Pushing his thick black hair, which luckily was able to be recovered just before he began his journey back to Sodor, Sigerson eyed the dingy, run-down den in front of him. He had done it; the first step was completed and now all he had to do was wait. From that moment onward, his world seemed to tilt toward chaos; every step forward was shadowed by uncertainty. It only took one lapse in judgment, one moment of carelessness, and he would find himself making choices not out of reason, but of desperation. Reckless, irreversible choices that would spiral dangerously beyond his control.
After anticipating the lack of surveillance between Hunterberg and Sodor, there was no turning back from his path now. The Enforcers had a few men available to be reassigned, so they would only be able to keep their scrutiny on a few locations at a time, with the most likely location being Alms, as it was a perfect maze for a fugitive to hide in.
He sighed, his bright eyes sparkling in the morning sun's rays like two glistening emeralds.
Ahead of him loomed a gambling den—its face sagging with age, its once-bold lights now dimmed to a lifeless flicker. The entrance gaped open like a wound, splintered wood and peeling paint whispering of ruin, while an almost tangible sense of despair clung to the air, as though every lost fortune and broken soul still lingered within its walls.
A useful connection he knew of visited this place frequently, providing Sigerson with hopes of tracking him down and extracting practical help from him. As Sigerson continued waiting, wiping his forehead every now and then with a laced handkerchief he received from Mrs Hale, a short, skinny man slinked into the den unnoticeably.
His pallid yellowish skin wrinkled with age was mostly covered by long trousers and a cape-like cloth draped over himself, while his cunning beady eyes shifted endlessly in their sockets. Making sure nobody was spying on him, the man shut the door behind him.
"Clande Turner… Finally, you've decided to arrive now," muttered Sigerson, still checking his own surroundings imitating a fox in a hunting field. Once the coast was clear, Sigerson took a deep breath, snuck up to the entrance and slipped in.
The strong smell of stale smoke and alcohol whipped into his senses at once. Harsh, raucous laughter and the jingling of coins filled every corner of the dimly lit building. Producing a meagre amount of light that somehow was sufficient for all the gamblers seated around the tables, several slow-burning candles hung on the ceiling, casting gloomy shadows in the clouds of swirling smoke.
Though no eyes seemed to settle on him, Sigerson could not shake the unease creeping beneath his composure. Hemmed in by the press of bodies and the suffocating noises of the room, he felt the space itself turning oppressive— too crowded. To most, it was noise and anonymity; to him, it was something far more dangerous... A perfect hunting ground where a spy could vanish in plain sight listening or worse, waiting for his demise.
"Where is he?" he thought calmly but not without impatience. "Surely he's still in here; I only entered a few minutes after he did…"
Bang. Somebody nearby smacked the table in frustration, presumably because of a terrible defeat in a game of cards. Sigerson turned to the source of noise and found himself staring at Mr Clande Turner, the slouching old man sneaking around at the entrance, grasping reluctantly at the last few coins he was forced to give in.
After lingering around just long enough for the table to empty, the detective surged forward in three brisk strides, his energy barely restrained. His hand came down on Turner's shoulder with a friendly, almost joyful pat—only to tighten a moment later, his expression hardening as he leaned in close and cut him off with a swift, urgent hush.
It could be said that Mr Turner, a seasoned criminal himself, was in shock at this sudden appearance of an old acquaintance, who was also now on the run from the law. This was an understatement. Shaking from head to foot, his pale lips quivered and said in a low voice, "William Sigerson?"
Sigerson shook his head jerkily and, motioning to his new companion to stay quiet, replied, "Not now. Is there anywhere we can speak privately?"
"The sitting room is usually empty," stammered the unbelieving Clande Turner.
"Lead the way then, Mr Turner."
The sitting room turned out to be a slightly more spacious room with striped cushioned couches laid out strategically to position as many of them inside the room without giving the users a sort of claustrophobic feeling. As he sat down and asked politely for his acquaintance to sit as well, Sigerson noticed the secretive glances Turner was occasionally shooting at the nearest window, which gave a sufficient view of the streets and docks outside.
Fear. He could read fear and anticipation from his beady black eyes; the same expression a trapped bird would have if it were stuck in an inescapable cage. Sigerson decided that speaking first would give him the advantage with this nervous man in front of him.
"So, Turner, I hope you're doing alright? It's been… Let me think… Around four years since we last interacted, isn't that right?"
"I–I suppose so. W–What are you doing here?"
"Please keep your voice down. I'd like to avoid any… conflict."
Turner's hands trembled as he drew out a worn wooden pipe, striking at the flame again and again with each failed attempt betraying the emotions stirring within him. At last, the tobacco caught, and a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward. He drew in slowly, steadying himself, and as the tension ebbed, his voice followed, emerging at last with a strained but deliberate control.
"Aren't you on the run from the Enforcers? How can you be sitting here with me, enjoying a conversation with your freedom and perhaps life on the line?"
He said this not in an accusatory tone but as one suspicious of all unknown behaviour.
Sigerson raised an eyebrow and replied in a disguised neutral voice, "I don't have much time. If I don't hurry now, the Enforcers will catch on soon; I need your cooperation in order to out maneuver them."
This time, it was Turner's eyebrows that were raised.
"You need help from me?"
"That would certainly make everything easier for me."
As Turner continued to smoke and pondered on this undesirable topic, Sigerson chose to cut in to disturb his thoughts, knowing that Turner's frequent nervous glances at the window meant there was something he could offer to him.
"In return, I can offer you money to repay your debt. You are on the run from somebody, aren't you? If you help me, I'll gladly repay you in full."
Turner, instantly hooked by the mere mention of money, gulped and replied, "If you really can help me, I'll be obliged to give you anything you require from me, Sigerson."
"Good. Do we have a deal then?" asked the detective, extending a hand. They shook hands amiably, then Sigerson leapt back on to his feet and said, "Let's begin. How much do you need?"
Pulling out a scrap of paper from his pocket, Turner checked the number and replied nervously, "Eight hundred sovereigns."
"E-Eight hundred?" repeated Sigerson carefully. "Hmm… That may be a problem… Maybe…"
That's a little too much to withdraw from the bank, but maybe…
Turner stared at him anxiously, fearing the answer he thought was bound to leave him in his despondent pit of miserable debt.
"Can you tell me more about the people who gamble here?"
"W-What do you mean?"
More bursts of roaring laughter exploded from the tables next to the sitting room. The thin wooden walls provided them with absolutely no protection against the onslaught of arrows slicing through the air, hurting their ears and rattling their senses. Sigerson sighed and rising from the couch, turned toward the gamblers making the racket. An idea had jumped into his mind the moment he had stepped into the train, knowing full well that there would be no progress in his plan without a bit of gambling. There was a risk for sure, but what risks were unable to be calculated?
"I told you, didn't I?" replied Sigerson, beckoning to Turner to come follow him. "I promised I would help you pay off your debt and so I will— within the next hour or so."