Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Sherlock Holmes (5)
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Guard Captain Birent was a fan of Sherlock Holmes.
The first time he read Sherlock Holmes, he felt chills run down his spine multiple times.
He nearly shed tears over the murderer's backstory, but what truly captivated him was the deduction that came before it.
The guard corps could be likened to a modern-day combination of police, investigators, and military.
Since one organization had to handle so many roles at once, it required a diverse array of talents.
But there was one part Birent couldn't stand.
The investigation of cases.
In this world, investigations fell into two broad categories.
Cases involving nobles, and those that didn't.
For the former, mages were frequently called in to assist.
This resulted in high solve rates and minimal errors.
It was only natural, given that mages excelled at detection and analysis.
However, cases not involving nobles were handled haphazardly.
Mages?
Out of the question, of course.
And the guard corps certainly didn't conduct proper investigations.
They didn't even have decent manuals.
In the end, it was no different from the witch trials that had been popular in the past.
In short, wrongful convictions were rampant.
Birents own father had died after being falsely accused.
That was why he had clawed his way up to become guard captain, no matter how grueling.
To reform this damned guard corps.
Shortly after he took the position, he encountered Sherlock Holmes. It might have been fate.
"Goddess, please grant me the wisdom to pierce through this case."
After a brief prayer, he pulled a sheet of paper and a charcoal pencil from his pocket.
He meticulously recorded the position and posture of the corpse.
Then, careful not to disturb the scene, he searched the body.
Inside were a few silver coins, a letter, a bloodstained dagger, and a ticket to some performance.
"Hah, well now."
Birint let out a small sigh and eyed the bloodstained dagger again with another sigh.
Surprisingly, the dagger was gripped tightly in the victim's hand.
And it was pressed against his own throat.
"Suicide? No, it can't be that straightforward."
As if possessed by Sherlock Holmes himself, Birint scrutinized every corner of the room.
He couldn't match Holmes skill, but he collected evidence with fervent zeal.
There were marks on the wall from something colliding against it.
As the cleaner had said, it suggested a struggle might have occurred.
Next, the wallpaper was stained with blood, but there were no legible words written in it.
The culprit had taken pains not to leave traces here.
Beyond that, the bed was disheveled.
The chair was oddly positioned in the center of the room.
And the dagger clutched in the hand.
All these circumstances pointed to suicide rather than murder.
Yet Birents intuition screamed murder.
"First things first, the letter."
There seemed to be nothing more to glean from the room.
Or if there was, his observational skills had reached their limit.
He might have to call in a mage later if circumstances allowed.
Just as he was about to unfold the letter, something caught his eye.
"Where's the luggage?"
A guest should have belongings.
Unless he lived nearby or had family in the area, in which case there might not be any.
"I'll have to ask downstairs."
He made a mental note and unfolded the letter.
To my dear old friend, Fel tin. I know you've been in dire straits lately. I remember you borrowing money from me. You promised to repay it within a year when I lent you that modest sum. I believed you and waited. But two years have passed with no word. Isn't it absurd? We were laughing and chatting just a year ago. I miss those days. So let's meet soon. I hope you're not avoiding me. Your old friend, Hepilun. Birint finished reading the letter, and the full picture of the case began to emerge.
"Could he have chosen death because he couldn't repay the debt?"
Still, his intuition pointed to murder.
The evidence and circumstances all screamed suicide.
Normally, he would have concluded there.
"What would Holmes do?"
He was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes.
He knew better than to take evidence at face value.
"First, I need to confirm the victim's identity, search for luggage, and conduct interrogations and witness inquiries."
He pocketed the letter, ticket, dagger, and silver coins, then headed downstairs.
He decided to have a subordinate look into the ticket.
As he reached the first floor, he saw several people gathered at the reception desk.
Including the innkeeper, there were five in total.
Guard soldiers stood watch nearby.
Birint approached one of the guards and handed over the ticket.
"This was in the victim's pocket. Investigate what performance it's for and canvass around. Report back after."
"Understood!"
The guard saluted crisply and left the inn.
Birint turned to face the five civilians.
They waited in various postures.
From short-statured folk to hunched figures, young faces weathered by hardship.
After surveying them, he declared,
"From this moment, you are all suspects. Cooperate quietly, and there won't be any trouble."
He started by seizing the initiative.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ While Birint was deep into investigating the murder, Edn was racking his brains over blueprints and plans.
"Tch, this isn't easy."
The fountain pen was proving trickier than expected.
He had finished the design long ago.
The issue was the factory to produce it.
Fountain pens required precision machining at their core.
The plastic ink reservoir or casing could be roughly stamped out.
"The nib's the problem. How do I make these tiny balls?"
What made it a fountain pen was the little ball in the tip.
The ball sealed the ink inside.
When you drew a line, it rolled, coating itself in ink from within.
And that ball was minuscule.
With tolerances down to microns.
He ran through all existing factories and technologies in his mind.
But none could produce something so small and precise.
As he pondered his options, Biena entered.
"Young master, a letter has arrived. From Viscount Bertang."
"Viscount Bertang?"
"Yes."
It had been ages since he last heard that name.
They weren't close to begin with, and contact had ceased after he entered the academy.
They were merely acquaintances from neighboring rural territories.
Wondering what it could be about, he took the letter and opened it.
"A social gathering? A salon invitation?"
Why me?
That was his first thought.
They had barely met once or twice.
Of course, from his house's perspective, it wasn't bad.
Rural noble families, unlike those in the capital, struggled to pool strength, so such events helped build alliances.
Even if not, it could alleviate the boredom.
Few territories matched theirs in facilities.
"But reading further, it seems less about boredom and more something else?"
A bit more in, it proposed a reading club.
To foster camaraderie and share opinions.
Genre didn't matter.
Philosophy, novels, even famous theses were fine.
He closed the letter and asked Biena, who waited at his side.
"What do you think? Should I go? Or decline?"
"I believe going would be better. Because—"
Bang!
Ow, that startled him!
Just as Biena was about to continue, the door flew open.
Through the doorway appeared...
"Sis?"
It was his sister from his previous life, Henebin von Rlangbur, family and all.
Unlike him, her long hair flowed as she entered.
"Yeah, it's me. Bro, holed up in your room again? Get out more, like I always say."
Straight to nagging upon entry.
Sisterly, or clichéd opener?
She used to scold calmly when they were kids, but lately she did it brightly—intentionally, perhaps.
Before she could say more, he cut in.
"I was just about to head out. Anyway, what's up?"
"Hmph. So you don't wanna hear me out? Sigh, you got the letter?"
She pouted like she was hurt.
But knowing it was an act, he ignored it.
"Yeah, I did. You going?"
"Huh? It's addressed to me, but it's for you?"
What?
He whipped his head toward Biena, who nodded slightly.
"This is what I was about to tell you, young master."
Her calm response nearly made him nod in realization.
He glanced back at the letter and said,
"...I've just realized something crucial."
Isn't this for the Bertang lady?
No way Viscount Bertang, the family head, sent it.
His sister averted her eyes guiltily.
Biena wore a professional face with a faint smile.
"You can handle it, young master. Especially at marriageable age—"
"Tch. Stop there."
"Yes. I'll be quiet."
Damn, not teasing, but...
Her quick compliance made it hard to react.
Though as his attendant, that was expected, it was awkward at times like this.
Better she hadn't brought it up, or gone all the way.
But she wasn't doing it on purpose, so no need to dwell.
He turned from Biena to his sister—gone.
"What? When'd she vanish?"
"When you looked at me, young master."
Fast escape.
Too lazy to chase, he tackled the issue at hand.
"Biena, send a refusal letter, please."
"Understood. I'll handle the invitation as well."
With that, Biena left with the letter.
Finally alone, he sat at his desk.
But neither novels nor the fountain pen production woes entered his mind.
He stared at the plans briefly, then leaned back.
"...Time for a walk."
When your head hurt, clearing it was best.
He rose, grabbed his coat, and stepped into the street.
The street was sparsely populated yet bustling with voices.
Not many people, but some spoke loudly.
"Heard the latest?"
"Yeah. Incredible stuff."
What now?
Spotting a familiar newsboy amid the excited chatter, he bought an extra edition.
"...Am I going crazy?"
Second time feeling this.
The content was that absurd.
📰 Breaking News "Murder in Rlangbur Territory: Solved by Guard Captain, Avid Sherlock Holmes Fan?" Why was Sherlock Holmes mentioned here?
He seriously wondered if the world was pranking him again.
Before Edn learned via newspaper, Birent had assembled the suspects.
After eyeing them briefly, he bellowed,
"The culprit is the cleaner—you! Burenta. Or should I say, Fel tin!"
"...Damn it!"
"Grab him! Don't let him escape!"
The cleaner, Burenta—no, Fel tin—the eyewitness and first reporter of the murder, was caught thanks to the guard captain's exploits.
The news spread quickly, drawing reporters from various outlets.
Their questions varied, but one was common.
How did you catch the culprit?
He credited Sherlock Holmes as he faced the journalists.
"Listen up. This case seems complex, but it's simple."
Birint opened his mouth to explain.