our fairy tales end with the prince and princess living 'happily ever after'.

On this day a year back, we started a journey hoping our story turns out to be like those fairly tales as well.

But 'Happily ever after' really doesn't exist, does it?

We were certainly not happy every single day of the past year.

At some point in the last year, we both were lost and we both felt abandoned. We got angry at each other on some days, we looked at ourselves and felt helpless at times and we hurt each other on a few other days.

And I know, that this last year has been incredibly tough on you. I brought you into an alien country and I left you here to fend for yourselves. You dealt with feelings you probably never recognized earlier. You fought with loneliness, and held back your tears when I wasn't with you. 

I remember you being scared of being alone. I remember you seeing me from the cracks of your barely open eyes every morning, scared of what the day would bring with it.

I remember you fighting with doubts and fears that you never knew existed.

We both probably fought a lot of battles in the last year. Most of those were with ourselves. We taught ourselves to smile when life was tough. We loved each other even more when days were tough. We smiled and went on with our lives when life really was strange and different. We never once gave up. 

Yes, we certainly were not happy every single day of our lives in the last year.

But 'happiness' is over rated. The prince and princess probably didn't live happily ever after as all those fairy tales wanted us to believe. But you know what? The prince and the princess don't have to be happy all the time. In fact, they cannot be happy all the time. That is just impossible. All the prince and the princess need is a reason to carry on when happiness escapes the clutches of their hands. 

We don't need happiness. All we need is an answer to the "Why" whenever we're sad and broken. I think we both found that answer in the last year. We know now that life doesn't have to be perfect all the time. We know now that life will betray us once in a while. We know now that life will be painful once in a while. 

But we also know that we will love each other even more when life decides to mess things up for us.

We both know that we will take all that life has given us and make it into something extremely beautiful.

We both know that no matter how tough a day might be, it will end with us finding solace in each other. It will end with you making me smile, and with me making a fool of myself trying to make you smile.

I think we both found meaning in each other in the last year.

I think we both learned to live in the last year.

I love you.

The one who roars

A person walking by wouldn't have spotted the kid.

People who did see him, didn't consider the sight of a kid sitting alone by the river staring intently at the running waters as an oddity.

He often sat there for hours. He told his father that the riverside helped him concentrate. He told his mother that the riverside calmed him. He told Meenakshi that the riverside was too dangerous and not for little girls like her. He smiled at the thought of Meenakshi. His love for his baby sister eclipsed all the hatred he felt towards the world. She was the only reason he stayed at home.

He realized that he had unwittingly clenched his fist at the thought of home. Perhaps because he never had a home. His village, and the hundreds of villages around his, worshiped his father. His father was the wisest person on earth, they said. Sage Vishrava was a demigod. His home was a school. Students and scholars came from miles away and waited at their doorstep for an audience with his father. He'd rather stay miles away.

He looked at his reflection in the waters. His dark skin glistened in the sunlight. When he walked alongside his father on the streets, he couldn't help but imagine that people were glaring at him. He wasn't one of them.  He stood out among a sea of pale skinned people. People like his father and his step brother.

He could still remember the day he went with father to the local market and got lost. People on the road didn't believe when he said that he lived there. Some threw stones at him, some chased him down the road, as if he were a pest.

He wasn't like them and neither was Meenakshi. Their skin color bothered the people around them. Their skin color didn't let them fit in. But it was not his plight or Meenkashi's that bothered him.

It was his mother's.

They called her names.

His father had two wives. They said the Aryan wife was his father's true wife. They called his mother a temptress and a demon. Mother couldn't be a demon. He heard from someone that she was a princess once. He heard stories of how his grandfather ruled over kingdoms. He heard stories of how his grandfather fought countless wars and finally decided that it was time for peace.

They said that his father and his mother fell in love. In their love, his grandfather saw a prospect of peace. The marriage between his father and his mother was supposed to seal a pact of peace between the dark skinned raksha tribe and the fair skinned invaders.

He never sensed peace. He could never sense acceptance. At best, there was status quo.

His brow clenched at the sound of anklets. He knew who that was. He didn't bother to turn around.

"Didn't I tell you that the riverside wasn't a place for tiny young girls, Meenakshi?'

He could hear a sobbing sound.

He turned around, and faced a tiny young girl, who true to her name had the most beautiful eyes he ever saw.

She wiped the tears off her eyes and fell into his embrace.

"He said.. He said that he was father's true son. He said he will always be the one who will be known as Vishrava's son. He said that he is Sage Vishrava's son, and that I should call him Vaishravana. He said you could never be Vaishravana. He said.. he said..."

He knew that she was talking about their step brother.

He hugged her, and ran his fingers through her hair.

He looked into her wide eyes, and smiled as he pulled her nose.

She sat down on his lap and they both stared at the gushing water.

"Do you know what my name means? I am Dasagriv. The one with ten heads. One day, I will roar with my ten heads, and he will run for cover"

Meenakshi giggled.

"Let him be Vaishravana. I will be the one who roars. I will be the ten headed Ravana"

Into the sunlight

All 'fables' are our memories of events so far behind in time, that they are now too distorted to be considered facts.

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"You shouldn't mind them, Son. You shouldn't be scared". 

I remember mother saying this. She said this every night. 

I remember the raids. People, shorter than us, and weaker than us, drove us away. We went deeper and deeper into forests. We kept going until they stopped following us. Until we stopped scaring them.

We couldn't live on the ground. The forest thrives with animals we have never known. Grandfather tells me our homeland, many seas away, had denser forests, and stranger creatures. I don't know if I can believe that.

We live on trees. We had to decide between living with the tigers on the ground, and living with the snakes on the trees. We chose the trees. Snakes were easier to trap or kill, and only a few ventured near us. Slowly, we learnt live with them. We learnt to live like the monkeys, on trees, eating from the forest's hands, surviving in the hardest of conditions.

We seldom saw daylight. The trees canopied the ground. We didn't dare to step out of the trees for light. It was too dangerous. There were armies of people surrounding the forest, looking to kill us, weed us out of 'their' forests. Sunlight was a luxury. Our people worshiped the sun. The men who led our people, who fought for our people and who brought food for us were worshiped as the offspring of the sun god himself

I remember father telling me that getting scared and running deeper into the forests to live another day of freedom, was not the right way. I remember him making me go with him into the crocodile infested waters, into the dense swamps and forests in search of food. I remember running with his troops, with wood and rock in our hands as we avoided death at every turn of our way. 

My father was the quickest runner in the tribe. His troops said he ran faster than the spotted tiger. My father laughed out loud when I asked him if this was true.

"They like hearing stories, Son. They like to believe that I am the wind god himself. Imagining the wind god as their savior makes them feel safe. I run fast, faster then anyone here. Its not because I am the wind god. It is because I am strong, it is because I refuse to die as a weakling."

I wanted to be strong like father. I wanted to fight the armies and take my people to a place where sunlight was not a luxury. 

My friends laugh when they hear this. They say the armies belong to the strongest king of all lands. They say the king is so strong, he could lead his armies to the heavens and defeat the king of gods himself. His armies controlled the sun and the moon, they say, and when his armies came together, they outnumbered the trees in our forest. 

I knew it was a lie. No man could be a God. He can be stronger, wiser and more powerful than us, but he was no God. 

One day, I will go to his land and burn his palace. 

One day, I will fight his armies. 

One day, I will see the God king in his eye and tell him, that I, Hanuman, the son of the wind-god, a man whom he forced to live amongst the monkeys of the Dandaka forest, was here to end his rule. 

One day, I will lead my men out of the forests, into the sunlight.

Please

Imagine this.
Its morning. Sunlight has begun creeping up from behind the curtains and the room is lit with orange light.

You open your eyes, and manage to stand up. You scratch your bum, mess up your hair, and walk to a mirror. You have half a mind to jump back into the bed and get under that blanket. More than half a mind, infact.
But you resist.

Its probably late already. You grab your phone to look at the time. "Should be around 7:30", you tell yourself as you unlock your phone.
Your pupils dilate. Your pulse races. Its 8, and you're late.

You're still recovering from the side effects of the minor stroke you had, when you realize that your clothes aren't even ironed yet. Minor stroke turns into major stroke. You're struggling to cope with the situation, when suddenly, out of nowhere, out of the freaking blue, a bright beam of light jumps onto you and before you finish saying "what the..", you find yourself standing on an odd looking landscape.

And just like that, you've been transported to this weird place you didn't know existed. (I know this is a stretch, but lets continue imagining, shall we?)

So. That is how you reached this 'other world', or an 'alternate universe', or..or...well...you get the idea.

You quickly start analyzing your surroundings and figure out that you're standing on, what looks like, a hill top and you see a big city at the foothills. All you see from your vantage point are trees, green grass, lots of pretty houses, some with some really pretty chimneys (with smoke twirling out from them), and you see cars, trains, hawker stands, and people (nope, no aliens).

You see people walking, running, talking to one another.

So. Well. You're not going to just stand there forever now, are you?

You walk down, obviously.

You're tired, disoriented, confused, and like all tired/disoriented/confused people, you crave for coffee.

You just begin wondering if you'd get coffee in this place, and before you finish imagining the worst, you see this board that says "Starbucks".

You look at the skies and give the author of this story a resigned look that seems to say "Seriously? Starbucks? Even here?", shake your head in disbelief, and walk into Starbucks.

There's a big queue as usual. You start wondering why people would queue up for overpriced coffee at this place. Coffee should be served like it is meant to be served, you tell yourself. It should be served in a tumbler, with some froth at the top, brewed with milk...Hmmm..Filter coffee..

You snap out. You're still in that same queue.

You ask for a double shot Macchiato (as usual, you say 'Maa ki auto' while ordering, and suppress a giggle).

As you sit there, smelling that intense, delicious, dark, magical drink, you cant help but wonder where life's taking you. You begin contemplating the real meaning of life, and just as you see this chain of thought getting to a logical end, just as you're about to hit that Eureka moment... someone holds you by your hair and drags you into a big hall full of serious looking people.

They're all looking at you, and at their watches alternatively. Before you manage to get out of your daze, someone plunks a bucket full of cold, chilled water at you. Right on your head.

Another guy takes out a gun and just as you duck under the table, starts shooting yucky paint balls.

The guy next to you, kicks you on your behind, and the one ahead, sits on you and starts laughing.

Another guy starts blurting out words you don't understand, and keeps asking you to do things. Strange weird things involving words you don't understand. They sound like they mean everything and nothing at the same time.

You feel an incredible urge to grab the pen and paper put in front of you and write down stuff, but the words don't mean anything, so what would you write anyway? It all sounds important, and you feel like you'll be blamed for not writing this down. You start empathizing with Ganesha - the poor guy had to write the entire Mahabharatha as Vyaasa read it out at without a single break. Your thoughts move on from Mahabharatha to TV serials to Jungle Book to Amma's morning breakfast, when suddenly, your stomach starts to rumble, and you snap out.

You're hungry. And thirsty. You realize you haven't had a glass of water since morning. Your mouth is parched, as parched as Gujarat. You also figure out that you need to use the men's room. You wonder why your body insists on letting water out when there really isn't a single drop of water inside it. You wonder why your body cannot just recycle all that water back. You start cursing evolution, and suddenly start thinking about Dinosaurs, and just when you start humming Jurassic park's theme in your mind, some one plunks a pail of cold water at you. Again.

That's it, you think. You've had enough of this nonsense. You tell yourself that you have got to get out of this place.You tell yourself that you're going to get up and shout loudly and throw this chair onto that old guy who plonked that cold water at you. You're going to kick that guy into the well like that bearded half naked guy did in that movie whose name you don't remember. It was a good movie though. What was its name, you wonder. Your stomach rumbles. You snap out and snap in to anger mode.

You're done. This is it. They're all dead, you say. And just as you're about to get up, and hurl your chair at them, people start walking out of the room.

An old guy gives you a smile as he walks out as if to say you've done well.

You walk out of the room, dazed, groggy, tired...your head bursting with confusion.

How does that feel?

That, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly how I feel after a morning meeting.

So please, for goodness sake, for humanity's sake, no meetings at 8:30. What are we? Animals?

Stuck

"Ok. Fine Nick. We don't get it. Why don't you just explain it to us?"

Nick sat back and looked at his friends. They didn't have a clue, did they?

How can they not see it?

Was it just him? The torture, the pain, how can they escape it all?

"Do you really not go through the same pain? Does it really not bother you as much as it bothers me? It is all so harmless and innocent in the beginning isn't it? You're just sitting there. Minding your business. Youre humming your song and there's cool breeze on your face. The sun is shiny and bright and all is well with the world. All of a sudden you take that one fateful turn, that one muddled decision to try a new path against all your better judgement. The sun disappears behind a cloud of smoke, and all of a sudden there's an angry mob behind you. Ready with their loud and angry judgements. You desperately want to ignore them and move on. You try to escape but no one let's you move an inch. You're trapped. You're a slave to the crowd. And so is everyone else in the crowd.
You see time pass by. You'll realize it's your life getting wasted, and there's nothing you can do. But wait. And wait. And wait... In the mercy of the crowd. Helpless. Wasted. Ruined."

His friends were staring at him. It took a while but someone finally mustered up the courage to say what they all felt st that very moment.

"Jeez man! So you got stuck in a traffic jam. Let it go now, will you,"

Elementary, my dear Watson

Holmes sat back and reached for his pipe. He let out rings of smoke as he puzzled over the facts.
He looked at Watson. Watson was looking out of the window onto the street. Or so it seemed. He very well knew that Watson was puzzled by the latest series of events too.

It is not everyday that a crime left him clueless. He had long since assumed that the London crime world had lost its creativity. He was proved wrong here and it didnt agree with him at all.

"Read me the facts once more, will you Watson?", he said as he closed his eyes and tried to focus and arrange his thoughts.

"The first murder happened five weeks ago. The cleaners by the river found a floating body. They found no injuries. They assumed that it was a case of drowning - an accident or at-most a suicide. The yard was informed. The coroner examined the body and gave his judgement the next day. He found strychnine inside the body. It was clearly a homicide. How the strychnine was administered is still a puzzle.

The second body was washed ashore three days later. The subject of both the incidents was a young man in his twenties. Once again, forensics showed Strychnine.

Five bodies have been found since. All seven have been killed using the same Modus Operandi. All seven were young men in their twenties. There was nothing to identify the five people with. The Yard sent out their photographs across the Kingdom but nothing has come of it.

The most startling aspect of it all, was that the Coroner estimates that they were killed at the same time. They were all killed six weeks back, at about the same time. But it appears that their bodies have been let go at different times."

Holmes struggled with the facts. He clearly had nothing to play with. The murderer left no clues. Nothing to track him by, except his Modus Operandi.

"I have been on this case for five weeks Watson. Seven people have been killed, and I am yet to make a conjecture as to where this beast might lie lurking." - Holmes lied back on his chair as he struggled with his frustration. Watson observed Holmes' discomfort. It was unnatural, this. He rarely saw his friend admit defeat.

Holmes calmed himself and resolved to arrange his facts - "Why would he drown their bodies?", he thought. "And why would he drown them at different points of time? He killed seven people. Surely that is a handful for one man to accomplish. Are we looking at a gang of killers then? A religious ritual?"

He pulled the leash around the facts and tried to discipline them.

"Seven people have been murdered. All of them at the same time. All of them have been killed using the same poison. The murderer(s) then let go of the bodies one at a time. It leaves us with three questions then:
1. Why were they killed?
2. Why were they killed in that exact manner?
3. Why were the bodies disposed of at different points of time?

There is very little to explain the first question. Let us try and understand 2 and 3. Clearly, the expertise with which the mode of administration of Strychnine tells us that the person was proficient at poisons. The expertise shown in concealment shows that the person was quite proficient in the use of poisons. Could he be a Chemist? Or a doctor may be?

The bodies were disposed off at different points of time. This was clearly a way to confuse an investigation. He could have as well buried the bodies and delayed the investigation much further. Why did he choose a complicated procedure?", he thought as he focussed on the issue.

"Is he taunting us Watson?", he said out aloud, his eyes still closed.

"Why would he do that, Holmes?", Watson asked, almost absentmindedly. He looked forlorn. Lost. Like the case bothered him more than it should.

"He is playing with his game, Watson. He is challenging us to find him and understand his motives."

"What sort of a person would kill for a Challenge, Holmes?"

"Ah! You bring up the most important facet of this case. The only one that will help us understand the criminal. His Psychology. Would you like to venture a guess as to how this beast's mind functions Watson?"

"I leave that to you Holmes" - Watson said, as he turned his gaze away from the window for the first time.

Holmes smiled. Watson could sense the condescending tone of the sentence that Holmes was about to spout. "OK then. Allow me to give you a glimpse of the killer's thought process. Let us proceed along an hypothesis that this Modus Operandi has been chosen solely to challenge and puzzle the investigators. The newspapers are agog with speculations. He is now the most wanted man in London. Let us assume that this is what he wanted. He wanted attention. He wanted adulation - albeit a perverted version of it. He must therefore be a person starved of adulation."

Watson sat down, all ears as he handed Holmes his Coffee.Black and bitter, just as Holmes liked it.

Holmes sipped his Coffee and continued with his discourse.

"So, to continue from where we left, this person must therefore be someone who is starved for appreciation. I would say he is someone who desperately needs to assert his presence. Someone who has for long lived under the Shadow of a greater individual, and has been ridiculed and ignored all his..."

Holmes spluttered. He reached out for the glass of wine on the table near his Chair.

The table moved. He could see Watson moving the table farther away with his walking stick. Holmes turned and looked at Watson. There was an unmistakable gleam in Watson's eye. It was one he saw often when Watson won a race at the derby or a bet on a boxing duel. It was Watson's victory smile.

Holmes could feel his Chest tightening. It was unmistakable. He had studied this phenomenon tens of times in chemistry manuals. Strychnine Poisoning.

He struggled to reach for a drink. His tongue was parched. He could barely move now.

"Why?", was the only word he could utter.

Watson stood up, held Holmes by his shirt collar, lifted him up and spoke looking into Holmes' eyes.

"Exhaustion, Holmes. Pure and simple exhaustion. I waited five weeks for you to figure this out. You didnt. You struggled for five weeks to find someone who was right next to you. I played with you for five weeks. I saw you struggle with your facts. I am exhausted of playing my own game. This is the only way it could end. Tomorrow another body will be found on shores of London. This time it will be that of the greatest detective the world has ever seen.

You can see the newspapers screaming that out cant you, Holmes? You can see the Yard and the whole of London recoil in horror as they find out that the greatest detective in the world has been outsmarted, cant you Holmes?"

Holmes couldnt keep his eyes open anymore. The end was near. Watson bent forward and whispered into Holmes' ear: "So you see Holmes, as you quite often say, it is all quite elementary."

The wager

It was a raucous bar. One would, under normal circumstances, not have heard this man speak. But it is not every day that one challenges Lord Birkbeck.

“I am not sure we have been introduced – Stuart Birkbeck. And you must be…”
“Oh, I know who you are Sir Mayor. I am just a carpenter Sir, Carpenter Paul. I was called in to work on some of the doors here Sir, and your bartender was kind enough to offer me a drink before I left.”

“And was it you, Mr. ‘Paul’, who shouted out his opinion just now?”

“Yes Sir. Pardon me sir, but I have been following your conversation from over there sir. I heard you say there is no perfect crime…. I would have to humbly disagree on that sir”.

Birkbeck looked around. There were sly smiles on people’s faces. “Well, nothing wrong in some fun now and then”, he thought to himself.

“So Mr. Paul, are you saying you have heard of this ‘perfect crime’ then?”
“Yes sir, my lord. There was infact one that I once saw unravel right in front of myself”.

Birkbeck pulled out a wad of cash and put it on the table. “Gentlemen, May I demand your attention for a moment please? I place a wager. Paul here will now be recounting his experience of having been a witness to a ‘Perfect Crime’. This wad here on the table goes to Paul if he does succeed in standing by his claims.”

Paul ran his hand behind his collar. He looked like the kind of person who found comfort in anonymity. All this attention was certainly not doing any good to his constitution. His hand quivered as he emptied his glass.

“I have seen a crime happen sir, which I think is impossible to attribute. It happened a while back sir."

He lifted his glass and emptied his drink.

"My memory fails me…but I do remember that it was a cold day sir. London was covered in snow and I was hauling out snow outside my place there.
I say my memory fails, but I find it hard to drive the picture of this man from my mind. He was tall sir, about your height I would say, and had the bearing of a man with considerable means. He wore a beaver hat, which had ostrich plumes on it and a jeweled band too... Yes, I would say he was quite well to do.."

"You never know...Lot of questionable hatters these days in London. I am not sure a lot of people can afford a jeweled ostrich plumed beaver. I remember Lord Birkbeck was one of the first to have one, weren't you Sir?" - shouted out one of the mayor's companions. The mayor smiled and looked at Paul, as if asking him to ignore and continue.

"There was some commotion in the city then Sir", Paul continued, "Anyway, as I was filling in my pipe Sir, I couldn’t help but notice that this person had stepped into a puddle twice. Twice Sir, in the London winter. Now no man can be that careless unless ofcourse his attention lay elsewhere. I deduced therefore that this man had a lot of worries.

He hailed a Hackney from across the street sir. As he stepped into it, his bowgett fell off onto the road. Now this was not a small pouch – and it fell into a puddle with a splash. But this man seemed to be in a tearing hurry to get into the carriage, because he did not notice the pouch fall off or the splash afterwards. I felt it appropriate to bring his attention to this Sir, so I shouted out loud. I called out for him, but the carriage had left by the time I reached the spot.

I picked up the pouch and ran after the carriage Sir. I could not bag the pouch myself Sir, I may not be a man of means, but I am still a man of God. And I assumed that returning this pouch might result in a reward, a guinea may be.

I was walking towards the police station Sir, when I realized that the very same Hackney was standing at the doorsteps of one of the houses. I realized that it might be a good idea to ask the driver as to where this person was dropped off and perhaps return the bowgett to the person directly. I assumed that the reward, if any, would be bigger that way.

I was walking towards this place that the driver pointed out Sir, one near West end. I ended up at the place Sir, and before I could enter, I noticed a very strange thing Sir. I noticed that the window on the first floor was open. It was winter Sir, quite a brutal one at that – it caused the highest number of deaths in London I remember.”

Another of the Mayor’s companions interrupted: “Ah! This must be 1678 then. That is the year you first became our Mayor my lord! This must be during the elections then!”

Paul continued – “So you see Sir, it was very weird, seeing a window open. As I wondered about this, I noticed that the air now was filled with the smell of gunpowder, which I thought explained why the window was open. Someone was trying to let the fumes out! I did not know what to do sir – I could not possible call the police – this was West end! I waited in the cold Sir, trying to make up my mind.
A couple of minutes later Sir, I notice this woman walking out. She had fur all around her, and I could barely see her face. But she seemed to be in as much of a hurry as the man I saw earlier. As I looked at this woman walk, I couldn’t help but notice that she reminded me of that man! The gait, the appearance – the bearing of this woman was so startlingly similar. And then as she hailed a hackney from across the street, I caught a glimpse of a leather belt around her waist. It had a broken hook, and it appeared as if it was damaged, as if a piece was missing.

It occurred to me then Sir. This was no woman! This was that very man! He went in, shot someone, dressed up as a woman, and walked out! I felt this incredible sense of surety sir, that this was indeed him. I was scared sir. I am a humble man you see, one who lives by the day – and I did not want any trouble with the Police… which was why I never told anyone about this.

Imagine my surprise then Sir, when I saw this very hackney stop at the Piccadilly and this women get down to a huge reception. There were people from the newspapers all around her. She had her face covered, and the fur pulled against her and she rushed into the ball before any of them could get close to her. It was the grand ball Sir, and everyone was there, the lords, the earls, everyone.

This is where the night ended for me Sir. I left for home that day. I had seen everything and nothing. What was I to say to the police? That I had smelt gunpowder and deduced that a man had shot someone and later walked out dressed as a lady form the crime scene? Who would believe me?

I woke up the next day Sir, and walked out for a spot of breakfast. I was turning the papers, when I noticed something that made me spill my coffee. It was that very man, sir!! The paper said that his sister, was…”, his hands quivered as he continued. “…was murdered! At the same place in west end that I had been to last night!...But the strangest thing was yet to happen Sir…”

“I turned the page to find a portrait of this lady. She was exactly like her brother in her bearing, in her height, her appearance….she was exactly like him! I read on Sir. The papers said that the lady had been spotted walking into a ball on the Piccadilly that very evening, and her body was found at her home the next morning. The police were of the assumption that a robber had broken into her house that night, and a possible confrontation led to her death…

But I knew what had happened Sir! The brother, he killed his own sister, dressed up as her, walked amidst the press into the ball, changed again into his man’s costume before anyone in the ball could notice him, and stayed there! The people inside the ball saw him and would swear by his alibi. The people outside the ball would swear by their knowledge that they saw the woman walk in!!

It is perfect Sir! The murderer and the victim were the same! How will they ever find out? How will they Lord Mayor?”

There was silence in the bar. Not one murmur, not a clink of ice in the glasses.
Lord Birkbeck was staring at Paul. Like he had seen a ghost.

Paul walked over. He removed his hat as he approached the mayor. Someone handed him his cash from the counter. Paul walked away. No one noticed him dropping something into the Mayor’s jacket.

As the Mayor left the bar that night, he felt something heavy in his pockets. He put his hand in to dig out a leather pouch. It was the bowgett he had dropped two years ago.