3. Claude

Claude Redfield — age eleven — was sick and tired of being bullied by Billy-Desmond Donovan. He was so sick that he had to spend the whole day, even during lunch and recess, near a teacher at all costs — though Billy would get him sooner or later. But today, Billy was gone, absent, and Claude was delighted to go somewhere around campus for a change without the fear of getting backed up into a corner or being chased through the fields. Of course, even though Billy wasn't at school, he might be out and about in the streets — in which Claude ran all the way home.

He was breathless when he arrived at the front door, fumbling for the key in his pocket. The key triggered the lock and Claude rushed in. He slid to the floor slightly relieved, his hand hung loosely from the doorknob. He thought that if Billy managed to do the impossible and get inside then he'd be able to make a break for it. But he was safe. Claude smiled wide, almost breaking out in laughter if he wasn't so tired from running.

Soon, his mother was at his side helping him up and straightening his clothes. “We have visitors Claude dear, detectives. They want you to help them.” Dabbing his damp forehead with her handkerchief, she pushed the boy closer to the guests.

One, the older of the two, had wise dark eyes and a carefree dimpled smile. A brown fedora — similar to the one his father gave him — was on his lap. The other had nothing in particular that stood out but Claude knew he was an officer from his gray coat. He was younger, almost like he could be Claude's brother — he did have the same color hair as he did, honey blonde — with glasses to boot. His eyes were a different story though — a grayish color, a pretty faded blue. Given the similar face shape too, the man reminded him of the storybook angels. Claude immediately took a liking to him.

The older man introduced himself as Devereaux. Claude shook Devereaux's hand, mustering a weak smile as he introduced himself in turn. The adrenaline was going away, returning him to his former self — the shy boy comparable to a newborn fawn.

“Good... Quite a grip there young Claude.” Satisfied, Devereaux gestured to the man beside him, taking him by the shoulder. “And this is Wormwood, my apprentice-assistant. You may call him Detective as well.”

The man made a face when called “Detective”, his brow scrunched momentarily in confusion to which the older man laughed.

Is he shy too? Claude asked himself. He held out his hand — a gesture many had given to him when he was scared or embarrassed, a gesture he hoped would help him too.

Rhys took the boy's hand, it was trembling like a leaf but it was kind. Rhys hardly noticed himself smiling. Devereaux's remark was unnecessarily unpredictable and in that one second, he let down his guard. This boy must've known since he returned his smile — something between the both of us, he seemed to say. Rhys soon was under control. He reminded himself that his mentor was watching him.

The mother gave the boy a congratulatory pat, leaving the room afterward to fetch snacks and refill drinks. The boy then seated himself across the two twiddling his thumbs.

“Claude, I'm going to ask you some questions. They're not too hard but we want an honest answer, understand?” Devereaux's tone was level, if he were outside, his hat would be on his head — Rhys thought it to act as a switch from Devereaux to Detective Devereaux.

The boy nodded. Rhys steadied his hand on the notepad.

“Claude, you go to the same school as Billy-Desmond Donovan. Do you know Mr. Donovan personally?”

Is he going to get punished? The thought flashed like lightning. Finally. Billy was going to pay. “Yes, sir,” he said, “He's a bully. Everyday he calls me names or chases me around or tries to pick fights. The teacher tells him not to but he does it anyway. He's a bully Mr. Detective, he bullies everyone but he picks on me the most.”

His mother came back, setting a filled tray on the table before taking a seat next to her son.

“And do you know of this Ms. Redfield?” Devereaux said.

“Oh yes. I've had calls about it. He was even reported to the headmaster but it began again after a couple of months.” She paused, sipping hot tea. “I don't think they ever wanted to deal with him in the first place. He might've been a troublemaker but his family says otherwise.”

Devereaux nodded thoughtfully. He faced Claude again. “My boy, what would you say if Billy suddenly...disappeared?” His mother shot a warning glance, looking between the detective and her son. “What would you say would be the cause of his disappearance?” Rhys tapped the notepad — bothersome pen was running out of ink...

Claude thought for a moment, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet and he suddenly thought of his father. He'd been dead for a couple of years and he wondered why since he didn't do anything wrong... As for Billy, he tortured many kids and stole from them — stole from him too, a flashlight his father gave to quell his fear of the dark. It would be nice if he went away...

“That would be Miss Murder's job Mr. Detective. She takes all misbehaving children haven't you heard?” His remark wasn't at all accusatory. He wasn't so sure of himself whether that was what the detective wanted as an answer but he felt that it had to be said. Despite Billy and his prominent family, he was a troublemaker and Miss Murder liked troublemakers — or so he heard.

Devereaux quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Murder... My boy, where-ever did you learn that?”

“From — ”

“Detective, it's nothing but a rhyme the kids sing when playing. It's a game — ”

“Is it?” Devereaux shifted in his seat. “Nevertheless, I want Claude to explain it to me.” He looked at Rhys briefly, a signal he knew that this was possibly important — good thing he had a spare pen. “Go on. Recite the rhyme for me, please.”

Clearing his throat Claude said —

“Murder sees and Murder does, Murder does not spare any-one.
Children too she takes under her blade and they come back the child you never knew , it's said —
Writing in mirrors is her passion, pretty reversed words in orderly fashion.
Murder, condemn her not for her sins, for if you do you shall never win.”

“A horrid rhyme,” his mother commented with a scoff.

The two detectives looked at each other. His mother refused to look at him. Claude didn't know what he was doing wrong, he was just doing what they said!

Devereaux rose, his hat to his chest. “All right Ms. Redfield, I believe that's enough this afternoon. You are quite the hospitable host if I may —”

Leaving? Why didn't anyone finish what they talked about around him? The last time they did that... Why, his father later turned out dead! This was all unfair.

While Devereaux talked the boy's mother, Claude jumped out his seat and dashed for the stairs. Rhys wanted to stop him but he didn't know what to say and, even though he was busy, he knew Devereaux was noting the way he handled himself — to see if he could keep his mind clear. If a detective were to get too involved... Rhys couldn't help but look at the stairs, hoping the boy would still be there. But he wasn't. Claude was well out of their sight and Devereaux was at the door. They were leaving, and it bothered him that it didn't feel right.

. . .

Claude slammed the door behind him. They always leave, he thought over and over. They never say anything. He was at his desk, rummaging through the drawers. Never, never, never... His hat was gone. There was no other hiding place, he kept his hat right in his desk...

Claude froze. He felt that sensation in his knees, wobbly — weak — he was about to topple over when he clumsily crossed the room to the open window. It wasn't supposed to be open. His mother told him to keep it closed always! She couldn't have opened it... Rushing out the room, his mother was just retreating from the door.

Who was going to console him now? Who would he look to when there was nothing else... It all troubled him deeply as he didn't want to know the answer; yet, he knew it and it pained him so much. His father was gone and would never come back. His belongings were sent away and sold except for the fedora — this particular boy's treasure.

Hopelessness rose in him, pulling him deeper in like the tide but he couldn't stop, couldn't let them leave...

The boy fled out the door in despair.