Archive of Our Own

Prologue

December 31st 1926

Under the twinkle of artificial starlight, the New Year’s Eve guests of the Canterville Hotel revel in the celebrations. A microcosm of prohibition era high society, they exist in a flurry of sidecars and flapper dresses, ooh- and aah- ing at the scandalous secrets that slip from tipsy mouths; sordid affairs, bootlegging, illegal accounts, all toasted to in good humour, safe in the knowledge that a secret is a lovely little thing to entertain for a night. Being the richest of the rich in a society of destitution, they have no need to expose the wrongdoings of their fellow men; the top of the ladder is quite comfortable in its position, and has been thoroughly blocked off so that the inner circle of a sugar-cube society remains unthreatened. The outside world, to them, is merely a performance to be observed in the liminal moments between parties and business meetings, to be glanced at from the tinted windows of speakeasies and shunned as if immoral by virtue of being outside. 

Of course, this lack of attention to the crumbling world on their doorstep leaves them ignorant to the fact that beyond the ornate gold doors of the Canterville Hotel, far out by the magnificent lake upon which the December mist dances and shines, two men are lying dead atop the water, slowly becoming reclaimed by earth and waves alike as they sink into the dark.

January 1st 2027

“The Canterville Hotel plays host to guests both living and dead! Come and join us for a comfortable stay, with five-star quarters and all-inclusive spa and pool function rooms. The on-site restaurant boasts our very own Michelin star chef, with room service available between 9am to midnight every day of the week, and continental breakfast from the hours of 6am through 10am. Sink into the history with a ghost tour surrounding the unexplained disappearances of Walter Redd and Ernest Earnest on New Year’s Eve 1926, or settle down in front of one of our ten grand fireplaces to read up on the history of the Canterville Hotel yourself! For bookings, visit our website or contact Hotel Manager Mr. Gray.”

Apollo turns the pamphlet over in his hands. He’s lucky enough to not have taken his own New Year’s celebrations too hard last night, but he still nurses his coffee and shoots an empathetic glance in Athena’s direction; she’s rubbing her temples and looking like she’s about to fall asleep on her desk. Trucy, however, seems like she’s been ready to take on the day for hours now, even though it’s only 9am, and she bounces up and down on her heels with her hands behind her back as she watches him set the pamphlet down.

“So, whatd’ya think?” She says excitedly.

“Think about what?” Apollo asks.

“Your case!”

“W-What case?”

“Sorry,” Phoenix says, standing up from his own desk and crossing over to Apollo’s. “The ghost stories seem to have got this little one all excited. You’ve got a new client. There was a murder out by the lake of that hotel last night. Some guy called Jack Wild has been arrested for it, and he’s called on us to defend him. So what do you say? You feeling up to the job?”

“A case is a case, Mr. Wright,” Apollo leaves the dregs of his coffee in the cup as he stands up. “And I could do with one or I’m not going to make rent this month. I’m assuming this guy is down at the Detention Center?”

“You got it. I went to see him myself first thing this morning, but he’s not really giving up much information. He might be a tough nut to crack.”

“I can handle it,” Apollo lightly touches his bracelet with his right hand. “What do we know so far?”

“The victim’s name was Mr. Jean Hauss. I’ve got his file here, but Ema will be able to tell you more on the scene. He was the caretaker down by the lake. Not employed by the hotel, though, I think it’s more of a family business kind of thing where they preserve the area.”

“No obvious motive?”

“Not that I can see,” Phoenix says, handing Apollo the file with information on Mr. Jean Ted Hauss. “Poor guy was pushing eighty.”

“I can’t imagine he would have put up much of a fight, then.”

“You never know. Old men who live by lakes can be deceptively… sprightly.”

“Well, thanks,” Apollo nods, packing the file into his briefcase. “Trucy, you coming?”

“Not today, Polly,” she says. “I have to workshop my act for the show next week. You’ve got this, though! You don’t need me!”

“Sure, sure,” Apollo grumbles. He leaves the now-lukewarm cup of coffee on his desk, shooting an awkward, sympathetic wave in Athena’s direction that is received with nothing more than a vague whine on her end. 

The journey to the Detention Center is both familiar and easy, with most of the usual early-morning commuters still in their apartments for their mandated New Year’s Day off work. Apollo holds a minor internal debate with himself over whether he really deserves to treat himself to Starbucks coffee before he sees Mr. Wild, but the defense attorney in his brain produces the damningly decisive piece of evidence—his bank statement from last month—and he walks right on by the coffee shop. When he enters the Detention Center, he goes through the usual motions of showing his letter of request and badge (a simple task, but one that he loves even now) before being led to the glass pane separating him and the defendant.

Jack Wild is an odd looking man, twice as tall as he is wide, a feature that gives the impression that he’s been put through a spaghetti maker and stretched out to an almost inhuman seven foot. His hair is mousy brown and parted in the middle, wisping off at either side in a way that neither frames his face, nor distracts attention from the sharp triangular shape of his jaw. His outfit, which he must have been arrested in, looks like it would be more at home in a museum than on a living, breathing man, and gives off the feel of a Victorian Dandy, which would be an apt way of describing such a man if the aura of hysterical nervousness didn’t get in the way of branding him anything except mildly pathetic.

“Uh… hi?” Jack says. “Are you my lawyer?”

“Yes,” Apollo replies. “I work for the Wright Anything Agency. I believe you spoke with my boss earlier this morning?”

“I didn’t do much… speaking.”

“Oh yeah? And why would that be?”

“Nobody would believe me even if I told the truth.”

Jack’s hands are nervous as they play with the strange, green-rusted piece of metal on the lapel of his jacket. After a moment of silence, he takes the little token off and holds it in his palm, running the fingers of his other hand against the old metal as if it’s bringing him some semblance of comfort.

“I’m listening,” Apollo reassures him. “However strange you think the truth is, it’s the truth, right?”

“Well… yes… but even I know it sounds like a bad lie.”

“I’ve probably heard worse.”

“You’ll really listen?”

“There’s no harm in hearing you out,” Apollo touches his bracelet, ready to prepare himself for any lies in the testimony. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“A-Alright. Well… I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you. Did you see who did?”

“Th-that’s the thing… I did see it happen. Sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of?”

“It’s really misty out by that lake. And it was late—before the fireworks went off so definitely before midnight, but well past dusk. It was dark. And the mist… and… you’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?”

“I’m not entirely familiar, but I get the jist.”

“They say it’s haunted.”

“And?” Apollo prompts Jack to continue talking.

“I… I saw a ghost.” Jack takes out a flashlight from the pocket of his jacket, shining it under his face as if telling a story instead of recounting real-life events.

Oh, great. Goodbye, normal case.

“You saw a ghost?”

“I know how it sounds! And I’m not crazy—really, I’m not! But it was a genuine, bonafide ghost, just sort of floating alongside the mist. And then… I think there was a scream?  I ran over trying to help but… I think I must have fainted? Because I woke up and there was a knife next to me and blood all over my jacket and… and… oh, god, he was dead. And I… I called the ambulance and the cops but… they think it was me! They think I did it!”

“Calm down. It sounds like you were set up. But everything you’ve said matches up with what I’ve got here,” Apollo takes out the file from the Wright Anything Agency and confirms that Mr. Hauss was indeed fatally stabbed. “What I can’t understand, though, is why you were out by the lake in the first place? You don’t work at the Canterville Hotel, do you?”

“N-No… but I’m interested. In ghosts and all that. I actually write, uh, a lot of ghost stories. It’s sort of my job.”

“So you were there trying to get inspiration?”

“I suppose… but I was invited.”

“Huh?”

“Here,” Jack says, taking a small envelope out of his pocket and sliding it under the glass that separates him from Apollo. “I brought it with me to the hotel in case they needed proof that I was supposed to be there.”

Taking the invitation, Apollo sees that it certainly looks official. It boasts the same verbiage as the pamphlet he had read earlier, heavily emphasising the ghost stories surrounding the Canterville Hotel, which Apollo imagines is an impossible-to-resist temptation for a man who writes about ghosts for a living. And the stationery is branded with the Canterville Hotel symbol, which just adds to the authenticity of the whole thing.

“And you just accepted?” He says. “Without knowing who it was from?”

“I thought… maybe… the hotel had seen some of my work and wanted to invite me to do a feature piece.”

Apollo has to bite down his snarky inner monologue, and he manages to catch himself just in time before his comment about this being exactly why Jack had gotten himself framed for murder leaves the tip of his tongue. “Alright,” he says instead. “Just… walk me through everything that happened last night.”

“It was just an ordinary party at first. I got there a bit late because the roads leading up the hotel are really winding and I’m not the most confident driver in the world, but it wasn’t raining or anything. It was quite calm actually, maybe a little humid, and when I started to approach the castle it really loomed over the horizon like it was an organism growing up and out of the ground, threatening to swallow me wh—”

“Relevant details only, please.”

“R-Right. Well, I got there around nine in the evening and everyone was already in the swing of things. I just walked around a bit—I thought there might be something interesting to write about, but there was nothing. Until… around ten, eleven maybe? I walked into one of the ballrooms—t-they weren’t all in use because of, uh, renovations I think? Anyway… there was a big sign saying that it was out of bounds and… well, you can’t show a ghost story writer a sign like that and expect him not to investigate! So I… I went in and… and…”

“It’s okay,” Apollo says. “Take your time.”

“There were ghosts!” Jack says, enunciating his high-pitched words with his hands. “Everywhere!”

“Ghosts? Plural?”

“Yes, I swear it. Dressed in those old-timey flapper dresses and suits and… they were half see-through but I swear they were there. I could smell the pipe smoke.”

“And then what happened?”

“I followed them, of course! They were slipping out through the big door that leads outside and just vanishing. And I ended up by the lake. And that’s where I saw the ghost.”

“Another one?” Apollo bites back the sheer temptation to roll his eyes.

“The one I told you about. Floating by the lake with the mist all around it, shrouding it in plumes of smoke. Neither fully alive nor wholly dead, cursed to drag its weary chains from the Underworld onto the cursed lake, steeped in mystery and intrigue, and—”

“Maybe save the theatrics for your stories, yeah? You’re sure you didn’t see anyone… alive around?”

“I’m positive. I mean, I suppose the victim could have been considered alive, but… not by the time I woke up.”

“You were knocked out?”

“I think so. I doubt I would have passed out from fright.”

Somehow, your faith in yourself doesn’t entirely convince me, Apollo thinks.

“I called the police the moment I saw what happened. After I woke up,” Jack finishes. “And now I’m here. Oh, this is terrible! Terrible! I’ll never write again!”

“I believe you’re innocent,” Apollo says. “But I think there’s more to the story than either of us know right now. Just… hang tight, and I’ll see what I can unearth at the crime scene.”

“Oh, do hurry back,” Jack flashes his flashlight under his chin once more, but it flickers on and off, and he makes a rather pathetic show of tapping it with his hand to get it to work again. “It’s really creepy in here.”

“Mhm,” Apollo mutters as he leaves the Detention Center. “I wonder why.”

The nearest Metro stop to the Canterville Hotel is still a good twenty minute walk away, and Apollo bitterly regrets not bringing a coat warmer than his thin rain jacket. While it was lightly raining when he set off to work this morning, it’s now near-freezing, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it starts snowing before the day is up. Miserably, he trudges through the mud of the hotel grounds, following half-accurate directions on his phone through what feels like an endless forest, until he sees the hotel approaching in the distance. For all of Jack’s dramatics, he actually had a fair point about the hotel rising over the horizon like it’s alive; Apollo watches it creep closer, and he’s so caught up in the magnificent eeriness of the building that he doesn’t notice the road ahead being lit by car headlights from behind him. The short, curt beep of a horn makes him jump, and he almost falls into the marshland surrounding the country road.

When he turns around, the sight of a metallic purple sports car seems scarier than any ghost.

“Need a ride, Herr Forehead?” Klavier rolls the window down, sticking his head out into the cold air. 

Apollo surveys the car. The driver’s seat is occupied by Klavier, and the passenger side by Ema, leaving only the (admittedly spacious) backseat for him. He could continue walking, but a few droplets of rain fall onto his hair and trickle down his hair horns, a sure indicator that there’ll be another downpour soon; so, reluctantly, he smiles as best he can and pulls open the door.

“Thanks,” he says.

Despite its well-kept exterior, the inside of Klavier’s car is cluttered. It isn’t dirty, but it is messy—Apollo has to share the backseat with Klavier’s gym bag and not one, but two guitar cases. 

“So, you’re the defense for this one?” Klavier says, his eyes on the road.

“Mhm.”

“What’s the defendant like?”

“Bit weird.”

“Is that all I get?” Klavier questions. “Bit weird?”

“Stop trying to get information out of him, fop,” Ema sighs. “And drive faster. The quicker we get here, the quicker we get home.”

“Ach, we’d have arrived by now if someone didn’t make me stop off and pay for her McDonald’s breakfast.”

“Call it compensation for having to put up with you.”

While Ema and Klavier bicker like old best friends in the front of the car, Apollo leans his head against the window and watches the trees go by until they fully part to reveal the Canterville Hotel in all its glory. 

It’s a large, mansion-esque building that stretches up beyond the treeline. The architectural style looks like it hasn’t changed much over the past century, and the spires that flicker like sharp candlelight up to the sky seem even older, giving the entire building an overwhelming aura of intimidating magnificence. As Klavier’s car trickles down the driveway at a shockingly responsible pace, Apollo tries to get his bearings already—the lake is pretty close to the hotel itself, but far enough away that anyone without his eyesight would probably struggle to see enough of a person there to identify a suspect. While that doesn’t bode well for the possibility of taking witness statements, he reasons that there might be more compelling evidence left by the lake itself, and makes a mental note to check it out when he can.

Hopefully in the daylight.

The thing is—Apollo isn’t scared of ghosts. He doesn’t believe that unfinished business is strictly reserved for the dead, and far too many people have left him without offering him the closure that he won’t get whether he’s presently alive or not. But he is slightly apprehensive of murderers, and with how creepy this place is, it may as well be sporting a neon red sign saying ‘Get away with murder here!’ 

They park on the gravel driveway. While Apollo takes a moment to gather his raincoat and briefcase, Klavier steps out of the car and opens the backseat door, holding his arm out and gesturing for Apollo to exit. Not too enamoured with the pointless display of chivalry, Apollo rolls his eyes and steps out onto the ground unaided.

In a surprisingly uncharacteristic display of good luck, the real downpour of rain only starts the moment Apollo enters the hotel. The police presence here isn’t as large as it is by the lake, but a few investigators are milling around, taking statements from an assortment of guests, most of whom are in hotel-branded dressing gowns with their shock displayed plainly on their faces. Making his way to the front desk, Apollo coughs lightly to get the attention of the man there, who—if his name tag is correct—is the hotel manager.

“Oh, hello there,” the manager says. “More police?”

“Lawyers, actually,” Apollo replies. “We’re just here to have a look around and see what evidence we can gather for the upcoming trial.”

“Of course, of course. Awful tragedy, isn’t it? Terrible for business, too—and just as the new year is starting! Really, there couldn’t be a worse time for it. I’m up to my eyeballs in complaints. You’d think people staying at an infamous murder hotel would come to expect this sort of thing, but everyone seems to be in such a frenzy.”

“Murder hotel? You mean this thing happens often?”

“No, no, my dear boy, not often at all! It’s been one hundred years since that night—one hundred to the day. Of course, it’s only classified as a disappearance, but people will talk, won’t they? Perhaps in another hundred years, people will flock back here for this mystery.”

“Let’s hope not, ja?” Klavier smiles. “It’s really in everyone’s best interests that this unsolved murder gets solved very soon.”

“Yes, yes, quite right. You must forgive me, I can’t seem to shake my head out of business. Anything you need—anything at all, and I’m at your disposal. I’m Mr. Gray, but everyone round here calls me Copper. You get far as a manager if you’re more personable, I’ve found.”

“And how long have you been the manager?” Apollo asks.

“A year now. Mind you, I started as a bellboy and worked my way up, so I’ve been working for the Canterville a lot longer than twelve months. This place is like my second home. You learn to live with the ghost stories after a while, but this… it doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

“You can rest assured,” Klavier says. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ll have your customers back before you know it.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

While Klavier continues making unnecessary small talk, Apollo pulls Ema to one side. He’s been smart enough to bring a peace offering of fingerprint powder, and the mere sight of it makes her eyes light up.

“So” he says. “What do we know so far?”

“Victim’s a guy called Jean Ted Hauss. The autopsy says he died of one direct stab wound in the back, but otherwise there were no other injuries. No signs of a struggle either.”

“The culprit probably snuck up on him from behind,” Apollo muses.

“That’s what I’m thinking too. Only problem is, your guy Jack had his fingerprints all over the knife.”

“Well, yeah, it must have been planted. He said he was knocked out.”

“Y’know, you shouldn’t always take people at face value.”

“C’mon, Ema, if he killed the guy, do you really think he’d have stuck around to call the cops?”

“Maybe. If it’d make him seem like an innocent passer-by.”

“He’s in the Detention Center right now. Tell me—who, apart from me, thinks he’s innocent?”

“Scientifically speaking, I don’t have any evidence to say that anyone else was present at the scene right now. But I know what it’s like to believe in someone without proof, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m not here to pass judgement, anyway. I’m just here to analyse.”

“And, y’know, you’re here to do your job too,” Apollo mutters.

“I’m much better as a forensics expert than I am as a detective.”

“Yeah, yeah. Is that all we know?”

“Pretty much. One stab wound, dead instantly, right by the lake,” Ema sighs. “It should be cut and dry, but things never are when you’re around.”

“It’s hardly my fault that all my clients are weird.”

“You attract what you are. Weird. Strange. A little gross. Look—the evidence that I’m right is sauntering over right now.”

Apollo turns to look in the direction of Ema’s not-so-subtle pointed finger, and he sees Klavier approaching with a smirk on his face. He holds out three flyers, identical to the one already in Apollo’s briefcase, and hands one to Ema.

“Do you want one, Herr Forehead?”

“No thanks. Mr. Wright printed it off the website this morning. There’s not much in there that’ll help us anyway.”

“Ach, I see you’re already a few steps ahead of me. Don’t get used to the feeling.”

“I-I wasn’t!”

“Good. Now, since you’re evidently better read than Ema and I, how about you tell us where we should start?”

Apollo crosses his arms, trying to remain professional and not roll his eyes. “Probably the lake,” he says. “Y’know, the actual murder scene.”

With a glance at the downpour outside, Klavier obnoxiously leans down and shakes his head, tutting at Apollo. “In this weather? You won’t catch a killer, but you might catch your death out there. Nein—better to wait the rain out inside. We can start by taking statements from anyone willing to come forward.”

“Why did you even ask in the first place if you were clearly just going to go and do your own thing?” Apollo scowls.

“The illusion of free choice is a powerful thing, Herr Forehead. I would know.”

“Go on then. I won’t stop you. But I’m going to investigate the lake.”

As Apollo turns to walk away, Klavier lightly grabs onto his arm and holds him back. “Nein. I was being mean. I’m sorry. You may as well investigate with me for a bit. And if you want to start with the lake, that’s where we’ll go.”

“N-No, it’s fine,” Apollo says. “You’re probably right. I doubt my raincoat would hold up much against the weather anyway.”

“You sure?”

“It’s an investigation, Prosecutor Gavin. It doesn’t matter what order we find the pieces in as long as we manage to put them together in the end.”

“Alright,” Ema says. “Now that you two have got your little lovers’ tiff out of the way, can we do some actual work, please? That woman over there has been eyeing us up since we got here.”

More subtly this time, she points to her left, and Apollo sees an old woman in the hotel lobby, looking around shiftily. When he makes eye contact, she instantly looks away, but she starts to approach, shuffling her way across the laminate floor and clutching onto her handbag with both hands.

“Can I offer you fine young detectives a humbug?” She whispers.

“Oh, no thank you,” Klavier says, while Ema holds out her hand and receives a handful.

“We’re lawyers,” Apollo says. “Not detectives. But we are here to investigate the murder. Is there… something you’d like to tell us, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother, dearie.”

“If you saw something, it could really help us out.”

Klavier steps forward and rests his hand on the woman’s arm. “That’s a beautiful handbag you’ve got there. May I have a look? I’m in the market for something like this myself.”

“Be my guest! You know, I got it on sale a few years back at a lovely little boutique store. I think they gave me a discount because I’m a pretty lady. Eh, what do you think? I haven’t lost my charm, have I?”

“I’ve been swept off my feet already. I’m Klavier.”

“A handsome young man complimenting me! Oh, it almost makes up for the dreadful thing that happened last night.”

“Do you mean the murder?”

“The whole atmosphere! It had me shaking in my boots from dusk till dawn, I tell you. Dusk till dawn! I haven’t had a wink of sleep.”

Apollo pulls a notebook out of his briefcase, ready to jot down anything of importance. “Can I take your name, uh, please?” He asks, feeling awkward about interrupting her conversation with Klavier.

“Miss Fitzgerald, dearie,” she says. “But with a fine set of manners like yours, you can call me Daisy!”

“Well, Daisy,” Klavier says. “Did you notice anything unusual last night?”

“Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. I was in my room by 10pm. There was some sort of New Year’s party going on, but I’m too old for such things these days. I don’t know, though. Something about the hotel last night gave me a bad feeling. But I can’t put my finger on what it was.”

Suddenly, Apollo’s vision swims, and he feels the uncomfortable tightness around his wrist that always happens when somebody hasn’t told the whole truth. He seriously doubts that an old woman could have withstood the cold air out by the lake last night, let alone done so with enough remaining strength to murder someone, but something in her statement is causing the tension in his body to spike. Gripping his bracelet, he takes a deep breath.

“Could you repeat that last part please?” He asks.

“Of course. Something about the hotel last night gave me a bad feeling. But I can’t but my finger on—”

“Gotcha!”  He shouts, a little too enthusiastically. Daisy jumps, and her handbag falls to the floor, exposing her hand; she’s holding something with a white-knuckle grip. That’s it—that’s his in. He squints to see that she’s holding a small, wind-up torch, which is evidently the object she’d been holding on to when she had said that she didn’t know what part of the hotel gave her a bad feeling.

“You’ve… got me?” She says.

“N-No, sorry, uh… I jumped the gun a bit there. But I think your torch has something to do with the reason you felt uncomfortable last night. Am I right?”

“You detectives… you really are marvellous at your jobs. Alright, yes. But you won’t think I’m a mad old woman, will you? I can promise you my mind is as sound as my looks!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Klavier smiles. “We just need to know what happened. You’re not in any sort of trouble.”

“The lights.” Daisy says. “It was the lights. Damned things were flickering non-stop. I thought it must be intentional, you know, because of the ghost stories? That’s why half the guests choose the Canterville. They like the atmosphere. But that sort of thing has always made me uneasy.”

“The lights were flickering?” Apollo questions.

“Yes. It must have been to build suspense for the New Year’s party. I’ve been staying here a week now, and not a single problem before last night! And then all of a sudden, I’m settling into bed and they start flickering!”

“And what time was this?”

“Oh, it can’t have been much later than half past ten. I still had my dentures in.”

“And you’re sure there wasn’t a problem any other night?”

“Sure as my name’s Daisy Fitzgerald, I am. It scared the living daylights out of me. You have to understand, an old woman all alone in a strange hotel, it’s frightening sometimes. And what with all the ghost stories… oh, I couldn’t bear to lie there with those lights playing tricks on my eyes! I turned them all off and kept my little torch in my hand all night. But that’s all; I swear it to you. And I’m perfectly sane. I know what I saw.”

“I believe you,” Apollo says. “Thank you for your time.”

“Ja,” Klavier says. “Danke. It isn’t often I get to collect evidence from such a beautiful woman.”

Ema scowls, but says nothing.

“Here,” Daisy picks up her fallen handbag and takes out the remainder of the bag of humbugs, handing them to Klavier. “You fine young investigators take these. It’s the least I can do. You’ve made me feel twenty-five again!”

When she walks off, Ema and Klavier instantly start arguing in hushed voices, while Apollo massages his wrist to release the tension that he’s still holding onto. Something about this piece of evidence feels relevant, like it should be connecting to something else in his head, but he can’t think straight with the petty whispers of his coworkers distracting him like this.

“Just shut up for a second, will you?” He hisses. “I’m trying to think.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Ema rolls her eyes. “I’ll have you written up for misogyny if you—”

“Seriously, Ema. Something’s missing. Something I should… if I can just… oh! That’s it! She said the lights flickered after ten, right?”

“Ja, so what?” Klavier says.

“The defendant said he saw a room full of ghosts sometime between ten and eleven.”

“Still not really understanding the point, Herr Forehead.”

“What are the chances that there were two different supernatural occurrences at the same time?”

“In a hotel that prides itself on being a place of mystery, I’d say it’s pretty likely.”

“No, no, you’re not getting it. I read the pamphlet. The whole appeal of this place is mystery , not outright ghost sightings. You’d think if they were going to do something obvious, they’d advertise it as an attraction to pull guests in for the New Year’s celebration.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that there actually was a ghost last night, right?”

“I’m not stupid. I just think it’s too much of a coincidence to immediately discount it.”

“You’re right,” Klavier smiles. “I think we should ask around. See if anyone else saw anything.”

Strangely emboldened by the fact that Klavier acknowledged the merit in his deduction, Apollo surveys the room, but nothing seems immediately out of place. He can’t shake the feeling that the lights must be relevant somehow, if he could just figure out how— sure, it’s a mystery hotel that prides itself on playing host to potential ghosts, but it all feels too convenient for the real culprit for it to be a gimmick. 

“I want to get some opinions on Jean,” Apollo says. “We still don’t really know what he did. Besides, y’know, working around the lake.”

“Roger that.”

Approaching the hotel manager, Klavier flags him down with a quick tap on the shoulder, trapping him into the conversation before he even turns around. It’s evident that Copper has things to be doing—which is understandable, trying to run a hotel and stave off the reporters that are slowly trickling in, but Apollo doesn’t feel all too bad about it considering that he just wants to get this whole thing done with himself. He grips onto his notebook, opening it onto a fresh page and uncapping his pen again, while Klavier smiles sweetly in Copper’s direction and asks if they can ask him a few questions.

“Oh, of course,” Copper says, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief from his top pocket. “But please make it quick.”

“We’ll try our best,” Klavier replies. “We were just wondering if you could tell us anything about the victim.”

“Jean? I’m afraid I didn’t really know him—not personally.”

“Well, what did he do?”

“Mainly groundskeeper duties,” Copper says, after thinking for a moment. “You know, he was never on the hotel payroll. He’s not—sorry, he wasn’t technically a hotel employee. He owns the small patch of land behind the lake.”

“He owns it? Is it not all hotel property?” Apollo questions.

“Most of it is. But that piece of land won’t budge, I’m afraid, and not for lack of trying. Many managers before me have tried to buy him out of that beaten up old shack, but he wouldn’t give it up. Like his father before him, apparently.”

“He inherited the shack? Why do you want it?”

“It’s a bit unsightly, that’s all. Plus, it’s the only piece of land here not under Canterville ownership. It seems silly to have private land on hotel grounds, but every potential offer has been rejected. Maybe he just really liked the lake. That’s the only reason I can come up with, anyway.”

“Reason for what?”

“Why he was so dedicated to it. I mean—it’s not like we paid him for groundskeeping duties. And the lake certainly didn’t fall under the bounds of his ownership. That’s hotel property, that is. But we weren’t going to turn down free upkeep. So we’ve always just… let the Hauss men be. They never caused trouble. Kept to themselves, you know? Didn’t bother the guests at all.”

“So the shack was owned by his father before him?”

“It sure was,” Copper says. “Mind you, that guy died in the 1980s. Not murder, before you ask. Just illness. A good man, I’ve been told.”

“Do you happen to know his name?”

“Ted Jean Hauss. But folks apparently referred to him as T.J. That’s about all I know, though. Like I said, they kept to themselves.”

“Do you know anything about the events of last night?” Klavier interjects.

“Me?” Copper says, raising one eyebrow. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. It’s a terrible thing, what happened, but I was far too busy with the New Year’s celebrations and keeping everything running smoothly inside that I couldn’t have spared a single moment to even look out of the window.”

“So there was no issue with anything inside? Not… the wiring, or anything?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Were there no complaints?”

“Oh, now that I think about it, I have been fending off a woman all morning, saying something about ghosts in her room making the lights flicker. I wouldn’t pay much attention, mind you. You know how ghost stories make people. I wouldn’t be surprised if she heard the tragic news this morning and wanted in on her fifteen minutes of fame.”

“So you’re saying that there wasn’t an issue with the lights last night?” Apollo says.

“I can’t discount it entirely. But if there was, it will have been nothing more than a little flicker. Possibly a problem with the power grid. Certainly nothing supernatural, I can assure you that.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Copper says, leaning in and talking quietly. “Between you and I—ghosts aren’t real. It’s all a marketing technique.”

“There are things in this world far beyond your imagination, Mr. Gray,” Klavier smiles. “But danke. I appreciate your honesty.”

“Any time, my dear boy! Now shouldn’t you be getting on with your investigation? The buses that run to and from the hotel are operating on a reduced schedule today, and if you want to leave by public transport, you should probably do so before four.”

Glancing at the clock, Apollo sees that it’s quarter past three already. He shuffles away from Copper, making his way back over to the corner to discuss with Klavier.

Ema, on the other hand, seems to be preparing to leave. She’s gathering her supplies into her bag, and when she notices that she’s been clocked, she shoots an apologetic glance in his direction.

“Sorry,” she says. “They need me back at the precinct to go over some evidence for another case. And I don’t fancy relying on the fop to drive me there when I need to go. I have to catch that last bus.”

“Alright,” Apollo replies, secretly relieved that he’ll have one less detective looking over his shoulder as he investigates. “Get home safe. We’ll handle things down here.”

“I like the sound of that,” Klavier says. “Herr Forehead and the Rockstar: detective duo!”

“One—we’re not detectives. Two—you’re not a rockstar any more. Three—well, I don’t have a point three, but that was still pretty bad.”

Klavier laughs, and Apollo finds himself surprised at the blush that rises to his cheeks upon hearing it. Turning his face away, he fixates on watching Ema go, trying to cool down the heat in his face before Klavier taps him on the shoulder and he has to turn back around.

“So, where next?” Klavier asks.

“I think we should probably check out the lakeside shack,” Apollo replies. “I’ve got a feeling there’s something there.”

“Now you’re talking like a real detective.”

“Give it up, Prosecutor Gavin.”

As they walk, Klavier looks like he’s in deep thought. It’s only once they’re outside of the hotel that he turns to Apollo, still making his way in the general direction of the lake, and looks at him deeply. Although it’s no longer raining, there’s a mist that only thickens the closer they get to the water, and the way it dances around Klavier’s features makes him almost look like he’s begging.

“You know,” he says. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.”

“Huh?” Apollo replies.

“Calling me Prosecutor Gavin and things like that. It feels like we’re just coworkers.”

“Well, I mean… we are?”

“I know. And I’m glad of it—you’re a competent lawyer, and I respect your values in court. I just think there’s no need to act like we don’t know each other when we’re on investigations together.”

“Would you, uh, prefer that I call you Klavier?”

“I think I would, ja.”

“Does that mean you’re going to drop the forehead nickname, Klavier?” Apollo smirks.

“I’ll think about it, Herr Forehead. I really will think about it.”

As they approach the lake and the mist deepens, Apollo strays away from the water. It’s not that he believes in ghost stories, but he’s hyper-aware of the very real possibility of drowning, and he’d rather ruin his shoes in the thick, wet marshland than run the risk of falling into the lake. Thankfully, Klavier stays next to him, walking on the side closest to the water, and it’s really not so bad once he finds his stride and pushes on until the lakeside shack comes into view.

Whereas the Canterville Hotel is grand, Jean Hauss’ lakeside shack is comparatively dishevelled. The roof is patched up with stray boards of wood, and the windows are held together with tape and sheets to keep out the cold where the glass is cracked. The door, while sporting a rusted padlock, is swinging open in the breeze.

“Wait,” Apollo says, pointing to the lock. “There.”

“What about it? I can barely see through the mist.”

“The lock is broken.”

“Like someone broke in?”

“Exactly like someone broke in,” Apollo smiles triumphantly. “Maybe the culprit was looking for something.”

“What could they be looking for that they think they’d find in here?” Klavier says, stepping through the threshold into the mess. The floor is littered with debris—smashed mugs, an overturned tea kettle, and a mattress that has been upturned from its previous place on the old, worn bedsprings.

“I don’t know. But if we can’t find anything, it means they already found it.”

“Maybe our culprit was a real stickler for tea,” Klavier laughs, holding up the kettle and a box of herbal tea leaves.

“Somehow, I think it was more important than that. There’s definitely been a search here. And, by the looks of it, they didn’t have much time to find what they needed to.”

“How so?”

“I mean, if you wanted to kill someone and you were intending to rob them, surely you’d leave as little trace as possible behind about your motive?”

“You’re right. Ja—I can see that. So we have to look for anything out of place.”

“Like that,” Apollo says, pointing to a surprisingly clean white sheet poking out from behind Jean’s desk. “Here, help me move this.”

Getting a good grasp on the table leg, Apollo pulls until, with the help of Klavier, the desk shudders across the floor, making an awful groan as it does. It’s just enough to dislodge the white sheet, which Apollo picks up and inspects. He’s too small, and his arm span isn’t wide enough to fully draw out the sheet, prompting Klavier to take it from him and stretch it out to its full capacity. The bottom of the white fabric is covered in mud, which before had been obscured by the desk, but the top is clean, with no evidence that the bed sheet has been used on a bed for very long, if at all.

“What’s that?” Klavier asks, gesturing with his head towards the very bottom of the sheet. “Right there. Something embroidered on the fabric.”

Bending down, Apollo tries to wipe the mud as best he can to reveal the embroidery that Klavier can only see from the reverse side. Although partially obscured by dirt, he recognises enough of the letters to make out what is stitched into the sheet— Canterville Hotel.

“It’s hotel property,” he says. “A bed sheet from the hotel.”

“Oh,” Klavier says, folding the bed sheet and crossing the room to the upturned mattress. He lifts up the duvet and blankets to inspect the sheet underneath. “But look—Jean’s bed has woven blankets. And this bed sheet isn’t like the one from the hotel.”

“Maybe he just borrowed one in a pinch?”

“I doubt it. If he were to do that, surely he would have put it on the bed instantly, nein?”

“So you’re saying that this sheet came from somewhere—or some one— else?”

“I’m fairly sure, ja. We just have to figure out how it got here, and why.”

“So the two big questions, then,” Apollo huffs. “I doubt that’s what the culprit was looking for, though.”

“I agree. I think the culprit brought this here. And left with something else.”

“Which is…?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. But this is a start. We can officially draw a link between the shack and the hotel.”

“I think this warrants more investigation of the Canterville. Shall we head back?”

“Lead the way,” Klavier gestures with his arm towards the door, and Apollo takes the lead, stopping only when he crosses over the threshold onto the marshland outside. Something feels… off. His eyes are darting all around the floor, like his unconscious mind has noticed something that his rationality is yet to pick up on, and he halts Klavier from walking ahead by putting his hand behind his back.

“Wait,” he says. “I just… let me look at this.”

Although the mud is wet, this patch of ground is fairly sheltered by trees, meaning that it isn’t getting as hard a beating from the rain. Subsequently, he can pick out the footprints that have left marks in the dewy grass, and he bends down, trying to keep his pants clean as he inspects the indentations in the mud. There are some fairly standard footprints that must belong to himself and Klavier, because there’s far too many of them to just account for one of them, but then there’s another, separate set, leading all the way up to the shack. Getting as close as he can without firmly planting his face into the dirt, Apollo scrutinises the symbol on the bottom of the bootprint.

And he recognises it instantly.

“Klavier, show me your shoes.”

Klavier sticks his leg out next to Apollo, displaying a heavy, black boot with small buckles and a silver chain hanging from the side. “You like them?” He says. “I got them custom made.”

“With the Gavinners symbol on the bottom?”

“Ja. How could you tell?” Klavier angles his foot so that the bottom of his boot, muddy and grassy, is visible. And, sure enough, there’s that obnoxious G symbol right in the middle of the sole—which means that the third set of footprints leading up to the shack must belong to him. And if the other sets of footprints, which Apollo had initially believed were his own and Klavier’s, are far too numerous to belong to him alone, then another person was definitely in this shack at some point.

“There,” Apollo points to the mysterious footprints. “Basic shoes, but definitely not ours. Someone else was here.”

“Well… ja. We’ve just established that from how messy this place is.”

“I know, but look. They lead up to here, sure, but they also lead back out. Into the woods.”

“So we’ve just found…?”

“The escape route,” Apollo breaks into a wide smile. “We’ve just found out where the culprit went.”

Following the footprints, Apollo feels the strain in his back from bending down, and he knows that it’s going to hurt in the morning. Even through the rain, the bulbous droplets from the trees that build up and splat right on the end of his hair horns, he pushes on, not even bothering to check and see if Klavier is following behind. The footprints lead out into the thick of the trees, where the lakeside shack creeps unceremoniously out of view, and, with his perception keenly trained on the ground, he doesn’t realise two important things before it’s too late.

One—the footprints, beyond this point, become one with the ground, leading nowhere and becoming nothing.

Two—he is completely, impossibly lost.

Thankfully, Klavier has followed him exactly, so at least he’s not lost and alone. He squints at the ground, desperate for the footprints to reappear and show him the way out, but there’s nothing there save for mud and grass and the drops of rain that have managed to make it through the leaves.

“The footprints. They just… disappear,” Apollo says.

“Like… like a ghost?” Klavier clutches onto Apollo’s shoulder, looking around.

“No, idiot. Not like a ghost. Like they were washed away by the rain. And the danger here isn’t the undead, it’s dying of exposure. Shit—we need to find a way back before the sun fully sets.”

“So, what, that gives us about…” Klavier checks his watch. “…Ten minutes?”

“Fuck.”

“It’s fine. I think it’s just through those trees there.”

“How sure are you?”

“About sixty percent.”

“Sixty percent isn’t good enough. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did your high school not teach you orienteering or anything?”

“Did yours?” Klavier smirks.

“No,” Apollo fires back, somewhat smugly. “I knew that shit by age nine.”

“Then I guess it’s on you to get us out of here.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter! Fuck. We need to leave a trail.”

Taking off his tie, Apollo reaches up and fastens it around the branch of the nearest tree. “That’s our marker,” he says. “Just so we know we’re not walking in circles.”

“Would it be best to head back in the direction of the shack?”

“Sure, Klavier,” he rolls his eyes. “If you can tell me which direction that is. Look around you! It’s just trees, trees, trees. And the footprints will have washed away in the rain by now. If you’re confident enough to get us back to the lake, be my guest.”

“I’ll let you lead the way.”

“Of course you will. So hurry up.”

Apollo surveys the trunks and branches, but there’s no difference between one and the next. It’s getting dark even quicker than he’d imagined, and the sun has set below the treeline, plunging the overhead part of the forest into complete darkness, and leaving the only light to creep through the bushes, giving the path an almost otherworldly orange glow. Picking a direction and sticking with it, he feels only a little shame about the fact that he reaches for Klavier’s hand in an attempt not to lose him.

And he walks.

“You know,” Klavier says, after they’ve been walking through the trees for a few minutes. “This isn’t so bad. It’s like a hike. Y’know, like some people do on a first date?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Apollo rolls his eyes, even knowing that Klavier won’t be able to see him do it. “Very funny. Is this amusing to you? We could die out here.”

“There are worse people to die with. And besides, I trust you. We can’t have gone far.”

“Forests are deceptive. You walk one foot in the wrong direction and you’ve essentially doomed yourself.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never been hiking, have you?”

“It’s not really my thing,” Klavier admits. “I’d rather go for lunch or drinks to get to know someone.”

“Well, you know what they say. You don’t know a man until you’ve seen him in a stressful situation. And you, right now, are far too calm.”

“Someone needs to balance out your stress.”

“You should be taking this more seriously!”

No less than five minutes later, Apollo realises that sometimes, what you wish for is a lot worse than what you had initially. The shock and novelty must have worn off for Klavier, because now he’s trailing behind Apollo, complaining about his feet hurting and lamenting his death, which he evidently views as inevitable.

“What about bears?” Klavier says, his voice pitching up into an irritating whine. “What if we get eaten by a bear?”

“We’re not going to get eaten by a bear.”

“What if we starve to death?”

“The cold would get us before the hunger did.”

“What if we freeze?”

“That’s a possibility,” Apollo deadpans. “So save your energy and be quiet, yeah?”

Just as he’s about to join Klavier in giving up and accepting his death, he sees lights through the trees. Not like the sunset, which by this point is all but over, but the artificial lights of the Canterville Hotel.

“There!” He points, unable to contain his smile. “The hotel! I knew we could do it!”

Breaking into a run, they both push through the trees and bushes until they emerge at the back exit of the hotel. Here, the trees are more spread out, and, panting, they exchange running for fast walking as they make their way up to the rear side of the Canterville, before Klavier stops in his tracks and points at something.

“Huh?” Apollo questions. “What?”

“Your tie,” Klavier says, seemingly finding it equal parts frustrating and funny. “It’s right there. We started at the edge of the trees all along.”

“W-Well… how was I supposed to know?”

“I thought you were good at orienteering.”

“I don’t know this place!”

“Isn’t that, like, the whole point?” Klavier giggles.

“Okay, first of all, shut up. I got us back safe, even if it did take… a bit longer than it should have. But more importantly, don’t you realise what this means?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“The footprints! They must have been going from the shack to the rear entrance of the hotel.”

“So whoever killed Jean went to the Canterville afterwards?”

“I think so,” Apollo muses. “At the very least, I definitely don’t think Jack did it. He was by the scene until the cops came. Whoever was in that shack last night fled in this direction.”

“Interesting. But I think we’re going to have to save the investigation for after tomorrow’s trial concludes. I doubt we’re going to find anything more outside. It’s getting dark.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But we definitely don’t know the full story yet. We absolutely can’t let a verdict be given tomorrow.”

“I agree.”

Walking back up to the hotel parking lot, Klavier unlocks his car and motions for Apollo to get inside. While, normally, Apollo would insist upon making his own way back, the fear of getting lost is still stuck in his mind, and he accepts the offer of a lift home without much grumbling about it. Klavier puts the car in gear, pulling away from the grand hotel and driving down the tree-lined path with more caution than Apollo imagines he’s ever exercised before.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Klavier says, after a while.

“About what?”

“The case. And… the law in general, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there’s no way we’ve uncovered everything there is to know. And if it were someone else prosecuting tomorrow, who knows how many corners they’d cut to get a guilty verdict on the first day? It just doesn’t seem… fair, you know? All these rushed trials, especially with… what we know about… how certain people will…”

“Forge evidence?” Apollo finishes, suspecting that Klavier is struggling to actually say the words.

“Ja. Nothing should go ahead until both defense and prosecution have had a real opportunity to investigate.”

“I mean, you’re right, but let’s just be glad that we’re not going to rush tomorrow’s trial. We can come back after court concludes and find out more.”

“It just gives me a bad feeling, that’s all. Knowing that behind every courtroom door, there could be an innocent person getting sentenced to life. Or even… y’know… a guilty defendant getting off because of…”

“Klavier.” Apollo punctuates his name like a sentence. “Just because the system is broken, doesn’t mean that you broke it. You’re doing more than most to fix it. And you’re going to go in there tomorrow with the only goal of finding the truth. Sure, we all want to fix things from the inside, but sometimes you have to accept that you can’t change things overnight. And that’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Maybe for you. But there’s always going to be more scrutiny on a Gavin than there is a Justice.”

“You’d be surprised. There’s a lot of things I haven’t told you.”

“Ja? Like what?”

“Well, when I was younger, my father—” Apollo’s sentence is cut off by Klavier veering the car almost off the road. It happens so fast that he doesn’t see why Klavier did it until it’s done; there’s a large, fallen tree blocking off the only road out of here, and through the rain, it must not have been visible until the last second. The car shudders as it slides, and the wheels are so slick with rainwater that the brakes don’t seem to be functioning. For a moment, they spin in the opposite direction to the wheel, skating across the muddy country road with the treeline fast approaching the windshield. In horror, Apollo notices the sharp branches, centuries old and stronger than they look, and the car is on a one-way path to collide right into them.

Just as he’s about to shout (not that he logically thinks it’ll help much), Klavier slams on the brakes once more and they burst into action, ramming the car to a complete stop just inches from the trees that could have brought about their deaths. With shaky hands, Klavier applies the handbrake and they sit there, breathing heavily, their brush with death still dissipating into anxiety that leaves the air in the car heavy, sweaty, and tense.

“Holy fuck,” Apollo pants. “That was some good driving.”

“I’ve never been in an accident before,” Klavier says, his voice shaky. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t think we’re getting home by that road tonight, though.”

“What do we do?”

“I mean… I guess we drive back. If your car can handle that.”

“She’ll be fine,” Klavier pats the steering wheel, blowing a kiss to the dashboard. “She’s a resilient old girl. And I suppose it is a hotel. We could always ask for a room for the night.”

As much as Apollo doesn’t enjoy the idea of staying at the Canterville until the morning, there’s not much else he can do other than be glad that Klavier’s car hasn’t given up the ghost entirely. Slowly, Klavier reverses it back onto the road, leaving the fallen tree behind as he drives up the path to the hotel, stopping only once it’s back on the relatively safe ground of the gravel parking lot. By now, it’s completely dark outside, and the Canterville Hotel is not just an option, it’s the only option, providing the only light and warmth around for miles, save for the lakeside shack which Apollo isn’t too keen on revisiting. 

Making their way inside, they shake off as much of the rainwater as they can before approaching the front desk, where Copper is sitting, nursing a coffee and reading a small book without a discernible cover. When they ring the bell, he takes his time with an extra sip, before putting the book away in his top drawer and greeting them with a smile.

“Sorry to bother you again,” Klavier says. “But the road out of here is blocked. My car nearly crashed avoiding the tree that’s preventing us from leaving.”

“Oh, how terrible! I’ll make a call right away and we’ll have the road cleared by morning.”

“Wonderful. The thing is—and I’m sure you know—that’s the only way back out of here. We’re kind of stuck.”

“That’s rather unfortunate.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Klavier smiles. “So, do you have any rooms available while we wait for rescue?”

“Let me just have a look for you. I’m sure there must be something.”

Copper types away on his keyboard, clicking at his laptop until he looks up once more, a sad smile on his face. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked,” he says. “Not a single room to spare.”

“Nothing?” Klavier pleads. “I don’t care how expensive it is!”

“Yeah,” Apollo interjects. “Even an unrenovated room or a spare room without a bed would do.”

“There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid,” Copper says. “We have nothing to spare.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“You could always sleep in your car?”

“The seats don’t recline,” Klavier says. “It might accommodate Apollo, given his height, but I certainly won’t be able to sleep there.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can offer. And I’ll have to ask you to leave. The floors have just been cleaned.”

Apollo looks at the floor, seeing no trace of water except the rainwater he’s dripped on it. And there’s no cleaner in sight. “Just you wait,” he mutters. “I’ll be telling TripAdvisor about this.”

“I believe you have to be a guest to leave a review,” Copper smiles.

“C’mon,” Klavier nods towards the door. “There’s no point staying here.”

Mentally trying to make a list of places to stay overnight, Apollo comes up with nothing and trudges behind Klavier out of the door. He’s already thinking of how he can possibly get compensation after this is all over, when Klavier unlocks the trunk of his car and pulls out a fairly large backpack.

“This will have to do,” he says.

“And what exactly is that?” Apollo asks.

“A tent. I’ve kept it in my car ever since I got it—it’s some old Gavinners promotional material from back in the day. We did a horror movie themed photoshoot once. God knows why. But I suppose we’ll have to find a quiet spot to pitch this and wait until morning.”

“You’re saying that we have to sleep outside?”

“It’ll be fun. Like an adventure! I’m sure we can get some spare blankets from the hotel. Admit it, Herr Forehead—it’s our best option.”

“I’m still not wholly confident that we won’t freeze to death.”

“That sounds like a you problem. Now come on—watch a pro at work.”

Folding his arms, Apollo follows Klavier out of the parking lot. They don’t travel far, though, just onto the nearest patch of grass, where Klavier opens the backpack and takes out the purple nylon fabric and some extending metal poles. Still adamant that this is a terrible idea, Apollo leans against the thick trunk of a tree and watches as Klavier struggles to unfold the fabric—if there were instructions for this thing, they’ve evidently been discarded long ago, and Klavier tries to stick the poles into the ground, stretching the tent material across them as if he’s a child again, trying to make a blanket fort.

“You’re going to rip it,” Apollo deadpans.

“Ja? Well if you’re so smart, why don’t you try to put it up, Herr Forehead?”

“I could have it sorted within five minutes.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I could. But I’m not going to until you drop the forehead nickname.”

“Fine,” Klavier pouts. “Apollo. Pretty please put the tent up for me?”

“See?” Apollo says, taking the poles and fabric from Klavier and putting them together in the way that Dhurke taught him to, years ago. “It wasn’t that hard to be nice to me, was it?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Careful, or I might just conveniently forget to finish putting this up.”

“Point made.”

True to his word, Apollo has the tent fully erected five minutes later. He stands back, surveying his work, when he realises that the tent isn’t just randomly coloured purple and silver like he’d initially thought—it’s actually got the obnoxious Gavinners symbol emblazoned on the side.

“Not a word,” Klavier glares.

“Oh, this is embarrassing for you,” Apollo laughs. “Wait until Ema finds out.”

“You are not going to tell Ema!”

“Oh yes I am!”

“What do I have to do to get you to keep this secret?” Klavier sticks his bottom lip out, blinking rapidly at Apollo.

“Buy me lunch for a week, and I’ll think about it.”

“Deal. But you know, if you wanted me to take you to lunch, you could have just asked.”

“Zip it. Let’s see if this thing is as good at shielding us from the elements as you claim.”

Apollo gets inside the tent, and as much as he hates to admit it, it is warmer inside than outside. But that’s about as far as the shelter goes, because the floor is uncomfortable and, without sleeping bags or blankets, he can’t imagine that he’s going to get much rest tonight. Long gone are the days wherein he could sleep outside or on floorboards; he’s older now, and the back pain that has been creeping up on him since his late teens is only going to get worse with time.

Getting as comfortable as he can, he lies down on the floor and stares at the ceiling of the tent. It isn’t long before Klavier joins him, and they lie together in silence until Klavier shuffles over and turns around.

“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?” He says.

Apollo shakes his head.

“Even with all the evidence of spirit mediums and channelling?” He continues. “I mean, I don’t know what to make of it myself, but there’s enough either way that I don’t really have a hard-held belief.”

“It’s not like that,” Apollo explains. “I know spirit mediums are a thing. I grew up around them.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I don’t doubt that there’s… something after death. I mean, I don’t think there’s an afterlife or a rainbow bridge or whatever. I think you’re just stuck like you’re asleep until someone channels you. It’s not like the dead know that they’re dead.”

“But you’re still on the fence about ghosts?”

“I’m not on the fence. I know they don’t exist.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s never the dead that haunt you, is it? It’s always the living who have unfinished business and it’s not, like, Frankenstein or whatever that makes you feel like there’s something waiting to strike in the shadows. It’s the past. People aren’t scared of ghosts. They’re scared of memories.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

“Yeah. So I don’t believe in ghosts. And I don’t for a second think that this hotel is haunted. I think it’s a marketing ploy at best, and a murderer’s scheme at worst.”

“You know,” Klavier says, propping himself up on his elbow. “It’s actually refreshing that you’re so level headed.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Ja, but does it always have to be you?”

“What do you mean?” Apollo asks.

“You’re always the one making the rational deductions. Trucy gets her magic, and I get my music. But you just get the short end of the stick every time.”

“I’m fine with that. I don’t think there’s anything more to my job than just… the reality of doing my job.”

“But when does Apollo Justice get to dream?” Klavier says. “Surely being a lawyer means something to you.”

“Yeah. It does. It’s… I don’t talk about it, but it’s a legacy that I’m deciding to carry. The guy isn’t dead, just… a ghost inasmuch as a person can be a ghost. So I’ve taken up the torch for him. But that’s all there is to it. No magic. No performance. Just the truth.”

“Is it what you want, though?”

“I could always take better pay, but I like it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Apollo looks up at the tent again, imagining that he can see the stars through the fabric.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re a good lawyer. One of the best, actually.”

“You know what? I think the same about you.”

“Flatterer,” Klavier laughs.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Heaven forbid, or it might end up as big as yours!”

At this, Apollo lets out a little laugh. Truthfully, while the forehead jokes are repetitive, they’re not exactly mean-spirited, and he’ll even quietly admit that they’re occasionally funny. And, now that he thinks about it, he’d rather be trapped on the grounds of a creepy hotel in a tent with Klavier than alone, so it isn’t all bad.

“I wish we had popcorn,” Klavier laments. “Then it’d be like a real sleepover.”

“The manager would only find a way to fine us if we built a campfire and started roasting marshmallows.”

“Eh, let him. Your scathing TripAdvisor review might end his career anyway.”

“I’m not that mean,” Apollo says. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt the guy. It’s not his fault that they didn’t have any rooms available.”

“They could have given us something, though. A spare ballroom, y’know? Someplace drier than here.”

Apollo thinks for a moment. “That’s something we never investigated,” he says. “The ballroom.”

“What about it?”

“The defendant said that one of them was out of bounds. That’s where he saw the ghosts.”

“He… admitted to entering an out of bounds area?” Klavier asks.

“I don’t think he meant any harm by it. He’s one of those writer types. You know how they are. But I just have a feeling about it.”

Sitting up, Klavier takes his phone and turns on the flashlight, pointing it under his chin. “I think this calls for a secret investigation—Mystery Gang style!”

“Mystery Gang?”

“Y’know, like Scooby-Doo?”

“Oh my god,” Apollo sighs. “You’re insane.”

“C’mon Velma. Follow Daphne into the mystery mansion!”

With a burst of energy, Klavier exits the tent and Apollo has no choice but to follow behind him. They walk up to the entrance of the hotel again, entering through the double doors; Klavier takes the lead, approaching the desk with a celebrity smile that Apollo knows is at least ninety percent fake.

“I’m sorry,” Copper says, looking up. “But there really aren’t any rooms available. If you’d like, you can give me your phone number and I’ll call you should we get any unexpected checkouts, but with the state of the road, I doubt anyone will be leaving tonight.”

“Ach, we’re not here for a room. We’d like to investigate some more while we’re here.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. Without the supervision of the police, it wouldn’t be fair to let lawyers investigate. There could be potential for forgeries.”

“Ja, but we’re the lawyers for this case. Both of us. Defense and prosecution. If we investigate together, there’s not going to be any chance of foul play.”

“I’m sorry, it just can’t happen. The last thing I want is to be accused of negligence. Come back with a detective and you can investigate as much as you like in the morning.”

While Klavier fruitlessly argues his point, Apollo notices the elevator doors opening at the other end of the hallway. He recognises Daisy from earlier, wearing a fluffy dressing gown and an oversized pair of glasses that she adjusts when she sees him; she puts her finger to her lips and gestures behind her, to the end of the grand foyer, presumably indicating that she’ll meet them at the back of the hotel.

“C’mon, Klavier, let’s just leave it,” Apollo says, tugging on his sleeve. “We’ll finish investigating tomorrow. We may as well get some sleep.”

“But—”

“Seriously. It’s a losing battle.”

“Ah,” Copper says. “A man of sense. Really, I don’t mean to cause you all this trouble. The Canterville Hotel will reimburse you with an all-expenses paid stay for your ordeal, but there’s nothing further we can do for you tonight.”

Finally giving up, Klavier follows Apollo back out of the hotel, but Apollo instantly pulls him to one side and, sticking close to the walls of the building, walks round to the back. “Shh,” he says. “I can get us in another way.”

“How?”

Pointing at the back entrance doors, Apollo watches as Klavier, too, sees Daisy. She ushers them inside, shoving a humbug into each of their hands, and then leads them over to the elevators.

“Am I right in understanding that you fine young detectives need to investigate undercover?” She asks, her eyes filled with childish glee.

“We’re lawyers,” Apollo says, at the same time as Klavier nods his head and says, “Ja.”

“I think I have just the thing for you. Follow me.”

They accompany Daisy to her hotel room. When she opens the door, Apollo sees that the room is tidy; there’s a minibar with a few gin miniatures missing, and a Canterville Hotel notepad on the dressing table. And there are also no less than three large suitcases lying open on the floor, which Daisy stands over with her hands on her hips and a triumphant smile on her face.

“Pardon me,” Apollo says. “But how is this supposed to help?”

“Disguises, dearie! If you change out of those rather bright clothes, nobody will be able to know that you aren’t guests at the Canterville. You know, back in my day, I was quite the actress. Oh—I did it all! Modelling, commercials, the occasional movie. I was a real star. I tend to pack wigs and costumes wherever I go, just in case.”

“And what about this?” Klavier says, holding up a three-piece suit. “Is this yours?”

“Ah, no. Now that one belongs to my son. He was supposed to be joining me on this trip, but you know how you young people are with your work. Still, I like to pack his fineries alongside mine. Just in case he shows up.”

“And you’d be okay with me borrowing this?”

“It looks to be about your size, yes! Why, you’ll look dashing. Here—why don’t you go and change in the bathroom while your friend and I pick out something for him to wear?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Klavier nods politely, taking the suit and making his way over to the ensuite bathroom. Once the lock sounds in the door, Daisy goes back to rummaging through the suitcases, pulling out an assortment of outfits, all of which Apollo declines. A nightdress—too 1950s. A ballgown—too girly. An old fisherman’s sweater and a pair of cargo pants—oh, it’ll have to do.

“You’re sure I can wear this?” Apollo asks, wondering why it isn’t enough to just take his waistcoat off.

“It’s my pleasure! Just remember little old me when you write your autobiography about your detective adventures.”

“I’m not a—oh, it doesn’t matter. Have you been having any trouble with the lights tonight?”

“Not one bit!” Daisy says, smiling. “Everything’s going fine. I’m still a little shaken, naturally, but there hasn’t been any more ghostly activity.”

Pulling the sweater and pants on over his outfit, Apollo leaves his waistcoat folded on the dresser and inspects himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look too bad, but he still makes a mental note to take the disguise off as soon as he can. He just about manages to talk Daisy out of providing him with a wig when Klavier emerges from the bathroom, adjusting his bowtie with a smirk that says he knows he looks good.

And… he’d be right in thinking so. Even Apollo, who manages to find at least one fault in pretty much anything, has to admit that Klavier looks like he was born to wear a nicely tailored suit. It fits him just right, and the lack of Gavinners cufflinks (that Apollo assumes Klavier owns back at home somewhere) makes him look like a real gentleman—not tacky or gaudy at all.

“Oh, you’ll want to do something about that hairstyle, dearie,” Daisy says, trying to flatten down Apollo’s hair horns with her hand. Every time she does, they pop right back up into place, and Apollo already knows that nothing—save for a hot shower—will make his dollar store hair gel budge. Instead, Daisy fishes through one of the suitcases again, pulling out a beanie hat and jamming it firmly on Apollo’s head.

“There!” She says. “Now, you boys go and solve the case!”

“Danke,” Klavier replies, packing both his own clothes and Apollo’s waistcoat into a small, plastic shopping bag. “Can we take this? Just in case we have to change. And we’ll need your address, too. If something goes awry, I want to be able to ship the dry cleaned clothes back to you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! Call it a gift from your old girl Daisy. Now go—ooh, how exciting! This is just like an Agatha Christie novel!”

“Thank you,” Apollo says. “We’ll do our best.”

When they leave the room, Apollo heads straight for the elevator, pushing the button for the ground floor. He wants to investigate the out of bounds ballroom more than anything, and he figures that the best place to look for it will be where most of the guests would have congregated for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. Thankfully, the elevator emerges at the back of the hotel, meaning that they can bypass Copper’s desk entirely and get straight into investigating—which they do, opening every door they find, but nothing seems out of place. Sure, the ballrooms are beautiful and spacious, but there’s nothing in any of them that indicates that they’re the out of bounds ballroom Jack had mentioned, and Apollo is almost convinced that their daring investigation is going to come up with a grand total of nothing when he sees it. A door, just like the rest, but blocked off with a free-standing sign displaying that the ballroom is undergoing renovations and is therefore unable to be used.

“That’s it,” Apollo whispers. “That’s the one.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go.”

Slowly, cautiously, Apollo pushes the door open. The ballroom is dark inside, but he can tell that there’s another door leading outside onto the hotel grounds, so this must be the room that Jack was referencing.

But there are absolutely no ghosts here.

Entering the room fully, Apollo lets Klavier follow him before quietly shutting the door again. Although the room is pitch black, there’s enough light from both of their phone flashlights to illuminate the dancefloor.

The walls are high, decorated with old paintings, and the chandeliers that hang down must offer a dazzling glow when they’re lit. The floor is polished and clean, but what Apollo notices most is that there’s no construction in sight—not even a single can of paint.

“I wonder why it’s out of bounds?” He says, thinking out loud.

“I don’t know,” Klavier responds. “But don’t you think we should find a light switch first?”

Ah, of course. Despite not believing in ghosts, Apollo must have gotten so caught up in the stories he’s heard that he forgot the most basic first step of an investigation. Feeling his way across the wall, he flicks on the lightswitch and, just as expected, the chandeliers hop into a golden glow that mimics candlelight, fluttering like flame, casting shadows from every object in the room. As creepy as it is, it’s also magnificent, and Apollo can imagine himself, perhaps in another life, dancing across this very same floor with a man in a three-piece suit.

A very specific man in a three-piece suit.

Not wanting that train of thought to go any further, he shakes himself out of the daydream and surveys the room more now that he can see every corner. While the shadows do seem to have a life of their own, they certainly couldn’t be mistaken for dancing ghosts, and he suspects that Jack—as eccentric as he is—wouldn’t have been so easily misguided. 

“Shall we dance, Herr Forehead?” Klavier bends down in a curtsey, extending his hand in Apollo’s direction. Despite Apollo’s refusal, Klavier takes his hand and starts to sway, bending down so that he can whisper into Apollo’s ear. “If the culprit rigged this room somehow,” he says, quietly. “They might have put cameras or microphones in here. And the last thing we want to do is draw attention to the fact that we’re investigating. So dance with me, and we’ll pretend that we’re just guests who conveniently didn’t see the out of order sign.”

Sighing, Apollo sways to Klavier’s rhythm. He doesn’t dance. He’s never danced, and he hadn’t intended to start now, but getting swept up in Klavier’s movements is easier than he cares to admit.

“Over here,” Klavier guides him, still whispering, to the edge of the room. They dance a little awkwardly, until Klavier stops in his tracks, and Apollo notices that there’s a strange glint in the air.

Or—not the air. A wall. A fake wall made of glass.

“See?” Klavier continues.

Apollo nods. “But why?” He questions. “Do they just want to make the room seem bigger than it is?”

“I don’t think so. There’s definitely enough space behind the glass that they could extend the room if they wanted to.”

“So why don’t they?”

“I think… hold on,” Klavier says, using his hands on Apollo’s hips to guide him away from the glass. “Watch the door. Make sure nobody comes in. If I’m right, I think I’ve just solved one mystery.”

Apollo opens the door, double checking that the hallway outside is empty. Satisfied that they’re alone, he watches as Klavier slips behind the glass, and then he’s alone for just a moment before Klavier shouts for him to turn off the lights. Doing so, Apollo flicks the lights off, and he’s only briefly in darkness before the room lights up with a blue, ghostly glow and the image of Klavier comes into view. Only—it isn’t really Klavier, because he’s translucent and his movements are misty and faded.

“Did it work?” Klavier shouts.

“I don’t know what the hell you did, but yeah!”

Reemerging from the other section of the room, Klavier turns the lights back on and guides Apollo past the glass into another, identical ballroom.

“Pepper’s Ghost,” he says, a triumphant smirk on his face.

“Huh?”

“It’s an illusion. We used it once in a Gavinners show to project ourselves onto the stage before the curtain dropped. You have two identical rooms, separated by a pane of glass at a forty-five degree angle. If the lights in the audience room are dim enough, whatever is happening in this room will reflect—or, uh, bounce? I don’t really know the science behind it. Point is, it’ll show in the other room as a ghostly image.”

“So you’re saying that the ghosts Jack saw were just an illusion?”

“Precisely. I think this room,” Klavier gestures to the room around them. “Was the main ballroom last night. If everyone was drinking and dancing, they probably thought that the glass was just part of the design. Someone could secretly project their image into an out of bounds ballroom and they would be none the wiser.”

“And Jack, having been invited specifically and unable to resist a creepy hotel, would have naturally gravitated to the out of bounds ballroom in the hopes of seeing a ghost. So when he said that the ghosts went out of the door and disappeared…”

“They weren’t really disappearing out of the room at all. They were in here, dancing or walking out of frame.”

“Fuck. Who could have had the foresight to set this up?” Apollo mutters.

Putting an arm around him, Klavier smirks as he walks back into the out of bounds ballroom. “The real culprit,” he says. “The same person who sent the invite.”

“I think we’re done here,” Apollo says. “But I think we should return these clothes before we do anything else.”

“Ach, but Daisy said we should keep them. And I do like how this suit fits.”

“Klavier. Just trust me.”

Making his way to the door, Apollo looks back at the glass and sees a small bowl tucked away behind the unused bar. Approaching it, he bends down and sticks his hand into the ash inside, bringing a handful up to his nose to smell it.

“Pipe smoke,” he says.

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“Something Jack said that stuck with me. He said that when he saw the ghosts, he could smell their pipes. I think this is tobacco. Burned tobacco, hidden in this container behind the bar. Here, smell it.”

“Ach, it’s just like Daryan’s old apartment.”

“It just adds to the illusion. Makes the ghosts seem real. Whoever the real culprit is, they didn’t just want to kill Jean Hauss. They wanted to frame Jack.”

“Did he mention anyone who might have wanted to do that?”

“No. And I can’t imagine he’s the type of guy to go around making enemies; he’s far too meek. God, it feels like every question we answer just gives us more questions.”

“That’s the point, Velma,” Klavier winks. “Now, onwards! We have an appointment… with a lady.”

On the way back to the elevator, Klavier pulls Apollo into a closet. Before Apollo can question what he’s doing, Klavier takes off his jacket and bowtie, stripping down to the (quite literal) bare essentials before taking his outfit out of the plastic shopping bag and switching back into his regular clothes. Apollo, thanking whatever supernatural force is at work here that he put his disguise on over his regular clothes, does the same, and when they get into the elevator up to Daisy’s room, they’re ready to give the disguises back. Of course, doing so is in itself a disguise, because what Apollo really wants to do is get a good look at the Canterville Hotel notebook provided to all guests.

It isn’t too late, and Daisy is still awake, nursing a gin and tonic in the same fluffy dressing gown she was wearing earlier. She welcomes them into the room with a smile, but Apollo’s bracelet tightens every time she speaks. Evidently, the issue with the lights last night isn’t the only thing that she’s been hiding from them.

While Klavier makes small talk and thanks Daisy for the outfits, Apollo subtly checks out the stationery on the dressing table—it’s the exact same as the invite Jack had shown him back in the Detention Center. Naturally, this doesn’t make her a suspect per se, but the uneasy feeling in Apollo’s chest only grows when she turns to him and asks how his investigation is going.

“It’s going well,” he replies coolly. “Is there anything you think we could benefit from knowing?”

“Oh, I don’t have any more information, dearie. Have you been eating today? I can order room service if you’d like. Anything for the handsome young detectives who are going to get justice for Jean.”

“Hold on,” Apollo says, clutching his bracelet. “Say that again?”

As Daisy repeats her statement, Apollo’s vision swims, and he becomes hyper-aware of the movement of her hand when she says Jean’s name—she clutches her chest.

“Gotcha!” He shouts. “Daisy, was Jean Hauss perhaps… someone you knew?”

“Oh dear, must I go through this again? It’s been decades.”

“Please, ma’am,” Klavier says. “Even if you think something isn’t relevant, we could benefit from knowing.”

“Alright, alright. But you’ll have to be patient with me. It’s not a story I like to tell.”

“Go on,” Apollo says. “We’re not going to judge you.”

“Jean is… was… my ex-husband. It was an amicable divorce, but we didn’t stay friends the way we’d promised. I wanted to pursue my career in the city, maybe even go out to Hollywood for more movie opportunities, but he… he said he had to stay here. He said he had to watch over the lake, just like his father did. Oh, bless him. He always was devoted to this place. We were married for ten years, back in the 70s when we were in our twenties, and it never would have worked out—one of us would have always had to give up our dream for the other. He doesn’t— didn’t— know it, but I come here every New Year’s Eve. I always hoped I’d get the courage to talk to him again now that I’m, well… now that I’m an old woman with no stardom, but I never found the right way to approach him. I suppose I can’t, now.”

“Hold on,” Apollo says. “You were married to Jean Hauss? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t see how it would matter, dearie. I didn’t kill him, and I can’t imagine who would. He might have been strange, but he never made enemies.”

“Can you tell us more about him?”

“Oh, he was wonderful. A real gentleman. He used to take me out to dinner and buy me flowers. Treated me like a real lady, he did. But I was never going to be his only love. He loved this place—not the hotel, but that damned lake. Said he had to watch over it to stop anything bad happening there ever again.”

“Ever again?” Apollo questions.

“Come off it,” Daisy sighs. “You must know the stories.”

“Enlighten me. Please.”

“The Canterville Hotel mystery? Walter Redd and Ernest Earnest?”

“I’ve heard the names, but I don’t know the story.”

“Oh, it’s a gruesome tale. Back in 1926, they stole a lot of money from a big bank. It would have been the heist of the century, but Ernest got cold feet once the deed was done. They struggled with one another, and Walter shot Ernest in the chest. Poor man didn’t die instantly, though. He dragged Walter down into that lake and they both died there. Nobody knows where the money went, but there wasn’t hide nor hair of it in the morning.”

“How do you know this?”

“My Jean… his father saw the whole thing. He was a quiet man; kept to himself. Never told the authorities what he saw because he didn’t want to get involved. But he saw the whole thing unfold by that lake with those big eyes of his. God, I always felt strange visiting Jean at his father’s place by the lake. I felt watched. Old T.J. could see everything.”

“So T.J. watched the crime in 1926 happen?”

“I think that’s why he was always on edge. You see something like that when you’re a teenager and it must stick with you. He never left the lake after that, and when he died, god bless his heart, Jean said he had to take up the torch.”

“So you divorced because you didn’t want to live here? When did this happen?”

“There was more to it than that, but I won’t bore you with the details of an old woman’s love affairs. It was… 1981. I remember it. My Jean was only thirty-four. And he’s been here ever since, taking care of the lake.”

“And what about Jean’s mother? Was she in the picture?”

“Not really,” Daisy says, taking a large sip of her gin and tonic and then motioning towards the minibar. “Pour me another one, will you?”

Klavier hands her another glass, while Apollo prompts her to keep talking.

“It was always just him and his old man. And I asked him to choose between me and this lake. I suppose it’s no mystery which he chose.”

“I’m sorry,” Klavier says. “I can’t imagine losing the person you love.”

“I never remarried. And now it’s like I’ve lost him twice. You’ll find who did this, won’t you? You’ll find who killed my Jean?”

“I swear it.”

Once the door to Daisy’s room shuts behind them and they’re in the corridor once more, Klavier leans against the wall and sighs. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” He says.

“What, that she lost her husband?”

“The whole thing. I never really thought about Jean before but… I can imagine it. Bearing your family’s legacy.”

“Are you okay?” Apollo asks, resting his hand on Klavier’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just thinking, you know. Did he really love this place enough to leave his wife for it, or did he feel like his destiny was out of his hands?”

“Whatever it was, he made his choice. But just because he can’t change it now, doesn’t mean that other people in… similar situations don’t have control over their fates.”

“I suppose you’re right. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, not when we have to figure out who killed him. We must be close—I can feel it.”

“I agree with you there,” Apollo says. “It’s like the pieces are nearly all there, but I have no idea how to put them together.”

They walk down the corridor, and Apollo doesn’t want to disrupt the silence that he feels is intentional on Klavier’s part. When they round the corner and see another couple—or, another two people who may or may not be a couple, no judgement there—Apollo feels tempted to pull Klavier aside and take a different route, but Klavier approaches them and strikes up a conversation.

“Ach, hallo,” he says, getting their attention. “I just have to ask—did you guys go to the party last night as well?”

“Oh, hi there,” the woman says, offering a bright smile. “Yeah, we did. It was a bit weird though, right?”

“For sure.”

“I mean, those lights! It just didn’t go with the theme at all!”

“Right?” Klavier says, widening his eyes as if to tell Apollo to go along with what he’s saying. “My friend here didn’t make it, and I’ve been trying to tell him how strange it was, but he just won’t believe me.”

The woman turns to Apollo. “Oh, your boyfriend isn’t lying!” She says. “They had us all dressed in 1920s clothes, but the room was unbearable! The lights were so bright I could barely see. I can’t imagine anyone stayed for longer than twenty minutes without getting a migraine.”

“I told you, Herr Forehead,” Klavier smiles, and then turns back to the woman. “Danke. Maybe he’ll finally believe me.”

“No problem!”

Once they’re past the couple, they push the button for the elevator and wait for it to rise.

“At least we’ve solved one mystery,” Klavier says.

“Pepper’s Ghost, right?”

“Ja. I can imagine that everyone being dressed in 1920s fashion only added to the mirage that they were ghosts, and the lights must have been that bright to distract everyone from the glass panel and to make sure that the reflections translated perfectly into the empty ballroom.”

“It’s very elaborate,” Apollo thinks. “All this to murder a groundskeeper?”

“I can’t shake the feeling that it’s… a legacy, of sorts. Families are like that. They bear grudges. They construct elaborate plans just to even the score. Some people… there’s no limit to the lengths they’ll go to.”

“Still, isn’t it a bit much?”

Klavier sighs. “You can’t think too much about it. Getting in the heads of these people… it’s hard to get out once you try to get in and understand.”

The elevator stops on the ground floor, and they disembark. The back of the hotel, enveloped by ballrooms on each side, isn’t as grand as the foyer, but it’s still a marvellous sight. Wordlessly, they decide to investigate a little more of the hotel, walking further into it instead of taking the back exit out to the lake, when they round a corner and see Copper, roaming the halls. It looks like he’s doing routine inspections and, more importantly, he hasn’t seen them, so when they duck back into the corridor, they take a left to try and lose him.

The problem with the Canterville, and, Apollo imagines, with most other hotels of the same magnitude and grandeur, is that it is very easy to get lost in them. One too many wrong turns, and they find themselves at a dead end, completely unable to circle back on themselves because Copper is in the adjacent corridor.

“Shit,” Apollo whispers. “We have to hide.”

“Where?” Klavier gestures around him, to the mass of yellowed wallpaper. “There’s only one closet.”

“We’ll both fit.”

Only a moment later, Apollo discovers that, in fact, they both won’t fit in the closet. Evidently having the same revelation, the spark in Klavier’s eyes dims, and he looks up and down Apollo.

“I have a plan,” Klavier says.

“Why do I absolutely hate the sound of that?”

“Because you’re going to absolutely hate the plan. But it’s all we’ve got.”

Running over to the suit of armour standing guard as nothing more than decoration, Klavier prises it open. The inside is metal, like the outside, and it stands at about six foot tall—not big enough for Klavier, but more than big enough for Apollo.

“I’ll take the closet. You get in here and tell me when the coast is clear.”

“No way.”

The sound of Copper’s footsteps gets louder. He’s almost around the corner.

“Fine,” Apollo whispers. “But that week of lunch just turned into a month.”

He stuffs himself into the suit of armour, feeling the hot metal close around him. Being all of five foot five, he doesn’t quite come up to the headpiece, and when he glances up as much as he can with the restricting metal all around him, he sees that his hair horns are poking out of the eye holes in the suit of armour, a fact that is quickly rectified by Klavier poking them back through.

And then, Apollo thinks that he feels Klavier kissing the suit of armour on the forehead, but it could just be his imagination.

He hears the closet door open and shut just in time, and then Copper’s footsteps betray the fact that he’s rounded the corner and is now inspecting the dead end hallway that they’re currently hiding in. Holding his breath, Apollo counts to thirty, listening intently for the telltale sign of the footsteps receding. When they do, well over a minute later, he lets out the breath that he was holding in and whispers to Klavier that it’s safe to come out.

But, when he tries to push open the suit of armour, he finds himself stuck.

Klavier, on the other hand, gets out of the closet easily, and Apollo can tell by noise alone that he’s standing in front of him.

“Come on,” Klavier says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m stuck,” Apollo hisses. “Get me the fuck out.”

While Klavier tries to open the suit of armour, Apollo focuses on levelling his breathing. He’s never liked small spaces, and he certainly doesn’t like the stress of hiding from people, so putting both of those things together is a recipe for absolute disaster. By the time he feels a full blown panic attack coming on, his saviour—or, rather, Klavier— manages to get the horrid thing open, and Apollo falls out onto his hands and knees, panting. Still, he can feel the air on his skin, and in its coldness it becomes almost indistinguishable from the cool metal that had, only seconds ago, rendered him trapped and immobile. He breathes heavily, desperate to regulate himself out of further embarrassment, but to his surprise, Klavier doesn’t expect him to dust himself off instantly; instead, he sits next to him, guiding him into a more comfortable position with his back against the wall.

“You alright?” Klavier smiles.

“I will be,” Apollo pants. “Just… give me a second.”

“Take as long as you need.”

“I can’t believe that worked. That was some seriously impressive quick thinking.”

“Ach, it wasn’t that good. I’m sure there could have been a solution that didn’t leave you panicking.”

Apollo takes a few deep breaths. “I’m fine,” he says. “Really.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can brush these things off.”

“I still think you should take a minute.”

“I just need some fresh air,” Apollo says. “That’s all.”

“Alright. Let’s go outside.”

Scanning each corridor before they enter for any sign of Copper or another hotel employee, they manage to make it to the back exit of the Canterville without any disturbance. Apollo has never been more glad of the cold, January weather, because when he leaves the hotel and it hits him in the face with tiny, stinging pellets of freezing air, it shocks him enough that he calms down almost instantly. Still, Klavier won’t let him go back inside until he’s sure that he’s okay, and they walk together around the grounds of the hotel, circling back to the tent.

Despite its looks, the nylon fabric is actually quite effective at sheltering them from the cold. They sit on the floor, which is uncomfortable and feels hard underneath Apollo’s legs, and neither of them says a word, both simultaneously lost in thought. Outside, Apollo can hear the crooning calls of the night-birds, the eternal watchers who, if only they could talk, would be able to bring closure to the situation instantly. Owls, with such large, intelligent eyes, that must have presided over the crime scene last night.

What exactly had happened out by that lake?

He can’t figure it out. It’s like the answers are right in front of him, but he’s missing the critical evidence needed to put them together; and, like this, he feels useless. Of course, he hadn’t expected to solve the case on the first day of investigation, but the ever-familiar frustration creeps in because he knows—he knows— that he’s almost there.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Klavier smiles.

“They’re not even worth that right now,” Apollo rolls his eyes. “I can’t make heads nor tails of this case.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“We’ve got all this evidence, and nothing to do with it. We know someone was in Jean’s shack last night and that they fled back to the hotel. And that they stole something. And that they set up an elaborate trick to convince Jack the hotel was full of ghosts. Just… why? Why go to all that effort?”

“Why don’t we think about it another way?” Klavier suggests. “Try putting yourself in the culprit’s shoes. Remember—they left a bed sheet behind in Jean’s shack. Why would they do that? And what would make them leave in such a hurry?”

“Maybe they heard the police sirens.”

“Right, right. Because the defendant called them, ja?”

“Yeah. He said he called them the moment he woke up and saw the body.”

“Which means… what, exactly?” Klavier slumps backwards, almost falling against the wall of the tent in frustration.

“It means…” Apollo thinks. There has to be something here. “It means… oh! It means that the police were called after the murder.”

“Well… ja. Naturally.”

“Which means that the culprit was in Jean’s shack after they killed him.”

“Okay, and?”

“Think about it, Klavier. Why would they steal something but leave behind a critical piece of evidence in the shack?”

“You mean the bed sheet?”

“Yes!” Apollo smiles. “Maybe they didn’t just forget it. Maybe they had to leave it, because if they were seen taking it with them, it would expose the truth behind this case.”

“I… don’t follow,” Klavier says.

“Think about what Jack said he saw. Ghosts.”

“But we already figured that out. Pepper’s Ghost, remember?”

“Yes, that works to create ghosts in an indoor space. But outside, like the ghost Jack said he saw over the body… you can’t fake that with smoke and mirrors.”

“Oh my god. Tell me you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“You really think Jack would have been fooled by someone wearing a bedsheet?”

“Not in the daylight, no. But that’s why everything was set up so meticulously. Getting him outside just before midnight, when it will have been dark and misty. Chasing him out to the lake by scaring him with Pepper’s Ghost—it was all to plant the illusion in his mind that the Canterville is actually haunted.”

“So it’s the power of suggestion, then? Scare the poor guy enough that his eyes will start playing tricks on him?”

“Yes,” Apollo says, triumphantly. “Think about it. Nobody really believed that he saw a ghost, did they? But if he’s so adamant, it just draws the rest of his testimony into doubt. It’s a set up—the culprit wanted people to think that Jack was seeing things. It makes him an unreliable witness.”

“And therefore any credibility, regardless of if he’s telling the truth or not, is immediately called into question.”

“Like I said… it’s not ghosts. It’s just the cruelty of the living.”

“I think we need to check out the lake,” Klavier says. “Whatever happened… it happened there.”

Apollo sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But if I drown, I’m blaming you.”

Unzipping the tent, he sticks his head out to make sure that Copper’s patrol hasn’t extended onto the outdoor grounds. Once he’s sure that the coast is clear, he beckons for Klavier to follow him as they walk around the edge of the hotel grounds, up to the lake. The flashlight on his phone provides more direct illumination than the vague glow of the Canterville lights, but even then, it doesn’t reach far enough to make the lake look the way it must in the daytime. In the pitch black of a cold winter night, the lake looks endless, a gaping maw of dark water that seeps on and out into freezing eternity; right now, it’s indistinguishable from a vast ocean.

“I don’t like this,” Apollo says. “I hate it.”

“You’ll be fine. Although I doubt we’ll find much of anything in the dark like this.”

“Well, we can search the perimeter. Anything at the bottom of the lake is for the professionals to handle. I don’t get paid enough to drown on the clock.”

They keep to the edge of the lake, and Apollo laments the fact that his shoes, covered in wet mud, will probably have to be deep cleaned tomorrow, and even that might not be enough to save them. The marshland surrounding the water squelches, and, due to the weather, it’s a viscous consistency that makes it all too easy for his shoes to get stuck. In lieu of his eyes adjusting to the dark, he reaches out and grabs Klavier’s hand.

“I don’t want to fall,” he says, a little too quickly.

“Good idea,” Klavier replies, giving his hand a squeeze. 

While there’s no overt evidence left at the edge of the lake, Apollo doesn’t want to give up just yet. By his own estimate, they’ve walked halfway around the lake, which leaves another fifty percent of ground that remains unchecked, and being thorough with these things is the only proper way to investigate. Daydreaming a little about finding the conclusive piece of evidence himself, and being able to prove himself to Klavier (when did that become a priority?), he doesn’t look where he’s going, and one misstep into a deceptively solid patch of marshland causes him to lose his footing. Before he even realises he’s falling, his back hits the water, and instinct takes over, causing him to grab on tighter to whatever he’s holding.

Unfortunately, the thing he is holding is otherwise known as Klavier’s hand, and he ends up pulling him right into the lake. Thrashing around, Apollo nearly breathes in a large gulp of water before feeling Klavier’s expert hands underneath him, raising him until he’s floating on his back.

“Jesus Christ,” Apollo splutters.

“Taking me down with you—now that’s playing dirty,” Klavier smirks, shaking the water from his hair as he bobs up and down in the lake. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Yeah, no shit, it’s winter. We could get hypothermia.”

“We could. We should probably—”

While Apollo is sure that Klavier was just about to suggest getting out of the lake, he stops listening the moment he feels something pulling him down further into the murky water. Something wrapping around his leg, a ghostly hand, yanking on his ankle every time he tries to surface for longer than two seconds. This is it—he’s drowning, being inexplicably pulled under by some supernatural force or a murderer, and which is worse? Being pulled into the depths of a deep lake by a ghost, or by a man out for vengeance? His open palms slap the surface of the water, but he can’t swim at the best of times, and he feels himself being pathetically dragged under, the smooth ripples overtaking him. His mouth fills with water, and then there are hands under his arms, pulling him up to the safety of the shore.

When he finally surfaces, he takes a deep breath of fresh air before collapsing onto the bank of the lake, his hands and clothes covered in mud and water. The moment he comes back to his senses fully, he feels the hand on his leg again, and he starts to scream.

“Getitoffme!” He yells, his voice high pitched and desperate.

Klavier smiles, bends down, and loosens the length of lakeweed wrapped around his ankle. Upon seeing it, Apollo feels his face blush bright red as he turns away, embarrassed to have been scared by something so easily explained.

“It’s just seaweed,” Klavier says. “You’re fine.”

“I-I thought it was… pulling me down…”

“Hold on. It’s still caught on something.”

Apollo watches as he pulls, reeling the lakeweed in from the depths of the water like he’s dragging an anchor up from a ship. Eventually, something begins to emerge from the darkness—a waterlogged chest, the metal half-rotting from the sides, firmly wrapped with lakeweed and mottled with age and time.

“What’s this?” Apollo says, his own experience with near-drowning now in the back of his mind.

Klavier shoots him an award-winning smile. A gotcha smile. A smile that says they’re just about to crack the case.

But, upon opening the chest, they’re faced with only more questions.

Of course, nothing could survive at the bottom of the lake for very long, but the sheer disrepair of the contents inside the chest indicates that it’s been lying dormant in the water for much longer than if it were a piece of evidence for Jean’s murder. There’s nothing but pulpy mulch coagulating at the bottom of the metal structure, and Apollo runs his hands through, trying to fish out anything of importance; it feels like newspaper, and breaks apart in his hands.

“What do you think it was?” Klavier asks.

“I don’t know. Wood, or paper, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s useless to us.”

“Nein, wait—what’s that, right there?” Klavier points to a small, red object in the midst of the waterlogged remnants. Following the line of Klavier’s finger, Apollo digs through the wet mess until his hand closes around a hard object. It doesn’t take much to dislodge it from the otherwise unimportant waste, and when he does so, he finds that he’s holding a medium sized red gem; it doesn’t gleam in the moonlight, nor does it look particularly spectacular, but it’s something where before there had been nothing, and that makes it a key piece of evidence.

Well, that, plus the fact that Apollo has definitely seen it before. He just can’t remember where.

“I know this,” he says. “I’ve seen this.”

“Me too,” Klavier replies. “But where? And how could it be in two places at once?”

“I don’t think it was. I think we must have seen a picture of it. Maybe it’s in one of the paintings at the hotel?”

“But if it’s important enough to put in a painting, what’s it doing at the bottom of the lake? And why would someone hide it in such a large chest? It’s not that big.”

“I don’t think this chest was designed to hide it. I think the chest was made for whatever disintegrated in there. This—this seems like an accident.”

“So what was in the chest?”

“Now that I don’t know,” Apollo says. “But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s connected to Jean’s murder.”

“How would it be connected to Jean’s murder? It’s probably older than he is!”

“Things just don’t… they don’t fit together right if we keep looking at this as an isolated incident. Think about it, Klavier. Everything about this murder is meticulous—the set-up, framing Jack, the ghosts. Surely there’s a reason for the location, too?”

“You mean Jean was murdered specifically here? At the Canterville?”

“It just seems silly for someone to set up such an elaborate murder without also setting up the particular location.”

“But the Canterville… do you really think it could be connected? To whatever happened a hundred years ago?”

“A hundred years ago to the day,” Apollo says. “That’s significant. It feels like unfinished business.”

“Now you’re talking like it really is a ghost story.”

“Not a ghost story. Just a very, very old one. I think there’s someone we need to speak to.”

Pocketing the jewel, Apollo leaves the chest on the bank of the lake and walks, with Klavier, back to the rear entrance of the hotel. They enter silently, making their way up to Daisy’s floor, checking each painting on the walls as they go by, but the jewel isn’t in any of them. Despite the fact that it’s late—the middle of the night—Apollo knocks on Daisy’s door, hoping that she’s still awake.

When she opens it from the inside, he sees that she evidently hasn’t been getting much sleep.

“Sorry to bother you again,” he says, while she ushers them inside. “But we need to ask you some more questions.”

“You’re soaking wet! What happened?”

“Oh, we’re fine, we just, uh, fell into the lake. But we really need to talk to you.”

“Did you find out who did it? Who killed my poor Jean?”

“Not yet, but… we did find something,” he takes the jewel out of his pocket, holding it carefully in the palm of his hand. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Oh, what a pretty little thing!”

“Do you recognise it?”

“Why, of course I recognise it!”

“Please, tell us.”

Daisy stands up. She crosses the room methodically, taking a large book from her suitcase before returning to sit on the edge of her bed. “Jean’s father never talked about it much,” she says. “But we both knew he saw something terrible. He used to write down the dreams he’d have in this old diary of his. I remember trying to read it once, but Jean stopped me—said it would only upset T.J. to relive what happened.”

“So you don’t know the real details of that night?”

“Like I said, I come here every New Year’s. After a while, it stopped being wholly about building up the courage to talk to Jean. I started researching. I thought, maybe, if I could figure out what haunted his father so badly, I’d have a reason to go and talk to him again.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing that hasn’t already been looked into. But that jewel you have there—I recognise it. Here,” she opens the book to a page with an old, sepia photograph of two men. “This is the only photograph of Walter Redd and Ernest Earnest together. They were friends, you see. And look at Ernest’s collar.”

Apollo sees a broach; a fine thing of reddish-brown metal, housing the same red jewel that he holds in his hands right now.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “This belonged to Ernest?”

“That’s my guess. Where did you find it?”

“At the bottom of the lake. In a chest.”

“Well, I can’t tell you anything about that,” Daisy sighs. “I thought the old thing must have just been passed down the family line.”

“He had a family?”

“Both men did. Ernest had a son, but the mother wasn’t in the picture. And I believe Walter had a little girl.”

She flicks to another page, this time a photograph of Walter and a woman, holding a baby. “That’s her, right there,” she continues. “Sybil, after her mother.”

Apollo runs his hand over the caption of the photograph. Walter Redd and Sybil Gray, with their daughter Sybil Jr—1925.

“Daisy,” Klavier says. “Do you have any idea where T.J.’s diary would be now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t imagine poor Jean would have thrown it out after his old man’s death. It’s probably in his shack. It’s only a small thing.”

“Danke.”

“It’s getting late. I’m going to leave in the morning. There’s nothing left in this place for me,” Daisy sighs. “Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” Apollo says. “Thank you for your help.”

“Do come and say goodbye in the morning, won’t you?”

Klavier nods, smiling at her. As they exit the room, she bids them goodnight, shutting the door quietly behind them. Apollo, running his hands over the jewel, walks aimlessly down the hallway, his mind racing with possibilities. What are the odds that two murders took place, exactly one hundred years apart, in the exact same spot? How could it be that the jewel from a dead man’s broach ended up in a chest at the bottom of the lake? And why is everything coming to light now, when it would be so much easier to let an old mystery stay an old mystery?

And then it hits him.

The money.

“Klavier!” He whispers, his voice frantic. “That’s what was in the chest!”

“What was?”

“Money. The money stolen by Walter and Ernest. The bank robbery! That was their stash!”

“Then why was it at the bottom of the lake?”

“They died, remember?”

“I don’t get it,” Klavier says. “If they died, the money should have been discovered the next morning.”

“Not if there was a third party involved.”

“A third party?”

“An observer. Someone who watched it all happen. Someone who could clean up the mess after they were gone.”

“T.J.” Klavier breathes. “Oh my god. Are you saying he was involved?”

“I don’t know. But I think we have to find his diary.”

“We searched the shack. It wasn’t th— that’s what was taken! The diary!”

“So the culprit knew about the crime from one hundred years ago. And they… I mean, why go to all this trouble? It’s not like any of it would have come to light if Jean hadn’t been murdered,” Apollo says.

“I don’t know. That diary—that’s our decisive evidence. If only we knew where to find it.”

“We just need to turn our thinking around. We don’t need to think about who would have wanted to take the diary. We just need to think about who knew of its existence.”

“You’re not suggesting Daisy committed the murder, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so. She wouldn’t have been so forthcoming if she had something to hide.”

“Besides her, who is there?” Klavier asks. “T.J. and his son are dead, and so are Walter and Ernest. But…”

“But Walter’s daughter isn’t,” Apollo finishes for him with a smirk. “What was her name? Sybil Gray?”

“Well, ja, but she was a kid in 1925. She’d be over a hundred today!”

“The name rings a bell, that’s all. Do you still have that flyer from earlier?”

Klavier reaches into his pocket, pulling out the pamphlet which, although wet from the lake earlier, is still readable. Apollo scans over the words, looking for something that he already knows is there.

“There,” he says, pointing. “Hotel Manager Mr. Gray.”

“Copper?!”

“It’s a common name, but I don’t think we can overlook it.”

“I think this calls for another Mystery Gang investigation,” Klavier smirks. “Let’s go.”

They take the elevator down to the reception area, cautiously checking before entering that Copper isn’t skulking around the shadows anywhere. But no—he’s asleep at his desk, great, booming snores emanating from his open mouth.

“Now’s our chance,” Apollo whispers. “If we find the diary, we’ve got our guy.”

Slowly, he creeps over to Copper’s desk, only moving in time with the snores that disguise his footsteps. He motions for Klavier to wait a few metres away, while he slips behind the desk, holding his breath in the sheer terror of being caught red-handed. The desk itself is well-organised, obsessively so, with each stack of paperwork neatly held together with paperclips and weighed down by an assortment of paperweights. Not wanting to make too much noise, Apollo scans over the documents without picking them up, but there’s nothing of interest there—just hotel payroll and a guest list that looks as though the hotel has seen better days for business.

So there had been rooms available after all. Not only does that shine the light of suspicion onto Copper, it also paints him as a rather unpleasant man in general.

There’s a locked drawer, though, which seems out of place when the rest of them glide open seamlessly. Beckoning for Klavier to come over, Apollo mouths that he needs something to pick the lock with, and Klavier complies instantly, pulling a hairpin out of his otherwise messy hair and whispering, “Will this do?”

Nodding, Apollo gets to work. While most children in his age group were learning how to count without using their hands, or tell the time, his father was teaching him how to pick locks and escape undetected from precarious situations, both of which are skills he’s glad to have right now. It doesn’t take him long to pop the drawer open, and when he does, he sees a small, bound book with the initials W.R. embossed on the front.

Waving Klavier over, Apollo gently takes the diary out of the drawer and hands it to him. But there’s something else, tucked underneath it; a piece of paper that looks like it was printed out from an ancestry website. He reaches back into the drawer to inspect it.

And the cold hand of Copper Gray closes around his wrist.

“Has nobody told you that snooping around people’s private affairs can get you in trouble?” Copper seethes.

“It’s over. We know you killed Jean.”

“You know nothing. And you certainly have no evidence to prove it.”

“We have T.J.’s diary! It’ll tell us everything we need to know about what really happened one hundred years ago.”

Copper pushes Apollo up against the wall. “I’d advise you to look closer before you go around making wild claims. What you have there is the diary of Walter Redd, and I think you’ll find that it belongs to me.”

“You stole it! From Jean’s shack. After you murdered him.”

“That will hardly hold up in court. Especially since the diary of Walter Redd is rightfully mine.”

“Rightfully? You stole it!”

“How can I steal something that I can prove I have ownership of?”

“Prove it how?”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Copper says. Desperately trying to wriggle out of his grasp, Apollo looks over to Klavier, who is flicking through the pages of the diary.

“Wait!” Klavier shouts. “This isn’t Walter Redd’s diary. Not anymore. Look,” he holds it open on a page about halfway through. “It passed ownership. To T.J.”

“Nonsense!”

Reading aloud, Klavier glares at Copper. “How dreadful last night was,” he reads. “Those two men out by my lake. Fighting over some petty cash they stole. The police will want to question me; they’ll pull out their investigative forces and close off the lake for God knows how long. I did the unthinkable. They left behind the money, in this horrible old chest. And I sunk it. Kicked it right into the water. Now there’s no reason for the police to close off my lake for longer than it takes to incorrectly assume that there are no bodies to be found. They can have their money; it will be with them on the lakebed. It isn’t long until my father passes this land to me. I turn eighteen this year, and I won’t let my family’s name become a thing of spectacle.”

“Put that down!” Copper hisses. “It isn’t yours to read!”

“I feel for the man, though,” Klavier continues reading. “The good one—I heard him questioning the authority of his friend. I took this book from the body of the criminal. It was me. I sunk the bodies. I won’t have an investigation on my land. They were dead already, I am no murderer. But from the criminal, I took this book, and from the good man, I took the broach on his chest. I left the jewel with the money; sunk that too. No evidence. But I will endeavour to spend the rest of my life finding a way to reunite this broach holder with the Earnest family. It is the least I can do.”

“That means nothing!”

“Don’t you get it?” Klavier closes the book. “The fact that you have this diary in the first place proves that you were the one who took it from Jean’s shack. That you were the person who fled back to the hotel that night, leaving behind the bed sheet you used for your disguise. That you killed Jean. And for what? For money? The money is gone! We found it, Copper, and it’s nothing but waterlogged paper.”

“No,” Copper says, and Apollo feels the anger pulsating through his grip. Pressed against the wall, it’s impossible to free himself. “You’re lying. You’re lying. The money is there! My money!”

“There’s no money,” Apollo says. 

“I don’t believe you.”

Desperately fishing in his pocket, he pulls out the jewel and shows Copper, keeping it tightly in his grasp despite Copper’s attempts to swipe it. “This is all that’s left,” he says. “It was a bank robbery from 1926! Paper money, Mr. Gray. Paper! It means nothing! It’s gone!”

It’s as though the light has physically drained out of Copper’s eyes. He loosens his grip on Apollo, and his whole body goes slack as he slumps to the floor, clutching his hair and muttering about the promise of a family fortune. The moment Apollo also drops to the ground, exhausted with the effort of trying to free himself, Klavier is by his side in an instant, pulling him to the relative safety of the other side of the desk.

“Are you okay?” Klavier breathes, his hands desperately fumbling across Apollo’s upper chest, his light fingertips running sparks over the red mark from where Copper had been pinning him to the wall.

“I’m fine. I think we’ve finally solved it.”

“I’ll call Ema. We need to bring him in.”

Copper stands up on shaky legs. He braces himself on the desk, like he’s lost all hope or ability to fight. “Those good for nothing Earnests,” he mutters. “That money is mine.”

“The money is gone,” Apollo says. “The least you can do is tell us the truth. Why did you kill Jean?”

“I… I…”

“Please, Mr. Gray,” Klavier says, and although Apollo tries to stop him, he stands forward and rests a gentle hand over Copper’s arm, guiding him to sit down in the chair behind the desk. “Your grandmother… her name was Sybil, wasn’t it?”

Copper nods.

“You’re Walter Redd’s great-grandson, aren’t you?”

Copper nods again.

“Look, I understand. I know what it’s like to have a family legacy. It’s almost too much to bear, sometimes. My brother… he did horrible things. He killed men who weren’t good, but weren’t bad, either. It’s hard to reconcile myself with that. But you can’t let your family define who you are. So please, I’ll hear you out—I know you did it. But I don’t know why. And I won’t judge the merit of a man until I know his heart.”

“What do you know?” Copper mutters, his voice shaky. “How can you possibly know what it’s like to lose everything your family worked for?”

Klavier leans over the desk. “I know better than most,” he says. “And I know it isn’t easy to live a life unburdened by that. The police are on their way. There’s nothing you can do to stop the force of the law, but I’m giving you an offer you might not get again—I want to hear your side of the story. You might never get to tell it otherwise.”

Taking a deep, hesitant breath, Copper pulls out the page from the locked drawer. “You’re right about Walter being my great-grandfather,” he says. “But that’s not why I did it. I mean… it’s one of the reasons, but… all my life, my family told me stories. About how my great-grandfather was cheated out of his fortune by his backstabbing partner-in-crime. About how the money he stole was never recovered. My grandmother died without ever knowing what became of her father’s greatest exploit. But I knew… it must be on hotel grounds somewhere.”

“That’s why you took a job here, ja?”

“I… I started as a bellboy. And I didn’t ever plan on getting this caught up in things. I just wanted to know. I wasn’t in it for the money… not at first. But this place—it gets to you. You start to believe in ghosts after a while. Or, not ghosts, but… unfinished business. Eventually I became manager, and I thought… I had to finish what my family never could. I had to put an end to what my great-grandfather started. I had to find that money. I had to know what happened.”

“So you killed Jean, intending to find his father’s diary to find out where the money was hidden?”

Copper nods. “It sounds juvenile when you put it like that. But I knew that my great-grandfather was a meticulous old man, and yet my family never found his diary. That old groundskeeper must have taken it. I knew that. And I needed to find it. It should have been mine.”

“What I don’t understand,” Apollo says. “Is why you went to all this trouble? Why you waited until a hundred years after your great-grandfather’s death?”

“Jack Wild was a hard man to track down,” Copper mutters, sliding the piece of paper across the desk. “Have it. It’s over for me, anyway. I won’t be seeing the Canterville again.”

“Mr. Gray,” Klavier says, smiling gently at him. “What you did was unforgivable. And certainly not any way to honour your family. But confessing is the right thing to do. And I’ll personally see to it that you have a fair trial, and an opportunity for your family’s legacy to be known.”

“It’s silly, but my opinions have changed over the years. I got obsessed with finding that money, but… I also got attached to this place. It’s where it all started. Where my great-grandfather finally met his end. I don’t want to see it fall into disrepair.”

“Why Jack?” Apollo asks, not buying into the family-sob-story that Klavier seems to be making a great effort to understand. “He’s got nothing to do with this place. Why frame him?”

“Those good for nothing Earnests,” Copper mutters. “Always getting the last laugh.”

And then Apollo looks down at the piece of paper. He was right about it being a printed out page from an ancestry website, but it doesn’t detail the lineage of Walter Redd—no, it traces down a family tree, beginning with Ernest Earnest, born in 1901, and ending with the illegitimate child of his granddaughter.

Jack Earnest-Worthing, born 1992.

“The child was put up for adoption,” Copper explains, a little sadly. “I had to hire a private investigator to track him down. Made quite a name for himself with those little stories of his, he did. And under a different surname, too.”

“Jack Wild… is the descendant of Ernest Earnest?” Apollo breathes.

“Indeed he is. Not that he will have known much about it, mind you. It seems as though he spent most of his youth in orphanages. But how can it be that a man with no connection to his family lineage made a living writing ghost stories, while I was tortured with living one to completion? It didn’t—no, it doesn’t seem fair.”

“So you wanted to frame him? That’s the other reason you did all this? Not for money, but for revenge?”

“Not revenge,” Copper corrects. “Legacy. And the Earnests come out on top again. No doubt the press of my trial will cause his book sales to skyrocket. It seems as though I can’t ever catch a break.”

“No offence, Mr. Gray, but that’s kind of your own fault,” Apollo says.

“Please,” Klavier interrupts, widening his eyes in Apollo’s direction as if to tell him to be quiet. “Walk me through what happened. We’ve figured out most of it. Pepper’s Ghost, the bed sheet, the diary. Is there anything we’ve missed?”

“I sent an invite to Jack anonymously. I knew he couldn’t resist the ghost stories of this place, even though he would have had no idea the role his own family played in creating them. A little before midnight, I lured him outside with the illusion of dancing ballroom ghosts, where I donned a bed sheet and stabbed Jean in the back. It was a horrid thing. Murders are so… unclean. And he stood there, watching as I walked towards him, still hidden under the sheet. I knocked him out, planted the knife in his hand, and fled to the shack to locate the diary.”

“And you found it.”

“I did, yes,” Copper says, regaining some of his composure a little. “But I heard police sirens before I could tidy the shack back up. I had to make my escape, so I stashed the bed sheet and ran back to the hotel. By the time I could even have a look at the diary, the hotel was swarmed by police. I couldn’t go and retrieve the chest from the lake.”

“So you wanted Jack to take the fall, and then you’d go and search for the lost money once things died down here?”

Copper nods again. “That’s the long and short of it,” he says. “And I would have managed it, too, were it not for you meddling lawyers. Now, you have my confession. No doubt the police will arrive any moment now. I’d like a moment of privacy to get my affairs in order before I go quietly to my judgement.”

Keeping a suspicious eye on Copper while he prints out hotel tax-returns and payroll letters, Apollo lets Klavier look through the diary. Every so often, Klavier will point out an interesting passage—either a comment from Walter about his jealousy of Ernest, or, later, a moving description by T.J. about how continuing the diary as his own is his way of keeping the memory of the dead men alive. While Apollo finds it impossible to understand T.J.’s ardent devotion to the lake, to the point of covering up a crime he had no involvement in, Klavier seems to hum along in melancholy agreement at every mention of family or legacy.

“Look here,” Klavier nudges Apollo to get his attention, and then points at a paragraph from T.J.

My only son got married today. She’s a fine woman, worthy of him by a mile. For the first time in my life, I feel as though there are more important things to be tied to than places and memories. I hope he never takes up the mantle of my legacy. May Jean and Daisy live a happy life, unburdened by the sorrows and knowledge that I have dealt with.

“Oh,” Apollo says. “How sad. Jean never needed to come back. Poor Daisy.”

“There’s more,” Klavier flicks to the final page of the diary. “It looks like this is the only entry written by Jean himself. Just after his father died.”

It has been a wonderful ten years, Jean’s handwriting—a cursive, scrawled thing, reads. But I must go. My sweet Daisy has dreams far greater than I can provide for, and if you love someone, sometimes you have to let them be. My father—God rest his soul—passed last week. The executors of his estate said that there was nothing in his will that would indicate whom the land of the lake should pass to, and it has been decided—by a legal team who know nothing of my father’s desperation nor my own dreams—that the lake now, legally, belongs to me. I have to go. I can’t allow it to fall into the ownership of the Canterville Hotel, not when my father fought for so long to keep it under the Hauss name. And if this means losing my Daisy, then, I hope she finds everything she wishes for. And I hope she remarries—she deserves that much. As for me, I shall never love again. I have had ten beautiful years. That is all I can ask for.

And, underneath the entry, there’s a wedding photo, pasted with glue on the final page of the diary. It depicts a man and a woman, no doubt Jean and Daisy, hand in hand and smiling at each other.

“I feel bad for her,” Apollo says. “He obviously loved her just as much as she loved him.”

“Right person, wrong time,” Klavier replies. “It’s tragic, but that’s how life is, sometimes.”

“Why can it never be right person, right time?”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes the right person just doesn’t know it yet.”

“How can the right person not know it?” Apollo asks.

“Who knows? Maybe he’s dense. Maybe he’s always busy with work. Maybe he doesn’t take the other right person seriously enough to know that he’s been trying to win him over for a year?”

“That feels pointed.”

“Well, maybe it is,” Klavier smiles. “That offer of buying you lunch wasn’t strictly to keep you from telling Ema about my rather embarrassing tent, after all.”

“I think you’ll find it wasn’t an offer at all. It was a demand that I made.”

“Ach, so you’re interested, after all?”

“I might be,” Apollo smiles back. “We’ll have to try your idea of a date first. What was it—lunch and drinks to get to know someone?”

“Well, considering that the whole hiking through the woods thing didn’t work out very well for us, we’ll go with that.”

“Are we really doing this? Planning a date while we’re waiting for the cops to arrive and arrest someone for murder?”

Klavier laughs. “I suppose we are, Herr Forehead.”

“Apollo,” Apollo corrects. “If this really is going to be the right person at the right time, then you can at least call me by my first name.”

“Just for you, I’ll think about it.”

Dawn approaches just as the police sirens surround the hotel. Ema informs them that the tree blocking their route out has been cleared, and although it caused a slight delay of her own arrival, everything should be fine for them to leave whenever they’re ready. Watching as Copper is led away in handcuffs, Apollo turns to Klavier, the question on his lips begging to be answered.

Did we do the right thing?

Of course, in the eyes of the law, another criminal has been arrested, but Apollo can’t help but notice the way Klavier’s eyes linger, a little sadly, until Copper is out of view. And he doesn’t want to pry, but he knows that anything involving families and the burden of crime passed from one to another, bound together by name, is a tough subject to talk about given everything that happened last year. Still, though, Klavier is making a great effort to seem put-together in front of Ema. He hands over the diary, which she dutifully bags into evidence, although Apollo keeps a tight grip on the red jewel in his pocket—he doubts that it’ll be necessary for the trial, and he wants to get it back to Jack before informing the police of its lack of relevance.

And then, a man walks through the hotel lobby, his eyes darting around, evidently looking for someone. Apollo would place him somewhere in his forties, maybe fifties, with slick, dark hair and a large pair of glasses that make his eyes seemingly bulge out. 

“Hello,” he says, approaching Apollo. “I’m, uh, Nick Fitzgerald. Have you seen my mother anywhere?”

“Daisy!” Klavier shouts. “You’re Daisy’s son?”

“Y-Yes?” Nick says, looking around a little awkwardly. “Do you know her?”

As if on cue, the elevator doors open, and Daisy steps out, suitcases in hand. Upon seeing her son, she runs towards him, crashing into him in a flying hug. “My son!” She says. “You came!”

“You sounded worried on the phone,” Nick says. “I got the first train I could, but the road was blocked and my phone was dead. God, mom, I thought something had happened to you!”

“It’s your father, Nick,” Daisy says.

“My father? I thought you didn’t… know him?”

“Oh, dearie, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t bear to tell you the truth. I did know your father, and he was a wonderful man. I always meant to tell you, but I never could figure out how. You’d only have wanted to see him, and I… oh, Nick, I’m so sorry. He’s dead.”

“I… you knew my father?”

Daisy turns to Klavier and Apollo. “I’m so sorry that you fine young detectives have to witness such a reconciliation, but I suppose you have a right to know the end of my tale, too. When Jean and I…” she turns to Nick. “When your father and I split up, I was pregnant. I knew if I told him, he’d drop everything and come with me to Hollywood. But he didn’t want that… and I couldn’t be the thing that ruined his life.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Nick says. “But I can’t leave you like this. I’m going to move back home, mom. My job at the company… they’ve been laying people off. I need a fresh start. I’m going to come home and look after you.”

“About that,” Klavier says. “This hotel is in need of new management. I don’t know—Copper said he wanted to leave it in good hands. I’m sure there’s a job vacancy going, if you’re interested. And… there’s one last thing.”

He leads Daisy by the hand over to Ema. Apollo watches as Ema hands over the evidence bag, with only minimal grumbling, and Klavier takes the diary, opening it to the last page. Daisy reads, and then openly weeps. She calls for her son to come over to her, and he stands right beside her, while Klavier walks back away.

“I hope I just gave her closure and didn’t, y’know, ruin her entire life,” he says, while Apollo watches them in the distance. Daisy draws her arm up and around her son, weeping into his shoulder and holding him in an embrace as she hands the diary back to Ema.

“I think she’ll be fine,” Apollo says. “At least now she knows.”

“It’s tragic, isn’t it? If only they could have told the truth to each other, none of this would have happened.”

“I guess you can’t blame them, though. They both had family to think about.”

“But family doesn’t always have to come first, ja?”

“Not anymore. But you never know how things would have turned out even if Jean hadn’t stayed by the lake. You just have to keep going, right?” Apollo smiles at Klavier. “You just have to make the best of what you’ve got.”

“I like the sound of that,” Klavier wiggles his fingers, and Apollo takes his hand.

They drive to the Detention Center in comfortable silence. The road blockage has been cleared, and as they make their way through the trees, back out into society, they leave the Canterville Hotel in the rear view mirror. It becomes smaller and smaller the further away they get, and with it, they leave behind all preconceived notions of the way things are supposed to be. The thing with stories is that they’re not always finished by the time they’re being written—such is the case for Daisy Fitzgerald and Jean Hauss, whose lives would have been inexplicably changed should one small detail have gone any differently. Such is the case for Copper Gray, who, burdened by the weight of his family history, had been so caught up in the thick of the Canterville that he could not see any way out other than going further into the deep waters of fate. Such is the case for an old hotel, having seen far too much mystery and intrigue, it remains stuck steadfast in the past, a time-capsule microcosm of a century ago. Bookended by mist, the Canterville Hotel remains unchanging, but as Apollo looks in the rear view mirror, he sees that the neon sign, blazing its name into the sky, finally, as if exhausted by time and completion, flickers into darkness.

And on they drive, until it is visible no more.

They arrive at the Detention Center alongside official word from Ema and the rest of the police, just in time to watch the handcuffs fall from Jack Wild’s wrists. He bumbles over to Apollo, a mess of limbs and gratitude, thanking him for solving the case and proving his innocence.

Feeling the red jewel in his pocket, Apollo reaches over to the broach that Jack is holding. That old, green thing, which must have, in its prime, been a burning shade of copper before rust took away its glory.

“Have you always had this?” He asks.

“Since I was a baby,” Jack says. “It’s the only thing my mother left me with.”

“It’s incomplete.”

“I know. I’ve tried to take it to jewellers, see if they could fit anything into the odd little hole, but nothing ever feels right.”

“And I think I know why,” Apollo says, taking the jewel from his pocket and fitting it neatly— perfectly —into the broach. “It was missing this.”

“W-Where did you find that?”

“Sit down,” Apollo beckons Jack over to one of the small visitor’s tables. “I think I might have just found the next story you can write.”

And so the tale is recounted, of the parallelism of the past and the present, of legacy and family and free choice, of moving forwards through marshland, up and out into a new dawn. Apollo speaks of robbery, and murder, and estranged families coming home for the final battle. He speaks of marriage, and lost love, and a son picking up where his father had left off. Klavier holds his hand under the table, and the story concludes, at last, with three men in a Detention Center—innocent men, men who have walked a mile in the shoes of their predecessors and come out the other side victorious.

“Is that how it ends?” Jack asks. “Isn’t it all a bit… neat? Tidy? Where’s the cliffhanger?”

“That’s up to you to figure out. It’s your narrative.”

“And what about yours? Where will your story lead you?” He says, as Apollo and Klavier—still holding hands—get up from the table and begin to head towards the door.

“I don’t know,” Apollo smiles. “Isn’t that just the best part?”