Chapter 112: The Riding Instructor’s Problem

Chapter One Hundred Twelve
The Riding Instructor’s Problem

Returning to the sitting room, Klein picked up the letter opener and casually slit open the seal, taking out the letter Isengard Stanton had sent.

The famous great detective had written:

“Your idea was of enormous help to us. Please allow me to first offer my thanks here.

“After receiving your letter, we immediately organized people to investigate several key areas, and sure enough, we found corresponding clues. Quite a few stray animals that had often appeared in those neighborhoods and were remembered by residents have been disappearing one after another.

“During this process, we also noticed something interesting. In the serial murder case from four years ago—yes, the one targeting prostitutes who were single and had one child—many people who lived around the crime scenes had once mentioned that the most suspicious boy, though withdrawn and vicious, was quite loving toward animals, especially a larger black dog.

“After that boy died in a gang fight, the surrounding residents never saw that dog again.

“I am very curious who owns it now. Is its current owner the murderer behind some even earlier unsolved serial murder case?

“The above matters were, to a certain extent, proven at the scene of the twelfth murder and played a key role in allowing the police to preliminarily lock onto the suspect. If everything proceeds smoothly, once the culprit is arrested, we should be able to obtain most of the bounty.

“My friend, I clearly remember your contribution. I will not forget your share.”

…

Isengard Stanton seems to suspect I know the truth about the “Demon,” so he deliberately hinted at certain things?

Klein set down the letter paper and muttered silently to himself.

Still, this letter truly put his mind at ease.

The official Beyonders had not locked onto the wrong target!

If that demonic giant hound did not receive additional help, it was only a matter of time before it was captured or killed.

As for Isengard Stanton’s speculation that the other party also had an owner, Klein lacked enough evidence to confirm it. He could only say that there was a certain probability.

“In any case, my task ends here. What comes next belongs to the Nighthawks, Mandated Punishers, and Machinery Hivemind squads.”

Klein took out fresh paper, picked up his round-bellied fountain pen, and wrote Isengard Stanton a reply full of modesty, ignoring those subtle hints entirely, like a true ordinary private detective.

After cutting another paper figurine, going out to mail the letter, and returning, Klein strolled toward the public carriage stop, feeling light and relaxed.

“Next, I can just wait to receive money…

“Leppard said he plans to view the Roselle Memorial Exhibition for three consecutive days. I will have to wait until Saturday to look for him and pay the final amount. Hopefully, by then, the bicycle patent application will already have been filed. Sigh, the Backlund patent office’s efficiency seems to have never been very high.”

Klein had already planned out the day’s arrangements. With Beyonder gatherings unable to convene and the corresponding items impossible to buy, he had suddenly become free, with no need to keep busy for the brief moment.

“I’ll spend the morning at the Cragg Club, practice shooting, practice Beyonder abilities, and eat lunch there. Afterward, I’ll find a better circus and observe a magician’s performance to see if I can obtain some inspiration.”

He took out his gold-cased pocket watch, glanced at it, and boarded the public carriage in a rather good mood.

…

Hillston Borough, Cragg Club.

Because Klein came at least twice every week, all the attendants had remembered him. He no longer needed to show his membership proof or White Frost constellation badge.

It was Wednesday morning. Most members of the Cragg Club belonged to the comparatively well-off middle class, holding fixed and rather respectable jobs. Unless it was Sunday, annual leave, or afternoon tea time, it was difficult for them to come.

The spacious, bright hall looked unusually empty. Only a handful of people sat in the sofa-and-tea-table area in the corner.

Sweeping his eyes there, Klein saw an acquaintance and walked over to greet him.

“Talim, the weather today is splendid. You should be at the racecourse.”

The acquaintance was Talim Dumont, the noble riding instructor who had introduced Klein to the club at Madam Mary’s request. He had even once brought Klein a job: protecting Daily Observer reporter Mike Joseph during his investigation at Golden Rose.

Talim lifted his head, touched his short brown curls, and smiled.

“Oh, honored great detective, what have you been busy with recently? I have not seen you in a long while.”

That is because you have not come to the club for several days…

Klein smiled and sat down on the sofa beside Talim.

“I have been helping the police investigate that serial murder case. Although we may not necessarily gain anything, the bounty is tempting enough. Besides, building a good relationship with the police department is very important for us private detectives.”

Everything I just said is bragging. I am merely an inconspicuous figure who was summoned over…

He mocked himself inwardly.

In the sofa area behind them, several club members, led by a man who seemed to be a stockbroker, were discussing the latest Western Railway stocks and East Balam plantation stocks.

Talim did not suspect Klein’s answer at all. He chuckled.

“That is indeed what a great detective should be busy with.”

After a few pleasantries, he gradually sank into a thoughtful state.

Just as Klein was about to excuse himself and head to the underground shooting range, Talim suddenly looked toward him and said, “Mr. Moriarty, may I ask a question?”

“Mm. You may charge a consultation fee.”

“This one is free. Also, just call me Sherlock,” Klein said with a laugh.

Talim gave a slight nod, hesitated, and said, “I have a friend who has fallen in love with someone he should not love. How should such a situation be handled?”

Although I have always believed that when people ask questions like this, “I have a friend” means “me,” Talim’s emotional colors show it is not him. He is very troubled, but there is not the slightest pain…

With spirit vision opened, Klein leaned back slightly and interlaced his hands.

“I am sorry. I am not a psychologist, nor am I one of those experts in newspapers and magazines who excel at solving emotional problems.

“My only suggestion is: do not break the law.

“Heh, that was a joke. First, we have to determine where the ‘should not’ comes from. Is there hatred between their families?”

Talim glanced at him and said helplessly, “No. This is not the story of Romeo and Juliet!”

Hearing that answer, Klein seemed to hear an illusory whisper beside his ears:

Author: Roselle Gustav… Author: Roselle Gustav… Author: Roselle Gustav…

He shook his head, inwardly apologizing to old Master Shakespeare, then smiled.

“Emperor Roselle’s work is simply too classic. Whenever inappropriate love is mentioned, I think of it.

“So why exactly should they not be together?”

Talim fell silent for several seconds.

“I have to keep that secret. Sorry. Pretend I never asked.”

Keep it secret? Then this must involve someone with significant status… In love with someone of the same sex? In love with someone related by blood?

Klein suppressed his strong curiosity and spread his hands.

“Then I can only give one more suggestion. Read more bestselling novels rich in emotion, such as Wuthering Heights or Love and Jealousy.”

Talim’s lips moved a few times. He sighed and said, “Sigh. That can only be the last resort. In my opinion, the emotions inside those bestselling novels are simply not something that happens between normal humans.”

“I think so too!”

Klein agreed deeply.

After sharing a smile with Talim, he rose and went to the underground shooting range to practice shooting and Beyonder abilities. Only when noon neared did he return to the first floor and head straight for the buffet restaurant.

He had already noticed earlier that today’s limited offering was pan-fried foie gras in red wine, paired with apple slices and bread soaked in butter.

After taking his food, Klein carried the plate toward the table where Talim sat. At that moment, apart from Talim, there was another acquaintance of his there as well: Alan Kress, the surgeon who, along with Talim, had served as a guarantor introducing him into the club.

No sooner had he set down his plate, before he could even sit, than Klein suddenly noticed a cane leaning beside the famous surgeon’s chair.

“Alan, what happened?”

He asked with concern.

Alan, tall, thin, cold-looking, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, lightly patted his right leg.

“No. Do not mention it. This truly was terrible luck! I fell down a flight of stairs and suffered a fairly serious bone fracture. I can only have it set in plaster.”

“That really is unfortunate.”

Klein sighed in agreement, cut off a piece of foie gras, dipped it in sauce, and placed it in his mouth. The sensation of melting at the first touch allowed the fragrance of fat to spread continuously outward, stimulating every taste bud.

“I have been unlucky for a very long time already.”

Alan lifted a hand, pushed his glasses up, and rubbed the corner of his forehead in the same motion.

He immediately looked toward Klein, then toward Talim, hesitating as he asked, “Mr. Moriarty, do you—do you…”

“What?” Klein lifted his head and asked.

Alan lowered his voice.

“You are a famous great detective. You should know many people, right?”

“Some,” Klein answered perfunctorily, not understanding what the other man meant.

Alan glanced at Talim again, took a breath, and said, “Do you know anyone similar to a country witch doctor? No, what I mean is, someone with some ability in divination, or a mysticism enthusiast. I think—I feel—that my recent bad luck is too abnormal…

“I know those people are very likely fake, swindlers, but I can no longer find any other way to shake off this bad luck. I have tried praying in church, making donations, attending Mass, but none of it has had any effect.”

Someone with some ability in divination, or a mysticism enthusiast… You sound like you are describing me…

Klein thought for a moment, then said, “Alan, tell me in detail what you have encountered.”

Talim nodded along beside him.

“Do not worry. Although I am a believer in the Lord, I do not reject things from mysticism.”

Alan sighed in distress.

“Many, many things. For example, mistakes during surgery, encountering a steam train accident while traveling, returning home only to find a thief had broken in, going to the hospital, only to fall down the stairs… Tell me, could someone have cursed me?”

Mm. I remember Alan mentioning something similar before…

Klein’s brows drew together slightly.

As a former Nighthawk, he very easily associated such descriptions with a Sealed Artifact:

Misfortune Puppet!

A similar item?

He opened spirit vision and asked gravely, “Alan, think back carefully. Before those unlucky events began happening one after another, did you or your family—hm, did your family also experience unlucky things?”