"Who the fuck are you?"

... She has never met this man in her life. She has a brief moment of panic, of 'what if she picked the wrong door', before realising walking to the wrong person's house doesn't make sense? But also, why is this strange man in William's house.

"I'm Chu Chu? I'm here to see William?"

"Oh, great, you're his whore. Well, you're not going to get any money from him."

"Excuse me?"

"He's dead."

"He's dead?" There is a smarter thing to say, a kinder one, but she can't think of it in the moment.

"Got stabbed this morning. So you won't be getting any money from him."

"I'm not here for money, I came here to see him--" Which is equally impossible and an equally good reason not to keep standing on the door step, but she can't quite work out how to move.

"And then he'll give you a gift, no doubt."

"No, we'd just talk." There's little point defending her reputation. "Who are you? You never said."

"I'm his brother. Charles John."

"Oh." William had told her about him. He's-- a bit different than what she expected. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you for your sympathy. Now go away."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I, unlike my brother, am capable of going two days without a cunt."

He is angry and grieving and getting offended won't help. "I know there is a lot to be done, and I wouldn't want you to have to do it alone." A lot of what she did for the family business was to help people be as comfortable as possible, and handle all the little things that needed one person who wasn't crying to do. It's very different trying to do that when you're only barely not crying yourself, but it's a role she knows how to play.

"Goodbye."

He closes the door in her face.

And now she's in front of a closed door.

She should leave. She isn't wanted here.

But this is probably the last time she'll be in the garden, and the last time William ever opened the door has happened, and and and--

The door looks exactly like it did before, like William was running fifteen minutes late as always and she was waiting at the stoop for him to dress.

At some point it's going to properly hit her that he's dead. Not that she doesn't know that already, but a certain amount of her is glossing it as 'he is indisposed and his brother is running around being angry.'

He's going to need a funeral. He's going to need a coffin, and he she's pretty sure he wouldn't have bought a burial plot ahead of time (because why would he had died young.) They're going to need catering. And a... church? A church hall  that would be willing to host the company William keeps kept?

And flowers. They're going to need flowers.

It's kind of difficult to help organise that when you can't actually get in the door.

"Scram!" he yells from inside the house.

Ideally she would be able to argue that she has every right to be here, let her in, but-- even ignoring the everything else, he's his brother.

She'll send a card. A nice one. With cogent arguments about why she should help. (That won't work, but it sure feels like it should).

She starts heading back down the garden path.

No one stops her.

The world keeps, inexplicably, going on, as if it has no idea at all that William is dead.

Which makes sense, of course.

And she has classes tomorrow, too.

She's just going to hide in her boarding house room, where no one is going to question why she's crying.

A while later, there's a phone call for her.

"Miss Chu?"

"Yes, who's calling?"

"Detective Inspector Taylor. Could you come down for a chat? It's about the death of Mr. Way."

"Oh, of course."

... If something goes wrong here, it's not her fault. That isn't comforting, but it's true. She'll go there, and tell them what she knows, and maybe it will help and maybe it will make things worse, but that's up to Inspector Taylor.

Detective Inspector Taylor has a crowded little office in Scotland Yard.

"Good morning, Miss Chu."

"Good morning, and pleased to meet you."

... That is not the correct social script here, is it?

"I want to reassure you that no one thinks you've done anything wrong. Are you aware of what happened to Mr. Way?"

"I heard this morning that he died. Stabbed, I think."

"In St. James' Park. You're the last person who talked to him before he died."

"...oh."

"Do you remember your conversation?"

"He talked about his latest composition, then asked me about what I was learning and I told him about the vascular system."

"Did he seem... upset in any way? Troubled?"

"Maybe? I didn't notice it at the time, but it's possible."

"Would you normally expect to notice?"

"I'd like to think I would?"

"Pardon me if this is invasive, but what is your relationship with Mr. Way?"

"We were close friends." It's kind of frustrating how that's a little unbelievable.

"Nothing romantic, or...?" He trails off.

"It wasn't like that at all."

"All right. Thank you, Miss Chu. We'll keep you updated if there's anything else you can do to help."

"And I'll let you know if I find anything relevant."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I-- Thank you. For your sympathy."

And he walks her out of Scotland Yard and calls her a cab home.

She should probably get home, yes. Maybe even study a bit.

Not long after she gets home, there's another phone call. 

"Are you Chu Chu?" says an unpleasant voice.

... Why is he calling her? "Yes, is there something I can do to help?"

"Apparently you've inherited everything my brother owns."

"--I have?"

"Yes." He sounds disgusted. "Two witnesses and they swear up and down he wasn't drunk. Somehow."

He changed his will. Without telling her. She wants to ask when he did this, but now is not the time. "I'm sorry."

"So, congratulations, you have seven thousand pounds a year."

"I-- what."

"Did you not know?"

"He didn't tell me either."

"My brother is, as always, a master at communication. --He's the adopted son of Frederick John, who founded the John Shipping Company. His share of the family wealth amounts to about seven thousand pounds a year if you don't spend the principal, and it's yours."

She is not going to judge him too harshly, seeing as he probably assumed he would have... time to tell her. "I. Uh. Thank you."

"Do you. Does he in fact. Um. Have." Stiffly: "if there is another member of the John family we would want to welcome him. Even if there were... irregularities... in his conception. They can be straightened out."

She feels kind of bad about not giving this man a nephew, even if that makes no sense. "Unfortunately, no, there isn't it."

Equally stiffly: "You were clearly. Um. Important to my brother. Do you want to come to dinner."

He sounds like someone is pulling this sentence out of him with pliers.

"If it wouldn't cause you any trouble."

"Yes. That would be. Nice. Next Friday? I can send a car. --And of course you are invited to the. Funeral."

"Thank you'll, I'll be sure to go. To both."

A long, awkward pause.

"Do you... need anything?" 

"I'm fine. ...do you... need anything?"

"No."

And now he is going to end this unpleasant conversation.

Honestly, fair enough.

She'd better go back to studying while crying.