16. Ahh... This is what they call science... (2)
“Here’s 500 gold. I trust that’ll be plenty.”
Hercules handed over a money pouch that looked heavy as hell just from a glance.
“Of course, that’s more than enough—ack!”
Thud!
I’d figured it was about the weight of a dumbbell and grabbed it with one hand, but it was so heavy it slipped right out.
Almost threw my back out there.
Hercules looked like he was smirking, but calling him out on it felt kinda petty.
This guy’s built like a tank but can’t even handle his own size.
Once this case wraps up, I seriously need to think about getting him on a fitness regimen.
Man, I miss apple pie and five-star buffets so bad right now.
“Now that I’ve got the advance, I’ll head out.”
“How long’ll it take?”
“About 20 minutes. The actual investigation should run around 30.”
I confirmed Hercules nodding and stepped out of the viscount’s estate.
Snagged an official carriage and made it back to the inn.
Iris is probably at the Academy, right?
I wondered if the inn manager had gotten any word, but he greeted me just like always.
Popped into my room to drop the money pouch, grabbed what I needed, and was heading out again when I detoured to Silbi’s room.
Knock knock.
I knocked and waited, but no response. What time does she think it is? Still sleeping?
I asked the manager to make sure she eats lunch no matter what, then headed back to the Vermin Viscount’s mansion.
“Show us that Eastern investigation tool worth 500 gold, then.”
500 gold’ll make for one hell of a tonkotsu broth.
“Of course.”
I confidently pulled out a stubby rod, a small jar, and some transparent tape from my pocket.
“A wand? Looks like special material, but I don’t sense any mana?”
How the hell do I explain a fingerprint kit?
Up till now, not having to explain much had been a blessing.
If I’d asked an AI, it probably would’ve gone something like this:
The black rod was no mere investigation tool. It was the finger of God, dredging up ugly truths from the pitch-black abyss.
Yeah, better skip that.
“It’s one of the Eastern investigation tools. Lets you identify the culprit.”
If I could mass-produce these, I wouldn’t have to bullshit. But since I can’t, explanations are pointless anyway. Better to lean into the mystique.
Though honestly, it’s mostly ’cause I can’t explain the principles properly.
I shook off the stray thoughts, opened the jar of iron powder, and pressed the magnetic brush to it.
The iron filings clustered around the magnetized tip, forming a spiky ball.
Then I gently brushed it over the kitchen knife handle, rubbing lightly side to side.
“Hey, Grid! Don’t just go touching the murder weapon like that!”
Hercules, mistaking my actions for tampering with evidence, rushed over and grabbed my shoulder.
This guy, interrupting delicate work!
“Headquarters agreed to respect my methods, remember, Security Chief?”
“Urgh… true, but…”
“It’s delicate work. Please step back.”
Unable to argue with his own words, Hercules backed off.
Swish, swish.
Gently, so gently…
I swept the iron powder horizontally across the knife handle, then vertically—and five fingerprints emerged clear as day.
I let out a sigh of relief and turned to give a quick explanation, only to find Hercules staring with eyes three times their normal size.
“What the hell did you just do? What’s that powder? How do you find traces without mana? Do all Eastern tools work like this?”
No need to teach the full theory. Just enough for him to get the gist.
“First, take a look at your own fingers.”
Hercules raised his hand and peered at it.
“In the East, we call the patterns on fingers fingerprints. Everyone’s are unique.”
Riiip.
I carefully peeled off a strip of tape, pressed it to the print, and lifted.
“No two people have the same fingerprints, no matter what. Not even twins.”
I stuck the tape onto a sheet of prepared paper.
“That’s how you can use prints left on objects to find the culprit.”
The culprit’s print, neatly preserved on the paper.
Hercules, who’d watched the whole process, asked:
“That paper special too?”
“Of course. It’s made specifically for preserving prints. Smoother surface, better retention than regular paper.”
It came with the kit, so it’s gotta be different from regular stuff.
Not that there’s much difference. They’re not using anything better than 21st-century paper here anyway.
“Hah.”
Hercules let out a hollow laugh. Collecting evidence in ways he’d never heard of—fair enough.
Honestly, impressive he’s only reacting this mildly to all this out-of-left-field stuff.
“Lucky the warehouse had a tool that matched the knife handle’s material.”
“The handle, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Carved ivory, perfect for powder-based print lifting.
If it’d been uncoated wood, I’d have needed another method, but luckily, the culprit didn’t wear gloves.
Thank you. Truly, thank you.
Luminol reagent and UV lights were way too pricey.
Fingerprint kit and tape ran me about 15 gold. Luminol? 450. UV light? Easily over 1,000.
If I’d needed the UV and asked for another 500, I don’t even wanna think about it.
“Let’s take prints from the suspects and compare. One’ll match for sure.”
Case closed. Back to the inn before dinner, eat with Silbi.
“Amazing technique. Worth every bit of that 500 gold. Real progress now.”
“Thank you.”
“But this alone won’t solve the case.”
“Huh?”
Thought we were done.
Hercules’ face had hardened, his response half-hearted.
Like you beat the final boss, but turns out the real black curtain’s still out there.
“What do you mean? Explain!”
“We’ll hear alibis first. You’ll see.”
Hercules stared at the scene, lost in thought, something clearly bothering him.
What? I handed him killer evidence, and he’s still got that unsatisfied look?
Something I don’t know?
I was about to ask when he started ordering his men to round up the suspects.
Something’s off.
We gathered all the suspects who’d been in the mansion on the day of the crime into the kitchen.
And that’s when the bomb dropped.
“One of my house servants confessed to the murder—arrest him and get out!”
Because Viscount Vermin, suspect and mansion owner, had dragged in his so-called “real culprit.”
The viscount kept growling at the assembled security and guards.
“A whole day of commoners traipsing through my house over one dead maid, and now I can’t even rest in my own home!”
Oh yeah, forgot—this is a medieval classist society. The nobles I’ve met have been too nice; slipped my mind.
Well, only really dealt with the Arno count’s family proper.
Leperi’s probably prepping for the semester soon. Wonder if she bought those clothes back then.
Unable to contain his rage, the viscount stomped up to Hercules and bellowed.
“And the guy leading the investigation? A disgraced baron who faked having a soul and got demoted!”
What? In the story, he was a baron, right?
Looks like a lot went down before Hercules showed up in the original.
Now I get what our earlier talk meant.
And the pieces that’d been nagging me clicked: victim info missing from the request, no alibis heard even a day later, Hercules’ lukewarm reaction to the fingerprints.
Viscount Vermin’d been stonewalling us with his status.
Just because everyone on the investigation ranked below this asshole.
“Once we hear alibis from the day, we’ll catch the culprit. Your cooperation, please.”
Hercules bowed low to the viscount, playing submissive.
The viscount’s cheeks quivered in satisfaction.
“Pulling cheap tricks to steal my spot, and now you can’t investigate without my help? With an airhead like you as chief, guess the homeowner’s gotta spoon-feed you the culprit!”
Dizzying. Experiencing peak noble trash behavior firsthand—revolution’s looking tempting.
Wanna bail, but no choice.
“Non-cooperation’s obstruction of justice. Could even make you an accomplice to murder, Viscount.”
“And who’re you? That airhead’s lackey? Looks like commoner trash—who gave you permission to speak?”
“I’m Grid, Viscount.”
“Think I care about a nobody’s name? Know your place, you lowly cur!”
The viscount was foaming at the mouth, on the verge of a fit.
Daring to cite laws must’ve really pissed him off.
Sorry, everyone. Just lemme sell this once.
“I may be a commoner, but I’m handling this investigation on direct orders from Iris—the Sword Saint and Academy Swordsmanship Department Head.”
“Iris!? That crazy bi—er, Sword Saint!”
“Plus, Count Arno tasked me with testing new magic tools for the investigation.”
“The… imperial mage!?”
Same shit different angle, this guy…
Iris gets “crazy bitch” since she’s no noble; Arno gets honorifics as a count.
“Yes. With orders from both, I can’t botch this.”
I turned to Hercules.
“And you came here personally to carry out their orders too, Security Chief.”
Merchant mode: sell everything you can.
Actual events and relationships may differ from what I described.
“Eek! Eeeek! Eeeeeek!”
The viscount’s face flashed pale to red in real time.
Can’t blow up without pissing off bigshots he can’t handle—stuck.
Daring to mess with the stars of my poverty-stricken life’s funniest episodes.
“No issues with the investigation now, right, Viscount?”
“Eek! Eeeeek! Eeeeeek!”
Still steaming; face still traffic-lighting.
“Things got heated—let’s take a break. Come with me, Grid.”
Hercules called for a recess and headed out.
Wanted to watch the human stoplight a bit longer, but followed.
“Huwat hahaha! You’re even more impressive than I thought!”
Smack! Smack!
“Ow! That hurts!”
Hercules laughed like a log being split, slapping my back with his palm.
How’s a necro built like this?
“Sorry. Viscount likes to take it out on easy targets till he cools off—I couldn’t step in.”
“No worries. Didn’t wanna see your team harassed on my account.”
“Thanks! He won’t touch them now.”
Stuff like this is why he’s likable. Sense of justice, looks after his own.
“Investigation’s back on track—nab the culprit with those fingerprints, and we’re golden?”
Don’t look at me like a 10-year chest cold’s finally cleared; it’s pressuring.
“Haven’t compared yet, so no guarantees, but probably.”
“Huwat hahaha! Let’s head in! Catch the killer and honor the victim’s soul.”
Followed the beaming Hercules back to the kitchen.
The suspect pool was already assembled.
“Of the 23 people in the mansion that day, we excluded groups of 2+ acting together. The rest!”
Phew. Fingerprints to take dropped from 230 to 30.
Three suspects.
The viscount, blood pressure eased, face human again.
The gardener with the fresh facial scar.
And the male servant, bound and kneeling.
The one you want to be guilty, the one who looks guilty, and the one who clearly isn’t.
One of these killed the maid.
“Alibis now.”
“Didn’t he say that guy’s the killer? Get his confession and arrest him!”
Here we go again.
Please, god, let that asshole be the culprit.