Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Sherlock Holmes (6)
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Birent couldn't interrogate the suspects one by one.
Not only was he short on manpower, but he also doubted he'd get the information he needed from them anyway.
After finishing the group interrogation of the five, he instructed his men to preserve the scene properly and stepped outside.
"First things first, I need to track down the owner of this letter. And that ticket too."
There was a mountain of things to investigate, but instead of being daunted, he welcomed it with a smile.
"Guess I'll start at the post office."
Shortly after Edn was born into the Rlangbur family, Birent had proposed a post office system to the family head.
That was the origin of the current post office.
Originally, adventurers and mercenaries had handled deliveries for a fee.
But after the post office opened, costs dropped dramatically, delivery speeds increased, and above all, it was available anytime, which was incredibly convenient.
In other words, the letter he was holding might be on record.
"The paper matches what they use at the post office."
Tucking the letter paper into his pocket, he walked slowly down the street, lost in thought.
During the interrogation earlier, the innkeeper had mentioned that the victim had luggage with him.
A somewhat heavy bag in one hand, and his face looked a bit weary.
"This is it, but... it's tricky."
The evidence was piling up, yet something crucial felt missing.
Remembering that sensation, he entered the post office.
"Impressive. Spacious and ornate."
As a facility built by the territory's lordly family, it was lavish and pristine.
Of course, since commoners used it too, it didn't feel exclusive to nobles.
Birent quickly crossed the lobby and approached the counter.
The clerk greeted the guard captain warmly.
"Welcome, Captain Birent."
"Good to see you. Sorry, but let's cut to the chase."
He pulled out the letter and handed it over.
The clerk examined it from all angles and asked,
"You want to send this?"
"No. I noticed the paper looks like your stock. Anything you can tell me about it?"
"Hmm, sorry. Hard to say much from this alone."
Just as expected.
Birent clicked his tongue in disappointment.
Noticing his frustration, the clerk tried to help however she could.
"Any details on who might have sent it?"
"Afraid not. Not even sure it was mailed."
"Well, then..."
Neither Birent nor the clerk knew what to do next.
At that moment, Birent thought of Sherlock Holmes again.
Investigation always starts with gathering evidence.
And to gather evidence, no detail can be overlooked.
As he recalled what he'd learned from Sherlock Holmes, a sudden hunch struck him.
Was this letter really received by the victim?
What if the victim wrote it himself?
He didn't know why the victim would have it, but it was worth checking.
His thoughts reaching that point, Birent described the victim's appearance.
The clerk's face lit up as if remembering something.
"Come to think of it, a few days ago, someone unusual wrote and mailed a letter right here."
Bingo.
Birent's hunch seemed spot on—the victim had likely written this letter.
"Really? Tell me more."
Since the post office opened, almost no one used their paper anymore.
Unless it was urgent or they were pinching pennies, people bought their own stationery.
So writing on post office paper was quite unusual.
"He looked like a nobleman. Very sturdy build, and he seemed in a foul mood from the moment he walked in."
"Any idea why?"
"Sorry, no clue on that. He finished writing, came to me, and asked to send it to this address."
She handed over the slip with the handwritten address.
Birent took it and bowed his head to the clerk.
"Thanks. You've been a big help."
"Haha, no problem. Whatever the case, I hope it turns out well."
She flashed a bright smile and wished him the Goddess's blessing.
Birent nodded in response and left the post office.
"Now to check this address. If my guess is right, the victim's luggage might be there."
Birent moved to verify his theory.
After walking the streets following the slip, he found the house in question.
Without hesitation, he pounded on the door.
"Hey! I've got some questions—open up!"
Birent knocked a bit roughly.
But no sound came from inside.
As he raised his hand to knock again, a passerby spoke up.
"Guard Captain Birent."
"Hm? What is it? I'm in the middle of an investigation."
"I know. But that house is empty."
"Empty?"
Birent frowned at the man's words.
The man nodded and explained to his questioning look.
"Just yesterday, the resident sold it in a hurry. Way below market price."
It smelled like a desperate disposal for a getaway.
Birent nodded, then caught something odd.
"I see. But how do you know that?"
"I handled the brokerage. I can show you the ledger if you like."
The man answered calmly, with nothing to hide.
Birent relaxed a bit at the cooperation.
"Show me. Mind if I look around while you fetch it?"
"Go ahead."
No sooner had the man finished than Birent kicked the door down.
The door shattered with a loud crash.
The man stared in shock.
Birent just glanced back and urged him on.
"What are you waiting for? You're not obstructing official business, are you?"
"N-no! Of course not!"
The man bolted away, muttering under his breath about the crazy guard captain.
Of course, Birent had his reasons for the rough approach.
It was to prevent any potential accomplice from fleeing.
No matter how cooperative, you never knew.
It was a silent warning: I can cut your throat anytime.
"He'll be back in about ten minutes."
Birent began searching the house in the meantime.
Stepping inside, he saw the living room in total disarray.
Dirty footprints started at the entrance, and the room was trashed.
As he scanned the living room, his eyes landed on a suspiciously intact bag in the corner.
Feeling a strange intuition, he approached as if drawn to it and picked up the bag.
Opening it wide revealed various items inside.
"This is...!"
Among them was a house crest.
Unfortunately, he couldn't identify the house.
The crest signified that an outsider was recognized as a member of the house.
Not for inheritance rights, of course, but it meant they were under protection.
And surprisingly, a familiar name was engraved on it.
Hepilun's name was in the center of the crest.
"Hepilun...! Damn it, hurry up, broker!"
Birent rushed outside.
That's when he spotted the broker running from afar.
Birent swiftly approached and snatched the documents from his hand.
"Wha—?! Captain Birent?"
"Quiet!"
Birent hurriedly flipped through the ledger.
He found the previous owner of the sold house.
His hand stopped on one entry as he scanned the pages.
The previous owner was Burenta.
"Burenta? Who's that?"
Birent racked his brain for a moment.
Then he remembered—it was a name from the interrogation of the five at the inn.
"Damn! The cleaning guy!"
"Huh? Wh-what? Captain Birent!"
The man called from behind, but Birent had no time for him.
Because now, every puzzle piece had fallen into place.
The crime scene had been staged.
The killer's mistake was being sloppy.
Disguising it as suicide and preparing a fake identity showed some brains.
But as the letter revealed, the killer had a friend he could borrow money from—hardly a cold-blooded murderer.
He might have hidden it well, but selling the house in a rush and abandoning the victim's luggage said otherwise.
First murder.
Guilt over killing an acquaintance or close friend.
Mistakes born from that guilt.
Those mistakes told Birent who the killer was.
At the same time, he silently thanked the author of Sherlock Holmes.
If he'd skimmed the scene on arrival, he'd never have figured it out.
He'd have concluded suicide due to unpaid debts from the letter.
"I owe him thanks!"
With hopes of meeting the author someday, he dashed back to the inn.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ [And that's how it happened.]
I closed the newspaper containing Birent's interview.
"Should I be happy about this? Or not?"
I scratched my head, staring at the paper with a complicated expression.
The article also mentioned:
[Sherlock Holmes. Foreseeing a Murder?]
"Foreseeing my foot."
It was just the same category to begin with!
And what was this about a theater ticket?
I stared at the newspaper in bewilderment for a moment.
It was filled with the guard captain's exploits and my Sherlock Holmes stories.
Of course, this kind of attention wasn't bad.
"Could this actually be good publicity?"
The murder was tragic, but I couldn't help feeling a bit excited.
These things often brought unexpected gains.
"No, don't get your hopes up."
Shaking my head, I headed home.
I had the next installment to write and needed to figure out the fountain pen issue.
A few days later.
"Wait, why am I even here?"
Somehow, I'd ended up at a reading club hosted by Viscount Bertang—or rather, his daughter, Puring Bertang.
Didn't I say to send a refusal letter?
Blissfully unaware of my confusion, Puring flashed a beautiful smile.
"Hehe, has everyone read Sherlock Holmes? It's by that trending author, Prometheus."
"Oh, I read it too. I heard it played a big role in solving a murder in Rlangbur territory."
And now my book was the topic at this reading club.
They knew the pen name but not that I was the author.
Just to clarify, Prometheus was my pen name.
I'd chosen it focusing on "first" or "origin," since I was probably the first to bring Earth culture to this world.
Anyway, I was the only man there amid all the women, so I sat awkwardly.
"By the way, isn't Rlangbur home to a family of greatsages?"
"Ah, yes."
Suddenly, all eyes turned to me.
Why put me through this trial!
In my past and present lives combined, I'd rarely attended such social gatherings!
Ignoring the cold sweat on my palms, I forced a smile.
"It's truly fortunate for the territory to produce such talent. And helping solve a murder? That's remarkable."
"Haha, must be nice. Rlangbur's been blessed."
...Oof, not easy.
That was code for: blessed by the gods, so don't get cocky.
Like, you didn't earn it yourself.
Am I overinterpreting?
No way!
That'd be underestimating nobles.
I smiled outwardly while twisting inwardly and sipped my tea.
A noble's secret technique: sip tea when words fail.
I prayed to escape this gathering.
As an extreme introvert, it was tough all around.