Progress

Breaths, ragged and short, I reach the police station and leap towards the entry. A woman stands near the door, smoking.

"Eleanor?" She asks, grabbing a hold of my shoulders to keep me up.

Sonders.

"Take this!" I rasp, throwing the device to her.

"What's this?" She asks, assisting me into the station.

Falling into a chair, I drink the water she offers.

"Whats going on?" Asks Hart as he and-

Silas of all people, walk in.

"She came running and gave me this." She says, holding up the device.

"You look awful, Burroughs. Sickly pale." Golding taunts, putting a cup of steaming coffee on the table.

"Play the tape, now." I demand urgently.

Sonders places the tape down and presses it.

Sputtering and pausing, I smack the recorder and it plays.

The conversation between the Irish man's and Dalal.

I look at their faces, inquisitory and focused.

Just before the mention of Thallium arose, Hart accidentally hit the coffee, spilling it all over the device.

"No! No, no, no." I yell, grabbing it as I try helplessly to fix it.

"I'm so sorry, Eleanor!" He amends, attempting to assist me.

"What is going on, Miss. Burroughs?" Sonders asks with a quizzical brow.

"I followed Dalal. He left work early today and slipped into the darkest parts of town and met with a guy in an alleyway. He was worried and asked about a poison. Thallium." I rose, explaining as I paced up and down the room. "Poison. Vincent was poisoned. And you know who else was poisoned? Romeo. It hit me in that moment, the pattern. He's killing by Shakespeare's tragedies, specifically the ones Osbourne taught us."

"10/4. Osbourne died on the 10/4." Mumbled Sonders. "How many tragedies did Shakespeare write?"

I thought for a moment.

"Ten." I reply, questions roaring in my mind.

"If ten tragedies then..." I vocalise my thoughts. "Shakepeare died in the month of April. The fourth month of the year."

"10/4." Hart stares at us in awe, in worry. "So, Dalal killed Osbourne out of revenge for their rivalry according to the Shakesperean tragedies you learn in the literature course? And he poisoned Vincent with... Thallium?"

"He killed them all. Even Quill. Perhaps because as their teacher he favoured Osbourne more." I say, every bit falling into place.

I look at Silas, his face inquistory.

"We need to arrest him, now. We have the evidence." Sonders explains, looking at Hart.

"Not explicitly we don't. The recording broke down before we heard the exchange about Thallium. Right now all we have is hearsay." He admits, looking at me.

"Hart, for the short amount of time I've known you, you have proven to be the single most useless officer I have ever encountered. If you're not going to arrest him, Sonders will. It seems one word out of her is worth more than your whole career." I say sternly, looking him straight in the eye.

He stares back, "Who on this bloody earth do you think you are?!" He yells, reddening to a shade of crimson with rage.

Seemed I had offended him. Good.

"Someone whose actually trying to solve this case." I retort calmly.

A slow applause sounds. "Well done, Burroughs. You've grown a spine, I was beginning to worry I'd never see that happen." I tilt my head to see Silas clapping. "Enlighten me, Hart, did your father pay for your position in the police academy or just the entry?"

A twitch flickered on Hart's face, accompanied with a sneer.

"We'll wait until the ball, tomorrow. To solidify the suspicions, if he really did do it, the event will affirm it. I cannot arrest him in mere accusations." He says through gritted teeth.

I looked back at him, still unsatisfied but my body felt limp with exhaustion and the only words I could conjure were that of a cry for sleep. So I agreed.

In a haze of blurry vision and fatigue, I dragged myself out of the station and onto the streets, realising now that it's late into the night. The frosty night breeze, cradles me with its swaying motion, whistling her lullaby. Tightening my coat, I lean on a wall for a moment.

Just one moment.

My traitorous eyelids, heavy and convincing, fall.

~~~

I wake to the softness and warmth of my comforters.

The realisation pulls my up as I stare at my surroundings, my room. I don't remember much from last night save that I may have fallen asleep on the street. What I do know, is that I did not arrive home last night.

Before I can contemplate this further a graceful knocking sounds from the door. Rushing to open it, I am greeted by the last person I expected to see.

"Morning, Eleanor." Sings Sonders, holding a small basket of muffins.

"Officer Sonders." I smile, inviting her in, hoping the confusion isn't too noticeable.

"Please, call me Noelle." She said, placing her basket on the table. "I hope its not too much intrusion, I just thought I'd check in. You seemed quite... overworked yesterday."

I sigh a breath of relief, unsure of what I was expecting. "Please, no intrusion at all. That's very kind of you."

Offering a muffin she asks, "How long have you been studying at Oxford?"

"Three years now. And you, how long have you been working at the station?"

"Two years as an officer. Hart's been there for four, he helped me a lot when I was a rookie."

She smiled then. She clearly admired him, something I didn't reciprocate but for some reason I felt like I could trust her judgement.

"How about Mr.Golding? Have you two become close over the years?" She asks, yanking my attention to her.

"Close? No. Forced to endure his insufferable presence? Unfortunately." I grumble, exaggerating my features as though I am performing a dramatic monologue of sorts.

She laughs, "Its odd you say that. The way he looks at you doesn't convey the same irritation."

"Please, I practically feel his scorns burn through me." I say, eyebrows raised as I smirk.

"Oh but I'm looking when you're not. And do you know what I see?" She doesn't wait for any confirmation before continuing, "Eleanor, he's in awe of you. When you speak his eyes are glazed in mesmerisation, ears only in tune for you, lips only daring to smile when you're around."

I can't help the guffaw that breaks free, my eyes fill with tears, as I begin to apologise in between fits of laughter.

She looks at me, "Who do you think brought you home last night?"

Immediately, I choke on my laugh. Tension silencing the humour.

"What?" I question, bafflement seizing me.

"You were falling asleep in the street corner when he came to escort you home. Initially, he tried to help you walk but then resorted to scooping you up and walking the whole way." She detailed. "I offered to give you a ride but he insisted to do it himself."

Puzzled, I didn't know what to say. God, I couldn't believe he carried me all the way home, that's a good, long walk from the station.

I spent years of my life pondering over paradoxes in stories and poetry, but Silas Golding was the most mystifying one of all.

"Seems he even knew about the gun in your coat."

That dragged me back to reality. Stunned, I just gawked at her, unsure of how to tackle explaining this to a police officer.

"It is illegal in England to own a handgun." She said sternly.

I rack my brain trying to search for some way to defend myself.

I come up short.

"But, do I recall you gaining evidence on the case yesterday? Is this weapon, perhaps a piece of evidence you found and were well on your way to give into police custody?" She says, quirking a brow.

I catch onto her play on formality. "Yes, precisely that Officer."

She nods in confirmation.

"May I ask, as a civilian assisting you on this case, I would feel much safer if you were to teach me how to defend myself, weapon or not." I request.

She studies me for a minute.

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't, now would I?"

I grin widely and she returns the expression.