Chapter 1

In which several stories are told, and more are not.

Paris was lovely this time of the year. Well, Paris was always lovely, but there was something about the way the snow wreathed the lampposts and coated everything white that made the city truly sparkle. The whole world twinkled as the beauty and purity of Paris became evident, and there was no place Detective Francis Bonnefois would rather be.

It was too bad that he would be leaving it all behind in a matter of minutes to follow his—dare he say it—best friend's husband distress call to a town in the middle of nowhere to help prove him innocent of a most heinous crime.

Well, they would certainly try. Francis wasn't exactly a miracle worker. Oh, he'd proven people innocent before, but none of them were so close to home. (Well, home was an apartment in downtown Paris, but he sometimes shared that home with his best friend Elisabeta, and it was quite close to her home as it was her husband.)

Truly, Francis was not looking forward to this case, no matter how much Elisabeta gushed to him about how wonderful and handsome her husband was, and how beautiful his manor home was, and how picturesque the town (called Altstadt) was. The only thing that would even begin to make up taking him away from his beautiful city in her most perfect state would be a score of French maids to comfort him while he was trapped in Austria-Hungary, and that was very unlikely.

He moped for the entire train ride, and refused to stop even when they'd finally made it to Altstadt. Elisabeta had threatened to hit him several times, but she wouldn't. She was too excited about seeing her husband (who she frequently cheated on) again, and too anxious about his current predicament.

She was so excited and so anxious, in fact, that she refused to let Francis drop his luggage off at the manor house her husband owned before visiting said husband in prison.

It wasn't so bad. The prison was actually connected to the manor house, as Elisabeta's husband just happened to be a baron or something. Francis normally wouldn't have cared, but it was something she'd neglected to tell him. He was a bit miffed about the whole thing.

The prison was really more of a dungeon. It was dank, and dark, with torches instead of normal lights (Torches! In 1900! They could have used lamps, or something!), and most of the cells were moldy and didn't look as if they'd been cleaned in years. Elisabeta's husband, Roderich, also happened to be the only prisoner, the only one in a long while, according to the single guard. He hadn't wanted to let them in to see Roderich, but Elisabeta had…persuaded him.

She'd done such a good job that the guard had unlocked the cell and let them inside. Francis thought that was a bit too unprofessional, and told Elisabeta and Roderich to fire him straight away. "Why would we fire someone who does what we want so well?" Elisabeta had asked him. Francis hadn't had an answer to that.

As soon as she was let into the cell, she pushed her bags into Francis' hands and launched herself at her husband. "Roderich! Oh, dear, are you all right?" She embraced him tightly, then looked him over for any sorts of wounds. "Are you sick? Have they been feeding you enough?" she demanded.

"Yes, I'm fine. Though I must say, the food is far under par here. They only serve me bread and cheese and water. Me! Their baron! It's an insult, really," he sniffed, and Elisabeta grinned, while Francis just grimaced at the Austrian's spoiled behavior.

"I'll see what I can do about that," she said, and Roderich thanked her.

"Hem hem." Francis took the lull in the dreadfully boring conversation to remind them of his existence. "I believe we're here for a case, not disgusting…cuddly…nonsense. Not that I don't approve, but this is neither the time northe place."

The happy couple went red simultaneously. "Yes, of course," said Elisabeta. "I forgot myself for a moment there. It's just been so long since I've seen my husband…"

"I'm aware," Francis replied dryly. "But, let's get down to business, shall we?"

Roderich nodded. "Any information you need, I will provide."

"Start with the basics. Who was murdered? How were they murdered? And then tell us exactly how you didn't do it," Francis said.

"Right. Well, the victim's name is Nicole Dupont. She was one of our maids. Her sister also works for us, her name is Chelle Dupont. I believe they're from France." Francis smiled to himself. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all. "I believe she was strangled. I was in the piano room, composing, when I heard a scream. I rushed toward the source and found Nicole lying dead on the floor of our grand foyer. A few seconds later, her sister ran up, saw me standing over the body, and accused me of killing her on the spot. She wouldn't stop screaming until the entire staff appeared, and I had no choice but to let them arrest me. They brought me here about a week ago."

Francis nodded. "And why should we believe this story, Monsieur Edelstein?"

Elisabeta gave him an appalled look. "Because he's my husband, that's why! Francis, I swear I will—"

"No, it's fine, Elisabeta." Roderich shot her a reassuring smile. "I understand why you may be doubting me. But I swear on everything I hold dear to me, I did not kill Nicole Dupont. I do not know who did, or why, but I will try to help your investigation as best as I can."

Francis sighed. "Well, you haven't given me any reason not to trust you yet. I shall take your word that you did not kill this poor girl." He nodded to himself. Now to find the French maid, see if she needed comforting. "Come, Elisabeta. We have a staff to question." The guard opened the cell door and Francis strode out of it, Elisabeta at his heels. He noticed with a twinge of annoyance that she kissed her husband before following. She was supposed to follow immediately. It was her job, as his assistant.

Not that he paid her, but still. It was irritating.

And to make matters worse, she wouldn't stop scolding him about how he had treated her husband. "I can't believe you. Roderich is a wonderful, kind man, and you treated him like…urgh! You were so rude! Ruder than usual, too. You could have tried to show a little respect, seeing as you'll be staying in his house, eating his food, attempting to sleep with his maids, everything!"

"Oh, like all the respect you show him? Prancing around Europe, pleasuring any man who looks good enough?"

Elisabeta went red with rage. "How dare you? How dare you? I love my husband—"

"Yes, and you've loved at least four other men in the time I've been with you. Let's see, what were their names again? There was the Dutch one, the Portugese one, the Russian one, and most recently Gilbert, on a train, in the middle of an investigation."

"Like you haven't loved women, and then loved more behind their backs!" Elisabeta retorted. "Besides, love is about forgiveness. I love Roderich, and he loves me, and he will forgive me for my sins. Have you ever loved a woman for more than a night?" she asked scathingly.

"Yes. She died. In a fire. And I'm getting tired of this conversation." Francis scowled.

"I…I'm sorry…" Elisabeta seemed truly shocked. Well, she would. He'd never really told anyone, after all.

"You should be."

The rest of their walk to the manor house was silent.

When they arrived, Elisabeta had the butler (whose name Francis didn't catch, and so he decided to call him Jeeves) summon the entire staff for questioning. Francis immediately singled out the small, tan French maid with the twintails held up by bright red ribbons. "You. I would like to question you first."

"Yes, sir." She curtseyed. Francis enjoyed that.

He and Elisabeta took the girl to a small sitting room. At this point it was about 5 o'clock, and the sun had already started to set, bathing the room in soft orange and yellow light. "What is your name, Miss?" Francis asked.

"My name is Chelle Dupont. I am a maid."

Francis nodded. "The victim was your sister, correct?"

Chelle nodded. "We were twins, though we didn't look very similar. Fraternal, I think the word is."

"Tell me about the night of the murder."

"Yes. Ah, let's see. I was dusting the third guest room when I heard someone screaming. I knew immediately that it was my sister, so I came running as fast as I could. I found the baron in the grand foyer, standing over my sister's body. It looked like he was shaking, though I could not tell. I was too upset. I immediately yelled, 'Murderer!' and by then the entire staff had come running. I just kept yelling 'Murderer! Murderer!' at him until finally they took him away." She looked at the floor, feeling ashamed. "And that is my story."

"Thank you for helping us with this investigation, Chelle," Elisabeta said kindly, her anger from earlier gone. "We will do our best to find your sister's real killer." Francis noted the accentuated real before killer. Obviously she wasn't going to believe any story that pinned her husband as the killer.

"Please send someone else in," Francis said as the girl left. As soon as the door shut, he said to Elisabeta, "She's hiding something."

"You think so?" she asked. "Perhaps she killed her sister and is blaming it on Roderich. Or…"

"She's not lying, there's just something she's not telling us," Francis clarified. "As to what, I have no idea."

They questioned the entire household staff for another hour and a half, for all the good it did them. The last two they talked to were an albino cook who looked suspiciously like Gilbert Beilschmidt (but when asked, she had no idea who they were talking about) named Julchen Ansel and an Italian maid named Felicia Vargas, who turned out to be the cousin of the Feliciano and Lovino Vargas they had met recently.

"And where were you on the night of the murder?" Francis droned tiredly.

"We were on the other side of the house, baking bread for breakfast the next morning," Julchen said. "We came running when we heard the scream, and most of the staff was already there by then. Right, Feli?" she asked her companion sharply.

"S-Si," the Italian girl said shakily.

"If you're a maid, why were you baking bread?" Elisabeta asked. Felicia went white.

"I, er, it's um, a complicated—"

"She was just helping me. Everyone else was busy and I needed help kneading the bread," Julchen said loudly. Francis raised one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"S-Si! It is! That's exactly what it was," Felicia replied quickly.

Francis stared the pair down for another minute. "No further questions," he said suddenly. "Go back to work."

Felicia couldn't seem to leave the room fast enough, while Julchen swaggered out confidently. Francis stretched.

"That was suspicious, wasn't it?" Elisabeta murmured to herself. "I wonder what was wrong with that Felicia girl."

"Probably just nervous, if she's anything like her cousin from the train," Francis replied as his shoulders popped. The sitting room's furniture was comfortable, but after sitting in the same position for an hour and a half, his joints were more stiff than poor Nicole Dupont's corpse.

Elisabeta called for Jeeves, and he took them to a large dining room with an enormous table. Dinner was served to the two of them in a matter of minutes, and they ate silently.

Afterwards, they were off to bed. Elisabeta stayed in the master suite, while Francis was given the guestroom down the hall. He bade his assistant went goodnight and collapsed onto the mahogany four-poster, thoughts of the pretty French maid absent from his mind.

Despite how tired he was from the past day, he found he could not sleep. He tossed and turned for hours, until at about midnight he got out of bed and trudged down to where the kitchen allegedly was for a glass of water.

Just as he was pushing the door open, he heard someone say, "Remember, if you tell anyone, there will be hell to pay. Understand?"

"I understand!" another person squeaked. Both were clearly female, and the conversation intrigued Francis. He pressed an ear to the door.

"When my plan is complete, I will pay you greatly for your silence. You can't say anything, though, or I'll make sure you never say anything again."

"Yes! I understand!" the other person sobbed.

He heard footsteps coming toward the door and quickly hid. The door opened and a woman strode out, judging by her looks from the side, but her hair was hidden under a cap and it was dark, so he could not tell what kind of uniform she wore.

Francis grinned. Finally, things were getting interesting.

AN: And there you have it! This one feels different from the last one. Is it just me?

Anyway, explanations. Nicole Dupont=Monaco. Chelle Dupont=Seychelles. Julchen Ansel=Fem!Prussia. Felicia Vargas=Fem!Italy.

Did you like those allusions to previous adventures these two have had? I might write them up one day, but the first one will be talked about a lot in the next story. And then there's at least two more before the MotVE and after the first meeting story. I should make a chart or something.

And anyone who caught the vague Harry Potter reference gets 8,462 catfish points. Which are worth less than a peso, but still.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!