HOME | DD

Description
A young count was facing the window watching his servants’ children running happily, his back turned on his butler. The man dressed in black stood near an ebony bureau, waiting for commands. His master was thinking about defects of adulthood and while looking at the playing kids he recalled his own childhood. He was eighteen already. He left his family home and started living on the outskirts of London. As the only male descendant of earl Devon, young Rimmone inherited all of his duties. The Cavaliere family belonged to the group of the Queen’s favorites and because of this sole reason she entrusted many tasks to them. They were members of elite of English nobility. People told that absolutely nothing can defame their good name and change the high position in society because they lived perfectly – according to the etiquette and loyally to Her Highness more than anyone in the world.
It wasn’t the first time when Cavaliere’s good name was in danger, but for sure it was the first time when a problem became reality.
Count sat in front of his bureau. Now his face was visible – he had dark eyes and shoulder length brown, slightly wavy hair. He was one of the most popular ones with women, but he paid no mind to it. After his father’s death he hadn’t showed up on a single gathering of elite for a long time. After a year he finally returned to social life, but he wasn’t the same boy as before. He became a conscious, mature man. Melancholy in waves emanated from his very form. When the dark-haired man was sad he seemed even more elegant, but this time he felt only wrath and his face was twisted with ugly grimace.
His deceased father would never allow such situation to happen. The count blamed himself for not being able to come up with a solution.
What will mother say when she finds out…?
Ever since he remembered he could count on the support of his butler and protector – Albert.
And this time he also showed him a path to follow.
“I don’t think that we can face this problem by ourselves,” he said.
“So what do you suggest, Albert?” asked the resigned Rimmone.
“You can hire a detective, master,” the butler answered, looking in the direction of the door knowingly.
“Let them in,” the count ordered.
The footman opened the door to the study, letting the candidate in. The earl told him to sit down. A detective dressed in a long, olive colored coat and brown, French cap sat in front of Rimmone, who was eyeing him with interest.
“Master, this is detective Locke. She came from Paris,” the butler explained. The count looked at the said detective and didn’t mask his astonishment.
“How come ‘she’ arrived?” he asked.
“By train and ship, naturally,” Albert answered. Clearly he didn’t fully understand the question.
Miss detective on the other hand swiftly put two and two together. She pulled the beanie off, letting the long blonde locks free.
“My name’s Cher Locke,” she introduced herself and smiled impishly.
“Miss Locke is a detective known all over the world whose specialty are stolen pieces of art,” Albert continued, paying no mind to his master’s reaction who couldn’t quite put his finger on the information that his problem could be solved by a woman. He was brought up with three females and he had really bad memories of it. He wanted to keep a distance towards women as long as it was possible. Albert on the other hand preferred to carry on the therapy with explicit confrontation.
“As you know miss, our family produces perfumes and we also have a few perfumeries in the largest cities of England. Besides, we want to set up new ones in France and Spain. That’s why we want this case solved as quickly as possible. We have to find the person who’s behind the trickery of our brand and dishonors the Cavaliere’s name.”
“Do you have any traces?” the woman asked.
“We only have a single bottle of counterfeit perfume which we put in the laboratory. We suspect that it contains some kind of narcotic. The clients after usage behave really strangely. If you want to check, a few of them is in the nearest hospital. You can visit them anytime.”
“Maybe… is there someone you strongly suspect?”
After this question the butler looked at his master. Both smiled.
“Everyone.”

When Albert took miss Cher Locke so she could interrogate the witnesses, the count Rimmone was walking down the bridge over Tamiza river. He was making his way to the headquarters of a Queen’s bodyguards where he wanted to learn about what exactly was he accused of. He bought an apple from one of the stallholders. Rimmone was walking while tossing it in the air and then watching how it was falling back down into his hand. Later a hungry, begging child accosted him and the dark haired one gave them the fruit. Then he encountered a juggler and threw a couple of coins into his hat. While passing a harbor he met a strangely dressed man who threw many layers of patchy clothes over himself. None matched the others. He was playing the mandolin and singing quite depressing song. Something about death and Armageddon. When he saw the earl, he abruptly stopped. The man was looking straight at Rimmone.
“Did something happen?” asked the count disturbed by the stranger’s behavior. The man made his way to the earl and looked him straight in the eye.
“Danger crawls near you. Do not expect that they will welcome you with open arms in the place you’re heading to,” he told.
“How are you called?” Rimmone asked.
“Nos, my lord. Nos Tradamus.”
“Here, have some,” the count said, giving the man some coins “And next time choose happier songs. With a repertory like this one you won’t earn much,” he left, not really understanding what the stranger’s words were supposed to mean. He heard a shout.
“You have to trust her!”
But when he turned, there was no one behind him.
It was the one and only time when someone saw Nos Tradamus in London.

Description
A young count was facing the window watching his servants’ children running happily, his back turned on his butler. The man dressed in black stood near an ebony bureau, waiting for commands. His master was thinking about defects of adulthood and while looking at the playing kids he recalled his own childhood. He was eighteen already. He left his family home and started living on the outskirts of London. As the only male descendant of earl Devon, young Rimmone inherited all of his duties. The Cavaliere family belonged to the group of the Queen’s favorites and because of this sole reason she entrusted many tasks to them. They were members of elite of English nobility. People told that absolutely nothing can defame their good name and change the high position in society because they lived perfectly – according to the etiquette and loyally to Her Highness more than anyone in the world.
It wasn’t the first time when Cavaliere’s good name was in danger, but for sure it was the first time when a problem became reality.
Count sat in front of his bureau. Now his face was visible – he had dark eyes and shoulder length brown, slightly wavy hair. He was one of the most popular ones with women, but he paid no mind to it. After his father’s death he hadn’t showed up on a single gathering of elite for a long time. After a year he finally returned to social life, but he wasn’t the same boy as before. He became a conscious, mature man. Melancholy in waves emanated from his very form. When the dark-haired man was sad he seemed even more elegant, but this time he felt only wrath and his face was twisted with ugly grimace.
His deceased father would never allow such situation to happen. The count blamed himself for not being able to come up with a solution.
What will mother say when she finds out…?
Ever since he remembered he could count on the support of his butler and protector – Albert.
And this time he also showed him a path to follow.
“I don’t think that we can face this problem by ourselves,” he said.
“So what do you suggest, Albert?” asked the resigned Rimmone.
“You can hire a detective, master,” the butler answered, looking in the direction of the door knowingly.
“Let them in,” the count ordered.
The footman opened the door to the study, letting the candidate in. The earl told him to sit down. A detective dressed in a long, olive colored coat and brown, French cap sat in front of Rimmone, who was eyeing him with interest.
“Master, this is detective Locke. She came from Paris,” the butler explained. The count looked at the said detective and didn’t mask his astonishment.
“How come ‘she’ arrived?” he asked.
“By train and ship, naturally,” Albert answered. Clearly he didn’t fully understand the question.
Miss detective on the other hand swiftly put two and two together. She pulled the beanie off, letting the long blonde locks free.
“My name’s Cher Locke,” she introduced herself and smiled impishly.
“Miss Locke is a detective known all over the world whose specialty are stolen pieces of art,” Albert continued, paying no mind to his master’s reaction who couldn’t quite put his finger on the information that his problem could be solved by a woman. He was brought up with three females and he had really bad memories of it. He wanted to keep a distance towards women as long as it was possible. Albert on the other hand preferred to carry on the therapy with explicit confrontation.
“As you know miss, our family produces perfumes and we also have a few perfumeries in the largest cities of England. Besides, we want to set up new ones in France and Spain. That’s why we want this case solved as quickly as possible. We have to find the person who’s behind the trickery of our brand and dishonors the Cavaliere’s name.”
“Do you have any traces?” the woman asked.
“We only have a single bottle of counterfeit perfume which we put in the laboratory. We suspect that it contains some kind of narcotic. The clients after usage behave really strangely. If you want to check, a few of them is in the nearest hospital. You can visit them anytime.”
“Maybe… is there someone you strongly suspect?”
After this question the butler looked at his master. Both smiled.
“Everyone.”

When Albert took miss Cher Locke so she could interrogate the witnesses, the count Rimmone was walking down the bridge over Tamiza river. He was making his way to the headquarters of a Queen’s bodyguards where he wanted to learn about what exactly was he accused of. He bought an apple from one of the stallholders. Rimmone was walking while tossing it in the air and then watching how it was falling back down into his hand. Later a hungry, begging child accosted him and the dark haired one gave them the fruit. Then he encountered a juggler and threw a couple of coins into his hat. While passing a harbor he met a strangely dressed man who threw many layers of patchy clothes over himself. None matched the others. He was playing the mandolin and singing quite depressing song. Something about death and Armageddon. When he saw the earl, he abruptly stopped. The man was looking straight at Rimmone.
“Did something happen?” asked the count disturbed by the stranger’s behavior. The man made his way to the earl and looked him straight in the eye.
“Danger crawls near you. Do not expect that they will welcome you with open arms in the place you’re heading to,” he told.
“How are you called?” Rimmone asked.
“Nos, my lord. Nos Tradamus.”
“Here, have some,” the count said, giving the man some coins “And next time choose happier songs. With a repertory like this one you won’t earn much,” he left, not really understanding what the stranger’s words were supposed to mean. He heard a shout.
“You have to trust her!”
But when he turned, there was no one behind him.
It was the one and only time when someone saw Nos Tradamus in London.