Ch.BONUSSide Story – Clarice Holmes, The Leaden Study (4)

At the firm declaration, even Mycroft seemed a bit perplexed. The Prime Minister rubbed his bare face.

“You’re quite radical.”

“I’m not speaking empty words. The culprit didn’t ‘accidentally’ take the letter. If they knew where it was, they likely knew its value as well. If that’s the case, it’s already in the hands of someone who desperately wants it.

Unfortunately, it’s too late to recover it. Even being extremely generous and assuming it was lost around 11:30 last night, fifteen hours have already passed. It wouldn’t be surprising if it has already crossed the Dover Strait.”

The Prime Minister hung his head. The Foreign Minister looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. Only Director Mycroft remained thoughtful, chin resting on his hand.

“Minister.”

The Director finally spoke.

“I apologize, but could you tell me about the room’s structure? Which floor it’s on, whether the windows are accessible…”

“It’s on the third floor with only one entrance. The windows are imperial standard size but always kept firmly locked. The smog is too severe these days.”

New Albion’s smog is famous. The combination of coal dust and fog is particularly deadly. Once the damp gas sticks to your lungs, it simply won’t leave.

“Very well.”

Holmes took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“The possibility of an outsider gaining access is almost none. It’s more likely someone in the house passed it to someone else.

I apologize, Minister, but although you said your household staff can be trusted, when a matter is this serious, anyone—and I mean anyone—becomes a subject of investigation. To be more direct, that includes you and your wife.”

The Minister nodded.

“I’ll gladly submit to investigation. As will my wife and staff.”

“Then it’s decided.”

The Prime Minister rose from his seat.

“Minister. This is a difficult situation, but you must stay strong. Activate all information networks and closely monitor foreign movements. If the leader falters, what will your subordinates learn?

Director Watson and Agent Holmes. Let us know if you need any assistance. We’ll contact you immediately if we discover anything.”

“The Circus is always loyal to the Empire, Prime Minister.”

Director Watson winked at Holmes. The Prime Minister and Foreign Minister left the conservatory. The Director hummed a tune while tapping the table.

“What do you think?”

“I’ll approach it from two angles,” Clarice Holmes answered calmly as usual.

“One is investigating everyone in the mansion, including the Foreign Minister himself. Two is tracking foreign spies who might be interested in such matters.”

“Any individuals come to mind?”

“Mainly three: Baudreuil Desiree, Martin Kurtz, and Richard Sorge.”

“Baudreuil Desiree?”

Watson’s eyebrow twitched.

“The Frenchman living at 3 Lauriston Gardens, Brixton Road?”

“That’s right.”

“Then we only need to investigate the other two.”

“What do you mean?”

“Desiree is dead.”

Director Watson brushed dirt from his knee.

“It was on the noon news. You wouldn’t have heard since you were at the scene. That French thief—never liked him much—good riddance.”

* * * * *

Antique charm and dilapidation mean the same thing. The difference lies merely in what name the observer gives it.

Thus, the old town of Brixton Road appeared to Clarice Holmes as a place preserving its old appearance yet close to the new town, while to Isabel it looked like a street of pretentiousness where worn-out relics accumulated.

“At least the air is clean. Perhaps because it’s a street without chimneys.”

Isabel was clearly displeased. Indeed, the street had nothing remarkable except its high property values. Particularly unsightly were the long, straight pipelines stretching without any aesthetic consideration.

“Rather than focusing on aesthetics, they prioritized practicality and innovation. The houses on Brixton Road don’t have fireplaces. Without fireplaces, there’s no need for chimneys.”

“I know. Steam travels through those high-pressure pipes into the houses. To turn turbines or wind springs.”

Isabel’s expression was unmistakably puppy-like. Like a dog that fetches a thrown bone and wags its tail, waiting to be praised. But Holmes wasn’t ready to pat her head just yet.

“What would happen if Neo-Luddite remnants threw stones at the steam pipes?”

“You underestimate me too much. They would be arrested immediately, of course. The sensors in the central steam supply unit analyze the intensity of vibrations and signal strength to immediately identify which area the disturbance occurred in.”

“You keep up with the news diligently.”

Isabel finally laughed with a “hehe.” Holmes shook her head. No matter how talented a recruit might be, lack of experience was unavoidable.

“…I missed something, didn’t I?”

At least she wasn’t completely oblivious.

“Of course you did. The high-pressure pipes were made for that purpose. Are too many Empire citizens collapsing from tuberculosis? But how can someone who can barely breathe call a hospital or ask neighbors for help? Instead, they can tap the pipe, and an ambulance can be dispatched immediately.”

“Her Majesty’s intentions are truly difficult to fathom. She liberated us from labor, and now… liberation from coal and dust.”

“Yes. Indeed. Then why is Baudreuil Desiree’s house swarming with police?”

It wasn’t a lie. The front of Desiree’s house was packed with journalists and citizens trying to get inside, and police officers blocking them.

If a thick smog were to roll in, everyone would retreat coughing, but this street couldn’t hope for such luck. So New Albion’s police, already sweating from Labor Day events, now had to deal with those flocking for gossip.

“What if Desiree had tapped the pipe in his final moments? The central power station’s pattern analyzer would have issued a warning. Then the culprit would have been arrested immediately. But the culprit wasn’t caught. We don’t even know who it is. Do you understand what this means?”

“…It must be the work of a dangerous killer capable of subduing a dangerous French spy in one go. So quickly that Desiree couldn’t even tap the pipe.”

Isabel’s face was filled with tension. The two entered the scene. When Isabel showed her badge, the police officers stepped aside without a word.

“Who’s in charge here?”

For Inspector Lestrade of the New Albion Metropolitan Police, it was an extremely unlucky day. Already busy with event preparations, now he had to deal with a murder case and the appearance of two Circus agents whose very existence was unpleasant.

“Coming all this way for the death of an amateur magician—quite extraordinary.”

That Desiree was a spy was known only to a select few. To most people, he was a popular amateur magician.

Ironically, Desiree was popular because he always ruined his performances at dramatic moments. People liked his shamelessness and accepted his arrogance, knowing he would inevitably fail spectacularly.

Now he had been found dead. Horribly so. The house was single-story with two rooms—a bedroom and a study. Desiree was found dead in the bedroom. The windows were tightly closed.

The bedroom was quite spacious. One double-sized bed, one wardrobe, one generously laid but dirty carpet. And above, a lead-colored high-pressure pipe swaying slightly. It appeared to branch off from the larger pipe in the street.

“…It looks like he was killed by being pressed with a hot iron.”

Even Isabel frowned. Clarice thought that assessment was correct. His face was full of traces of pain and shock.

His bizarrely bent arms and legs seemed to testify to his suffering. The pain inside his body, unable to find a way out, had broken the magician’s arms and twisted his legs.

“Ahem. I’d prefer if you didn’t touch anything.”

Lestrade tried to stop Clarice, but she paid no attention.

“The crime scene is already a mess. Just look at the carpet. Full of mud, and judging by the dirty red clay mixed in, it must be from Scotland Yard. For people who supposedly value crime scenes, couldn’t you at least have wiped your shoes before entering?”

Lestrade looked stung but didn’t back down easily.

“Even so, the body is being preserved intact…”

“Intact, you say?”

Clarice looked at the inspector with emotionless eyes.

“Someone might think the police rushed here the moment this clown died. Who reported it? What’s the estimated time of death, and what’s the presumed cause?”

“The estimated time of death appears to be between last night and early this morning. The report came in at 10 AM. Apparently, a magic show coordinator came looking for him.”

“So the report came in at 10 AM, but you responded rather leisurely. I wonder if you had time for a sandwich.”

Lestrade blinked.

“How did you…”

“Because the wet mud hasn’t been completely crushed yet. The moisture has dried somewhat, but the shape is still intact, so you haven’t been here long.

The people outside surely gathered after hearing the 12 o’clock news, and New Albion’s proud police have at least properly blocked the entrance, so are you claiming to have saved face?”

“Ms. Clarice Holmes.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but sigh.

“You know our situation well. It’s not like we haven’t met at crime scenes before. Please cut us some slack. We’re dying here. Just yesterday, two officers packed up and quit. Said they’d rather work in coal mines than continue as police. And today, with the memorial event preparations…”

“That makes it even more absurd. If you at least did your job properly, I wouldn’t be this angry. How was the door?”

“Pardon?”

“The door. The front door. Was it open or closed?”

Isabel, who had been carefully watching, quickly answered instead.

“Ah… the door! Closed… no, was it open?”

Unable to withstand Clarice’s glare, Lestrade rushed out of the room. With the leader gone, the other police officers also seized the opportunity to leave the scene.

“Isabel. Close the door and lock it.”

Isabel did as instructed.

“Now, what do you think?”

“I… don’t quite understand.”

Isabel looked up at the broken, swaying lead-colored pipe.

“He definitely wasn’t killed quickly. There are signs he was tortured for a very long time. This steam seems to have come from that pipe… Did the killer torture this poor man by pressing him against the hot pipe? Or did they pull the pipe down and burn him?”

“If that were the case, the steam supply station would have detected the anomaly.”

“Well, the supply station’s records can be incomplete. Or maybe the person in charge stepped away briefly, or dozed off…”

“Then look into that. If it wasn’t deliberately omitted, it’s unlikely they wouldn’t have noticed until someone came at 10 AM…”

Clarice’s voice trailed off. Isabel followed her gaze.

“What’s this?”

Clarice examined the tip of the corpse’s finger. While the entire body was a mess, the hands were particularly mangled.

They were full of marks from being burned, scalded, and broken, but the right index finger was especially worn down to the first joint. The cross-section was blackened from burning.

“Strange. Why only this finger?”

Clarice leaned her body toward the wall.

“Look at this.”

Isabel carefully observed where Clarice was pointing. It was near the wall close to the body lying on the floor. Gray letters were written on the yellowish wallpaper. It looked as if a dying person had pressed their burning finger one by one to write.

r a h e

Those were the only recognizable letters. Gray lines were drawn before and after the letters. They looked like soot.

“A dying message. But… what is this?”

“Rahe. What word is this? A person’s name? If it’s a person’s name… no one comes to mind.”

“Could it be that he couldn’t finish writing Rachel? And the C was erased midway.”

Meanwhile, Lestrade unlocked the door and entered.

“The door was closed but not locked!” he answered confidently, but then he too saw the letters on the wallpaper.

“Uh… I thought it was just a stain.”

Clarice looked like she no longer expected anything. Embarrassed, Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Rahe. In German, revenge is Rache, I believe that’s what it was.”

“Still no C.”

Clarice remained silent.