The Masque of Gilded Gold

⊱≼≽⊰The Masque of Gilded Gold: Chapter 1⊱≼≽⊰

"I believe it all started before the Moby Dick incident, when I was working as Master Architect in the Guild. At that time, we were all hard at work, embroiled in deep investigation. One of our buildings had blown up—thankfully, most of our employees were unharmed, save for Nathaniel who was in the building at the time. He had been moved to the medical room, and was now recovering from the attack. His injuries weren't fatal, but it was certain he would remain bedridden for at least 3 days. By the next day, John and Howard..."

Ranpo cocked his head to the side. "Nathaniel? John and Howard...?"

"Ah!" Poe realized. "You call them by their last names in Japan, don't you? I'm sorry. Hawthorne was the one who sustained the injury, while Steinbeck and Lovecraft were sent over to take care of the accident at the site. Most of the more non-combatant members of the Guild were forced to sift through piles and piles of evidence. While I do say 'forced,' a much better word would be 'suggested', as Alcott and Melville were the only ones truly doing any work. Mitchell had declared that she was "far beyond this" only hours before, claiming her hands were of too precious status to be forced into labor, Twain had gotten bored halfway through, leaving one of the creatures summoned by his skill—Huck, I believe—to sit silently in his vacant chair as if he were a worthy substitute before running off, and Montgomery simply activated her skill and escaped into her pocket-dimension. I, myself, was toiling over my manuscript, as I had just received the revelation of a perfect motive for my murderer, and when I finished I made my way to the Guild's study-room, intent on doing my share of the work.

However, when I entered, I found myself face-to-face with Fitzgerald, whom I assume had taken a personal command over the search. Now, one would surely expect for the leader of this organization to be undergoing an immense amount of stress, perhaps even tearing his hair out to find the culprit, or using his power to force his employees back to work, but he merely stood there, watching, with a curious look on his face. 'Alcott!' He said suddenly, which made her jump a little out of her seat. 'What's with all of the doom and gloom around here? It's distasteful!'

'W-well,' Alcott stammered. 'We are very much flooded with work. Ms. Mitchell, Ms. Lucy, and Mr. Twain have left their stations to go who-knows-where...I do believe it will take me days to go through their piles alone...' Hm? Ranpo, are you laughing?"

"Your Alcott impression!" Ranpo roared with laughter. "You sound exactly like her."

Poe felt his face grow warm. He had been so immersed in the story he hadn't realized he'd been changing his voice to fit who was talking.

"Ah!" He panicked. "Do you wish for me to stop?"

"Nah, keep going! It makes the story more fun to hear," Ranpo teased, with a wink. Poe hated it when he did that. It made it so much harder to turn him down.

"If you do say so..." Poe mumbled under his breath.

"Oh yeah, and Ed?"

"Yes, Ranpo?"

Ranpo raised his hands in the air in annoyance. "Enough with the exposition! Get to the good part already!"

Poe sighed. "I will try my best to do so. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Fitzgerald looked upon Alcott in a confused manner.

'Hm? Left? Are they unmotivated?'

'I'm not sure sir.' She had responded meekly.

'Now that is a problem.' Fitzgerald narrowed his eyes. 'Demotivation...what an issue! I will go into my office to think of a solution. Alcott, if you would follow me.'

She organized the pile of papers she was working on and held it to her chest. 'Yes, sir.'

And so they both left the room. Melville seemed to have fallen asleep during the conversation, so I silently sifted through the evidence myself and, upon tracing back the fingerprints on the bomb into the Guild's files, I had discovered the bomber's identity. He was a man named Luchesi, with dark brown eyes and grayish-white hair. His face, gaunt and dark, stared blankly as if he was hiding a secret that was slowly killing him on the inside. He seemed to be around 30 years old and Italian, an owner of a small winery at that, and had committed several offenses against the Guild—simple things like failing to repay debts—which had driven him to commit desperate measures. But fate was always so deceiving with things a little too easy. I had my culprit, yes, but who exactly was I to tell it to? Every important Guild employee had left, or were occupied with some other matter. I sighed. I was forced to wait until Fitzgerald and Alcott had finished solving their 'demotivation problem'. Putting that case down was the only logical solution. It was unlikely he could have escaped the scene after all, as by nature of Steinbeck and Lovecraft's skills, it was simply impossible. As I realized in my fervor I had forgotten to feed Karl his dinner, I rushed into my room only to be met with an invitation upon my desk:

'To Monsieur Edgar Allan Poe,' it read, 'You have been invited to a masquerade party that will take place tonight, courtesy of a certain Francis Scott Fitzgerald. Please arrive in a timely manner, in formal wear, complete with the mask provided. We highly suggest you wear a disguise. We hope to see you there, The Guild's HR Team.' Ah. I thought to myself. That must have been their solution. A masquerade? In disguise as well? Though I normally did not attend those types of events, it certainly sounded appealing. To try to find Fitzgerald as he attempts to hide himself from me...? It certainly enchants the mind. Picking up the beautifully embellished black mask, I examined it closely. It was real, made up of filigree metal, which meant it had been no small cost for Fitzgerald. He seemed to be quite dedicated to the livelihood of the Guild. Naturally, I needed a disguise as well. I rustled through my closet, seeing if I still had that dark purple Victorian waistcoat I was so fond of but never had the chance to wear. Donning on an elegant feather cape that I had not worn in years, my ensemble had been complete for the evening. I straightened my bangs and gelled it back into a side part, while I tied the rest into a ponytail. I do believe I was nigh unrecognizable in the mirror. Here." Poe pulled out a polaroid from his canvas bag. "I have a photo from that day."

"Sounds fancy," Ranpo muttered, picking up the photograph half-heartedly. "Hm? Did you give me the wrong photo? I don't see you in here."

Poe pointed to the image, identifying himself in the crowd. "I am to the very left, next to the dessert table."

"Wait," Ranpo gawked. "That's you?!"

Aha! There's the reaction he'd been looking for! "To be able to fool such a great detective...it makes it all worth it in the end." Poe smiled contently.

Ranpo sighed, lying back down with a flourish of his hand. "You're so full of surprises, Poe. Disguises, sniping, acting. You're a triple threat. You've got a secret fetish or something?"

"What? No! How could you ever think that?" Poe stammered.

"I see. Your parents must be thespians then. Or actors at the very least."

Poe felt a slight chill down his spine. Moments like these reminded him exactly how far the gulf between him and Ranpo was. How could he have possibly known? No, that's not the right way to put it. How much information did he need to know such a thing? And how much of that information did Poe give willingly to him? He had known for a fact that he had never mentioned his childhood or anything like it—in fact, he'd rather not. "You know, I'm not very fond of you deducing personal things about me out of the blue."

Ranpo shrugged. "My mistake. I won't pry if you don't want me to."

"It's quite alright...I haven't thought about them for a long while by now. My original parents, that is. They died when I was younger, after all..." He reminisced as he pet Karl, who was now curled up around his neck. "They were part of a traveling theater troupe—a famous one at that. They taught me a few tricks of the trade, and then they died."

Ranpo tossed him back the photograph. "I understand. Thought that was the case."

"Yes, yes. And your deduction was quite right as always." Poe reassured, placing it back into his bag. "Shall I continue?"

"Go right ahead."

"Alright then. As I was saying..."