6. The Strange Incident at the Louise Mansion (3)
The group hurried back to the mansion after hearing the news of the butler's death.
"Alfred... Alfred..."
Amber, who had spent her childhood alongside Alfred, was deathly pale. It must have felt like losing her grandfather.
"Father!"
"You've arrived, Amber."
Upon reaching the count's residence, all the servants and maids were gathered in one spot. Officially for safety, but really to root out the culprit.
"I'm sorry to put you all through this. Such a thing happening with guests here... Please stay in the mansion a little longer. Can you bear with it?"
The Louise Count seemed to be lumping Theo and Marie into the suspect pool as well.
"Father! These people were with me. That tone makes it sound like...!"
Amber stepped forward to defend them, but swaying a great noble like the count wasn't so simple.
There's only one way for a person to be born, but countless ways to die. Especially in a world of swords and magic—time and space could be fooled by just about anyone.
Theo was all too familiar with situations like this. The nobles of this country brimmed with suspicion. Murders cropped up left and right, and every mansion hid horrors as thick as flour dust.
Which was why he knew exactly how to slip out of it.
"It's fine, my lady. In a situation like this, the count's precautions are only natural. Count, please allow me to lend my strength in catching the killer."
A polite bow, a declaration of innocence. It was the surest way to win over nobles.
The count's expression softened a touch as he stroked his chin beard.
Jackpot.
The count had shared decades with Alfred. Getting paranoid was only natural.
"Right. You nabbed that bastard on the train too... er, Marco. Thanks, even if it's just words. Engineer sir."
The title had shifted back to "Engineer sir." Had his favorability ticked up a notch?
Theo racked his brains, praying it wouldn't turn into the worst-case scenario.
In the basement of the count's mansion, the count—having eased his suspicions somewhat—showed Theo the crime scene.
With the body left untouched, the mansion's air hung heavy and grim.
Looking closely, there was a perfect round hole punched into Alfred's temple.
Gunshot?
"This is..."
"Beats me."
Theo finally pieced together why the count had eyed him. A round wound like that? Anyone unfamiliar with guns would peg it as a firearm hit.
Theo scrutinized it, then shrugged off his outer coat.
"Count, it's not a gunshot. A bullet would tear the edges more ragged."
"Hm?"
Theo hiked up his shirt, baring his abdomen. Several gunshot scars marred it, each one jagged and brutal.
"You..."
Before the count could finish, Theo tapped Alfred's temple and explained.
"Plus, a bullet to the head causes radial fractures. But this..."
No such cracks on Alfred's skull—just a clean cylindrical bore straight through.
Maybe because Theo had shown gun savvy, the count was buying it.
"Then what...?"
"Too soon to say for sure, but a gentleman's cane? Or some kind of magic."
"Piercing a skull with a cane takes monstrous strength. Magic would've left mana residue..."
Pondering deeply, the count shot to his feet like he'd spotted someone.
"Anything else, Engineer sir?"
"One thing. Might come off rude."
"Out with it."
"Did the deceased have anyone who'd hold a grudge...?"
Grudges made murders a breeze to trace. Most had motives.
"Hmm... grudge. Alfred kept a tight circle."
Nobles' words were weapons. They carried responsibility—only spoken with iron certainty.
"I swear it. No grudges."
"Understood. My apologies for the indelicate question."
"No matter. It's for Alfred..."
A flicker of sorrow crossed the count's steadfast eyes.
As Theo mulled offering comfort, a servant's call echoed from afar.
"Count, a guest has arrived."
"I said no visitors."
"Styles Viscount says he has an appointment. Shall I turn him away?"
"Ah, Styles... No. On my way."
Styles? Rang a bell.
Following the count upstairs, a man stood before the reception room in a familiar jacket and shirt. Same coat Theo had gotten.
Ah, from the boutique...
Styles—famous for fashion. The name stuck.
Bit plain for a style icon, though.
"Count. Long time no see."
"Indeed, Styles. Come in."
Even amid the chaos, the count tended his guest with care. Nobles smiling through an old friend's death—always a sorry sight.
The princess was like that too. Blank face always. Wonder what she's up to.
"Thinking of another girl!"
"Gah!"
Like mind-reading, Marie nailed it instantly.
"No, what're you on about, Marie."
Her ears perked as she bore down.
"You philanderer! You were totally thinking of some other woman... mmph!"
Philanderer? Harsh for a guy without a girlfriend.
Theo scratched his head, fumbling excuses.
Two days until Capital-bound Train No. 7.
Theo and Marie looked set to hole up at the count's for the full stretch.
Dinner was subdued, thanks to Alfred's death. No family tragedy calls for extravagance.
Styles Viscount joined, a jovial gentleman type. Neatly combed brown hair, fresh coat scent. Mid-forties, silver-tongued and entertaining.
He offered proper condolences on hearing the news—not all fluff.
"Terrible about the butler, Count."
"And your leg, Styles?"
"Honorable war wound. The previous Grand Duke bandaged it himself. Still throbs."
Styles limped on his right leg—a scar from the Winter War seven years back.
Among nobles, war wounds were badges of honor. He'd flaunt it at parties.
Winter War.
Memorable for Theo too. Key event from the original story. Repelling the northern winter tribes' invasion.
The war the eldest daughter needed to claim her title.
How much hell she'd endured to survive. Isabel Frost... the Grand Duchess who speared her way through, shoving aside her brothers for the ducal seat. A madwoman slicing men apart.
Her old man was no slouch either.
Frost Grand Duke. Quintessential northern lord. Psycho who pitted his kids in a slaughterfest for succession. Those types usually croaked by the ending, but he was too tough—still kicking.
With monsters like that fighting, the war was savage.
Surprising. He fought in it?
Didn't fit the viscount's delicate vibe.
Theo stared longer than he meant.
Catching it, the viscount smoothed his beard.
"Hm? You into the Winter War too?"
"Nah. Sounds brutal just hearing about it."
Theo waved it off with a grin.
Can't have him recognizing me.
"A real man fights at least one war. Let me tell you..."
The viscount's war tales rolled on till dinner wrapped.
Next morning. With Styles Viscount gone, the dispatched knights and priests kicked off the real probe.
Priests scoured for mana traces; knights grilled servants, tightening the net.
Theo just hunkered in his room, toying with his Revolver.
"Hmm... off. Something's off..."
After deep thought, he bolted from bed and slipped out, pretexting train maintenance.
Better leave Marie behind.
No matter how he sliced it, it stank.
That psycho bandaging his leg? Bull. She'd have hacked it off first.
Theo channeled mana into his palms with force.
"Roam and seek—find and track, Detectio."
Good thing he'd prepped the mana. A blue wind stirred, etching someone's footprints in the air.
Theo's head reeled.
Tsk. Dizziness from a mere 3rd Circle spell... aftereffects linger.
Clutching his throbbing skull, he trailed the prints.
They led to some Roengreen back alley—slum central, zero noble vibes.
"Trail ends here."
A rickety two-story brick shack. Theo skipped the locked door, slipping through a window.
Surprisingly tidy inside, like made for someone specific.
"...Shut it! No choice."
Familiar male voice. Styles Viscount.
Huddled in secret talk with a burly winter tribesman.
Lie confirmed.
No way a Winter War vet hobnobbed with winter tribesmen.
"You meant to blow it this big, Janet?"
Janet?
"That old coot overheard...!"
"Tch. Got a fix?"
"Stumbled into a decent body. High status. Heading to the capital as-is. You?"
"You irresponsible bastard...!"
Styles laughed sleazily. Nothing like dinner.
The short gray-haired tribesman started, scanning around.
"Hold up. Someone's here."
Freaking monsters.
Classic winter tribe senses. Theo knew them intimately.
"Come out. I'll make it quick. If I find you, it'll hurt."
Styles prowled like a thug, no limp.
Hiding's pointless. Damn it.
Curiosity dragged him in again. How many incidents now? Come to think, the girls too... No. Focus.
"Styles Viscount. That you?"
"What, gigolo? Stalking me? Sorry, owner's dead."
Janet patted his own body, cackling.
"Know him?"
"Count's guest. Saw him yesterday."
"Count's guest... tch. Gotta kill ya."
Letting him go meant blowing Janet's cover. The tribesman, loath to tangle with the count, slipped on brass knuckles with a grimace.
Styles—no, Janet—drew a spear haft.
Both in pro stances, years beyond novice.
Sorry, Viscount. Thought you a liar. Didn't peg full body-snatch. At least Expert level...
Winter guy especially risky. Near-Graduate.
"Let's see your moves, kid."
Spear gripped, hat tugged low—Janet oozed confidence. Could solo easy.
Been a while for fun.
It's all over your face, punk.
But...
"Guh...!"
A muted gunshot ripped Janet's earlobe clean off.
"Loosen those shoulders. Or die."
This side had a gun.
Earlobe gone, the tribesman lunged at freakish speed for his bulk. Murder in his eyes.
This takes me back.
Seven years ago. The Winter War. When Theodor went by Sidoe.
Back then, they called him something else.
The butcher of five hundred barbarians.
Winter Slayer Sidoe.