Ch.BONUSSide Story – Clarisse Holmes, The Lead-Gray Study (3)

The audience may find it unfortunate, but “Circus” prohibits entry to outsiders. It’s an agency that handles national security, after all. However, the absurdities that occur inside are often more entertaining than an actual circus performance.

Like now.

The driver took Clarice not to the “Circus” but to a completely different place—Lovelace Memorial Park. The great one who created today’s British Empire. The saint of machine language who descended to earth in human form.

“But what about me?”

Leaving behind the protesting Isabel, the clockwork car quickly cut through the city center. Citizens enthusiastically cleared the way after seeing the great British flag fluttering on the hood.

With a creak, the car came to a stop. Clarice silently picked up an umbrella provided in the vehicle. Just then, the sky churned. It seemed a moderate rain was about to fall.

The park was quiet. Someone was feeding pigeons. They had arms attached that moved with steam cylinders. Next to them, someone with steam cylinders instead of legs was dancing.

A face close to lead-gray. Blackened fingertips. Intermittent coughing. Judging by how they massaged their fingertips, they were probably former mine workers.

Clarice walked past them. Her steps were familiar. She crossed the large plaza, turned onto a path, and flung open the door of the botanical garden marked “Closed.”

Vines writhed and approached her. “Back off.” At her sharp voice, the plants retreated. A tall, irritable man strode toward her. His apron was too short for his height, leaving his knees covered in dirt.

“Sorry, Clarice. They play such pranks as they age. If they keep this up, I’ll have to consider moving them to the back of the botanical garden.”

The last part was clearly meant for the plants to hear. The vines twisted about in apparent displeasure.

“It’s fine, Director Mycroft.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

The Circus Director, Mycroft Watson, was a born politician. When pretentious people say, “I had dinner with the Duke of Kalvin,” Mycroft is the type who asks, “You seem to have similar tastes to the King of Bohemia. How about meeting him?” and immediately arranges an appointment.

So Mycroft requesting a private meeting with Clarice in such a gloomy place meant it was a matter of great importance. The kind of issue that would make tracking Moriarty seem too trivial to even file in the same folder.

The two sat at a table in the botanical garden. The armchairs, carved from granite and marble, were remarkably comfortable, suggesting they were made by a skilled craftsman.

“How are you getting along with Isabel? It must be difficult to control impulses. Any issues?”

“I wanted to rip her mouth apart.”

“Which means you haven’t done it yet.”

Mycroft snickered, finding something amusing.

“Clarice, as you know, Isabel is a resource for the new era. She’s been blessed with Her Majesty’s ‘grace.’ Of course, there are quite a few nobles who have received such grace, but among Circus agents, Isabel is the first.”

“I understand.”

“That’s why Isabel was assigned to the Internal Investigation Department. Her mere presence intimidates surveillance targets, creates discomfort, and sometimes pressure. And as you know, this wasn’t decided at my level. It came from much higher… up.”

The Director seemed to think that was sufficient explanation. And in the British Empire, “much higher up” could only mean one place—the Royal Family.

“Anyway.”

The Director straightened his posture.

“Her Majesty the Queen has been keeping an eye on the Circus’s activities. She’s quite satisfied, I hear. She was particularly impressed with your performance.”

This was news to Clarice. After waiting about three breaths, Mycroft seemed somewhat disappointed.

“I thought you might be a bit more moved.”

“It’s unexpected.”

“Her Majesty has been watching you for a long time. Of course, with a different perspective than how the ‘Circus’ and the cabinet view you. A much more… ‘friendly’ one. That’s why she has specifically designated you to solve a very sensitive royal matter.”

Clarice’s left hand began to tremble. She tried to suppress it, but each attempt only made it vibrate more. Mycroft looked concerned enough to notice.

“Still not fully synchronized?”

“The technical department said it was perfect.”

“The technical department itself is full of blockheads, so they can’t be trusted.”

This was becoming troublesome. Clarice scanned the vines.

“If it’s not disrespectful to these plants…”

“Ah. It should be fine. Go ahead.”

Clarice pulled out a pipe from her breast pocket. Made from a Siberian tiger’s fang, it was of the highest quality.

She carefully packed tobacco into it and lit it. The well-dried tobacco leaves burned with a sharp aroma.

The trembling in her left hand stopped as if by magic. Clarice muttered as if making an excuse.

“It’s because of the ennui.”

Ennui. Mycroft rolled the word around in his mouth. It was a word that didn’t suit Clarice. She was the woman who suffered most from ennui in the Circus.

She handled everything meticulously and precisely. She was known as someone whose human parts were more precise and cold than her mechanical ones.

But she had changed after returning from Pollard Island. Clarice had to undergo repairs for a very long time.

Some kind of obsession wouldn’t leave her mind. Her computing unit frequently overheated, and even after being submerged in coolant, it would still boil.

It was the Queen who saved her.

In the middle of the night, she was escorted by Redcoats to a secret part of the palace. There, she came into contact with a part of the Queen. Clarice’s fever subsided completely, but the obsession itself remained unresolved.

Of course, Clarice herself didn’t know that the symptoms would manifest in her left hand—the one she had given to “that vulgar redhead woman.”

– Because Her Majesty truly loves the subjects of the Empire.

Perhaps the Queen was the only being who understood Clarice’s anguish, Mycroft thought.

“I hope this matter will alleviate your ennui somewhat.”

The Director clapped his hands. The back door of the botanical garden opened, and familiar faces appeared. It was Oswald Mosley, Prime Minister of the British Empire, and William Joyce, Minister of Foreign Affairs. Whatever had happened, their faces were pale, and they were sweating profusely.

“Director. Ms. Holmes. This is an extremely serious matter. It’s an incident that could plunge all of Europe into the flames of war again. I, well, after discovering the letter was missing, I sought advice from the Prime Minister…”

“I apologize.”

Prime Minister Mosley cut off Minister Joyce.

“This fellow is still not in his right mind, so let me explain. The Foreign Minister was keeping a ‘letter from abroad.’ If leaked, it would cause a great commotion throughout Europe, enough to engulf us in hellfire once more.

He was even cautious about putting it in the Foreign Ministry’s safe, so he kept it in the bedside drawer of his bedroom at home. Isn’t that right, Joyce? Where did you say your house was?”

“Wh-Whitehall Terrace.”

The Foreign Minister seemed to have regained some of his senses.

“So. The letter was definitely there last night. I returned from work, opened the drawer before dinner, and the letter was there. But when I checked again this morning, it had disappeared!”

Clarice raised an eyebrow with interest. The Minister, perhaps interpreting her look as criticism, immediately launched into an explanation.

“Both my wife and I are light sleepers. If someone had entered during the night, we would certainly have noticed. I swear, no one came in. Yet the letter disappeared. What on earth is going on?”

“Interesting.”

Clarice put down her pipe and took out a notebook and pencil.

“When did you have dinner?”

“7:30 PM, I believe that’s correct. Yes.”

“When did you go to bed, and where were you until then?”

“My wife went to a social gathering. The ‘Ladies’ Society for the Promotion of Technological Advancement,’ held at the Diogenes Club. I waited for her in the living room. I went to the bedroom to sleep at 11:30 PM.”

“So for four hours, no one was in the bedroom. Is there any possibility that servants entered?”

“Absolutely not. The laundress, butler, and maid do come in during the morning and afternoon, but they’re people who have worked for me for a long time and their backgrounds are certain. And they wouldn’t know about an important letter in the drawer.”

“Who knows about the letter? Did your wife know?”

“No. She wouldn’t know.”

The Minister was adamant. Even the Prime Minister glanced at him.

“She really doesn’t know, Prime Minister. I only mentioned the letter this morning.”

“Well. I don’t doubt your loyalty and sense of responsibility, Joyce. Director. Ms. Holmes. For the sake of this fellow’s honor, let me say that among people in politics, he’s worked with me the longest.”

The Prime Minister defended him, but Clarice didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

“I see. Is there anyone else?”

“I reported it at the cabinet meeting, so all department ministers know. About three people in the relevant departments know. Besides them, only the foreigner who sent the letter would know.”

“I’m curious about your basis for being so certain about foreign affairs. And as you know, ‘Circus’ doesn’t pay attention to assumptions like ‘probably’ or ‘maybe.'”

It was rather impertinent language for a mere agent, but at least in the British Empire, it wasn’t excessive. The evidence was Director Mycroft Watson leaning back comfortably, appearing quite at ease compared to the flustered Prime Minister and Minister.

With one phone call from the Director, these men could be disgraced by evening. The Circus’s information network was endless, and they could easily spread domestic political scandals.

“…It’s the result of reasonable deduction.”

“What was the content of the letter?”

The Prime Minister sighed, and the Minister gritted his teeth.

“Clarice Holmes. As you are also a servant of Her Majesty the Queen…”

“…One cannot serve a delicious dish without properly deciding on the menu. And I’m an agent, not a detective who works while accommodating clients’ circumstances.”

“It’s a state secret.”

The Foreign Minister answered, glaring. Clarice nodded.

“Then you should find an agent with clearance for secrets.”

Holmes rose from her seat. The gazes of Director Watson, Prime Minister Mosley, and Minister Joyce crossed.

“It came from Italy.”

Prime Minister Mosley answered. The Minister looked at the Prime Minister in shock. Prime Minister Mosley’s expression was extremely resolute.

“The Secretary of Italy sent that letter. As usual for him, it was full of excitement, incoherence, and delusions. However, if its contents were made public, all of Europe would certainly be in turmoil.”

“Are you saying Italy wants war?”

“I told you. It was excited and incoherent. When I contacted him a few days later, he deeply regretted why he had done it. It’s understandable to be angry seeing that the British Empire is the only sane country after the Great Depression, but even considering that, he was excessively frivolous.”

The Foreign Minister continued.

“Europe is divided into two axes. The communist order led by the Soviet Union and the fascists led by France. The British Empire is taking an independent path, belonging to neither, and so far, both the communist and fascist camps are trying to draw us in.

However, if that letter is made public, the Soviet Union and France might join hands. Communists and fascists might become hostile to the British Empire. Do you now understand the seriousness of the situation?”

“Well. I’ve heard there are 107 ways for a person to commit suicide, but I wonder how many ways there are for a nation to do so. If it really comes to that, it would be cleaner for them to just end themselves. If war really breaks out, don’t they realize that the Bank of England would immediately recall their bonds and seize foreign colonial assets?”

Director Watson answered dismissively, but the Prime Minister looked serious.

“That’s why it’s more dangerous, Director. They are already like dry kindling. The Bank of England is keeping them moistened with a bit of funding, but if just one small flame catches, all of Europe will burst into flames.”

“In that case, the answer is simple.”

Clarice Holmes, filling a new pipe with tobacco and lighting it, said:

“We have no choice but to prepare for war.”