The Adventure of the Gentlemen and Players

[beamkatanachronicles]

The Adventure of the Gentlemen and Players (4261 words) by beamkatanachronicles
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, 大逆転裁判 | Dai Gyakuten Saiban | The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles (Video Games), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes/Mikotoba Yuujin, Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Characters: Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes (Dai Gyakuten Saiban), Mikotoba Yuujin, Bunny Manders, A. J. Raffles, MacKenzie (Raffles), Tobias Gregson (Dai Gyakuten Saiban)
Additional Tags: Case Fic, Heist, Crossover, Story: Gentlemen and Players (Raffles), can be read gen or shippy whichever you like, Community: holmestice, DGS2 Spoilers
Summary: A consulting detective and his partner receive an invite to cricket week. Two amateur cracksmen, also on the guest list, don't particularly approve.

"Abominable sport, cricket," declares Sholmes, stomping his way onto the grass. "Certainly the worst of all the schoolboy's infernal pastimes." 

"Now," Mikotoba counters, "surely it cannot be quite so terrible? If you won't tolerate the sport, it is at the very least a beautiful day."

But for all the bright hues of spring and the nearly cloudless sky above their heads, Sholmes remains unconvinced. He scoffs, and, with his long, brisk strides, crosses the vivid green of the cricketer's field with his nose turned up into the air and an expression of distaste upon his features. "Oh, it is a lovely spring afternoon– soon to become naught but drudgery once the boys take to the field. Imagine, spending endless hours on the field, rather than any actual leisure!" 

The younger man makes a show of throwing his hands up into the air. Glancing over his shoulder, expectant, he awaits Mikotoba's reaction; Mikotoba, with shorter legs, is several paces behind and hurriedly picking up his pace. 

"I had," his partner replies, catching his breath, "no idea cricket took so long." 

Undeterred, Sholmes returns to his theatrics. "Why, I'm certain even its players would agree with me! A veritable deluge of rules, and roles, and circumstances to commit to memory, all before any thought of strategy? It is simply a waste of valuable space within one's brain." 

At last, Mikotoba reaches his side once more several paces away from the pavilion. "Perhaps not something to announce freely on a cricket field…" He inclines his head, inquisitive, to peer up into his companion's face. "If you care so little for cricket, then, why are we here?"

With a flourish and a great grin, Sholmes turns to meet him. "A consultation, of course!"

"A consultation? Whatever for?"

The man laughs. In his gray eyes gleams that rare light of attention, brought on only by a case, and an exciting one, at that– a far cry from the disinterest of mere moments before. "That is a topic privy to myself; to you, my dear Mikotoba; and our client alone." His hawk-like eyes come to rest upon a tow-headed young man sitting on the bench, gazing wistfully out at the field. "And not you, boy."

The young man's head snaps up to attention as he breaks from his reverie. Recognition flits past his face: he registers, a second later, that he has been insulted. He scowls, then rears back, indignant. " Boy?! You're hardly older than I am!"

Sholmes waves a dismissive hand, as if to brush him away. "Run along now, lad."

"Sholmes, please..."

But it's already far too late. Hackles thoroughly raised, the blonde boy stands to meet them with a huff. Under the mess of blonde hair, his face is flushed red with anger. If anything, however, the belittling is effective– he needs no further convincing to stalk away across the field, fuming the entire way over. By the time Mikotoba returns his gaze to Sholmes, his companion has settled onto the newly-vacant bench.

"Must you be so rude?" sighs the older man, taking a seat beside him.

Sholmes merely preens upon his perch. He closes his eyes, tents his fingers before his face; swinging a long, thin leg over the bench, he straddles either side of it rather than simply sitting upon it properly. Altogether, he looks perfectly pleased with himself.

"I must." He opens a single eye to peer at the doctor. "We cannot all be as charming as you, my friend. Now, if you would…" Sholmes, opening both eyes, at last angles his gaze upward.

"Good afternoon, Lord Amersteth. How do you do?"

 

—

 

"Did you see them?"

"Of course I did." Across the field, the gentleman cricketer stretches. His eyes narrow as he casts a scrutinizing glance across the field, in the direction of the young detective and his partner. Without amusement, he scoffs, raking a hand back through the dark waves of his hair. "Rather a challenge to miss them, isn't it?"

The younger man hums his assent. He chances but a single glare back over his shoulder at them. "That so-called consulting detective's a right fool, parading himself about!" 

"I'm inclined to agree, my dear rabbit." He shades his eyes from the sun with a hand, continuing to squint over at the little group some distance away. Three men: the detective, a Japanese companion, and Amersteth. An odd bunch, to be sure– odder still, he thinks, as he watches the detective gesticulate wildly with his hands, then seemingly double over with laughter. He shakes his head. "He sticks out like a sore thumb, you know. Even next to the foreign man. Not a mote of artistry to his methods, either, I'm afraid: it should be simple work, to shake our two new chums off." 

"You really think so, Raffles?"

"I know so, Bunny. Almost a shame, really… It shall hardly be a game at all." AJ Raffles grins wide, clapping a hand on Bunny Manders' shoulder. 

"By the week's end, we will be free as air… and a few thousand pounds richer."

 

—

 

The situation, as Amersteth had described it, was thus: 

To celebrate the coming of age of the young Crowley, his son, Lord Amersteth and some old school chums were to hold a cricket week. A game of gentlemen and players, which, as he explained for the sake of the Japanese fellow, would consist of–

"An assemblage of nobles playing the game for the first time, put into their places by the real cricket players!" Sholmes interjected. "Good for a laugh! We should invite the young Lord van Zieks!"

"No," Amersteth had replied dryly, "no, that isn't it at all. The Gentlemen are amateurs, of course, but often prove themselves to be nearly as talented as the professional Players…"

The week-long affair was to be held at the grand estate of Milchester Abbey, attended by a couple of renowned local cricket clubs, as well as Lord Amersteth's dearest friends. (And, per Sholmes' deductive eye on Amersteth's fine clothes and disdainful bearing, as well as a sidelong glance to his partner– certainly his friends with the dearest and deepest of pockets.) But a rash of thefts of precious jewels in the area had instilled them all with a certain anxiety that, though left unspoken, nonetheless hovered over the otherwise jovial affair like a ghastly specter. 

Ordinarily, to be certain, Amersteth would've gone directly to Scotland Yard with such a dilemma. However, it was to be his son's birthday, after all. He could hardly think of a worse way for the lad to spend his twenty-first than to be flanked left and right by police detectives, rather than simply enjoying a rousing sport and the warm company of friends. Furthermore, Amersteth had read of Herlock Sholmes' most impressive efforts at recovering the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle last winter. The Countess, it seemed, was an acquaintance of his, and she had spoken highly of Sholmes' eccentric, yet entirely effective, methods. And so– with the young detective so near his son's age, and not quite so easy to recognize as a Yarder– wouldn't he come along, if only for a few days? Just as insurance, to put his own mind, and the minds of his guests, at ease. 

"And will we," Sholmes had asked, "be permitted to come to dinner?"

"Why–" Amersteth stammered in return, "I-I suppose we could squeeze in another plate or two–"

"Also, what is to be for dinner?"

So it was settled, at double Sholmes' usual fee and with his suggestion of pheasant taken duly into consideration– for his brother had not lent him those five pounds for this month's rent, and Mrs. Hudson had refused to indulge his craving, respectively.

 

—

 

"What I don't understand," says Mikotoba, once they've returned to Baker Street, "is how we're expected to stop a thief when his identity is wholly unknown to us."

"Wrong! We are to catch that thief." 

Before Mikotoba can retort, his partner catches him by the arm and draws him nearer with a light tug. He laughs, and spins into Sholmes' arms: moving with the effortless rhythm of a well-practiced dance. "All right, then, dear fellow…" Mikotoba spins neatly away. With a smile and a playful flourish, he gestures back to Sholmes– returning the metaphorical spotlight. "How shall we capture our prey this time?" 

Sholmes pauses; the space of a single breath. He raises a finger to his lips, pensive. Then, breaking into a grin, he stretches out his right arm, holding up two fingers. "Before we begin, I am absolutely certain of two key facts." He turns on his heel, touching the bridge of his nose with his index finger. "One: you recall the recent thefts that our kind host-to-be mentioned, do you not?"

"Of course. Difficult not to, in fact." Mikotoba reaches for a newspaper stacked atop a teetering pile of books, letters, and other loose leaves of paper. "There have been four high-profile jewel thefts in under a year, and all have been thoroughly reported in the press." He licks a fingertip, then flips to a story in the center of the newspaper. "You've already marked this one here. March 15th of last year–"

"Yes, the Ides of March!" cries Sholmes– and, with a singular motion, he snatches the paper and tosses it over his head. "And again in May, then once more last month! Our thief has thrice escaped capture in a relatively short window of time, stealing precious gems at every turn. No banks or rare portraits here!"

"So there is a pattern!" 

"Certainly, my dear Mikotoba." Sholmes holds his hand out for his partner once more. "It is no coincidence. Any common lout might rob a jeweller's in the dead of night– as in our crook's inaugural outing– but again and again?"

Bemused, Mikotoba rests his hand in Sholmes'. "Then our clever hare has discerning tastes."

"I'll say!" They step together, Sholmes leading: beat, by beat, by thoughtful box step beat. "For diamonds, rubies, and danger, too. These thefts were not executed carelessly. And if he were stealing for want of money alone, any single haul might have made him an incredibly wealthy man already. Why continue to risk heist after heist?"

"Unless he is in dire financial straits indeed," Mikotoba wonders aloud. "Or… they are in dire straits?"

"Yes!"

"Wha–"

Sholmes' eyes are all alight again– without warning, he dips Mikotoba, who only just manages to keep his balance as Sholmes straightens him back up again. "A partner!"

"T-two thieves?!"

"At least! He cannot be working alone: two pockets to line, and two minds to conspire together. They are partners." His head drifts steadily to the small of Mikotoba's back. "I do appreciate such a strategy." Sholmes' lip curls. "Don't you?"

"Now, hold on." Mikotoba, bemused, raises an eyebrow up at him. "You've already stated two things: the thieves' modus operandi, and the fact that they are partners. But we're not finished dancing."

"I was not certain that they were partners, thank you, old boy, if you will just let me finish–" 

"All right, all right, get on with it." 

Sholmes takes a tentative sidestep. He presses his lips together; stares through the tangle of his blonde hair up at the ceiling. "Who are our troublesome rabbits? From whence have they come? Are they truly so hard up, or…"

"Chasing a thrill?"

"Indeed," Sholmes replies, nodding. "So, what do we have? Two men, stealing jewels from London's aristocratic classes for pleasure and profit. The only logical conclusion to draw, then…

…is none!"

"What?!" A moment later, Sholmes trods accidentally on his toe; he cries out in pain and stumbles backward. "Ow!" 

"None at all!" The man tips his head backward to laugh, raucously, at his own joke. "You didn't think it would be that simple, did you? We have no material clues to speak of at this juncture!"

Mikotoba, nursing his smarting foot, grimaces. "You should have said so sooner." 

"Yes, well. That wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Once you've recovered, let me tell you how we shall trap them. Whoever they are. But, first of all, would you be so kind as to send out a telegram or two for me, Mikotoba?"

 

—

 

It was on Monday, the tenth of August, that they were due at Milchester Abbey, Dorset. 

And it was on Saturday, the eighth of August, that Bunny– sunburnt and miserable in the late summer's sun– declared no amount of practice could possibly turn him into a passable cricketer. He had no hope, he insisted, even under the tutelage of legitimate cricketer AJ Raffles: a dangerous bat, a brilliant field, and the finest slow bowler of his decade. Raffles' tremendous talent had gotten them an invitation to Amersteth's estate in the first place, after all, why did they need Bunny to play at being a sportsman, too? Luckily for them both, before the end of the ninth, Bunny had improved enough to change his tune. Or, at least, Raffles' words of flattery had convinced him to try. 

Unfortunately, it was at dinner on Tuesday the eleventh that their troubles were confirmed.

"Are you afraid of burglars?" 

To his left, a woman tugged, subtly, at his sleeve. Bunny, whose gaze had been wholly focused on the great diamond-and-sapphire necklace about an older woman's neck, sat up straighter. The gossip in question, Miss Melhuish, wore a conspiratorial look and explained, in a sensational whisper:

"Two well-known London thieves are rumored to be within the district. It’s supposed to be kept a great secret. I really oughtn’t to tell you at all, but," she giggled, "isn't it ever so exciting, to know a great detective is in attendance to watch for them?"

Which, night stretching into the wee hours of the twelfth, led to Bunny stalking up to Raffles' room and shutting the door tight– all good manners and conviviality borne away by a bone-deep terror and anxiety. 

"It's all up!" he had whispered savagely to Raffles.

"And how do you know it is?" Raffles replied, opening his cigarette case with a disdainful shake of his head. "Stand tight, Bunny, and take one of these, because I'm going to say something offensive."

For only a born Bunny would doubt himself and his partner capable of outsmarting that complete idiot of a so-called consulting detective. Even with his simpering doctor companion at his side. 

And, lowering his hackles once more, Bunny was forced to agree, as Herlock Sholmes had made a bit of an ass of himself earlier that evening. Bickering about instantaneous photography with a Scotchman for half an hour, he had poked himself in the eye, hard, with the end of a billiards cue.

"He is a bit stupid, isn't he…?"

A notion that they later confirmed on Wednesday, finding Sholmes crawling on his face in the sitting room, followed closely by a grave-faced Dr. Mikotoba. And on Thursday, too, passing by the man accosting the Dowager Marchioness of Melrose with a great ostrich feather, inquiring whether she– with a great, ostentatious feather hat upon her head– had known any ostrich thieves to be about the premises. (Even the doctor could not hide his chagrined expression at that one.)  

But by Friday morning– and in spite of the apparent departure of the detective and his companion– the pit of dread in Bunny's gut had only grown deeper. And, most troubling of all, if Raffles felt any of the same worries, he gave no indication of such. He continued simply bowling his all upon the cricketer's green, as if nothing were the matter at all; as if neither of them had wicked designs set, at last, upon five thousand pounds' worth of diamonds and sapphires, courtesy of Lady Melrose's necklace.

 

—

 

"And you will be careful?"

"Whenever am I not?" In reply, Bunny, carefully adjusting the straps of Raffles' black mask, frowns tightly. Raffles merely shrugs. "You will wear your nerves thin, old chap. As I said, I will be careful. If all goes well, we may play that final trumpery match tomorrow, after all."

It's enough assurance for Bunny. He sighs, knotting the mask's cords with finality. "I have had quite enough of cricket, AJ. Sport suits you far better than I."

"I agree," he answers. "Crime, on the other hand, suits you admirably well, my dear Bunny." Before Bunny, pink at the ears, can voice a word of protest, Raffles is across the room and halfway out the door. "Now, if you would be so kind as to await my signal? You mustn't come to my aid until then– remember that!"

The door shuts tight once more. Bunny, alone, fingers the black mask stashed in his pocket and waits.

Within less than twenty minutes, he hears a heavy thump at his door. 

"Raffles?" he whispers, hoarse– in response, he hears only the stamp of hurried feet, the gasp of labored breathing. "Raffles!" And, in a panic, Bunny leaps out of his chair to fling open the door. Two men struggle before him. A single oil lamp near the landing of the hallway stair casts them in ominous shadow; their frames seem to stretch, impossibly long, in the near-dark.

Bunny, dumbfounded, stares. In the low light, he can just make out the face of the Scotch photographer from before.

"Hold this man!" cries the Scotchman; Bunny stands rooted to the spot. "I said hold the rascal, lad!"

At last, he gets a good look at the other man, and his heart sinks like a stone. For his hair is dark, his features obscured by a black mask. 

The shock of it snaps Bunny back to Earth. Finally, he rushes into the fray, fighting through the tangle of limbs to pin the photographer's arms behind his back. 

"What are you doing?!" he grunts, wrestling himself away with ease. "Hold him! I'm Scotland Yard!"

"Scotland Yard?!" Bunny blurts.

And to Bunny's chagrin, when the man he's just rescued speaks, it isn't Raffles' familiar voice he hears: it's the lightly-accented voice of a Japanese man, hastily apologizing. 

"You're still here–" Bunny stammers, but he's quickly interrupted.

"Everything will make sense very soon, Inspector Mackenzie, I assure you!" Yujin Mikotoba, expression resolute, finally rips his mask from his face. "I'm glad you are here, Mr. Manders– we may need your help!"

 

—

 

Securing the Melrose jewels is a simple enough task. Silently creep down the corridor, but two rooms away, to the Dowager Marchioness. Ensure the lady and her maid sleep through the night, by means of a chloroform-saturated handkerchief. Unpick the lock of her jewelry box; search its compartments; withdraw the greatest prize, sequestered within its heart. Admire the prize. A cascade of blue, shimmering white; splinters off a thin slat of moonlight bouncing again and again off the diamond and sapphires' perfectly-hewn facets. At last, tuck it away into one's inner pocket.

His labors take less than fifteen minutes. Practice, after all, makes perfect– and this is far from AJ Raffles' first burglary. All that remains is to slip away, return to bed, and to hide the necklace well enough that he and Bunny might escape without suspicion…

But at the sound of a heavy thud from without, Raffles freezes. And from a shadowy corner of Lady Melrose's room emerges the lanky figure of another man, clad in his own black mask.

"My dear fellow," drawls the voice of Herlock Sholmes, "I believe only one of us may keep that necklace for himself."

Instinctively, Raffles lunges for the window.

 

—

 

A suspected burglar. A detective lying in wait, returning to the estate he'd just departed, nearly a thief in the night himself. A trap. Bunny's mind races as he nods lamely along to Mikotoba and Mackenzie's plan: rouse the cricketers, guard all entrances, box Sholmes and his man inside the corridor, if not the room. Mikotoba to rejoin his partner; Mackenzie and Manders, to begin the work of securing the whole place.

"Now, Mr. Manders!" barks Mackenzie. "To the first floor!"

Bunny stands, stock still, between Mackenzie and Mikotoba. There is only so much time; backed into this corner, there are precious few options left for him, and for Raffles, that aren't a beeline for the inside of a prison cell.

So he thinks on his feet. Once Mikotoba's back is turned, Bunny dashes forward, just barely overtaking Mackenzie. At the top of the stairs, his foot catches the inspector's ankle– and, with a cry of alarm and the bodily thump of impact after impact, he tumbles down the steps.

 

"What on–" 

"Who's there?!"

"Someone hurt?!" 

 

Unfortunately for Bunny, he's done one thing his two companions had wanted: he's woken up every cricketer in the house. Mikotoba stares back at him, realization and alarm dawning on his face. Mackenzie, at the foot of the steps, groans in pain; already, two young men still in their pajamas are hurrying to his aid.

 

"Up there!" 

"Something wrong?!"

"A burglar!"

 

Bunny bolts past Mikotoba in the direction of Melrose's room. 

"Manders!" the man bellows, right on his heels. 

The chase is short. He may be taller, but Mikotoba is quicker; stronger. In an instant the ground lurches up to meet him: with a great crash, the Japanese man has tackled him, just inches from Lady Melrose's open doorway.

"Mikotoba!" shouts Herlock Sholmes; a trickle of red dribbles down his left nostril. Raffles, it appears, has given as good as he's got, and the idea of it fills Bunny with pride, even as he struggles fruitlessly in Mikotoba's grasp. "He's got it! He is getting away!" 

 

"Outside!"

"After him!"

"Quick, before the devil makes his escape!"

 

—

 

In an hour and a half, over a dozen exhausted cricketers sit, wide awake, upon the settees in the billiards room. Even with a night of sleep cut short– their pajamas wet with the early-morning dew, grass and mud-stained about the ankles and knees– the group chatters in excited tones, passing coffee and rumors about. 

Mikotoba groans, head tipping onto Sholmes' shoulder.

"Well," he begins, "we caught one thief, did we not, Sholmes? There is something to be said for that.

…Sholmes?" Mikotoba swats him gently on the arm. "Sholmes." 

"Yes! Yes," he answers, blearily, "I am here." 

"You have a bit of dried blood on your upper lip."

Sholmes grunts, wiping it off with a thumb.

"At any rate. What is the likelihood we shall find our second thief anytime soon, Sholmes?"

"If I–" he yawns, then starts again. "If I may be frank? Unlikely. He never once returned for our friend Bunny Manders: not even when the local police came to take him off in Mackenzie's stead."

Across the room, a sullen Mackenzie, with a lump on his head and an arm in a sling, converses with Inspector Gregson in a hushed, gruff tone. Gregson catches their gaze; Mikotoba straightens up in his seat and nods at him in acknowledgement. Gregson looks back and forth between him and Sholmes, then frowns, waving them off with a dismissive hand.

"Poor fellow, though. Some friend his fellow thief was!" interjects a cricketer to their left.

"Friend, nothing," grumbles another in response. "For that sort of money? I'd have left you to the Yard, myself!"

As raucous laughter erupts among the cricketers, however, the detective and his companion remain silent. Yujin Mikotoba folds his arms across his chest, watching his partner with a careful and knowing eye; Herlock Sholmes' lip merely curls into a sly, playful smile. 

"I beg to differ. The paste our burglar's made off with is not nearly so costly." 

Finally, out of his inner pocket, Herlock Sholmes withdraws a necklace: all five thousand pounds of jewels sparkling and whole in his outstretched hand.

But the gasps of praise and amazement– and Sholmes' preening, of course– last only so long. In the middle of Sholmes' third animated retelling of his tussle with the thief, Gregson crosses the room in a rush, eyes ablaze.

"Sholmes!" 

"Yes, Inspector?" he replies, innocently.

"Who arrested Manders?!" 

The room falls into dead silence. "I'm sorry?" 

"I said– who arrested Manders?!" 

"Wh-why," Sholmes stammers, wilting, "a local policeman; the first to arrive at the scene, while Inspector Mackenzie was incapacitated. Terse fellow. Put young Manders in handcuffs immediately. Could hardly get a w–" 

"Are you daft, Sholmes?!" shouts Mackenzie, bolt upright in his seat. "You haven't noticed that two cricketers are missing?!"

"Ah." 

Mikotoba jumps to his feet. "Ah!" 

All around them, the cricketers' conversation picks up once more: all puzzled, all captured by the delirious thrill of this last conclusion. Mikotoba, already anticipating his partner's next move, begins shrugging on his overcoat. 

"Then," Sholmes continues, eyes wide, "we already know the identity of our missing thief, don't we?"

"Missing thief!" roars Mackenzie, "You've let him get away!" 

"Not if we hurry, Inspector. We know him now–" 

 

—

 

In a stolen hansom, well over an hour's ride away, an officer's helmet and coat rest on a seat beside Bunny Manders. With a jingling of keys, the young man releases his wrists from the shackles about them, then throws them and the keys alike over the disguise. He massages his sore wrists: pensive, as if dreading the day those cuffs might bind his wrists once more.

Overhead, the trap in the roof opens.

"They know our names now, Bunny," his companion calls grimly. "I regret it. By Jove, I do."

"My dear AJ… haven't I said it before? If I am to go in with anyone, it would be you! I am, as always– your man!"

 

—

 

"--it is AJ Raffles we are after! Come, Mikotoba: the game is afoot!"