Baker And Jones Ch 05

Chapter Five

"Oh, excellent!" Cordelia grins, throwing her hands to her hips and taking in the scene with a glee one might expect from a child in a candy store.

Annette, however, feels her stomach churn at the sight. Her mouth is dry and quickly develops a noxious, acidic taste. Her eyes remain fixed in an endless staring competition with Bembrook's corpse and she feels like she is falling through the ground beneath her. Her gaze drops deeper and deeper past consciousness and she can feel herself spinning down and down and down. It takes an enormous amount of resolve to break away from the glassy death stare, and she only succeeds by throwing herself out onto the balcony and vomiting over the side of the railing.

She takes her time steadying herself. She's seen enough horrid sights out on the streets on her own, but seeing such a deliberate and violent murder, still fresh, is a different kind of horror. When she steps back inside, keeping her eyes carefully away from Bembrook's form itself and focusing instead on the surrounding office, it's clear Cordelia has already gone to work. She wears thin leather gloves and carefully picks her way around the body, analyzing for any small details or clues that might give away his assailant.

Worse, Cordelia hums while she works, her fingers dangling and dancing as they move, like spiders across a web. Each touch is careful and precise - checking the warmth of his body, whether his blood has dried, poking around the wound itself. Annette feels torn between the two implications of her owner before her; on the one hand, that her comfort and ease indicates that inspecting murders such as this is as casual for her as preparing a meal, and on the other, that she enjoys this activity.

"Oh, good," she peeks up, waving for Annette to come closer, "you're back."

Annette struggles to form words, trying to choke out a few syllables through her parched mouth and failing. She shakes her head slowly.

"Come now, he can't harm you anymore," she nudges.

"I'm... that is not my concern," Annette eeks out.

"Respectfully, Miss Baker, this is a moment where I need you to press on. This murder is fresh, no more than an hour old."

Annette can feel her stomach gurgle at the statement and forces her attention to keeping it at bay. Cordelia looks up at her again and sighs. She removes her gloves and walks over to the servant, placing a hand on either side of her head and gripping it softly. Annette furrows her brow, confused by the sudden proximity.

"Take a breath," Cordelia commands.

Annette obeys, forcing her lungs to fill slowly and then pushing the breath out for as long as she can hold it.

"Another."

Annette closes her eyes and repeats the breath.

"And a final one."

On the third breath, with Cordelia's taller form blocking the body behind her, Annette can feel herself steady ever-so-slightly. She reopens her eyes and notices an unusual tenderness on Cordelia's face, not quite kind or empathetic, but far more comforting than her usual scowl.

"He is just a body," Cordelia says slowly, "you are in no danger from him and the murderer is likely long gone by this time."

"I've never been so close to one..." Annette whispers and a shudder descends down her spine.

"You'll get used to it. But for now, I need you," Cordelia continues, placing a little more pressure in her palms against Annette's head. The increase is comforting, and it helps to focus on that sensation instead of the scene around her.

"Need me? How could you ne-,"

"Bembrook is no small assassination," Cordelia explains. "When word gets out of his death, and word

will

get out, I am nowhere near first in line to investigate this. The case will be given to one of the other investigators who works more closely with the crown and we'll lose all access. Right now, we need to work quickly and deliberately to gather

everything

we possibly can to solve this without disturbing the scene at all. You don't need to look at Bembrook, but I do need you taking notes for me. Can you do it?"

"Yes," Annette nods. Cordelia pulls a small notebook and pencil from her coat and folds it into her hands.

"Excellent," Cordelia smiles, throwing her gloves back on and returning to the corpse.

Annette lets herself sit down on the floor where her balance matters less and she no longer needs to worry about fainting. She steadies the notepad and writes a few notes about the scene to begin; a rough written sketch of her surroundings and the location of important details.

"Things I've noticed thus far," Cordelia begins, returning to inspect the body. "Position of Bembrook's body: he's laying out across his desk, not in his seat. He is no small man, and I can't imagine that he would crawl up like this to be killed."

Annette jots it down. "Someone moved him here?"

"I believe so."

"Before or after the killing?"

"I suspect after," Cordelia muses, poking around the floorboards by his desk chair and squatting to look closer. "There's hardly any blood here on this side of the floor, but considerably more surrounding his overturned chair."

"He was killed while sitting and moved after," Annette completes, letting the state of shock on her body fade towards a numbness and neutrality. She'll deal with the impacts later.

"This suggests his death is a statement," Cordelia notes, her tone practical and thoughtful. "The killers wanted anyone who happened across his body to be shocked and scared. Success on their part, it seems," she winks at Annette.

"Killers?" Annette asks. "You think there was more than one?"

"Can you think of anyone who could lift him solo?"

"I suppose not," she concedes. She makes note of it.

"Continuing this point," Cordelia stands and leans over the body, carefully touching the jowls around his neck and lifting the flabby skin to reveal dark purple bruises, "Bembrook was strangled to death."

"He was strangled?"

"See these marks?" She traces a finger along the dark spots across the flesh. "Someone strangled him, perhaps while another held him at bay."

"So the... the spike in his eye is also for show."

"We'll get to that, but yes," Cordelia nods. "I'd like to confirm another theory first."

"Which is?"

"A moment, Miss Baker."

Cordelia's hands float across his body, carefully inspecting every tiny feature she can and digging around the ruffles and pockets of his clothes. After a few moments of finding nothing, she purses her lips and steps away. "No calling card."

"Calling card, Miss?"

"Most of the assassins I am familiar with like to claim their kills. Doesn't make them easier to track, but it gives us something to go with. There's no such marker on his body."

"You're familiar with assassins?" Annette frowns.

"It's not as though we attend balls together," Cordelia scowls. "I'm familiar with their work."

Annette dips her head in response, relieved. "So he wasn't killed by a professional?"

"Which means the motivation isn't corporate sabotage or personal revenge..." She touches a finger to her chin as she thinks, and Annette can't help but worry about the possibility of bloodstains on her gloves. "This is something new, which brings me to the rail spike. Do you remember your first day in my service?"

"Fondly," Annette chuckles, "You yelled at me for cleaning and tested my identification of a similar rail spike."

"I didn't yell at you," Cordelia glowers.

"As you say, Miss," she smirks in response.

Cordelia glares at her for a moment, though continues with her thought. "That spike was attached to a case I was working on; the death of a former middle manager at Pemberley Exports. My investigation was stonewalled by the company, who wanted to keep it under wraps. And yet, in the brief period I was allowed to survey the scene, I located that particular rail spike, lying entirely out of place on his desk."

"Pemberley Exports does a great deal of business," Annette offers, "it is possible it's a coincidence."

"No such thing," Cordelia waves away her suggestion, turning her attention to the iron nail lodged in Bembrook's eye. "Two deaths of businessmen with a rail spike mysteriously placed at the scene...? I believe it's a new calling card."

Annette wonders how much of a stretch it might be. There's no way of knowing why the Pemberley manager might have had such an item, and Bembrook's... impalement might be just as easily explained by an act of passion against a man who was clearly hated.

"So..." Annette summerizes, choosing to withhold her suspicion. "We've a group of killers who have removed businessmen and planted iron spikes at both locations. What might b-,"

"Motivation..." Cordelia mutters to herself. "Murder, Method, Motivation..."

"Miss?"

"We know that he was killed and we know how. The question remaining is why?"

"Don't you suppose the more important question is: 'who?'"

Cordelia shakes her head quickly, letting out a puff of air. "It hardly ever distinguishes itself from the questions of 'how' and 'why?'"

Annette stands, setting aside her pencil to focus on Cordelia. "I'm not sure that's correct at all. It was vitally important to know that Lady Wilva was the killer of Sir Lord Hemslem."

"Different type of case," Cordelia rebuts. "That was simple murder. Greed, poison, family members... boring.

This

... this is something far more interesting."

"A man has been killed, Miss Jones."

"No sympathy for the devil," the detective replies quickly. She notices the look of displeasure on Annette's face and adds, "Come now, Annette. You even declared him wretched yourself, I'm sure there's no tears shed for him on your part."

"That doesn't mean I want him dead!" Annette complains.

Cordelia holds up a hand dismissively. "I've no interest in another quarrel, Miss Baker. Let's continue past this, shall we?"

Annette resigns, stowing away her frustrations and returning to the task of notetaking. "You were interested in assessing motivation...?" She supplies.

"Indeed. A new group has emerged and assassinated a middle manager at an exports company and a railroad tycoon. They've crafted Bembrook's death in such a way that it makes a statement, yet they've left no clues as to the statement itself."

"Don't be such a miserable overlord?" Annette proposes.

"Are you suggesting labor sympathizers?"

"Unions? No," Annette shakes her head. "Perhaps a group of vengeful and disgruntled former workers?"

"Disgruntled enough to kill him," Cordelia thinks aloud, "I'm sure Bembrook had no short supply. The use of an identifying weapon like a spike would further suggest labor involvement."

Annette paces away for a few steps. "Interesting that he was killed just as we were coming to speak with him."

"I doubt that's connected," Cordelia shakes her head, now poking through the filing cabinets and occasionally swiping important documents.

"So now coincidence does exist?"

Cordelia laughs, turning to Annette with a bemused frustration. She shakes her head once more, this time in disbelief rather than disagreement.

"Does Miss Jones take issue with my statement?" Annette smiles.

"Simply appreciating the thoroughness in which you listen to and critique my own speech," the detective remarks.

"A third compliment on the case?" She grins wider. "I do believe I now feel as though I could fly, Miss Jones."

"Perhaps you could perform some reconnaissance then, Miss Baker," Cordelia jokes. "Nice to have a collar with such versatility in her functions. An aerial view might really crack this case wide open."

"I shall begin the task immediately. Perhaps Harold will join me?"

"He's not one for work," Cordelia concludes. "Regardless, help me dig through his files and grab anything useful."

"Won't... won't that impede the official investigation?"

Cordelia flashes a mischievous smile. "Who is to say that the assailant was not also a petty document thief?"

- - -

A hand slowly slides down Annette's chest as she lays in her bed, the darkened room cool and comfortable as rain patters against the window. The hand is her own, but for all her desires and desperations it may as well belong to Samantha, who pushes forward through Annette's mind as though attempting to flood all of her senses. Samantha is always there, the promise of her touch and taste dancing between Annette's waking and sleeping hours. As her fingers slowly dance across her breasts a sigh leaves Annette's mouth.

You like how positively

forbidden

I am, don't you dear?

Annette's palm gently squeezes the soft, pillowy flesh, closing her eyes and allowing herself to drift away into a space in her mind where Samantha seemed to live unceasingly. Even if the touch itself doesn't derive from Samantha's warm skin, she can at least imagine the noblewoman was somehow watching her, rapturously drinking up every sensual movement of Annette's body.

She allows her free hand to drift even lower, lifting the skirt of her nightgown to her hips and timidly rubbing at the edges of her panties. Annette's clit is already hard and straining against the fabric, pushing out for her necessary attention. She sinks deeper into the firm mattress, wishing to feel the weight of another body above her own.

It helps even more to imagine Samantha is sitting in a chair beside her bed, biting her lip as Annette's heart pounds through her chest.

You're quite eager,

she can hear the noblewoman mutter,

aren't you dear?

Annette nods, looking over to Samantha as though for permission to continue.

By all means, Annie,

she purrs,

far be it from me to deny you such necessity. Do continue, darling...

Annette's fingers crawl underneath the waistband of her undergarment, slowly caressing the sides of her stiff organ. She presses her fingertips into the soft skin, carefully massaging it and immediately relishing the soothing feeling. She takes a deep breath, allowing the memory of Samantha's scent to fill her lungs, and increases the pressure.

The next time I get you alone,

Samantha whispers suggestively, leaning forward in her seat,

and there will be a next time, perhaps I'll let you feel more than just my hands...

Annette gasps, tightening her grasp on her clit and adding extra speed to her movements. She flattens her palm, resting it on the underside of the shaft and circles it around, loving the feeling of the skin pulling and tensing against the flesh around it.

You were already so precious, dear, shivering and moaning from just my fingers. Imagine if I took you into my mouth... imagine my tongue lapping up every drip of your excitement...

Her finger's drop lower, pushing against a firm place on her perineum as her palm continues its rotations above. Her legs bend at the new feeling, now blossoming into a hot sensation across her chest as her other hand continues squeezing and massaging her breasts, occasionally plucking her hard nipples.

Better still,

Samantha teases

, perhaps I even take you inside me. How long could your delightful organ last as my hips rock against yours?

Annette increases her speed, entranced by the idea of feeling Samantha ride atop her, her wet lips pulling her inside as she moans and cries out for more. Her breaths heave out of her mouth as she fights to remain quiet. She doubts Cordelia would hear anything from her room upstairs, but there's no sense in risking such an awkward encounter.

Still, her face flushes pink as a moment later Annette whispers out to her empty room, "

Kiss me...

"

Samantha smiles, delighted by the desperation of Annette's speech. She promises that if she were here in this moment, she would do nothing but kiss Annette, forever and ever until the world was forced to pry them apart.

Annette twitches as a burst of pleasure surges through her skin. It washes over her rapidly, and while it quickly diffuses into a warm comfort it is soon after followed by another wave. She increases her speed even further, her wrist growing tired from the exertion but pushing through for the promise of release. A timid trickle of precum lathers across her skin and she lets out another restrained sigh.

Patience, dear

, Samantha coaches as Annette races towards climax. Annette nods, forcing herself to slow down briefly and allow a moment to recover. The building pressure inside herself fades, though Annette rapidly returns to the task as soon as it disappears, bringing herself just to the edge once more before retreating.

Should I be despicable and deny you?

Samantha taunts.

What would you do if I forbade you from release until my next visitation?

Annette shakes her head desperately, a little surprised to feel the thought make her heart twitch excitedly. Surely if Samantha denied her this moment she would make it worth Annette's commitment, would she not?

How proud might I be if you saved this feeling only for me?

She suggests, grinning mischievously.

Why not cede such control to my embrace?

Please

, Annette can feel herself beg inside, her clit tightening at the scenario. Perhaps Samantha would truly reward her for such restraint...

I would spend hours teasing you, only to deny you again and again...

Samantha's voice drips with lewd satisfaction.

I'd only let you release once you earned it an-

Annette gasps as the orgasm consumes her. Her hips buck upwards and her toes dig into the mattress, her shoulders pushing back deeper and deeper into the soft cushion. A burst of pleasure rocks through her skin, sending wave after wave of warm delight with each shaking breath. Her hand is wet and slightly sticky from the remains of her cum shooting out across her abdomen. After a few long moments she collapses back into the bed, breathing heavily and trying to savor the feeling for as long as it would allow her.

The guilt follows soon after to spoil the fun. Samantha's lavishious breath in her mind is harshly replaced by the agitated scorn of the Sisters, glaring down at her as though she was guilty of something far worse than murder. Annette rolls over to face the wall, pretending that Sister Pullwater couldn't see her if she wasn't looking.

She doesn't need to hear or imagine words from Pullwater to know exactly what she would say. Pullwater would ramble on about the need to realign her desires properly towards men to be a righteous woman. Even just one man would do. She needn't even love him; the commitment to his matrimony would be enough, according to the Sisters. Commit to one man and restrain the rest of her unkindly desires.

She can feel herself complain back just as easily, her muted voice rising just over her shoulders. It isn't as though she could bear children, and wasn't that the point of why women were supposed to marry men in the church? As much as she found the idea detestable, she'd only actually be able to procreate with a once-born woman anyway; shouldn't that mean that was holier?

Pullwater would slap her for that comment, and she had many times before. God made man and woman for each other, she would argue. Separate roles, separate duties. Annette's decision to be reborn, according to Pullwater, had moved her from one side to another, and therefore she was responsible for all of the same things any other woman was. It was about the spirit of womanhood, not necessarily the mechanics. Inability to give birth simply relegated Annette to the rules of women who had suffered blight or some other reproductive complication. She could never be considered a true marriage candidate for a man who required an heir, but perhaps one could be convinced to adopt, or was a widower whose first wife died in birth so that the baby might live. Annette suspects that the latter was Pullwater's ideal situation for her life, that she might still encounter the burdens and responsibility of motherhood.