4. Wormwood

“Wait!”

Rhys jumped as tiny arms squeezed his middle. Claude dug his face into his jacket, frame shaking as he begged them not to go in a tear-filled voice. On cue, his mother appeared at the entryway. Apologizing, she tried to pull the boy from Rhys but he refused.

“You never tell me anything!” He seemed to say between sobs. “Father didn't go away, he's dead — ”

“Claude, stop it. Let go of him — ”

“No!” He squeezed tighter. Rhys literally couldn't breathe.

The boy's mother was pulling with more force, almost scolding now but Devereaux stepped in, talking to her in a calm voice. “Good grip m'boy,” he commented, patting the boy's head before leading her away.

Rhys flushed in annoyance. He felt vulnerable as people took to staring. At least, he thought, adjusting his glasses, he stopped crying. Rhys put on his best consoling voice as he said, “Now Claude, what about your father?” He assumed it to be the heart of the problem.

The boy released him, wiping his tear-streaked face as he attempted to talk. Sighing, Rhys kneeled to be more at eye-level. He repeated his question in a softer tone.

“Father's dead, sir. No one told me. He also gave me his hat and now it's gone,” he replied.

“Did you misplace it somehow? Maybe your mother has it.”

He shook his head. “No! No, if she saw it she would throw it away like everything else that was his... So I hid it in my desk. She never checks my desk and she doesn't go in my room either. Today, the window was open and I'm sure, sir, that I never opened it! I swear!”

Rhys was sure he had the answer. “Claude, did you love your father? Moreso than your mother?” As predicted, the boy nodded. Smiling half-heartedly, he reached into his pocket taking from it a worn silver pocketwatch, showing it before unhooking it from the belt loop. Rhys took the boy's hand and placed it there, manually closing the tiny fingers around it. “My father gave me this as a good luck charm a long time ago. Like your hat, this is the only thing I have of him but I think it'll do you good if you keep it for now. When we solve this case, I'll have your hat by then and we can trade to get our belongings back, got it?”

The boy wasn't crying anymore. “Is that a promise Mr. Detective?”

Rhys briefly glanced at the house. At the doorstep was his mentor with the boy's mother, who had calmed down considerably. If Devereaux had the time to divert his attention from the woman, he'd shake his head at his apprentice. “I promise.”

Claude lowered his head but he was smiling. Seconds later, the boy hugged Rhys in thanks before running back inside. His mother followed bidding them goodbye.

Devereaux was looking elsewhere as he crossed the driveway. Rhys instinctively had his hand in his pocket, feeling for the watch that wasn't there. He was ready for a direct confrontation, an argument, maybe even a lecture on what not to do on the job. But Devereaux passed him in silence, signaling him over once the car was started. Once inside, Devereaux talked, but not on his possible blunder.

“You wrote the rhyme, correct?” he began, uneasy, “I want you to recite the last two lines. I need to clear something up before we get going.”

Flipping through the pages, Rhys calmed down. He didn't need a watch to succeed. Luck was only coincidence, not the working of a broken watch. He would be perfectly fine without it... He recited the lines.

Devereaux harrumphed before starting down the road. “I'm sure you've heard of the Bartlett case Rhys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It may be difficult to believe that these cases are related somehow but — ”

“Sir, you can't possibly — ”

“Of course I do, or else I wouldn't have said it.” He paused. “It's uncanny Rhys. Of course, you wouldn't know since you weren't at the crime scene. A lot of things are withheld from the public you know, sometimes too many things. Eventually those dolts at The Galleon are going to publish that vandals are writing random names on people's doors! Believe it or not, they are not vandals and those names aren't at all random.”

“But the killer was convicted. He was working solo, he couldn't possibly have — ”

“Family? Or maybe you were going for Followers instead?”

The argument was at a dead end. Rhys wasn't at all knowledgeable on the case, not that he wanted to in the first place, he felt better off not knowing what happened and moved on.

Devereaux started again —

“Rhys, later I want you to look over the entire case file, take it home if you prefer not to come to work the next day.”

“Not come to work? I don't understand, sir.”

“It's a tough case. I don't expect you to browse it as you would a newspaper. Every detail is critical and I need you to be on the same page” — he looked at him briefly — “You will have three days Rhys. Three so you can figure out what you need to know. At the end of those three days, I'll visit and we'll go over what we learned.”

“Sir, isn't that a little... unorthodox?”

“Yes, but necessary. While you go over the files, I'll be gathering clues of my own. In short, Andreev wants to stay in secrecy and I'm the only one he'll willingly allow into his house on short notice.”

Rhys nodded. It was better not to pry.

“As for now...” Devereaux said slowly, considering what to say, “I want you to observe. We're paying a visit.”

“To whom sir, if I may ask?”

“A sick man,” was Devereaux's reply.