Chapter 119: The Real Lower Street

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
The Real Lower Street

Tingen City, Number 2, Daffodil Street.

Having left behind a note, Klein locked the front door and hurried toward Leonard Mitchell, who waited by the roadside.

Leonard’s black short hair was a little longer than it had been last month, and because he neglected to care for it, it looked extremely messy.

Yet even like this, paired with his decent looks, emerald-green eyes, and poet-like temperament, it still carried a kind of alternative beauty.

Sure enough, any hairstyle depends on the face…

Klein subconsciously complained inwardly, then pointed toward Iron Cross Street.

“Frye is waiting for us there?”

“Yes.”

Leonard adjusted the hem of the shirt he had not tucked in and asked as though casually, “Did you find any clues in the materials?”

Holding his cane in his left hand, Klein walked along the edge of the street and said, “No. Whether in the methods of death or the timing of death, I cannot find a pattern. You know this: rituals involving evil gods or demons must cooperate with a specific time or a special method.”

Leonard touched the specially made revolver hidden at his waist beneath his shirt and laughed lightly.

“That is not absolute. In my experience, some evil gods—or demons, if you prefer—are very easy to satisfy, so long as He develops a strong interest in what follows.

“And among these death incidents, a considerable portion must certainly be normal. Only by eliminating them can we arrive at the correct answer.”

Klein glanced at him.

“That is why the Captain asked us to investigate again and eliminate the normal cases.

“Leonard, your tone and description tell me you have rich experience in such areas. But you have been a Nighthawk for less than four years. Averaged out, you encounter no more than two supernatural cases per month, and most are simple, easy-to-resolve matters.”

He had always felt that Leonard Mitchell, this teammate of his, was strange and mysterious. Not only had Leonard always suspected him and believed him special, Leonard himself also alternated between acting mystical, arrogant, frivolous, and profound.

Could he also have encountered some fortuitous event? Does he also have the kind of fortuitous encounter that makes him feel he is the protagonist of a drama?

Combining all the “knowledge” he had gained from movies, novels, and television shows, Klein made a rough guess.

Hearing his question, Leonard smiled.

“That is because you have not truly entered the state of being a Nighthawk yet. You are still in the training stage.

“Every half year, the Sanctuary compiles the supernatural cases encountered by various dioceses and cathedrals into books. Based on different confidentiality levels, different editions are cut down to varying degrees, then distributed accordingly to different members.

“Outside your mysticism lessons, you can apply to the Captain to enter Chanis Gate and borrow the previous case books.”

Klein nodded in realization.

“The Captain never reminded me about that.”

Up until now, he still had not had a chance to enter Chanis Gate.

Leonard gave a soft laugh.

“I thought you had already gotten used to the Captain’s style. I did not expect you to still innocently expect him to remind you.”

At this point, he added with a deep hint of meaning, “If one day the Captain remembers everything and forgets nothing, then we will need to raise our guard.”

Does that imply loss of control?

Klein nodded with a solemn expression. Then he asked, “Is that style unique to the Captain? I thought it was a problem attached to the Sleepless Sequence…”

For example, staying up late causing memory loss…

“Strictly speaking, it is a style unique to Nightmares. Reality and dream interweave, often making it difficult to distinguish which things are real and need to be remembered, and which are false and do not need to remain in the mind…”

Leonard seemed about to say more, but the two had already entered Iron Cross Street and saw the Corpse Collector Frye waiting at the rail carriage stop.

Frye wore a black round-brimmed felt hat and a thin windbreaker of the same color. In his hand, he carried a leather suitcase. His complexion was so pale that it made people suspect he might collapse from sudden illness at any moment, while his cold, gloomy temperament made those waiting for the carriage unconsciously keep their distance.

After nodding to one another, the three of them did not speak. In silence, they converged, passed Slin Bakery, and turned toward Iron Cross Street’s Lower Street.

Noise immediately rushed at them. Street vendors hoarsely shouted the names of oyster soup, pan-fried meat fish, ginger beer, fruit, and other foods, making passing pedestrians slow without realizing it.

It was just past five. Many people had already returned to Iron Cross Street, and the two sides of the road were beginning to grow crowded. Some children mixed among them, coldly watching everything, staring at every pocket.

Klein often came here to buy cheap cooked food. In the past, he had even lived in an apartment nearby. He understood this place rather well, and so he opened his mouth to remind them, “Watch out for pickpockets.”

Leonard smiled.

“No need to mind them.”

He tugged his shirt and adjusted his holster, letting the revolver at his waist show outside.

All at once, the gazes fixed upon him shifted away one after another, and the surrounding pedestrians unconsciously opened a path.

…

Klein was stunned for a moment. Then he hurried to catch up with Leonard and Frye, lowering his head to prevent anyone he knew from noticing him.

After all, Benson and Melissa still kept contact with some of their former neighbors. They had not moved very far.

Passing through that area dense with vendors, the three of them entered the true Lower Street of Iron Cross Street.

The passersby here wore old and ragged clothing. The appearance of strangers who were clean and bright filled them with vigilance, yet greed also leaked from their eyes. They looked like vultures staring at carrion, ready to attack at any moment. But Leonard’s revolver effectively prevented any accident from happening.

“We will begin with last night’s death incident. Start with Mrs. Lorris, the matchbox paster.”

Leonard flipped through the materials and pointed nearby.

“Number 134, first floor…”

As the three of them moved forward, raggedly dressed children who had been playing swiftly hid by the roadside, staring at them with blank, curious, and fearful eyes.

“Look at their arms and legs. They are just like matchsticks,” Leonard said with a sigh, taking the lead into the three-story Number 134.

Air mixed with all kinds of odors immediately drilled into Klein’s nose. He could faintly distinguish the acrid reek of urine, the stink of sweat, the damp smell of mold, and the scent of coal and wood burning.

Unable to resist lifting a hand to cover his nose, Klein saw Biche Mountbatten waiting inside.

This sergeant in charge of the surrounding streets wore a brownish-yellow beard. Toward Leonard, who had revealed an inspector’s identity, he was full of fawning eagerness.

“Sir, I have already had Lorris wait in the room,” Biche Mountbatten said with his uniquely sharp voice and a smile.

Clearly, he had not recognized Klein, who was now much more spirited and much more respectable. He only cared about currying favor with the three officers, leading them into the Lorris home located on the first floor.

This was a single-room dwelling. At the innermost side was a two-level bunk bed. On the right stood a table on which paste, stiff paper, and other objects were placed. In the corner, baskets filled with matchboxes had been piled up. On the left was a tattered cupboard containing both clothes and dishes.

The two sides of the door were crowded with a stove, a chamber pot, a small amount of coal, wood, and similar things. At the center of the room were two filthy floor beds. A man was currently wrapped in a blanket full of holes, sleeping so deeply that he nearly left the visitors nowhere to step.

On the lower bunk, a woman lay there. Her skin was cold and dark, and she had plainly lost all life.

Beside the corpse sat a man in his thirties whose hair was greasy and disordered. His expression was listless, and his gaze had lost all light.

“Lorris, these three officers are here to inspect the corpse and ask you some questions,” Biche Mountbatten shouted loudly, showing no consideration for the fact that someone still slept on the floor.

The dispirited man weakly lifted his head and asked in surprise, “Didn’t they already inspect it this morning? Didn’t they already ask?”

“If they tell you to answer, then answer! Why so many questions?” Biche Mountbatten fiercely reprimanded him, then turned to Leonard, Klein, and Frye with a smile. “Sirs, that is Lorris. On the bed is his wife, the deceased. According to our preliminary inspection, she died from sudden illness.”

Klein and the others stepped carefully, using the narrow gaps between floor beds to reach the bedside.

Frye, who had a high nose bridge, thin lips, and an icy temperament, said nothing. He merely patted Lorris gently, signaling him to move aside so he could examine the corpse.

Klein glanced at the man sleeping on the ground and asked in puzzlement, “Who is this gentleman?”

“He—he is my tenant,” Lorris said, scratching his scalp. “This room costs three soli and ten pence a week. I am only a dockworker. My wife earned two and a quarter pence for pasting one basket of matchboxes. One basket has, has more than a hundred and thirty boxes, I think. We—we have children too, so I can only rent out the spare space to others. One floor bed costs only one soli a week…

“One of my tenants works on stage scenery at the theater. He does not rest before ten at night, so he sold the daytime use of his floor bed to this gentleman. This gentleman watches the theater gate at night. Mm, he only needs to pay six pence per week…”

Listening to the man’s rambling explanation, Klein could not help looking toward the baskets in the corner.

A basket has over a hundred and thirty boxes, yet earns only two and a quarter pence—about the price of two pounds of black bread… How many baskets could one paste in a day?

Leonard looked around the room and asked, “Was there anything abnormal about your wife for a period of time before her death?”

Having already answered similar questions, Lorris pointed to the left side of his chest and said, “Since last week, mm, maybe the week before last, she often said it felt tight here and that she could not breathe.”

A precursor to heart disease? A normal death incident?

Klein cut in and asked, “Did you see the process of her death?”

Lorris recalled it and said, “After the sun went down, she stopped working. Candles and kerosene are much more expensive than matchboxes… She said she was very tired and asked me to talk with the two children. She said she would rest first. When I looked at her again, she had already—already stopped breathing.”

At this point, Lorris could no longer conceal his grief and pain.

Klein and Leonard asked several more questions, but neither discovered anything unnatural or abnormal.

After exchanging a glance, Leonard spoke.

“Mr. Lorris, please wait outside for several minutes. We will perform a deeper examination of the corpse. I do not think you would wish to see what happens next.”

“All—all right.”

Lorris hurriedly stood.

Biche Mountbatten walked over, kicked awake the tenant sleeping on the floor, and roughly drove him out as well. Then he tactfully closed the door and kept watch outside.

“How is it?” Leonard immediately looked toward Frye.

“She died of heart disease,” Frye said with certainty, withdrawing his hands.

Klein thought for a moment, then took out a half-penny copper coin, preparing to make a swift judgment.

“‘Mrs. Lorris’s heart disease was influenced by extraordinary factors’? No, that is too narrow. The answer could mislead me… Mm. ‘Mrs. Lorris’s death was influenced by extraordinary factors’… yes, that one!”

He silently whispered as though thinking, and quickly determined the divination statement.

Amid silent recitation, Klein came beside Mrs. Lorris’s corpse. His eyes darkened, and he flicked the coin upward.

The lingering ring echoed. The brass-colored coin tumbled down and landed steadily in his palm.

This time, the King’s portrait faced up.

That meant Mrs. Lorris’s death had indeed been influenced by extraordinary factors.

Translator’s Note:
In the late Victorian era, one basket contained 144 matchboxes, and the labor payment was 2.25 pence. A woman working from morning until night could paste at most seven baskets.