I had to think about what happened. I mustn’t stop thinking. Only then, it felt like he would still be alive. I needed evidence to confirm that he wasn’t dead. I needed hope.
“First… I heard a breaking sound…”
I couldn’t erase the bloodstains on the wallpaper. From that, I inferred the situation.
There must have been a struggle. Liam Moore wouldn’t be taken down easily. He would have drawn that strange sword to fight back. In the process, some furniture would have been broken, and the torn curtain was likely due to the sword as well.
The attack…
He was struck once. The blood loss wasn’t significant. Although he was attacked in the middle of the room, he quickly moved and positioned himself. The second attack was fatal. There were marks on the wall where he either hit or leaned against it. The palm print was his size. I knew.
The image of a wounded Liam Moore leaning against the wall flickered before me. Unbearable sorrow surged, choking me. My heart, now truly mine, thumped heavily with genuine emotion.
Only after being left alone did I speak.
“What happened to you?”
“Liam.”
The room was silent. No response came. I bit my lip and asked,
“Where are you?”
＊ ＊ ＊
Bailonz Street was noisy from the morning.
I pondered all night. The last page of my notebook had nine slots, storing significant past events. The last saved event was in slot 7, capturing the evening after the campus incident.
It seemed I could just retrieve it, but… if doing so made Liam Moore suffer twice, I wouldn’t forgive myself.
Liam Moore must have been attacked after I left. But what if I prevent that moment, only for him to be attacked again? Could I prepare for that? Repeating until I know everything isn’t a good choice.
I don’t know. My mind is in chaos. I decided to delay retrieving the file. If Liam Moore’s death is confirmed, I’ll consider going back. For now, I decided to do my best in this cycle.
What should I do to find Liam Moore?
While thinking this, I heard a commotion outside. Amid it, Mrs. Mayer handed me a pile of letters. The landlady, Mrs. Mayer, cried, “Jane, what should we do?”
I consoled the elderly woman for a while before returning to the living room.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Reporters were knocking on the door of 13 Bailonz Street, 2nd floor, since early morning.
I was fed up with everything. What happened to us was just a sport to them, making me irritable. I shouted,
“I said no interviews!”
“It’s me, Miss Jane.”
An familiar voice called out. Herschel Hopkins was there. He was silent for a moment before speaking.
“They say something happened to Mr. Moore.”
“How do you know?”
Neither I nor Mrs. Mayer sent a telegram. I opened the door.
He hesitated, then handed me a newspaper. I began to read the article aloud.
The front page featured our house, with the headline ‘Detective, Missing?’ in large letters. The serious faces of the police coming and going were clearly visible. Inspector Jefferson, who was trying to stop the photographer, was also in the corner.
“…a missing persons case occurred on Bailonz Street. The victim is a 29-year-old private detective…”
“Do these damned reporters have no sense of ethics?”
“To add a more pessimistic note… the police seem to be investigating this as a crime motivated by revenge.”
I crumpled the newspaper in frustration and threw it away. The crumpled paper landed in the corner. It wasn’t something I would usually do in front of Herschel Hopkins, but it was the only way to vent my anger.
Revenge? Revenge? Ridiculous. Those who hold grudges against us can’t lay a finger on Liam Moore. I’ve beaten a few myself. The major criminal organizations have long been dismantled and couldn’t seek revenge.
“It is a crime, but none of the ones we caught would do this.”
“You never know.”
I twisted my lips in a grim smile at Herschel Hopkins’ calm words. I didn’t know what to do.
“I promised Arthur I’d look after Mr. Moore while he was in London. But, maybe…”
I knew what he was going to say. The letters piled up this morning said the same thing. Regret, condolences, they made me sick! They were spewing this nonsense because of this newspaper.
I rubbed my forehead. My nerves, overwhelmed by the thought of Liam Moore’s death, felt like they would burst in anger towards this London that wanted him dead more than anyone. I asked the controlled question, though I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling.
“Are you saying he might be dead? That I should give up?”
“…It means we might need to prepare for the possibility of a funeral. You need to be prepared.”
Hah.
Assume his death without even searching. I swear, I won’t bury an empty coffin in Liam Moore’s grave, nor will I put his body in it.
I let out a breath in frustration. Herschel hesitated, then held my trembling hand and spoke.
“Miss Jane. I understand your anxiety, but—”
“Professor!”
Herschel, bending to meet my eyes, was startled.
I didn’t mean to shout. I took a deep breath and asked quietly,
“Aren’t you worried?”
You’ve known him since he was nine. How can you tell me to give up so easily?
Herschel pressed his lips together, then spoke.
“Of course, this situation is… regrettable. But sometimes, someone needs to think rationally.”
Then he released my hand.
“I will also look into it. This is when we should use our connections. Though I dread facing Arthur…”
Herschel left as quickly as he came. Mrs. Mayer was downstairs, dealing with reporters hoping for a scoop. I heard her shouting.
Meanwhile, I made up my mind. I couldn’t sit around. I needed to go out and find something.
Liam Moore’s coat caught my eye.
＊ ＊ ＊
Sorry, Liam.
I stole his clothes. My pants, shirt, and innerwear were resolved with my own (custom-made) clothes, but I didn’t have an overcoat. However, he wouldn’t have minded me wearing his clothes.
I added height with insoles, tucked my hair into a hat, and applied makeup to disguise my features. ‘Jane Osmond’ became a young gentleman. I even lit a cigarette to make myself smell like smoke. I hid my smooth neck with a scarf.
I remembered Liam’s advice.
“Walk heavily. Don’t force your voice.”
The thick clothes concealed my figure. I grabbed a cane, one with a metal core for self-defense.
“Coachman!”
I slipped out the back door and hailed a carriage.
“Where to, sir?”
After some thought, I said,
“To University College.”
＊ ＊ ＊
Luckily, no one recognized me. I walked across the campus, barely spoken to. I headed naturally to the lecture hall where the first incident occurred.
One thing that hasn’t changed from the 19th to the 21st century is that classes continue even if someone dies on campus. The professor’s voice leaked through the slightly open door. A student waiting in the corridor glanced at me, making me nervous, but didn’t seem to recognize me.
I had matches, right?
My mind reconstructed the crime scene.
The man was in the center.
Was it a message to those who followed? If someone could kill unnoticed, they could also hide the body. They could have made Liam Moore disappear too. But they left it clearly as a warning.
‘A warning to someone.’