Bloody Business

Title: “Bloody Business”
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Date begun: November 2, 2009
Date completed:
Genre: Crime, Romance

Summary: In the wake of the Ripper Murders, the Queen orders Ciel to root out the head of a male prostitution ring. When people in high places are implicated, Ciel and Sebastian are put into a compromising position.

Author's Note: Hello, all. I just wanted to give you all a little heads-up about this story. It is based upon true events. Not that Ciel Phantomhive or Sebastian Michalis ever existed, but many people in this story did. The idea for it came from a book named Bloody Business, for which this story is entitled, and the section listed as “Naughty Boys”. This chapter starts off with the initial investigation interview that sparked the Cleveland Street Scandal, and all people mentioned in the first section are real, and I have tried to stick as close to reality as I can. The time period is set for a few months after the Ripper Murders. Try not to get too annoyed with Luke Hanks. He's just the P. C. on the original theft case.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Cleveland Street Scandal, Their Good Names, or Clarence. These works belong to their author, H. Montgomery Hyde, and any information from them has been used in respect. The likenesses and/or names of all actual individuals, whether living or deceased, have been employed here for entertainment purposes, and no attempt has been made to defame, slander, or degrade the character of any.

Part I: Eighteen Shillings Short

It was the afternoon of July fourth, an exceedingly hot day in the summer of 1889, and Luke Hanks was tired. The little hallway he stood in was cramped; box upon box upon box of papers stacked to the ceilings two deep, and on both sides of the passage. Even in the basement of the Central Telegraph Office, it was sweltering. The boy that stood in front of him, shifting from one foot to the other, was sweating for a different reason. Hanks surveyed the young man, taking in every detail of his appearance and demeanor, just as he had been trained.

The gangly boy's uniform was somewhat rumpled, the shirt cuffs rolled up to the elbow, his hat bent at the brim. Threads were visibly unraveling from the insignia on the vest he wore, marking him as an employee of the Central Telegraph Office, under the management of the Postmaster General. His shoes, brown and utilitarian, were well scuffed and worn. The boy, though he was obviously nervous and fidgety, was a hard worker. His ginger hair was shorn close to the scalp, which Hanks could see now, since freckled hands held the hat restlessly at waist level. Light blue eyes were not looking at him, which in his experience as a P. C. in the Met, that meant this boy was hiding something.

“Charles Thomas Swinscow,” Hanks pretended to look at the small notebook in his hands, and watched secretly as his suspect flinched.

“Yes, sir?” Fingers tightened on the tweed cap, and Swinscow began worrying at the rough fabric with his thumbs.

“How often to you have cause to go into the Receiver General's Department Office?” The boy looked confused for a moment after Hanks asked this, but eventually answered him, still uneasy.

“Well, sir...I'm not sure, see. I get called in there not very much, since I only do the deliveries to the East End.” Swinscow seemed satisfied that this answer would not get him into too much trouble, since he eased up on the torture he had been putting his hat through. Hanks almost smiled. He had the boy right where he wanted him. It was almost as if little Charlie Swinscow was screaming that yes, he did take the eighteen shillings from the till in the Receiver General's office, and what the bloody hell was he, Police Constable Luke Hanks to do about it?

“Charlie—Can I call you Charlie?” the boy nodded, so he continued, “You see, Charlie, I get this feeling like you aren't rightly telling me everything. Like, for instance, what's a boy your age, whom, as you say...only delivers telegrams to the East End...How does a boy like yourself end up with so much money in his pocket?” Clear blue eyes widened in realization, and he watched the boy's mouth work open and shut. Out of his guard already, the kid obviously posed very little challenge. Finally, something unintelligible came out of Swinscow's mouth, and Hanks asked, “What's that? I didn't hear you, Charlie. Because you know, there's eighteen shillings missing from up there in the Receiver General's office, and you're my best bet at the moment...”

Clearing his throat, and fidgeting even more than he had before, the short, red-haired youth said in a firmer tone, “I don't have that much in my pocket, sir. I had fourteen shillings, from doing some private work away from the office, Constable.”

Private work? What kind of private work (and for whom) did a delivery boy do to earn fourteen shillings? “Who did you do this work for?”

Charlie looked down, and to the left. “Fellow by the name of Hammond.” Hanks asked him where the man lived, and Swinscow continued to study the floor off to the right of Hanks's feet. He replied, however, “19 Cleveland Street in the West End.”

It took a moment or so for his mind to process what he had just been told. Cleveland Street, the hotbed of modern Bohemian and Socialist thought in London, was probably the last place on earth—aside from Windsor Palace—that he had expected to hear Charlie Swinscow mention. Just a few blocks away from number 19, lived George Bernard Shaw, that spitfire Irish playwright, and around the corner was the foppish Oscar Wilde and his troupe of extremely lively young...boyfriends. But who was this Hammond fellow, and what connection, if any, did he have with the eighteen shillings?

Hanks left off of his conjectures for a few seconds to jot down the name and address of the man in question. Trying not to seem too interested, he asked as he wrote, “What kind of work did you do for Mr. Hammond, Charlie?” He had finished writing Hammond's name and address, as well as a little note to himself about checking on the files as to who owned the house before he realized that the boy had no intention of answering him. “Come on, now, boy. Spit it out.” When Swinscow clammed up even tighter, he sighed. Flipping his notebook shut, he said in a gruff voice as he took a step toward the young man, “All right, Charlie. I'll have to charge you with theft, then.”

Shock suffused his red-haired suspect's frame, and Hanks could fairly see the resolve behind his eyes begin to crumble in on itself. “Fine,” Charlie said, half under his breath, “I'll tell you the truth. I got that money, “ he explained haltingly, “for going to bed with men at Hammond's house.”

Hanks opened his notebook again.

--

Five hours later and ten miles away from where Charlie Swinscow gave the gory details on just how naughty he had been, Ciel Phantomhive was groaning for an altogether different cause. “Sebastian,” he gritted out, ducking behind the chair at his desk, “I don't care if I have to attend that stupid ball. You are not a suitable partner. I can't practice dancing with you.” The ball was in a week, and there were no tutors available, unless he wanted to use one of Lau's hussies, and for once, Ciel and Sebastian were in complete agreement on how inappropriate that would be.

“But, Young Master, need I remind you that if you were to slight any of the young ladies there by snubbing them rather than dancing, it could be disastrous? After all, balls and parties are where many a law have been made. More politics goes on at social events than you seem aware of.” The low, lilting tones of Sebastian's voice had a bad habit of lulling Ciel into a false sense of security, and now was no exception. The black-clad man gracefully sidestepped before darting forward and taking hold of his arm. “Come, now,” he murmured, giving a light tug on Ciel's forearm, “I am not so bad a partner.”

Ciel found himself being whisked across the carpet until they reached the case where the phonograph was hidden. Sebastian opened the case with his free hand, gave the crank several turns, and put the needle on the record. There was a brief crackling sound before the music began, but all the same, Ciel could not help the deep cringe that materialized in his shoulders. The waltz again...

“Now, Young Master,” The butler began in a half-lecturing (but all-patronizing) tone, “where do your hands go?” Now resigned to his fate, the young Count placed his right hand at the small of Sebastian's back, and took hold of a gloved appendage with his left. Looking up at Sebastian with a very sarcastic expression, he awaited further instruction. “Last time,” his servant said with some amusement, “we went with something perhaps a bit too complex. Let us start with a simpler form of the waltz. The box-step.”

Just as the previous time they had done this, Ciel led off with his left foot, and tried to turn mistakenly. Had Sebastian not been so quick, he'd have ended up with a carpet burn on his chin. Anything would be preferable to this. He would rather go outside and help Finni to weed the garden, or follow Maylene around, keeping her from breaking everything in sight. Right now, he would prefer eating the most burned food that Bard had ever made to showing just how clumsy he could be. It was, perhaps, made worse by the fact that it was happening in front of Sebastian, since he was supposed to have some dignity in front of his servants...and because falling and having to be caught was very undignified.

Sebastian set him upright once again, and Ciel thought that he saw a hint of a smile at his expense. It did not matter. He felt rather certain that his butler found ample sources of amusement from most of the things he did. Nothing would really surprise him when it came to this particular individual. “Please be careful,” he heard Sebastian say above his head. “It would not do to trip over your own feet like that at the ball.”

“Thank you for reminding me...” Ciel growled, suddenly finding the inkwell on his desktop to be fascinating. They went through the motions of the dance several more times, and finally he was beginning to understand. He had no problem with being the one to “lead”, but he had to know where he was going in order to do that. This whole dancing thing should be easy, but it was certainly not. For a few minutes, things were fine, but then he looked up at Sebastian for direction, and a strange sensation came over him. His stomach felt hot and cold at the same time, and the room began to spin. Dizzy, he staggered.

The vertigo had hold of him in earnest, and he reached out, grabbing the first solid thing his fingers touched. Squeezing his eyes shut, he held on tightly, waiting for the roiling in his stomach to pass. When the world seemed to stabilize itself, he opened his eyes, and Ciel found himself staring at Sebastian's waistcoat. The gray pin-striping was no more than an inch from his face, and he was clinging to the black wool lapels of the butler's jacket. Embarrassment flooded him, and his face began to turn red. A gloved hand slid up his back to one of his shoulders, and then up his neck to lift his chin. The motion and weight of that hand felt strange, somehow, different than usual. Dark reddish eyes stared down at him in concern.

“Are you well, Young Master? Should we end our lesson for today?” Just as he was about to say that God, yes, they should stop, there was a knock on the door. Sebastian gently led him to sit in his desk chair before moving to see who had come. Ciel was too busy staring at the blotter on his desk, trying to make sure that the room remained in a decidedly non-spinning state to take much notice of the activity in the room. The voices of his butler and whatever servant was at the door had become a low buzz in the background, as it was all he could do to simply breathe and remain upright in his chair.

Vaguely, Ciel heard the door shut. “What is it?” he asked through gritted teeth, his stomach giving one final lurch before settling.

He looked up to see Sebastian holding an ivory-colored envelope, sealed with a red satin ribbon and a large blob of crimson wax. A message from Her Majesty, then. The tall man confirmed his assertion by nodding, and crossed the room to hand it over. “I will fetch a cup of tea,” Sebastian murmured. Though he did not feel that he needed any tea, and would much prefer a glass of water, Ciel allowed it. His butler was under the impression that a cup of tea would cure any ill. A strange man, to be sure, even for one of his...heritage.

Once the door shut once again behind Sebastian, Ciel took out a knife from the drawer, and wedged it under the seal. A flick of the wrist popped the wax off, and another had the missive open.

Most Loyal Count Phantomhive,

It has come to our attention that there is in the early stages yet another scandal brewing. Several of our most trusted companions have been embroiled in this unfortunate business on Cleveland Street, and I must encroach upon your solitude once more. Please, dear Phantomhive, search out the root of these horrid rumors, and deal with them accordingly. Contact Frederick Abberline at Scotland Yard as soon as may be for further information. And do please try to keep Sir Warren away from this business as much as may be. He has a poor sense of these matters.

Alexandrina Victoria,

Queen of England,
Empress of India

Ciel pursed his lips. What was this scandal? He had not yet heard of it. Perhaps it was so fresh that the general public was yet to have been alerted? Resolving to travel into town immediately, he folded the letter and unlocked the lower right hand drawer of his desk. When he had safely secured the correspondence with the rest from Her Majesty, Ciel rose from his seat. He was just in time to upset Sebastian thoroughly, as the man had just arrived with the tea.

Author's Note #2: Well, I know that this was primarily just introduction, but I'm sure you see how it could be interesting. Whatever might happen?