Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 15

Many consider the Great War to be Edmund’s first experience with subterfuge and espionage, specifically the events surrounding the Battle at Harmingsdown. Many consider incorrectly.

Edmund was amazed at how normal it all was. In fact, all of proper society was structured around hiding one’s true feelings and motives. The only difference now was how many things Edmund was hiding.

The first thing Edmund was keeping from his fellow Teapots was who had invited them to Lady Tinbottom’s Villa. This is quite normal and proper; those who had important social business often hid their faces behind an amiable host or hostess. Indeed, if anyone knew Edmund had asked Lady Tinbottom to assemble the Coterie, they would have been curious rather than scandalized.

Of course, if any of the other guests did know that Edmund was the one who requested this get-together instead of Lady Tinbottom, none of them would dare reveal the fact. This is also normal and proper. This silence maintains the illusion that all members of the upper-class are equal and welcome in the specified social network, and no sub-cliques or relationships are being developed that would require undue speculation, concern, or attention. Thus, peers who are not directly involved with the inviter may continue to feel that they are interesting, trustworthy, and socially desirable. In the meantime, those the inviter actually wished to speak with are free to engage in whatever gossip, plot, or scheme is most pressing.¹

The second thing Edmund was hiding was the purpose of the gathering. This too is not unusual. As any true English Gentleman should know, and Edmund counted himself among such, it is proper behavior for anyone who has requested the company of others to allow the conversation to ruminate for an hour or two, as a conversational appetizer, before surreptitiously broaching any subject of gravitas, general interest, or amusement.

The third hidden thing was hidden regardless of Edmund’s intentions or efforts: Syphilis.

Only a single decade before Sir Edmund’s death, he wrote a book entitled The Fetish of Self Harm. For those interested in the field, it is considered not only the seminal work, but a groundbreaking study of countless and subtle examples of humanity hurting itself for pleasure. For example: the consumption of alcohol, which boggles the mind and deprives a gentleman of tact, balance, and clear diction. This is similar in some ways to the Flagellants of multiple different religions across the world, who carve scars on their backs until they can barely stand.

A whole chapter in the book was devoted to Syphilis and the strange dichotomy it managed to maintain; at once a horrible disease that would cause immense pain and suffering for those infected, yet also a fashionable accessory like a delicate scar or charming mole. It was both impossibly dangerous and also something to talk about, therefore at once repulsive and alluring.

For such subjects there is a specific method of handling conversation in polite company, to wit; do not talk about it.

This is not the proscription that it sounds. After a careful study of upper-class behavior, it was discovered that no less than sixty-five percent of all conversation engaged in by the gentry² is not talked about. Subtext, knowing winks, whispers in the hallway, even the scurrilous act of collecting hedgerow gossip by speaking with the help ensured that the taboo never became unusual.

This clearly reveals that the fourth and final thing that was hidden from casual observation was the conversation itself. Gossip and conveyance of another’s opinion is commonplace among the gentry and considered a courtesy: sparing the original speaker the need to undergo the requisite social greetings, niceties, and farewells before moving on, all for saying their peace to everyone in attendance. It is, in fact, possible for an entire multi-person conversation to occur during a ball without anyone ever speaking face to face.

Add on the multiple forms of acceptable communication for the upper-class, including fans, posture, and subtext, and it becomes possible for the skilled to hold multiple conversations at once with people across the room.³

All of this is to say: every noted historian agrees that the following did not happen. However, to insure clarity and brevity of the immediate and pertinent facts relating to the events that followed; no less than four hours of the Soiree must be ignored, and the remaining three-quarters of an hour must be re-ordered, condensed, and translated to a more understandable format.

As such, Edmund did not say;

“The Ripper has struck again.”

Edmund watched carefully as the gathered Teapots immediately set aside their conversations and drew their attention to him. Who is surprised, he wondered, and who is worried?

“Again?” Lady Tinbottom flushed ever so slightly. “How dreadful!”

“Are you sure?” Lord Brocklehurst adjusted his monocle, glancing around at his fellow Teapots. “I happen to be an acquaintance⁴ with the Mothburn Chief of Police, and he hasn’t said a word to me.”

“I have heard rumors,” Edmund said.

“How horrible,” Lady Willborn gasped. “And to think, the police still without a single reasonable suspect. Who was the victim? Another street-girl, I suspect?”

“It was the Bursar of Grimm’s,” Edmund said. “Professor Babbages.” This was, of course, a bit of a lie as Miss Pinfort had died long after the bursar, but keeping this secret was central to Edmund’s plan.

The silence that followed was not a silence of thoughtfulness, nor of confusion, but of abject terror.

“But…I knew Professor Babbages,” Lady Tepitmarsh gasped.

“Do you mean to say…a peer was slain by the Ripper?” Lady Tinbottom’s tone betrayed her shock. “How is that possible?”

“With a knife, I’m afraid,” Edmund shook his head in sympathetic sorrow. “And the police at a loss.”

“Impossible,” Lord Brocklehurst’s denial was palpable. “How could that…Why, such things are simply not done!”

“Of course not,” Lord Dashington frowned, his brow furrowed. “There must be more to this than first meets the eye.”

“This explains why we had not heard of it,” Lady Tinbottom fanned herself rapidly. “The school must be trying to avoid the scandal of it all.”

“Do you think he was…mistaken?” Lady Willborn asked. “Perhaps the Ripper mistook him…” her voice trailed off as she mused on the absurdity of anyone mistaking the portly professor for a lower-class woman.

“We invited him to one of our Soirees, just last year! Something should be done!”

“Perhaps he was simply nearby, and the Ripper swung too hard…and missed? Killed Babbages instead?”

“How could this happen to one of us?”

“But…did it?”

Edmund turned his attention, along with the rest of the Coterie, to Lord Dashington.

“I mean to say,” Lord Dashington continued, “Was he really one of us? After all, he did work for a living.”

“Teaching is hardly work,” Lady Willborn said, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Besides,” Lord Havingham took up the torch. “We all know how Grimm’s has been sliding into depravity, what? By Jove, all this new-fangled technology that’s been popping up everywhere…sewing machines, hardened shoes, telegraphs…”

“Do you know what a Bursar actually is?” A collection of bemused stares gave Lady Tepitmarsh her answer. “It’s someone who deals with money.”

“There, you see?” Lord Dashington smiled. “He wasn’t one of us. Not really. We have nothing to worry about, nothing scandalous at all.”

Edmund felt the thrill of his trap snapping shut as he spoke up. “Besides, Grimm’s will hire a new Bursar soon, and everything will go back to normal.”

A subtle pause was filled with careful consideration.

“Now…” Lord Brocklehurst cleared his throat, “is that really…fitting?”

“Imagine the scandal,” Edmund continued. “Without a bursar, the school can’t get any money. Imagine Mothburn losing the oldest and most respected institution in the country. An educational one, granted, but still old. Older than any of the other schools in Europe. If schools in other countries fare better than ours, people might start to wonder if Britannia is really as good as it purports to be.”

“Oh please, dear boy,” Lord Havingham grunted, waving a hand. “Please don’t bring other countries into this discussion. Hardly material, what?”

“Dreadful things, other countries,” Lady Tepitmarsh smiled. “They’re all foreigners there, you know.”

“Then we are agreed,” Lord Dashington gave a sharp nod. “Grimm’s time is passed. The bursar dying in such a common manner is proof enough. Frankly, I say it’s about time.”

“Come to think of it,” Lord Brocklehurst sniffed, turning his attention to Edmund, “I’ve heard some interesting things about you and Grimm’s, Master Moulde. Dangerous things.”

“I say, steady on,” Lord Havingham blinked. “What sort of things?”

“After all,” Lord Brocklehurst continued, “You are a student at that filthy little school, aren’t you? And I’ve heard that you’re not particularly careful with your lessons. Why, I’ve even heard you’ve started to invent things, is that right? New kinds of batteries, for example?”

“Batteries?” Lady Tinbottom asked.

“They store electricity,” Lord Dashington grimaced. “In barrels.”

“Oh my.”

“And I’ve heard,” Lord Brocklehurst continued, “That you’ve concocted a little invention that changes these batteries from wet to dry.”

“How dreadful” Lady Willborn gasped, clearly more frightened by the word “changes” than any other.

“Yes, and not only inventions,” Lord Brocklehurst nodded meaningfully, “but discoveries. I hear you do things differently, don’t you? Sneaking out at night, and even sharing what you’ve learned? I’m forced to wonder, what with the recent signs of degradation in Grimm’s, how much it has influenced you and your education. Are you, Master Moulde, an innovator?”

“Well!” Lady Tinbottom snapped her fan shut with the sound of a gunshot. “I cannot believe my ears.”

Edmund turned, along with the rest of the Coterie. Her face was flush, and her jaw set tight. If he had judged Lady Tinbottom correctly…

“In all my days, I have never seen such a display of betrayal. Professor Babbages was a professor, yes, but the Babbages family has been a mainstay in Mothburn for centuries. And to accuse a Moulde of being a…a…I cannot bring myself to say the word!”

“I must admit,” Edmund gently rested his hand on the tiller of conversation, “my family has had its share of…creative influencers in the past. It would be impossible for me to hide such a fact, shameful as it is. I don’t blame anyone for being curious”

To Edmund’s satisfaction, the tone of the room did not shift to one of shame, but of bemused incredulity. Lady Tinbottom must have noticed as well, as she shifted her tactics.

“Nevertheless, we may know that Grimm’s time is past, but we must keep up appearances. Something must be done to stop this terrible situation. After all, if Grimm’s is hiding a murder, then they are committing a crime.”

“A crime?” Lady Tepitmarsh gasped. “We don’t —” she stopped.

It was such a simple trap, Edmund reflected. If Grimm’s was a lower-class institution, they were subject to the Law, and it would come out that high-born Professor Babbages has been killed by the Ripper. If his death was to be kept secret, Grimm’s had to be above the law, and therefore a part of gentrified society.

If he had ever respected the Teapot Coterie, that respect had vanished completely. Any member of a Founding Family wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a simplistic sociological conundrum.

Salvation for the Teapots came from Lord Havingham. “I say,” he cleared his throat in a theatrical display of sudden remembrance. “Wasn’t the Prince of Denmark just accepted this year into Grimm’s?”

“And Princess Whinnifred, from Portugal,” Edmund helped them along.

“Well,” Lady Tinbottom nodded. “I would expect nothing less from such a well-bred family as the Danish royals. Of course they chose Grimm’s over…what is the name of that university?”

“The Gørtenskåg Kollegium,” Lord Dashington muttered.

“Then we are agreed,” Lady Tinbottom opened her fan again. “Professor Babbages obviously cannot have been slain by the Ripper.”

“I have heard rumors,” Edmund repeated.

“Unacceptable,” Lady Tinbottom blustered. “We must speak with the police, and squash these rumors at once.”

“I say, steady on, old gel! We are the gentry after all. We can’t be seen to be taking an interest! Think of the scandal!”

“I’m afraid Lord Havingham is correct,” Lady Willborn frowned. “We couldn’t possibly be seen to be involved. The Law is none of our business; it is a lower-class institution.”

“Dreadfully common,” Lord Brocklehurst nodded. “Think of the scandal.”

“The Mayor could speak with the Chief of Police,” Edmund mentioned. “I believe he does it all the time.”

“I agree,” Lady Tinbottom nodded. “The Mayor must be informed of our dissatisfaction with the current situation.”

Seizing his chance, Edmund drew himself up. “I could speak with him.”

To those unfamiliar with the upper-class, Edmund’s use of the Soiree to allow him to visit the Mothburn Mayor without scandal may seem excessive. To Edmund, indeed to any member of the Founding Families, it was perfectly natural. Edmund could have gone directly the police, but he had experienced enough of the upper-class to know that it wasn’t the police who dealt with upper-class crime. If anything was to happen, it would happen through fellow peers. The Gentry were safe from flat-footed boots, but nothing could protect them from lace gloves.

This was not the Soiree’s only function; it also allowed Edmund to prove his suspicions. It gave him the knowledge he needed to move forward with confidence. In the end, it was the behavior Edmund observed during the Soiree that convinced him once and for all that Lord Dashington was, at heart, a cold blooded killer.

While the evidence of this may elude those of a lower social strata, to Edmund it was a beacon fifty feet in the air.

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The Mothburn Town Hall was the perfect picture of Gothic class, of a pretentiousness usually reserved for Grecian temples, banks, and other places of worship. Great stone columns thrust up to the ceiling, carved with vertical channels and polished smooth. Edmund liked the design; it gave him several geometric shapes to study while he waited to meet with the Mayor.

It is of note that Edmund knew he was going to meet with the Mayor. As later court documents showed, the Mayor of Mothburn at the time — one Sir Breginald Smugge Esq. IV — had an alarming tendency to refuse to meet with any number of important people unless they had some immediate value to his political prospects, his private pension, or his paunch.

Scholars of Edmund’s life are therefore divided into two separate groups: those who view their meeting as proof of Edmund’s divine purpose, and those who think Mayor Smugge was bored.

The gun-shot sound of hard shoes on stone broke the silence like an egg-shell. Edmund looked up to see a foot-servant walking towards him, his head bowed in respectful supplication.

“Master Moulde,” the man said as he pulled up short in front of Edmund. “If you will follow me, I will take you to the Mayor’s office.”

Edmund nodded his thanks without speaking lest the foot-servant be simple and expect conversation, and followed the man as his loud footsteps marked their way through the temple-like building. Edmund had no sooner entered the Mayor’s office, than a large round face with thick mutton-chops and a smile usually reserved for horses appeared in front of him.

“Master Moulde!” Mayor Smugge shoved a hand in Edmund’s direction. “It truly is an honor to have a Moulde here at last!”

The Mayor’s office was a fascinating study in Chaos from Order. Looked at carefully, it was clear that everything was in its proper place. Statues were arranged just so, lamps expertly placed to cast the proper amount of light; it was a room that had not been arranged so much as constructed. Looked at it as a whole, however, the room was as ordered as if a hurricane had passed through it. Whomever had placed the furniture, knick-knacks, dressing, and ornamentation had clearly missed the clock for the cogs.

It was a smaller room than Edmund expected, but he paid little attention to the plush chairs and large oak desk. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the broad wooden shelves filled with books.

Of the two libraries Edmund had experienced, both Moulde Hall’s and Grimm’s, neither was what aesthetes would call “attractive.” Neither had been constructed for aesthetic appeal. They had been built to be used.

These shelves gleamed.

When Edmund was young, he thought he knew where wisdom lay. It lay it thick books with small words, as opposed to the children’s picture-books that sat on the dusty shelf of Mrs. Mapleberry’s Home for Wayward Lads and Ladies. When he grew older, he realized that neither the thickness of the book nor the size of the typeset was suitable to discern the quality of its contents. Neither were the titles, and after so much time reading the books of Grimm’s, he was even starting to wonder if even the author was no reliable indicator.

Bit by bit, Edmund was beginning to suspect that there was no safety against stupid men and women proclaiming they had great knowledge when they barely had a scrap.

“Ahem?”

Edmund turned away from the books. Remembering where he was, he shook the Mayor’s hand no less than twice, no more than four times.

“Jolly good!” The Mayor’s strained smile relaxed again as he gestured to a nearby chair. “Please, come sit down! You there, pour us each a spot of brandy, eh? Now, what may I do for you, young Master? And may I say again how grateful I am that you have decided to come and speak with me. It has been almost three-quarters of the school year already; I had hoped you would stop by sooner…but no matter! No matter! How are you finding Mothburn? A fine city, a fine city. I hope everything is to your satisfaction?” the Mayor sat at his desk, pulling his chair forward with a scrape. “Full of fine people, and fine students, such as your fine self.”

The mayor’s rambling did not wither away under Edmund’s steady gaze, as he had hoped it would. He resolved to practice more in the future. “I’m glad you think so. No thank you,” he waved the servant and his offered aperitif away with an open palm and parted fingers, bending at the knuckles and never the wrist.

“Then we’re both glad!” the Mayor snapped from his musing. “I’m delighted to hear it. I must also tell you how delighted I was to receive your letter asking for a meeting.” He tapped the letter where it lay on his desk with a thick finger. “May I ask how your family is doing? I hear such great things about your fine family. The Mouldes are a fine institution unto themselves, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Edmund cleared his throat; the conversation was getting away from him. “I’m afraid my time is short,” he lied, “so I hope you don’t think me rude if I ‘cut to the chase?’”

“I’d be delighted!” The Mayor beamed, clapping his hands. “I appreciate any fine gentleman like yourself who can cut through unnecessary small-talk and get to the finer points.”

“I need to talk to you about Lord Dashington.”

“Such a fine gentleman!” The Mayor clasped his hand to his chest.

“I’m afraid not,” Edmund said.

There was a wet grinding nose as the Mayor choked on his own tongue. After a moment of thumping his chest with his hand, he gasped for air. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have discovered the unfortunate truth that Lord Dashington has been involved in some unfortunately illegal activities.”

The Mayor hoisted his thick bulk out of his chair and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “Distressing. Most distressing. I hope you aren’t talking about a scandal.”

“Far worse, I’m afraid. The behavior in question is, in fact, murder.”

“You see,” the Mayor continued, as if he hadn’t heard, “Lord Dashington is quiet an important member of this community. He has done a great many things for Mothburn, and has managed to maintain the respectable name of Dashington for many years.”

“I’m sure,” Edmund nodded. “Nevertheless…”⁵ He let the word hang in the air.

Mayor Smugge sighed, letting his torso sink back into his chair, a look of helpless bewilderment on his face. “I’m afraid I’ll have a hard time believing it, Master Moulde. Even from a fine and respectable person from a fine and respectable family, such as yourself.”

Edmund balked. He was a Moulde. Did the mayor honestly place the name Dashington above the name Moulde? Was Edmund’s word truly not enough? True, respectable was not a word he had heard applied to the Mouldes in a very long time, but it was still a painful insult.

Still, he didn’t have the time or inclination to argue, and he had brought evidence in any case. “I do have proof,” Edmund reached into his vest and pulled out a collection of papers, carefully annotated and properly cross-referenced. “If you take the time to read these, I think you’ll find —”

“And what are those?” The Mayor blinked in fascinated confusion.

“Scientific reports on the condition of twenty-seven separate bodies found by the police over the past five —”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” the Mayor waved his hand. “I’m afraid that simply won’t do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What you have there, it simply won’t do. Inadmissible in court, you understand. The Legal Fortification Act of 1767, you see. Passed into law by the Mothburn congress after a particularly bad year for charlatanism,” the Mayor waved a hand again. “I’m afraid scientific evidence is no longer allowed in court proceedings. The legal profession is the pinnacle of society, you understand,” The Mayor stood up again, placing his hand patriotically on his chest. “A forensic display of legal knowledge, rhetorical conflict, and logical discussion through which the truth is ascertained. Logic is pure and unassailable, you see, distinct and in-deferential to the material world. Clues and evidence only get in the way of such matters, you understand.”

“Mothburn convicts criminals without evidence?”

“Of course not!” The Mayor gasped in shock. “Only the right kind of evidence. Logical deduction, mostly. That sort of thing. And, the sworn word of a witness, assuming they are a sound and respectable person, will go a great deal to insuring that justice is carried out.”

“So if I said that Dashington was a murderer —”

“Did you see him kill anyone?” Mayor Smugge raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Edmund admitted.

“Then it’s quite out of the question. The Moulde name is indeed a sound and respectable name, but so is Dashington, I’m afraid. If you haven’t seen Dashington kill anyone, than you are obviously attempting to slander him. QED.”

“I would never do that,” Edmund was beginning to see the strings of the system. “Could you imagine the scandal of a Moulde trying to slander a Dashington?”

“No!” the Mayor gasped again. “Never! Why, I would dare say it an impossibility for a fine gentleman such as yourself to perform such an act. And that is why, obviously, you could never bring the charge of murder to Lord Dashington. You see?”

Edmund did, unfortunately. It was the sort of legal logic that ensured the Moulde Family’s solicitor was paid quite handsomely.

His mind began sorting through any number of methods for untying the knot, when the Mayor interrupted.

“May I ask how you are finding Grimm’s? Such a horrid little institution, isn’t it? Full of horrible Professors?”

Edmund blinked. He had not suspected such forthright ire from the Mayor, when even the Teapots had barely managed a hushed disgust. “I find it perfectly suitable for my needs,” he said.

“Oh of course you do!” The Mayor beamed. “Such a fine institution, Grimm’s. I would certainly never suggest it was anything less than a perfectly suitable institution, especially in your presence, Master Moulde.”

Recognizing the man’s embarrassed obsequiousness, Edmund pried further. “Did you think I found it horrid?”

The Mayor’s mouth twisted in discomfort. “Well, I must say, I thought you were quite unequivocal in your first letter, and such a fine letter it was.”

Edmund paused, and took a breath. “What first letter?”

The Mayor looked puzzled. “Why, the one you sent me not one month ago. The one which included your draft law. You were quite convincing, and once the legislative year starts up again, I am proud to say I will back your fine law wholeheartedly! I’m always appreciative of fine gentlemen and ladies who concern themselves with the representative democracy of our fine Monarchy. I do appreciate King Willhelm for carrying on such a fine tradition.”

Edmund let the comment slide, not only because he was beginning to understand the Mayors penchant for tangents, but also because he was unaware of the great uncertainty men and women of-a-certain-age had once King Wilhelm was crowned King.⁶

“I’m glad to hear it,” Edmund said more out of reflex than anything else.

“I must say,” The Mayor’s voice dropped low, “while it is a very fine law, It will be a very difficult one, very controversial. But let it never be said that I am a Mayor who does not know how to get complicated laws enacted!”

“Good,” Edmund’s mind spun like a steam motor. “May I see it?”

“The second draft? Of course!” the Mayor pulled a piece of paper out from his desk, flourishing it like a handkerchief. “We had to make a few changes, you understand. A semi-colon here, a predicate nominative there, all to make it perfectly air-tight and unassailable.”

It was titled the Maintaining Natural Law Act. Edmund read quickly. Then, he read again to make sure he wasn’t missing something. When he finished reading the third time, he was positive he wasn’t.

It shall be unlawful (said the law) for any person or persons or institutions composed of thereof, or… (Edmund skipped over the establishment of affected persons) …to engage, solicit, encourage… (Edmund skipped again) …any behavior, activity, intent… (he skipped some more) …that causes, encourages… (again) …the subversion, alteration… (again) …of any know practices of Natural Law, as ordained by the scientific principles and foundations known as of this day, week, month, year, etc. etc…

Learning. The law forbade learning. Science. Education in general. Edmund couldn’t think of a single class at Grimm’s that wasn’t designed to subvert some known principle. No more Unstable Biologies classes. No more studies of Non-Euclidean Linguistics, or Impractical Chemistries. Electrographic Geographies subverted the known cartographical laws, and the Unstable Histories class challenged everything Edmund had ever known about linear time. Even Heretical Physics was…well, called Heretical Physics for a reason.

If the law was passed, Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted would close forever, funding or no.

“Yes, quite comprehensive,” Edmund could feel the blood rushing to his head as he struggled to find an explanation. “I don’t suppose you still have the letter I sent with my draft?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Mayor smiled apologetically, “Governmental policy to burn all correspondence after reading, you see. I do remember what you wrote, however. Quite a fine explanation. Explained everything!”

“I’m glad to hear that. How about my original draft? I’d like to compare what was changed.”

“Oh of course, I still have that!” Another flourish, and Edmund was staring at another law, almost identical to the first. “It is really a fine law!”

It wasn’t until some sixty years later — when soon-to-be-noted historian Francisca Mallard acquired the contents of Lot 26C in the Historical Auction of Brackenburg, and commenced an extensive research project — that it was understood how Edmund’s study of the draft prompted the eventual following peace talks and subsequent council of Mothburn. It was clear that Edmund recognized the penmanship.

Not the handwriting, as it was unlikely he had seen it before, but the pen-work itself. He saw the thinner markings on the backstrokes, and the breaks in the ink when the line moved upwards. He saw the extra dribble after the periods, and he recognized the slightly bluer shade of black ink than was common. He knew these quirks well — as well as he had known the pen that made them.

It was a pen he had kept out of curiosity, rather than function, as he had made far better pens since. It had been, after all, only a prototype for the far superior design of pen. Nevertheless, out of mild sentimentality, he had kept it in his pocket for years.

His vest pocket.

The vest that Jolly Snagsby had stolen.

“How did you know this came from me?” Edmund asked.

“Why, your card came with it,” Another flourish, and a card was in the Mayor’s fingers. “Then there was the Moulde Family seal in the wax. Besides, you signed the letter, and no gentlemen would ever sign another man’s name. Good heavens no. And I know you are a gentleman, Master Moulde.”

“Of course,” Edmund set the law and draft aside.

Fool of a Moulde!

He had completely forgotten! After finding Leeta, the rest of the world had slipped his mind, and the stolen blob of wax lay forgotten in the trash-heap of his memories.

A stolen blob of wax. A whittled piece of wood. It was so simple. They had pressed his seal, the seal of the Moulde Family into it. It wasn’t just the wax that had been stolen, but the seal of the Moulde Family.

Once Jolly had the wax imprint of the seal, he could whittle it into a piece of wood. There was no telling what he could do with the seal of the Moulde Family in his vest pocket.

Whom else had he stolen seals from? Grimm’s held a vast cornucopia of gentry from around the world. If he had royal or familial seals from all across the globe, there could be no end to his mischief.

First things first. Edmund cleared his throat.

“I wonder,” he began, “If I was too zealous in my request. Grimm’s is a fine institution, after all, and it would be a shame to see it rendered illegal at a single stroke.”

“Hm?” The Mayor looked up from his desk, and took the papers from Edmund’s hands. “Ah, yes, a fine institution indeed. You were very persuasive indeed. Very fine, yet still worth criminalizing. Yes.” He looked down again, glancing back and forth between the papers on his desk." You know…I didn’t actually notice before. Strangest thing. Do you know your handwriting changed, from your first letter to your recent request for this meeting?"

Edmund froze. A thousand explanations, excuses, covers, and yes, even telling the truth; flew through Edmund’s head.

“Did it?” he asked, and immediately cursed himself for a fool; why not outright confess!

The Mayor rang a small bell by his desk.

“I assure you —” Edmund began.

“Yes, quite,” The Mayor’s genial smile had vanished, replaced with the cold and calculating stare of a man who believed himself a fool. “I’m afraid such assurances are meaningless when they come from an impostor.”

“I am no impostor,” Edmund protested, seconds before a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

“Exactly what an impostor would say!” The Mayor crowed triumphantly. “Arrest this rapscallion immediately!

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