The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 2 - The Magician

England, London
No. 86 Lancaster Gate, Paddington
2 November 1898, 7:34 a.m.

"Are you really sure?" he asked sceptically, looking at the red silk cravat in his hand, rather like a wet, slippery fish.

The man behind him could not suppress the moan that escaped his lips quickly enough. Immediately his posture stiffened. His shoulders hunched higher, then he cleared his throat a little TOO emphatically to cover the slip and most hastily corrected his mistake.

"Yes, Sir Crowford, I'm perfectly sure." confirmed a middle-aged face in the reflection behind the Sir. Watchful eyes the colour of dark hazel were already pricking needles in his back. The man, dressed in the typical attire of a higher-ranking servant, nodded at this to add emphasis to his words. Men in groomed servants' clothing had their murderous gaze, and it resembled the look of a cat still pondering whether or not to bite the hand that fed it every day. The butler spread the fingers in the white gloves as if he had to count to ten in his mind.

"Well... I don't know..." the young Sir next to the servant looked critically at the thrown-back image in the mirror. Wavy hair, the colour of coal-black raven feathers, framed pale features, a straight nose and a charming oval face. He was extremely handsome, no question about it, even if his appearance was often derisively ridiculed as effeminate by other gentlemen of high society. The high collar of his white shirt was folded outwards according to the latest fashion and merged with relatively narrow; some might even say gaunt shoulders. He had, he would tell himself, qualities other than broad, masculine shoulders. 

Fortunately for him, the dark blue frock coat made of high-quality fabric somewhat concealed this flaw, which was so annoying. The waistcoat with silver buttons closed over the dark grey trousers of sturdy cotton. The blackened leather footwear looked expensive for its value and would no doubt stand up to the grime of the dirty streets. He always looked good. But today, it was especially important to look outstanding for the occasion.

"I think I'll take the blue ascot after all." the fine gentleman mused aloud, for this reason, jutting his smooth chin higher in a deliberative gesture. Either he had not read his servant's bitter despair from his precise gestures, or he was ignoring it.

Behind him, teeth clenched a little tighter, causing a muscle to twitch on his butler's polished chin line. The dark moustache was already trembling.... filling the young gentleman in front of the antique mirror with distinct satisfaction. Dark eyebrows drew higher, and they lifted towards the dark mop of hair while the gaze from the mischievous flashing eyes settled on the servant in mock sternness.


"What are you waiting for, Bancroft? Please bring me the royal blue ascot. I'm running late. So hurry up!" emphasising, he wavered his hand in the air and luckily managed to stifle the 'shoo, shoo'. Otherwise, there might have been an article about his tragic demise in the London Times tomorrow after all. 

'Young, handsome and extremely exquisitely dressed lord beaten to death by the butler for silk tie'. No doubt the headline would read exactly like that and not otherwise.

Slightly the corners of the young man's mouth twitched. They rose a little as pulled by invisible strings, and it took all the self-control he could muster to contain his amusement at his butler's scowl. The Servant turned away to disappear through the door to the large dressing room. The young gentleman did not miss the curse the older man uttered at the brash youth as soon as he thought he was far enough away.