Memory Share - Everything can be lost in the blink of an eye

[gadaboutdetective]

It was the second day in a row that Llewellyn had been brought into the station house for questioning concerning the events that had lead to the death of Nigel Baker, concerning his inconsistencies in the story he had given them about what had taken place. He thought that he had turned things in the right direction with his testimony, that he had explained them away well enough as he stuck by his accounts of what happened. Of course Murdoch would have to dig deeper and find someone who was present during the investigation of Daniel’s case. “I should have told you.”

“You replaced the thumb mark.” Murdoch’s voice has a harder edge to it today, tinged with confusion. The man wants to understand what would have possessed him to take such a huge risk on a case for someone he supposedly didn’t even know.

“It wasn’t difficult... The victim’s corpse was still in the morgue.”

“Clearly a bit more difficult than you thought. You replaced it with the wrong thumb.”

Hunching a bit in the seat (it was so uncomfortable, his back was already protesting after having spent most of yesterday in the awful chair), he smiled a little, it’s a wry and almost sad thing. “I get left-right mixed up. Same with East-West. Up-down, North-South I’m mm... quite good at.”

“Why would you take such a risk? To the case? To yourself??”

Swallowing thickly, Llewellyn’s face turned dark and heavy with guilt. “Because it was my fault. I was the one who told Constable Baxter to leave his desk.”

“To aid with the mêlée outside?”

“... Baker’s boys had started it, obviously. It was an idiot trap, and I was the idiot I had to make it right.” Picking up the cup off the table, Llewellyn leaned forward uncomfortable. “It wasn’t right— of course. It destroyed the case. And it’s now destroyed my career.”
———
Murdoch left him there, to the silence and his own thoughts only to return hours later with the most damning evidence yet. A photograph that he dropped on the table and slid over to Llewellyn. The man giving a light start at the sight of it, rising in his seat and straightening his posture as much as he ever did. It’s the photograph. The only one that had been taken when they were young. Three boys stared up at him. Hubert, Daniel, and himself. “I... remember this. It was taken shortly after I moved in.”

“You lived with the Marks twins?” Murdoch’s tone is harder still, perhaps upset that Llewellyn had kept this secret. That he’d lied.

“The landlady’s family took me in after my parents died.” Not necessarily a woman who had been mother material in the traditional sense, but she had a good enough heart to not let three boys end up in an orphanage or in one of the boy’s homes. Mrs. Young had taken in the Marks twins before him, and then when his sister had disappeared she had taken him in as well.

“Odd that you didn’t mention it.”

“Well— I knew what you would think.” There’s tears in his eyes now, nerves starting to get the better of of him. Feelings rising as everything started to fall apart.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“That I had reason to kill Nigel Baker.” And he had so many reasons to.

“Did you?” Murdoch’s tone is clipped, all business. None of his usual soft approach or delicacy left.

“Did I have reason?” His voice breaks, emotions finally getting the better of him as he struggled to not leap from the seat. “Nigel Baker tortured and killed a man I...” Swallowing a sob down, Llewellyn frowned and lowered his voice. It still trembled as he continued, “A man who was in every way my brother. Someone who deserved my protection! I had ample reason to kill Nigel Baker! But as I have already made clear, I didn’t recognize him! So did I kill him with intention? No! Am I sorry he’s dead? No— I’m not.” Llewellyn pulled back away from the edge of the table, trying to calm himself and regain a little composure. “To be honest, even if given the chance to exact my revenge, I’m not sure I’m capable of it.” A distressed shake of his head, “Obviously, my philosophy rejects the very idea. ...No one asks to be the way they are, not even boys like Nigel Baker.”

It’s a slip up, and Llewellyn realized it immediately. Another strike against him. Murdoch jumps on his words immediately. “Boy? You knew him as a child?”

“He was the same age as Hubert and Danny. Lived a few doors down on William Street.” Llewellyn gets a far away look on his face, memories coming to the surface unbidden. Things he tried to not think about, things his subconscious had tried to repress. “Even then, you could tell there was something wrong with him. Most bullies have a purpose in their torment. They seek status— protection... Nigel Baker was only happy when he could cause pain. He delighted in it. And boys like Hubert and Danny,” Boys like himself, “They were fodder for his cruelty.”

“You were their protector...” Murdoch’s tone had shifted again, not exactly forgiving of his blunders and the secrets kept. He was gentler about the question though, not as forceful as he had been.

Llewellyn ducks his head, looking away. “When I could be.” He had never been much for fighting, too much of a pacifist. Often as easy a mark as his brothers were. But when he could redirect Nigel’s attention? When he could jump in and give them a chance to escape? He did. It was worth the pain and the fear. He never regretted coming home injured if it meant they were safe. “I reported his deeds to his father, but Mr. Baker could never accept the truth about Nigel.” And how that had stung. For his words, his pleas for help, to fall on deaf ears. All because Nigel’s father loved his son too much, was so blind to how cruel and destructive the boy was.

Picking up the photograph, Llewellyn looked at it tenderly. “Poor sweet boy...”
———
Llewellyn was rolling the cup back and forth with a pencil, resting his head in his arms on the table when Murdoch returns next. All quick and to the point, a renewed sense of urgency in his words. He came with a question about how many gunshots had been heard, only for Llewellyn to absentmindedly ask if this were some sort of riddle. Frustrated, Murdoch’s hand snaps forward to grab the cup and slam it down firmly on the table and asking if he could explain it. Explain why there were reports of three gunshots that night. Murdoch continued to counter all his explanations with growing irritation. Like a dog with a bone, he wasn’t going to let it go. The detective accused him of tampering with the gun, of removing the original empty bullet casing and firing off sequential shots to hide the original.

Murdoch suggested a hypothesis on what really happened after that. One of Llewellyn getting a call at his desk from Hubert, his brother informing him of his intention to kill Nigel for what he’d done to Daniel. The story playing out to the effect that Llewellyn hadn’t arrived in time to stop his brother, but had covered the crime up after forming a plan to give Hubert enough time to get away.

It wasn’t entirely wrong, of course. Llewellyn had gotten the call and hadn’t arrived in time to stop Hubert, but his brother had already fled the scene. Llewellyn didn’t know where Hubert was, and as worried as he was, he knew it was better that way. You couldn’t divulge a secret you didn’t know. He had still panicked and covered it up, of course. Shot himself, shot again to mimic a struggle for the weapon even though Nigel was already dead. Hubert wouldn’t be blamed for this, he wouldn’t allow it. Not after he’d failed both his brothers so much already... Even if sticking to the story meant going to prison... Even if it meant hanging for the crime. It would be the one thing he did right by his brothers.

Moments later, Llewellyn loses his temper when Murdoch hits a particular nerve. He’s so tired of the world as it is, and that even Murdoch would stoop to suggesting his brother were incapable of feeling guilt in the situation, that they could take a chance on the court finding Hubert mentally incapable and send him to an institution instead. It hurt to hear such a small minded opinion from someone so like himself.

He snapped out a challenge then; if Murdoch really believed that Hubert had committed the murder and not him? Then he would have to prove it. Llewellyn picked up a book off the table, opened it to a random page and refused to look Murdoch in the eye, unwilling to say another word.
———
It’s a while before Murdoch returns again. When he does, it’s with a mixed expression. One Llewellyn can’t quite read... So he focuses instead on his book. “So? Am I to assume you have your proof?” A small gesture, a waggle of his finger. “You had a theory.”

“Oh... I’ve since changed my theory. I no longer believe Hubert Marks killed Nigel Baker. No, that was you.” His tone is softer this time, resigned in a way.

“Well... Good. That’s what I’ve been saying all along.” Finally, what ever development had occurred, it meant that the case seemed to be heading back the way he wanted it. Suspicion would move away from Hubert, and back to him where it belonged.

“But I don’t believe it was self defence. It was murder.”

Looking up from his book, Llewellyn can’t help the confusion bleeding into his tone. “What?”

“We found this in a shed near where you confronted Nigel Baker.” Murdoch responds, sliding a picture of a bloody footprint into his line of sight. Llewellyn picks it up as the other detective continued, “I believe you were there that night. You’ve since changed your shoes, but that’s your bloody footprint.”

His bloody footprint? Now that made no sense, Llewellyn had never been in a shed that night. Had never stepped in blood, aside from perhaps his own after wounding himself. The question popped out, quiet and confused. “Whose blood?”

Murdoch is silent, instead sliding another collection of pictures across the table to rest in front of him. Llewellyn’s stomach dropped, everything falling into place. The reason he hadn’t seen Hubert that night, the reason that he hadn’t been seen since that night...

Anyone looking at the photographs would think that these were from Daniel’s case. The sheer volume of blood, the gashes were so close to those that had marred the man’s form when his murder had been discovered. Llewellyn knew better though, he had always been able to tell the difference between the Marks twins.

No, this was Hubert and he was dead. Everything had been for nothing.

Llewellyn’s jaw quivered, sifting through the photos before shoving them away in a rush. “No... No. No! NO!” Sobs wracked his body, drawing his arms close and thrusting his hands in front of his eyes, as though not seeing the images would somehow make them untrue.

He doesn’t even hear Murdoch leave the room, too wrapped up in his sorrow.